While I was working through Ascent of Mount Carmel, I was struck by John of the Cross' metaphor of light streaming through a window.
"In observing a ray of sunlight stream through the window, we notice that the more it is pervaded with particles of dust, the clearer and more palpable and sensible it appears to the senses. Yet obviously the sun ray in itslef is less pure, clear, simple, and perfect in that it is full of so many specks of dust" (115). (John used the image of a dirty window earlier in the text in Book 2 Chapter 5.) When the light is pure, however, it is more difficult to see. "The spiritual light," John explains, "has a similar relationship to the intellect, the eye of the soul. This supernatural, general knowledge and light shines so purely and simply in the intellect and is so divested and freed from all intelligible forms (the objects of the intellect) that it is imperceptible to the soul" (115). Thus it seems that the light causes a certain darkness, a spiritual befuddlement. "Faith...is an obscure habit because it brings us to believe divinely revealed truths that transcend every natural light and infinitely exceed all human understanding...It overwhelms, blinds, and deprives them of vision since its light is excessive and unproportioned to the visual faculty" (82).
In light of our discussion about St. Teresa and the shattering of self, is John arguing for a retention of the self (or at least imperfections of the self)? I almost get the sense that this example suggests that divine light or divine wisdom can be more clearly perceived through our imperfections. How are the particles of dust function as a means to see the light? Can we fully get rid of imperfections and still perceive the light?
I was also struck by this analogy. I think the point is that we're not supposed to perceive the light intellectually. The dust particles stand in for those "intelligible forms (objects of the intellect)" that we're supposed to clear our minds of, the better to be able to receive the blinding--or in this case, "invisible," ("pure")--light of faith from God. John explains near the top of p. 115,
ReplyDelete". . . the purer, simpler, and more perfect the general knowledge is [that is, a knowledge of God accessed through meditation and divested of particular images and forms],the darker it seems to be and the less the intellect perceives. On the other hand, the less pure and simple the knowledge is in itself, although it enlightens the intellect, the clearer and more important it appears to the individual, since it is clothed, wrapped, or commingled with some intelligible forms apprehensible to the intellect or the senses."
We want a window as clean of "dust" and smudges as possible in order that we may be as "illumined" by God's light as possible--even though this light may appear to us, intellectually, invisible or even a darkness (part of that night we must move through to reach union with God) (91).
It seems to me that John advocates a divestment of one's sensory and intellectual attachments to the world that isn't quite like Marshall's self-shattering--though perhaps relatable--but more of a hollowing out of the self. In the earlier appearance of the window analogy mentioned by Mary, he says that "A soul makes room for God by wiping away all the smudges and smears of creatures, by uniting its will perfectly to God's" (91). The phrase "making room for God" conjured for me the image of someone clearing out a room of his apartment in expectation of a guest (or new housemate); this image in turn put me in mind of our discussion of Kristeva and the hosting of foreigners in our homes. By "making room" in our soul for God, we are in a sense inviting him into our "home." We might think of God then as a kind of foreigner or neighbor who we "take in" without the hope of fully knowing him--a point John makes repeatedly. And yet, despite our limited capacity to know him, we're able to achieve union with God.
It's notable that for John, such union is the ultimate end, the one and only union that matters. Hence, unlike with Santner, for whom divine love (that is, love issuing from "God"--whatever this God may be for Santner) enables neighbor love for earthly neighbors, John is unconcerned with our relation to other, mortal "creatures" (that word again!); or rather, he requires that we sever our worldly attachments to these others in order to achieve union with God. Neighbor love here is a zero-sum game: you can love "creatures" or you can love God, but you can't love both.
This is as much a question as a statement: Somewhere in the dusty recesses of my memory I seem to remember hearing in one of my undergraduate medieval literature classes that light through a window was sometimes used in art as a metaphor for the divine conception (the holy spirit passed through Mary's hymen like light through a window--it went through but did not break it). Am I making this up, or is this a real thing? (it's been a long time)
ReplyDeleteIf so I wonder if there's any resonance in John's text. A sort of divine conception of new self or of love of God?
I think that this metaphor of the window can be a bit confusing. From the perspective of our senses it is much easier to perceive the light as it is refracted through particles on the window. Despite this, I am in agreement with Aaron that this perception is not the sort of thing John is aiming at. Rather, it distorts the light and causes our understanding to remain grounded in the material sensory world. The goal, as articulated by John, is to rid the window of all particles so that the pure light can shine through unobstructed. It may be helpful to keep in mind the basic structure of apophatic mysticism here: purgation, illumination and return. Without the step of purgation, or cleaning off the window, the soul cannot receive the pure light of God, which is understood to be the next step, illumination.
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