IN THIS LIFE we have no abiding city. Everything we achieve on a worldly level seems to be consummated in futility. Our careers founder on the rocks of retirement and decrepitude, the work of our hands falls into disrepair, the nexus of relationships we have so painstakingly built up is demolished by the inroads of time and death, and our money has to be bequeathed to those who often care little for us or about our memory. To me the contemplation of the transience of all mortal things, the vanity of vanities that the Speaker in the Book of Ecclesiastes so fiercely laments, is a source of great joy. How terrible it would be both for us and for those who succeeded us, if we all continued as we are indefinitely.
Nor is there any final spiritual achievement in this life. The most saintly people are more clearly aware of their defects than are their unawakened brethren. There is a time for everything we have achieved and attained in this life to be given over unequivocally to God and to our brothers without any assurance that we will survive the loss. This is the inner meaning of death. It is still the great unknown, the fathomless depth, the impenetrable darkness for all who are yet alive. Even the convinced Spiritualist will find his faith severely taxed at the moment of truth. Intellectual belief (and disbelief) goes before the existential reality of death with its possible sequel of total annihilation. If anyone has reason to accept the after-life it is I, who have been given so many personal proofs - and without recourse to mediums, whose testimony, as I have previously said, is uncertain even at its best. And yet I do not doubt that were I confronted with a sentence of imminent death due to some incurable disease, I would be, at least momentarily, stunned and bereft. I also hope that, when I had adapted myself to the new situation, I would be infused with faith from on high, and carry out my final duties in joy and peace. Yet if this is to be, it will come from God and not my own knowledge about the after-life.
Jesus said, "The hour is come, that the Son of man should be glorified. Verily, verily, I say unto you, except a corn of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone: but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit" (John 12:23-24). Jesus, of all men, should have faced His coming trial with joy and exaltation, but throughout the whole Gospel narrative the darkness of His end clouds His ministry. "I have come to bring fire to the earth, and how I wish it were blazing already. There is a baptism I must still receive, and how great is my distress till it is over" (Luke 12:49-50). Immediately after the glorious Transfiguration, He tells His disciples to say nothing of it until after His resurrection. He knew vaguely yet decisively what was in store for Him, that suffering is the essential precursor of glorification. And yet at the commencement of His passion in the Garden of Gethsemane He was overcome by horror and dismay. "My heart is ready to break with grief; stop here and stay awake" and then the terrible prayer, "Abba, Father, all things are possible to thee; take this cup away from me. Yet not what I will but what thou wilt" (Mark 14:32-36). As He went further into the despair of the whole world, which He voluntarily took upon Himself, so He entered more perfectly than at any time of His ministry His fully human dimension. When He was crucified he called out, "My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?" (Mark 15:34, after Psalm 22:1). Yet the final words traditionally ascribed to Him are, "Father, into thy hands I commit my spirit" (Luke 23:46, after Psalm 31:5). There was no intellectual assurance here, only humble hope, the same hope that had sustained the company of Jewish martyrs before Him and after Him.
All this disturbs the esotericist mightily. How could such a great "Master" as Jesus have suffered all these torments? Surely He knew of occult techniques to master physical and mental pain? Surely He knew the vital role He was playing in the spiritual evolution of humanity? He should have been exultant not bowed down with grief and suffering. But Jesus did not come to show God's might; He came to demonstrate and give God's love. Instead of passing away in a flourish of celestial triumph to His Father in heaven, He took on the full burden of unredeemed humanity, stinking, corrupt, and blind. Each of us has his own burden to bear, and this is enough. But Jesus was encumbered of the psychic darkness of the whole human race, and through its sinfulness, of the whole created world that was put under the dominion of man. His life was consummated in failure. His miraculous powers were unable to stave off the abysmal humiliation that comes of a thwarted mission. There was nothing in any man's personal tragedy that He did not know and bear.
But His life did not end there. He went down into hell to revive the spirits of the inhabitants of the dark regions beyond death. And on the third day He arose decisively from the dead to show Himself once more to the living. Such a resurrection the world has never seen again. It was a resurrection of such magnitude that only one fully divine in nature could accomplish it by the grace of God the Father. "On the human level he was born of David's stock, but on the level of the spirit - the Holy Spirit - he was declared Son of God by a mighty act in that he rose from the dead" (Romans 1:4). "In the days of his earthly life he offered up prayers and petitions, with loud cries and tears, to God who was able to deliver him from the grave. Because of his humble submission his prayer was heard: son though he was, he learned obedience in the school of suffering, and, once perfected, became the source of eternal salvation for all who obey him, named by God high priest in the succession of Melchizedek" (Hebrews 5:8-10).
This is the way of man become perfect. It is a thought to challenge us that Jesus Himself grew in stature and became more perfect in manhood as He approached the end of His ministry and earthly life. The stroke of perfection was the experience of occlusion of the divine knowledge that came with the period of His passion.
To see with fine eyes is natural; to see when one is blinded is supernatural. We in our imperfect lives cannot aspire to such a death and resurrection. But the love of God, shown incontrovertibly in the passion of Christ, assures us that nothing created by Him will ever be allowed to perish. It may, however, take long ages for a wilfully perverse creature to attain salvation.
The Only Way
For a number of years I had known with that indefinable authority that comes from within that I would have to give myself fully to the Church as a priest. I tried, like Jonah, to escape from the implications of this vocation by turning my back on it and pursuing my medical work with greater assiduity. But it was to no avail. My tortuous career was symbolic, of the strange journey I was making: a Jew by birth yet directly acquainted with Christ from earliest childhood; brought up in a worldly home yet deeply committed to the mystical path; nurtured by my environment on a mixed diet of rationalism and psychism yet yearning for the life-giving food of the full Catholic faith - which in its finest moments can assimilate all that is true from non-Christian sources, whether scientific, occult, or Eastern; desirous of self-effacing anonymity yet brought increasingly into the public eye by virtue of the inspirational gifts bestowed on me by the Holy Spirit.
I knew that this great contradiction between personality, motivation, and destiny could be resolved only by giving myself fully to God's service. And in the end I submitted my name for consideration as a candidate for ordination. The subsequent stages proceeded with unwonted ease, unlike my secular endeavours, which were never easy and usually frustrated or delayed. The diocesan bishop was the soul of kindness and consideration to me. He waived the usual requirement of a statutory period of training in a theological college in view of my seniority and the considerable amount of time I had devoted to fostering the spiritual life of the Church. In fact, had I been obliged to spend time in a training college, I would perforce have had to relinquish my professional work, at least temporarily. This was above all to be avoided, for the bishop was most emphatic about my continuing the normal course of my medical career even after ordination. Therefore, instead of organised study, I was given the privilege of weekly discussions on theological and pastoral matters with a saintly priest, who was a personal friend. In due course the time drew near for the retreat preliminary to my ordination into the diaconate of the Church of England.
This retreat was to be the most harrowing one I had ever known. It was silent and solitary. There was no conductor - other than the Holy Spirit - and it took place in the middle of winter. I was by this time an experienced retreat conductor, and had led scores of retreatants into the telling silence of truth on a considerable number of occasions. Nor was I a stranger to silence: my early life was fertilised in it, and it was my constant companion during much of my childhood and adolescence. During the dark years of my early adult life, when I was groping blindly for meaning and purpose, it surrounded me like a black pall. It sometimes conjured up fantasies of persecution and emotions of anger and hatred, the great hazards confronting all those who spend too much time alone.
But of the silences I had had in my life, that of this three days' retreat was the darkest in all my experience. In its all-pervasive gloom no secrets were hidden from my spiritual sight. The full structure of my inner life was revealed fearlessly and openly, and I stood as naked before the truth as I believe we all do when we die to the physical body. All the fears, resentments, and inadequacies of my past life flooded tumultuously into consciousness. I was once more the shy, inarticulate little boy, the unsure, diffident young man, the mediocre academician trying to impress others with his brilliance. The long-forgiven troubles with my father came up into awareness once more, telling me that healing is a slow, painful, and progressive process. Here was I, now middle-aged and established professionally, moving into a new field where most of my fellow ordinands would be half my age. Once more the terrible awareness of the incongruity between age and status asserted itself I had again to be humble and go back to school. I had the gravest doubts about my vocation, and could see numerous psychological inadequacies to account for my decision to become a priest.
There was no one to whom I could turn in my suffering, for in the depths of despair we are all very much alone, apart from God Himself. Had I tried to articulate my inner feelings to even my closest friend among the religious who lived in the house, they would have sounded unbearably trivial and selfish, as indeed they were - at least on a rational level. But what was coming through to me was the history of a soul's life of travail - its hopes and frustrations, its fears and consolations, its vulnerability and its strength. Never did the Bible speak to me as clearly as at that time. I read the Book of Jeremiah with great attention; the Holy Spirit had directed me pointedly to the words and life of that great prophet, the very seal of integrity and as pertinent today as he was long ages ago. I also saw how vastly superior in inspiration Holy Scripture was to even the finest later books on spirituality and prayer. The Bible is indeed the word of the living God, albeit interpreted by the lives and times of the men whom He inspired. And its inspiration comes to us likewise through our own lives irrespective of the theological arguments that have centred on its words.
And so the darkness gathered, until it was impenetrable on the night before ordination. Then sleep overtook me, and I awoke on the Sunday as if born again, young, immature, and innocent. When the time came for me to enter the procession into the church where I was to be ordained, I was aware of a new personality being born in me: calm, possessed, and assured. The words of Revelation rang in my ears as the procession moved towards the altar. "Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and the first earth had vanished, and there was no longer any sea. I saw the holy city, Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, made ready like a bride adorned for her husband. I heard a loud voice proclaiming from the throne: 'Now at last God has his dwelling among men! He will dwell among them and they shall be his people, and God himself will be with them. He will wipe every tear from their eyes; and there shall be an end of death, and to mourning and crying and pain; for the old order has passed away' " (Revelation 21:1-4).