The struggling human form painfully ascends the hill of mortal aspiration, surrounded by multitudes of his own kind. He grasps for the substance of life in a dark, enclosed space. He, like the others, is impelled onward by a deep yearning for life, yet the existence he knows is more akin to a steady, monotonous stamping than to purposeful progress. Within him lies the means of survival and procreation, but he often pursues the unceasingly onward course more out of blind habit than a positive appreciation of the world around him. Yet, in the dark obscurity of life's pageant, a pageant that has its time of exultation and happiness but which proceeds inexorably towards the valley of extinction, he exercises his gift of thought. As Pascal remarked, "Man is only a reed, the weakest thing in nature, but he is a thinking reed". Indeed, his contemporary, Descartes, found the proof of a specifically human existence in man's ability to think. He reflects on the past and plans the future in the present moment, but all too often that present moment passes him by unnoticed and unattended to.
Thought diverts him from the present, but no matter how stimulating it may be, thinking soon reaches its own end, its tragic limitation in a world of decay and death; and so the struggling human form learns to divert his thoughts to his immediate tangible environment, to his desires, expectations, emotional needs and fantasies. But all the while this edifice of comforting reflection is being undermined by a subterranean inflow of subversive dread that chills the heart as it casts its shadow on the prospect ahead. It reminds him of his guilt, his fear of exposure and retribution, of the underlying transience of all material achievement, swallowed up, as it must be, by the relentless inroads of ageing and death. Thus the obsessive tendency to superficial thinking finds its own check as a world of darkness limits all expansive plans for the future. The writer of the Book of Ecclesiastes saw starkly the vanity and the essential emptiness that lay at the foundation of all human achievement, and that loomed large as the destiny of all created things. When one looks down on an army of ants moving from one corner of a room to the other, one can see in advance the wall that is to check their journey. But the human is so often oblivious of the wall of mortality that is destined to end his own exertions, despite the power that distinguishes his witness and at first promises so much satisfaction. The end is disillusion and bitter disappointment. If the person had been more aware, he would have seen the "writing on the wall" and made an alternative plan of direction and development in a murky, unsatisfactory life. Yet all the schemes of the distraught human mind founder on the rocks of the sea of illusion, and man returns to his place of origin, defeated and humiliated.
A world without over-all purpose is dark and menacing. The bent, humourless humans hurry onwards to a place that is both nowhere and everywhere at the same time. The more change engendered on a human level, the less advancement is registered spiritually.
The sun rises and the sun goes down; back it returns to its place and rises there again. The wind blows south, the wind blows north, round and round it goes and returns full circle. All streams run into the sea, yet the sea never overflows; back to the place from which the streams run they return to run again (Ecclesiastes 1.5-7).
Then from the very heart of the darkness, the very centre of the vanity of existence, a ray of light shines forth. It strikes the heart of the dismal plodder, making him wake up to the reality of the present moment, seeing it as a thing in its own right. At once hope breaks into a closed consciousness, and the blind man is suddenly endowed with the priceless gift of sight. This is the essential human condition: the feet on the solid earth of dreary subsistence with the head in a fog that is shot through with the fire of meaning coming to the mind as isolated sparks that can be allowed either to peter out or else ignite a fire within that transforms the person. "The light shines on in the dark, and the darkness has never mastered it" (John 1.5), for the ultimate being is light, and in him there is no darkness at all (1 John 1.5).
The Parable of the Sower and the Seed (Matthew 13.4-8) is especially relevant in this context. The seed, the ray of light, falls on the soil of the inner man, the true self, or soul, that is the arbiter of moral values, and there it makes its impression. But in some the light is quickly extinguished by the indifferent spiritual milieu of the surrounding world. In others it bursts into an immediate flame, only to flicker to extinction under the stress and disillusion of everyday life. In yet others its frail ray is continuously outshone by the meretricious glow of earthly diversions, so that it gradually fades from view as the false light, which is in essence the glitter of the forces of darkness, occupies the whole scene. But in a few the spark ignites a delicate flame that persists in the power of its own light, despite all temptations to yield to the seductive blandishments of the world. As a consequence the flame expands slowly into a glowing fire that both consumes the errors of the past and shows the way towards a new realm of values whose peak is the vision of God. The man painfully ascending the mountain of existence, when he sees the light and acknowledges its authenticity, has now to make his decision. Is he to turn his back on it and return to the heedless, purposeless way of the past? Or is he to set his face in the shaft of that light and move away from the glitter of worldly values to attain a vision of God? This is a vision momentarily outlined in the flicker of the illumination, but to be known and treasured by a new life, whose end is the raising of the whole creation to an encounter with God's transfiguring love.
But how is this ray of divine light recognized? It comes suddenly, like a thief in the night, lighting up the flagging consciousness of the person, so that a warmth ignites his heart while a cool breeze caresses his head. "The people who dwell in darkness have seen a great light: light has dawned upon them, dwellers in a land as dark as death" (Isaiah 9.2). In this beautiful passage Isaiah continues that God has increased his people's joy and given them great gladness, so that they rejoice at harvest. In the light of God, the man toiling at his work, climbing laboriously the upward path of trial and uncertainty, suddenly feels the burden of life, including the draining emotional emanations of those around him, lift from his shoulders, so that for the first time in his experience he knows freedom. This is the freedom to be himself, an individual apart from the mass of humanity, while remaining an essential part of it. It is a spiritual truth that we attain a knowledge of our own unique identity most radiantly when we work with self-transcending devotion in the greater world around us. "Come to me, all whose work is hard, whose load is heavy, and I will give you relief" (Matthew 11.28). In fact, he comes to us, and when we receive him, he lifts our burden from us by sharing it with us, so that the strength afforded us can in the future be used with an awareness that shows itself in dedicated responsibility. But the ray of divine illumination is not merely a sensation of inner warmth, a feeling of living presence. It is also coolly directive. In a brief encounter it gives a preview of what one may become, something of a full person created afresh in the image of God, something of Christ himself, but now incarnated in one's own particular name. The divine essence works through disarmingly ordinary people. By contrast, an intellectual or esoteric elite who appear to know much on a theoretical level often fail to register its presence in their lives. The objective proof of a meeting with the divine is an outpouring of love that is the source of all healing: It may start its work among individuals but soon becomes communal in range.
"It is a terrible thing to fall into the hands of the living God" (Hebrews 10.31), for then a higher demand is made on one, a demand that cannot be ignored or evaded. The inescapable call to action follows the vision: there must be growth into integrity and a capacity for serving the world. This is the intimation of the pearl of great price deeply set, and as yet inaccessible, in the mist of eternity. There is no escape from responsive action towards the holy life, for the inner eye has sensed something far more potent than even human grandeur at its most august. This is the glory of a human being, to be able to respond to the divine initiative and traverse the uphill path of integration whose end is sanctification. It is the power of the divine that makes us truly human: the glory of God is a living man as St Irenaeus puts it. The ultimate proof of God is a personal one: the experience of the divine fire that will not let one alone until one has actualized one's full potential. At first that potential may be seen, indeed experienced, in material terms of worldly success, eminence and riches, but as the divine intimation fires the aspiration of the soul, so will no destination other than the vision of God suffice.
When the light is seen and acknowledged, when its authority is accepted, nothing will satisfy, except the possession of that light. This is in its own way a variation on the theme of human love; the lover possesses the beloved and he is filled with joy. But possession, like possessions themselves, has a sadly transient glow. What starts its life as heaven soon attains an infernal power if it cannot be left alone, indeed finally relinquished. This is because it, in a subtle way, separates the lover from the greater experience of humanity by concentrating his rapt attention on one object to the virtual exclusion of all else. Jesus goes so far as to tell his would-be disciples that they have first to hate their most intimate family, even their own lives, before they can truly follow him (Luke 14.26). Admittedly the language of hyperbole modifies the "hatred" demanded against parents, husbands, wives and children, and brothers and sisters, but the underlying truth is clear enough: the great quest demands total renunciation, at least as an act of faith, in somewhat the same way as Abraham was prepared to sacrifice his beloved son Isaac as a proof of his primary obedience to God, the ultimate Father. All this is hard, virtually impossible, to the man of flesh, but he is being drawn into the path of self-transcendence as he yields his own desires to something too immense to conceive with the naked intellect.
The frail light is the very presence of God, like the "still, small voice" (or the sound of a gentle breeze), that informed Elijah of what was destined to be (1 Kings 19.13). It is gentle and courteous in its address, but its import is terrible. "The Lord your God is a devouring fire, a jealous God" (Deuteronomy 4.24). Yet the nature of God is pure love, light in whom there is no darkness at all (1 John 1.5). Once the outline, the glimmer of the iridescent pearl is seen in the mirror of the mind and its exquisite form hailed by the soul, it takes priority in the life of the person, as at once he is torn forcibly from unthinking conformity with the company with which he once identified himself. This was a childish response to the safety that is afforded by the weight of sheer numbers. These try to escape the realities of life by a thoughtless witness to vacuity that masquerades as purpose. Well does Jesus say, "Do not store up for yourselves treasure on earth where it grows rusty and moth-eaten, and thieves break in to steal it. Store up treasure in heaven, where there is no moth and no rust to spoil it, no thieves to break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also" (Matthew 6.19-21). It is, however, the illusion of ownership and the comfortable safety that it engenders that seduces the multitudes. For most it remains an impossible ideal, but even the comparatively few who do acquire great wealth find that they are imprisoned by it to the extent of directing much of their attention to its preservation. If God were with them, they would be enabled instead to administer it to the benefit of their fellow creatures, knowing that abiding happiness is never individual and solitary but always shared and communal. The one who glimpses the light of God begins, at least vaguely, to see this reversal of the typical human hierarchy of priorities.
The bracing atmosphere of spiritual aspiration is therefore rather bleak, since the aspirant is now largely bereft of the throng that previously encompassed him and gave him an illusory protection by their sheer numbers. He is lifted up in order to see the kingdom of God, likened to the pearl of great price in Jesus' parable (Matthew 13.45-6). It is noteworthy that in this parable, as in the one immediately preceding it - concerning treasure being buried in a field - the person who has been given a glimpse of the entire treasure has to leave it behind until he can afford to buy it. He cannot simply proceed to appropriate it. In the same way, an experience of God's abiding love and the grace that flows out to embrace the happy person who has received it, is not meant to last long. After it comes the precipitate descent to the foothills of the spiritual life and the slow arduous ascent of the mountain of transfiguration where the treasure may be more thoroughly identified and claimed. Thus Moses, who met God as intimately as it is allowed mortal man to know the divine presence, was shown the plan of the temple, which is in fact the ideal society even more than a solitary edifice. Then he was told, "See that you work to the design which you were shown on the mountain" (Exodus 25.40). It is poignant that in the end even he was not faultless enough to set foot on the Promised Land, but was allowed merely to see it at a distance from the peak of the mountain of Pisgah. Even today we have not actualized the divine plan of the ideal society in any part of the world, so few are the visionary lovers of God in the vast concourse of their unseeing neighbours. We cannot claim the blessing until we are fully ready to receive it.
Thus the vision fades, and the darkness of contemporary life enfolds the aspirant once more as he descends to his place in the prosaic ranks of his fellows. If he is unwise enough to discuss the revelation with anyone else he is sure to be deflated. Some will indicate that he is mentally ill, or at least indisposed enough to need a complete break from his work. Others, more piously orientated, may think in terms of the devil, the creature clothed with the glittering light of counterfeit authority. All alike are secretly jealous even if unaware of their destructive intent. Well does Jesus say, "Do not give dogs what is holy; do not throw your pearls to the pigs; they will only trample on them, and turn and tear you to pieces" (Matthew 7.6). The pearl is indeed a fragile commodity and has to be carefully guarded in the soul of the recipient. "He who speaks does not know; he who knows does not speak", is the way Lao-Tsu expresses this great truth. It also exposes finely the difference between occult knowledge, or gnosis, and divine wisdom, which is all-encompassing and universally available to those ready to receive it. But it cannot be attained by any earthly riches; it is gained laboriously in the school of life itself with its manifold experiences; and no one experience is of less value than another, at least to the person who is awake, for all lead him further from his innate tendency to comfortable stagnation towards the goal of self-actualization in the form of Christ.
The intimation that comes to the typical man in the street can vary in intensity from a liberating illumination, such as altered the lives of Moses, when he saw the burning bush, or St Paul on the road to Damascus, or Jakob Boehme, when the burning light of God infused him in his own moment of contemplation, to an ineffable inner warmth of love that tells him that he does matter in a world of countless creatures, so many that God himself would seem hard-pressed to recognize them all. The current name for all this is the "peak experience", and in recent years it has been the object of much study and description. Yet the more it is reified, made into an object to classify and control, the more does its delicate glow become diffused and subtly debased. The "near-death experience" that is from time to time reported by those who were "clinically dead", but who had been resuscitated just in time for complete brain function to be restored to normality, comes decidedly into this category. A new purpose for living has been shown to those whose mortal lives were at the point of extinction: spiritual priorities at last take precedence in what remains of their work on earth. All these experiences, from the most expansive and dramatic to the purely intimate still small voice of God in the soul, give the person some preview of eternal life. Something of its range is grasped by the soul in the space of an incredibly short period of time. This is what we all seek, an assurance of meaning that cannot be obtained by pure thought. The God of the philosophers is often a cold, distant being who has little direct contact with his creation. Theology, if it is to be dynamic and imperative, has to be infused with the warmth of the living God, the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob that Pascal met in his own dramatic illumination, perhaps not so very different from that experienced by St Thomas Aquinas at the end of his brilliant career of scholastic theology. But the vision kills - as it may have done the learned Dominican saint himself - in order to bring forth new life.