The Invisible Church

The Quakers, along with those admirable groups and individuals who inspired them, including the Savior himself, are humble members, neither proud nor ashamed, of what has sometimes been called 'The Invisible Church'.

According to this definition, these religious men and women are considered as one body, because they hold one simple belief in common, or, rather (regardless of what other beliefs they may or may not share), because they hold this one simple idea to be essential ro absolute.

Namely, the belief that within the individual there exists a sacred and mysterious something -- a hidden, invisible, immaterial, ineffable something; -- which, for the sake of convenience, has been called by various names, including "The Light", "The Divine Light" or "The Divine Inner Light".

Also, that this Light, with proper intention and application, may be known, and that, when one has known this light, one naturally will permit it, as a source of intuitive wisdom, to guide and empower one's life in harmony with forces which transcend one's conscious ability and understanding.

Moreover, that the substance (a word which is used here only with the utmost provisionality) of this invisible something may be best described as pure Light and Love, while the individual who allies him or herself to it partakes, in a most blessed way, of the nature of what is contemplated; even going so far, in exemplary instances, as to mysteriously become the object of contemplation; to become Love, Light, God, The Invisible, -- or, at any rate, an incarnation of what all of these can only point to. One might argue, -- and, certainly, many great theological minds have argued, -- that an incarnation, or manifestation, of something formless is, in fact, more real than the abstraction which inspired it, and, in a sense, gave form to it. My own feeling is that there is nothing the least bit unreal about an abstraction, and that, when we have eyes to see it, the world of our imagination will appear at least as real to us as the one we call actual now.

What is most paradoxical about those mystics who stand for the Divine Inner Light is that, while they have been called invisible, on account of their lack of affiliation (or their tentative affiliation) with religious organizations, their holiness has often been more visible than most. For what they experienced in their hearts, they poured out in words and deeds, and their message was not hamstrung (as it often is) by superstitious dogmas, choreographed rituals, or outmoded creeds, but was clearly and spontaneously manifested in the patience and compassion they extended even to those who persecuted them.

Unusual singleness of purpose and belief: among spiritual movements claiming to unify mankind, this is precisely what distinguishes the Invisible Church, of which Rumi (ostensibly a Sufi) was one of the most articulate members, and definitely one of the most thorough in articulating the essence of it's doctrine. Rumi understood, foremost, that the doctrine he expressed was a doctrine in name only; that nothing he ever wrote, no matter how purely inspired, could adequately capture the truth; but only imperfectly reflect it, out of love.

The poet sings of God, not because he believes his song is a true utterance of God, but it is only the nature of the poet to sing, and it is only the nature of the best poets to sing mystical songs of God.

The poet sings from a heart overful and desperate to dispense itself, as a convert gives all his earnings to charity. This is why poetry is a vocation for the poor, and, not withstanding certain fortuneate exceptions, poets live in poverty.

Absolute poverty, which is the cheif prerequisite for true humility, is a condition where not beven the identity may be claimed as a possession. It would be a misnomer to speak of "one's identity", or of having a self, or being a consistent entity, whose boundaries are not more fluid and dynamic than they are solid and static. A poet, to the extent that he is even a poet at all, will be up to neck in the subconscious, with only his mouth free, to utter prophecies.

Where the lunatic is mindless, the poet is merely disembodied. A madman is only one who has gone under, over his head, and cannot come up for air. He sinks, where the poet floats, and the mystic swims. But the poet must speak, even as he must breathe; exhaling visions so he may inhale further inspiration; which, for any artist, is life. The sage who tries to hold his tongue chokes on it, just as surely as the saint who tries to save his own life dies by his own hand.

He dies because he ceases to be what he is.

In the case of the poet, he is almost nothing, a cypher, a mist upon which great and strange visions are projected. He is similar to an actor, but the roles he plays he lives, and does not recieve or accept under contract. Anyway, he is no good for work; disabled for anything but inspiration; dependent upon the muses and, like Blanche Dubois, upon the kindness of strangers. And, who, to him, is not a stranger? For he is an alien in his own skin.

Whatsmore, he is fatally wounded by life. Not one day, as others are, when they least expect it. But everyday. He walks with Death on one side, taking jabs at him. He bleeds as he walks, and when he stands it is in a widening pool of his own freshly spilt lifeblood. He cannot live, really, but only bleed out, and sing the sad, strangely striumphant song of all he knows.

An abundance of knowledge, like an abundance of wealth, may become a great burden, if it is not charitably dispensed, through an equal abundance of virtuous words and deeds. There are misers of understanding, hoarders of sense, too proud of their learning or their unlearned insight; too proud to share it freely and, so, part with the distinction of having secret or obscure knowledge. There are some so greedy for facts, they make no discrimination as to ultimate value, but lump all knowledge together, as if no grouping of facts, however arbitrary or far-removed from the pursuit of human perfecton, were too insignificant to devote one's entire carreer to the classification of. Yet, this is what so many of our supposedly best minds are busy, very busy, with. Can there be any doubt that this not only a form of addiction, but a particularly dire and distressing one at that; a manifestation of the pettiest motivations of the species? Admittedly, such people may be admired for the passion of their curiosity (generally, a paradoxically "cool" brand of passion, but all the more fixated and unrelenting than the more impulsive variety), and their keen attention to detail. But their "cool" passion has clearly run away with their curiosity, and their keen attention to detail has overlooked the greatest distinction of all: the distinction between meaningful and meaningless.

'Knowledge is proud that he has learn’d so much;
Wisdom is humble that he knows no more.'
~ William Cowper

Others, with a most pure form of discrimination, tend almost singlemindedly to the development of their spiritual faculties. Dilligently, they record the visitations of Mary, Athena, or Kuan Yin, which grace their most blessed meditations. But they scrawl these revelations in private journals, and lock them in drawers as though they were adolescents stashing pornography; ashamed, or merely afraid of being found out. This is a great tragedy, for the light of grace is kindled in this way so rarely, and to waste such measureless blessings, pointlessly and unnecessarily, is to hide crystal candelabras under barrels, which would otherwise give light to the entire house, as well as be admired for their own beauty. While we may admire the humility which surely motivates the best of these "closet visionaries", even humility may be a trap, since one who wishes to conceal oneself must take care not to conceal the divine gifts which one has received, nor be ashamed of them; but proclaim them from the hilltops.

How desperately do our friends, family, neighbors, and enemies need to hear, over and over again, such glorious witnesses and vindications? Whole swarms of lies come buzzing out of their televisions, biting and infecting them where they sit. The streets are lined with madness; bright, obnoxious fonts on all the storefronts, competing for their attention, drawing their attention to what? Pettiness. Materialism. Anything but what enobles and edifies the human spirit. This is our environment; the psychic air we breathe and live on. This is the real smog.

How thirsty is the entire land for a rain of reassurance, and a comforting vision in the mist? How much longer shall those who see shut their eyes, and those who know close their mouths?

Some are fools because they cannot think, most because they will not. Some are lame, and still they walk, even if they have to limp and stumble. But they become strong. Others, with able bodies, lay about as though they were amputees. Ironically, through inaction, they become lame. But it is their will which suffers, and always suffered some ravenous, unnameable disease.

The maladies are varied and often hard to trace, in the body, in the mind, and in the surrounding conditions; wherever they arise. We may presume to diagnose some obvious affliction, and prescribe some equally obvious remedy. In reality, we are only the blind leading the blind.

Those who could see, diagnosed all maladies alike, as sin, and what they prescribed was both obvious and deeply mysterious. What they prescribed was love; an answer simple enough, but the practice of which could be difficult; a lesson often repeated, by one and all, but enacted rarely, by only a few.

We must admire the true mystics of all faiths, who have taken this teaching to heart. They accomplished what was essential, by ridding themselves of the superfluous. Irrespective of the various religions to which they may have belonged, they are all "honorary" members The Invisible Church; -- for, like those who expressly spoke of God as beyond all religions, their life and message was deliberately (indeed, religiously) simple. Their message was almost simplicity itself; regardless of what soil their mystical flower had sprung out of, what they advocated was essentiallly silence, sincerity, and love.

They were, moreover, easily prompted to distill the teaching even further, by saying only love.