The Self cannot be won by speaking,
nor by intelligence or much learning.
It can be won by the one whom it chooses.
To that one the Self reveals its own form.
Katha Upanishad II:23
I keep running into this phrase lately––“the second
naiveté.” I’ve heard it mainly applied to scripture and myth. So, perhaps at an
early age we read the Bible, for instance, believing every word and fact and
detail to be literally true, no matter the discrepancies within accounts or
things that just don’t match up. Then comes the stage of exegesis, literary
critique and historical critical analysis, and we could fall into a totally
cynical approach, figuring out just what words Jesus might have actually said,
and deciding that this is all a bunch of silly fairy tales. And then the second
naiveté hits, when we just start to enjoy the stories again and appreciate the
truths that they convey. I think this happens in very tradition. I’ve heard it
referred to Hindu and Buddhist texts as well. I don’t think it’s a return to
being uneducated; it’s something beyond our sophisticated rational minds.
Maybe the same thing applies to our understanding of God. So
as a little Catholic boy I sincerely thought of God as an old man with a long
white beard, and his Son looked just like him except younger and a little
thinner with a brown beard, and then there was this dove. Every religion has
its version of this too, I suppose. And then I went through my iconoclastic
stage, smashing idols and destroying images, my own and those of others! But
later can come another phase, in which I don’t think we recapture those images
and icons necessarily, but instead we grow to love the mystery, and grow
comfortable not knowing the answers, and being comfortable with that. Perhaps
that’s the apophatic stage, the via negativa, the way of holy darkness, which could either freak us out or it could
initiate us into awe, wonder, worship, joy. I don’t think it’s a return to
childhood, really, but it’s a new childhood, a new innocence, in which we don’t
“regret the past nor wish to shut the door on it”; where we don’t negate all
that we have learned and gained, but we go beyond it, and with the help of all
that we have gained we find a new sense of mystery and transcendence. Some
people are lucky enough to remain innocent and childlike all their lives. Most
of us are not that lucky––but we can hope for this place beyond our slick
rational minds, beyond our cleverness. There are many things actually hidden
from our cleverness that are revealed to our awe, hidden from our brilliance
that are revealed to our trust.
So Jesus says in that beautiful passage from the Gospel of
Matthew, Blessed are you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth. What you have
hidden from the learned and the clever you have revealed to the merest
children. It reminds me of the Tao te
Ching, my favorite chapter 20. Taosim is perhaps the quintessential apophatic
tradition. I think this passage describes well what St Paul calls the “fool for
Christ,” and makes me think at what an absurd figure the monk can strike in
this day and age. This my version of it, the one I adapted for the song “The
Great Mother”:
Others are joyful and others can
feast,
I alone do not know where I am,
a child not taught how to smile.
Others have everything, more than
they need,
I alone have nothing at all––
I’m just a fool in confusion.
Others a brilliant and clear––
I alone still grope in the dark,
the insights of scholars escape
me.
Others are clever and sharp;
I alone am stupid and dull.
I drift like a wave on the ocean.
Everyone else has got something to
do,
I alone and aimless and sad.
I am different, nourished by the
Great Mother.
“The Great Mother” there refers to the first manifestation
of this Tao that cannot be spoken of, but gives birth to “the 10,000 things.” I
am different, it means, I stay
close to the source.
Let’s look forward to this passage into the second naiveté
today, so that what is hidden from our wisdom and learning may be revealed to
us as we are nourished at the table of the Word and Sacrament.
