God Internum

Late in Hermann Hesse's story, Siddhartha’s son rejects him and leaves, similar to the way in which he, Siddhartha, left his father’s house. The son is like the father. But the lessons the father has learned do not spare the son from the same learning. 

The Ferryman is Siddhartha’s mentor. He teaches him silence, to listen to the river, and shows him how to gently ferry passengers across the river. 

One final time, Siddhartha sets out to seek his son, to heal his wound. He is running away just like his son ran away. But as he sets out, he hears the river laugh. The river is laughing at him. The Ferryman teaches him to listen to the river’s other voices. “From that hour Siddhartha ceased to fight against his destiny.”

One day the Ferryman knows it is time for him to go into the forest. Siddhartha then becomes the Ferryman. Siddhartha becomes the quiet, gentle ferryman who shepherds people across the river.

Govinda, Siddhartha’s childhood friend, seeks the ferryman whom others say is a sage who lives by the river. Govinda does not realize that the ferryman is Siddhartha. The ferryman tells the restless Govinda that knowledge can be communicated but wisdom cannot. Wisdom is the voice within and without. Near, far.

Govinda asks Siddhartha to explain his teaching:

 “And here is a doctrine at which you will laugh. It seems to me, Govinda, that love is the most important thing in the world. It may be important to great thinkers to examine the world, to explain and despise it. But I think it is only important to love the world, not to despise it, not for us to hate each other, but to be able to regard the world and ourselves and all beings with love, admiration and respect.”

Our conversations lead us to the idea of God Internum, that is, God internal to us, individually and collectively. "God in Christ, in the Spirit, in the Church, in the world." God incarnate, in people, in Christ, and in the Body of Christ — the church. In this silent way the church finds its place in the world.

In An Ocean of Light, Martin Laird ends, strangely, by speaking of 'Uninvited Guests' -- primarily one's personal depression. He tells Jonas' story: “Depression is just as much a vehicle of God’s light as joy is. I can’t believe what I am about to say, but clearly depression is the better teacher than joy. I say this simply because I tend to cling to joy.”  This implies that what we cling to possibly inhibits us.

Laird says: “All wounds flower. We only need to investigate by looking straight into the wound. Only interior silence can look deeply into a wound.”

“I can do nothing well,” but “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” Often, as Laird notes, we are caught up in a debilitating cycle of comparing ourselves to others. Invariably, we fail and become discouraged.

The letter to the Hebrews is about encouragement — in the context of suffering. We have previously spoken of the idea of contentment. T.S. Eliot ends his poem The Waste Land with the word Shantih, repeated three times: Shantih. Shantih. Shantih.  This is a Hindu tradition, but Eliot links it to 'the peace that passes understanding.' Somehow this is related to the maxim: “accept the gift of circumstance.”

Some of the ideas we should carry forward from our conversations:

Melchizedek teaches us that the outsider is not the outsider. 

Further, there is an inner knowing for all (8:11). This is the new and living way. It helps us to see others differently, with more charity, which we should also extend to ourselves.

This new and living way shows us that the previous way was only a shadow of things to come, an illustration, a facsimile. 

It is reasonable to sense that the biblical cultures had a different sensibility, one we might consider less evolved and more barbaric, seemingly to us. The culture of blood sacrifice is not so familiar. Perhaps this is why we find the Letter to the Hebrews to be strange. But Hebrews moves beyond this culture of sacrifice, yet retains it as foundational to the blood of Christ, intimating the cost of discipleship. 

Clearly, this extensive argument by the author about the final sacrifice of the Christ necessitates the symbol of blood. The imperative for the writer is that there is no longer a need to bring blood sacrifices to justify the worshipper. This has been done once for all. It does not need to be repeated; it is sufficient. We should take encouragement from this. We do not have to be discouraged by our lives. Nor do we need to go back to the way things were; this is what the readers of the letter were inclined to do. But it is impossible. "Those roads were closed off to me, while my back was turned."

However, by confession, reading and meditating on the scriptures leads to this problem: it's not so much about the words; it's the mysterious, dreadful feeling that the people of God are in constant motion, pilgrims and nomads in search of a better city.