Teresa’s writing style quickly disarms her readers; recognizing that she writes as a spiritual mother to reformed Carmelites, she presumes no special privilege for herself. She calls herself “dumb,” and she in no way belittles her sisters. In her discussion on the way to prayer, reflecting on how God grants his benefits to whomever he wishes, regardless of their merit, she admonishes her readers not to regard themselves as better than others on account of their spiritual progress. If they are indeed far advanced in the spiritual life, they owe it not to themselves, but to God’s gratuity. I think it rather appropriate that this warning appear in the first mansion, since it seems to be the common temptation. I remember myself feeling haughtily superior to others who seemed ignorant of the spiritual life, and Teresa’s injunctions would have been helpful to me at that point when I was just beginning to desire growth in prayer. It was not Teresa, however, but John of the Cross who chastised me for my pride. He spoke with love, surely, but in such a way that, for me at that time, created more problems than it solved. Teresa’s approach, self-effacing and humble, does not negate John’s style, although I would have appreciated hearing her voice of gentle advice rather than John’s stern indictments of beginners.
As to the metaphor of the soul as a crystal castle, Teresa has all the insights of an existentialist when she writes that there are many ways of “being in” a place. Indeed, she acknowledges that we are already “in” the soul, for we are our souls. But we can distract ourselves, always standing outside ourselves, like a guard who cares not for the interior of the castle he protects. Teresa links this phenomenon, I think, to the desert monastic tradition, although briefly, when she speaks about the man who is always preoccupied with his thoughts. The truth of this, that it is possible to be in a place without “being there,” manifested itself vividly to me today. I walked into my cell, but I was imagining what my new cell would look like. In my mind’s eye I saw the new cell, the bed, the desk, the chair, how I had simplified my possessions, the color scheme I had chosen, and a myriad other trifling things. I stood in my cell with my eyes closed, but I was not there; I was upstairs, in another cell, totally ignorant of my true surroundings. And then I opened my eyes, and reality flooded back. Suddenly presence shifted and I started to “be in” my cell, to dwell here and now.
And, you know, the most amazing thing one eventually learns about fantasy? No matter how grand and complex, they pale in comparison to the present moment. Why do we seek shadows, when the source of light is right behind us? Perhaps the present moment, rich though it may be, is too heavy and painful to bear at times. We all need some “defense mechanisms,” some viable temporary escape. Yet, it is possible to become lost in these escapes, and almost to forget where we came from. In maturity, I imagine, one may find the strength to bear the truth, even when it is hard. And who is our hero in this regard? Christ on the cross, refusing to escape.
Escape, however, becomes more attractive in our sin. The second mansion describes the soul in sin, and to face our own neediness in humble self-knowledge is a frightening prospect the further from reality we have wandered. Like eyes grown dim through hours of sleep and darkness, the soul in sin or illusion winces at the light, finding it painful, and quickly shutting itself up again to escape the nuisance. The day has already come, however, and eventually we must rise from rest; the eyes adjust to the light, but slowly. Perhaps the soul in sin, too, can enter into itself, expose itself more and more to the Light, in degrees and stages. The concept of stages in the spiritual life, or several mansions arranged like layers of a fruit with sweet goodness inside, corresponds to the gradual awakening of the soul. Virtue, too, grows in degrees, by dint of grace and practice. Teresa’s metaphor of the interior castle works on all these levels to help the reader become aware, by way of analogy, of what she already is and where she lives.
As to the metaphor of the soul as a crystal castle, Teresa has all the insights of an existentialist when she writes that there are many ways of “being in” a place. Indeed, she acknowledges that we are already “in” the soul, for we are our souls. But we can distract ourselves, always standing outside ourselves, like a guard who cares not for the interior of the castle he protects. Teresa links this phenomenon, I think, to the desert monastic tradition, although briefly, when she speaks about the man who is always preoccupied with his thoughts. The truth of this, that it is possible to be in a place without “being there,” manifested itself vividly to me today. I walked into my cell, but I was imagining what my new cell would look like. In my mind’s eye I saw the new cell, the bed, the desk, the chair, how I had simplified my possessions, the color scheme I had chosen, and a myriad other trifling things. I stood in my cell with my eyes closed, but I was not there; I was upstairs, in another cell, totally ignorant of my true surroundings. And then I opened my eyes, and reality flooded back. Suddenly presence shifted and I started to “be in” my cell, to dwell here and now.
And, you know, the most amazing thing one eventually learns about fantasy? No matter how grand and complex, they pale in comparison to the present moment. Why do we seek shadows, when the source of light is right behind us? Perhaps the present moment, rich though it may be, is too heavy and painful to bear at times. We all need some “defense mechanisms,” some viable temporary escape. Yet, it is possible to become lost in these escapes, and almost to forget where we came from. In maturity, I imagine, one may find the strength to bear the truth, even when it is hard. And who is our hero in this regard? Christ on the cross, refusing to escape.
Escape, however, becomes more attractive in our sin. The second mansion describes the soul in sin, and to face our own neediness in humble self-knowledge is a frightening prospect the further from reality we have wandered. Like eyes grown dim through hours of sleep and darkness, the soul in sin or illusion winces at the light, finding it painful, and quickly shutting itself up again to escape the nuisance. The day has already come, however, and eventually we must rise from rest; the eyes adjust to the light, but slowly. Perhaps the soul in sin, too, can enter into itself, expose itself more and more to the Light, in degrees and stages. The concept of stages in the spiritual life, or several mansions arranged like layers of a fruit with sweet goodness inside, corresponds to the gradual awakening of the soul. Virtue, too, grows in degrees, by dint of grace and practice. Teresa’s metaphor of the interior castle works on all these levels to help the reader become aware, by way of analogy, of what she already is and where she lives.
