Practical Mysticism, Evelyn Underhill [most important books of all time TXT] 📗

in corporate or individual demands, appetites, wants. That “love of life” of which we sometimes speak is mostly cupboard-love. We are quick to snap at her ankles when she locks the larder door: a proceeding which we dignify by the name of pessimism. The mystic knows not this attitude of demand. He tells us again and again, that “he is rid of all his asking”; that “henceforth the heat of having shall never scorch him more.” Compare this with your normal attitude to the world, practical man: your quiet certitude that you are well within your rights in pushing the claims of “the I, the Me, the Mine”; your habit, if you be religious, of asking for the weather and the government that you want, of persuading the Supernal Powers to take a special interest in your national or personal health and prosperity. How often in each day do you deliberately revert to an attitude of disinterested adoration? Yet this is the only attitude in which true communion with the universe is possible. The very mainspring of your activity is a demand, either for a continued possession of that which you have, or for something which as yet you have not: wealth, honour, success, social position, love, friendship, comfort, amusement. You feel that you have a right to some of these things: to a certain recognition of your powers, a certain immunity from failure or humiliation. You resent anything which opposes you in these matters. You become restless when you see other selves more skilful in the game of acquisition than yourself. You hold tight against all comers your own share of the spoils. You are rather inclined to shirk boring responsibilities and unattractive, unremunerative toil; are greedy of pleasure and excitement, devoted to the art of having a good time. If you possess a social sense, you demand these things not only for yourself but for your tribe⁠—the domestic or racial group to which you belong. These dispositions, so ordinary that they almost pass unnoticed, were named by our blunt forefathers the Seven Deadly Sins of Pride, Anger, Envy, Avarice, Sloth, Gluttony, and Lust. Perhaps you would rather call them⁠—as indeed they are⁠—the seven common forms of egotism. They represent the natural reactions to life of the self-centred human consciousness, enslaved by the “world of multiplicity”; and constitute absolute barriers to its attainment of Reality. So long as these dispositions govern character we can never see or feel things as they are; but only as they affect ourselves, our family, our party, our business, our church, our empire⁠—the I, the Me, the Mine, in its narrower or wider manifestations. Only the detached and purified heart can view all things⁠—the irrational cruelty of circumstance, the tortures of war, the apparent injustice of life, the acts and beliefs of enemy and friend⁠—in true proportion; and reckon with calm mind the sum of evil and good. Therefore the mystics tell us perpetually that “selfhood must be killed” before Reality can be attained.

“Feel sin a lump, thou wottest never what, but none other thing than thyself,” says The Cloud of Unknowing. “When the I, the Me, and the Mine are dead, the work of the Lord is done,” says Kabir. The substance of that wrongness of act and relation which constitutes “sin” is the separation of the individual spirit from the whole; the ridiculous megalomania which makes each man the centre of his universe. Hence comes the turning inwards and condensation of his energies and desires, till they do indeed form a “lump”; a hard, tight core about which all the currents of his existence swirl. This heavy weight within the heart resists every outgoing impulse of the spirit; and tends to draw all things inward and downward to itself, never to pour itself forth in love, enthusiasm, sacrifice. “So long,” says the Theologia Germanica, “as a man seeketh his own will and his own highest good, because it is his, and for his own sake, he will never find it: for so long as he doeth this, he is not seeking his own highest good, and how then should he find it? For so long as he doeth this, he seeketh himself, and dreameth that he is himself the highest good.⁠ ⁠… But whosoever seeketh, loveth, and pursueth goodness, as goodness and for the sake of goodness, and maketh that his end⁠—for nothing but the love of goodness, not for love of the I, Me, Mine, Self, and the like⁠—he will find the highest good, for he seeketh it aright, and they who seek it otherwise do err.”

So it is disinterestedness, the saint’s and poet’s love of things for their own sakes, the vision of the charitable heart, which is the secret of union with Reality and the condition of all real knowledge. This brings with it the precious quality of suppleness, the power of responding with ease and simplicity to the great rhythms of life; and this will only come when the ungainly “lump” of sin is broken, and the verb “to have,” which expresses its reaction to existence, is ejected from the centre of your consciousness. Then your attitude to life will cease to be commercial, and become artistic. Then the guardian at the gate, scrutinising and sorting the incoming impressions, will no longer ask, “What use is this to me?” before admitting the angel of beauty or significance who demands your hospitality. Then things will cease to have power over you. You will become free. “Son,” says a Kempis, “thou oughtest diligently to attend to this; that in every place, every action or outward occupation, thou be inwardly free and mighty in thyself, and all things be under thee, and thou not under them; that thou be lord and governor of thy deeds, not servant.” It is therefore by the withdrawal of your will from its feverish attachment to things, till “they are under thee and thou not under them,” that you will gradually resolve the