Do you have days when the modern world is too much with you? When you get so wrapped up in all the details and requirements, the high maintenance that our lives require that you long for a different and simpler time? Now for the moment put aside the notion that the good old days were in fact pretty hard and allow yourself to dream. We do pay a high price in our precious time and attention for all our miraculous technology and conveniences. Computers act up, almost willfully it seems, as if there were a whole tribe of tiny and very nasty grouchy gremlins living somewhere behind that mysterious screen where my words appear, hopefully in the correct font. Suddenly in the middle of a sermon, when my muse has finally smiled upon me and I am truly inspired and furiously pounding the keys, suddenly my gremlins poke their ugly heads in with a cryptic message: this program has performed an illegal operation and will be shut down. You will lose all material not yet saved. Argghh! Or your car breaks down at a time when you have about ten urgent errands to run and no food left in the house. It is at such times when I feel caught in a web of microchips and at the mercy of my mechanic’s good will that I day dream. Sitting at the mechanics shop in a stark waiting room, with blank walls and bitter coffee and the TV turned to a channel I detest I long to escape modern life.

In my daydream I have plenty of time. In fact I have no clock at all, only a sundial and the daily rhythms of the sun rising and setting by which to order my day. There is time to contemplate, to tend my soul, time to tenderly craft a spiritual practice that awakens the now dormant mystic within me. In my mind’s eye I am walking in a garden full of healing herbs and flowers, smelling their sweet fragrance and marveling at the greening powers of creation. Maybe I pick some to make into medicine, using my knowledge and doing it for the glory of God. My days and nights are ordered, regulated, and quiet. There are times for prayers and times for my soul to open up to the greatest mysteries. There are times for study and time for practicing the healing arts. Most of all I know what I believe and even if I am frightened by my experience when I touch the infinite I am also awed and blessed by it. Yes, in this particular dream I am a mystic. And not just any mystic either, I am someone like Hildegaard of Bingen, a twelfth century woman abbess, who wrote books about medicine, composed music, and had to her occasional dismay a series of revelations, of what we would call mystical experiences and she called encounters with God. In these states she had visions. Modern doctors have tried to diagnose and define these visions, maybe she had epilepsy, maybe she had dissociative experiences or perhaps it was simple sexual frustration, or fasting that brought them about, but however they are defined they are typical of what medieval Christian mystics said they saw. Hildegaard had some terrifying visions too, black dogs, monsters but most were of a calm beauty and clarity that gave her much courage and comfort. She wrote about these and she spoke movingly of how she saw God in the greening powers in nature all around her.

And no, her language is not mine. I do not share her faith except maybe in the power of love and the power of the will to live in all of nature, us included. But that is not the point. Those who have studied the mystics of all faiths find that their experiences are similar but the language they use to describe those experiences depends on their culture and religion. So an Islamic Sufi mystic would not see Mother Mary or Jesus but instead the hand of Allah and submission to the will of God. A Buddhist would encounter the truth of emptiness and the illusion of our separate self. What we might learn from the mystics of this world about tending our souls is really not dependent upon their particular faith and language. And as with any worthwhile human endeavor if we chose to open our souls and minds to transforming experiences there are also real dangers inherent in this.

For along with my daydream of the peaceful, healing herb garden there are other stories of mystics who led their followers into destruction and even death. And of course in my work long ago as an art therapist in a State Hospital I saw life destroying illnesses clothed in colorful visions also.

So how do we know the difference between delusions, dangerous ideas and the kind of opening up of our mind and spirit that will give us as Hildegaard found comfort, clarity and courage? Well let us begin where we live. Do any of you consider yourselves mystics? I would unhesitatingly have called myself that once. Now I am not so sure I deserve the label any more. It has been quite a while since I have actually had a soul embracing mystical experience. In fact lately most of my spiritual practice has been in my work. But I have had such openings of my soul unto the universe and a part of me misses them. Oh, it is not that I do not pray or meditate or try to find those moments. And I do have small epiphanies. But mystical experiences, religious experiences cannot be either programmed or commanded. And I know they take time and a willingness to risk being transformed. Now I understand if few of you are willing to call yourself mystics. After all we live in a very different world than Hildegaard did. Asking someone if they have visions is today more likely to be a diagnostic tool than a religious question. But let us look at it another way. How many of you have found at times, your very being transformed, your soul gladdened by an encounter with nature? Well I suspect most of us have stood on such mountaintops or at the water’s edge and felt at one with the sunset, the wind and the waves. Listen to these words by one of our own Unitarian Universalist mystics Elizabeth Tarbox: Prayer and I were strangers once. But prayer called to me over the ocean, and I went to her in my good wool suit, high-heeled shoes, and a silk blouse that seemed to freeze on my skin. The waves said, "Shhh," as they explored my feet sinking in the wet sand, and I thought my part of the beach laughed that night to see me so strangely dressed for worship.

This is one brand of mystics with which we are very comfortable. But there are others. Many years ago I went Houston Texas, of all places, to visit one of my favorite spots, the Rothko Chapel. This is a small place, octagonal, with light coming from one source, a round window in the center ceiling. The floor is made of rough stone tiles and there are four simple wooden benches and a number of meditation pillows strewn about. On each wall are large paintings by Mark Rothko who was an Abstract Expressionist. At first these paintings look completely black but as you sit there quietly slowly colors appear in the paintings and you see shapes and layers of violet, browns, greens, reds and midnight blue. It is a space that forces you to take your time with it or you will just see a stark interior and walk back out. I had been there many times. But this time it was different. As I sat there quietly it seemed as if the warm light enveloped me and held me in a kind of embrace. It was comforting, loving and frightening at the same time. And deep within my memory an old grief began to stir. When I was 17 before it became legal, I had an abortion. I had pushed the memory aside, hidden in layers of guilt and the conviction that it was the only thing I could have done at the time. Now do not misunderstand me, I am pro-choice, that is not the point here. But I had never allowed myself to grieve the loss before. So in that quiet chapel surrounded by curious tourist I sat and cried and in my mind’s eye put the dream of that child within the all enveloping light. I stayed for a long time and shortly afterwards decided to go into the ministry. As if I had at last been given permission.

The sky is less grand when we are lost in our own sadness. And yet I know that opening ourselves up to the sky can be immensely healing. But the truth is that you cannot open yourself only to part of what is inside you. Joy and woe, be they illusions or not, are woven fine, and when we close ourselves off to one, as we might to the fullness of our grief, fear or worry, when we push away unpleasant painful emotions we also close ourselves off to joy. That is one lesson we need to learn from the mystics. We need to find the courage to explore our souls, to take the time to do it, to not fight what we find there but accept it, let it be. Beyond the storms of our thoughts, beyond the clutters of our to do lists lies the truth, the encounter with God or the all-embracing universe, that which cannot be said in words.

Do you dare to be a mystic? Then you must also beware. Tom Owen Towle calls us UU’s freethinking mystics with hands. By which I understand that we are free to name our experiences in our own words but that we are also called to work, with our hands in the messy world, full of suffering. Another way of saying this is that we live with the paradox of needing both roots and wings. It is a bit like trying to fly a dragon. Brian Swimme in his book The universe is a Green dragon wrote: Dragons are mystical, powerful, emerging out of mystery, disappearing in mystery, fierce, benign, known to teach humans the deepest reaches of wisdom. And dragons are filled with fire. Experiences that move us deeply are also passionate, fiery and can be transforming. But the popular writer J.R.R. Tolkien gave very good advice to apprentice mystics: Never laugh at live dragons! We have to keep our feet on the ground as well. Yes, dare to be a mystic. But remember that any mysticism, any visions you may have, in day dreams or otherwise, when you are tempted to bring those ideas into the world around us you must first pass them through the fire of thought. Otherwise you may end up listening to your own unconscious desires and believe those voices to be the voice of God. Another good warning is the saying that by their fruits shall you know them. Yes, any soul tending has inherent pain and struggle built in but ultimately what does it brings you? Clarity and comfort are still good measures to judge whether your spiritual path is leading you to places you want to go. Hildegaard kept on using her head and her hands. She founded two monasteries, composed music and collected medical knowledge. Her book on healing herbs was the first written in German, her own language. She used her mystical visions as permission to do the work she felt she was called to do. She went on preaching tours at a time when women seldom spoke. To the very end she was true to her own vision of a loving God. At the age of 80 a young knight came to her monastery badly wounded. She gave him last rites and a full Catholic burial. Then she got an order from her bishop that this young man had been excommunicated, would she please dig him back up and bury him outside the gates of the cemetery. She refused saying that she was there when he died and as far as she could see he was reconciled to God. So she spent the last four months of her life without a priest and without a mass. But her sisters went every day to the grave of the young knight and to pray.