Bibliomancy as divination

A friend of mine recently described using a common technique for reading the Holy Scriptures: opening the book to a random page and reading whatever catches the eye first. I've heard this called "fleecing the Bible." As authority for this practice we have no less a figure than St. Augustine, who understood the angelic command "Tolle, lege!" ("Take, and read!") in this way (Book VIII, Confessions). He even reports that at the time, his recollection of Abba Antonius "fleecing the Bible" led to his interpretation of the command.

All of this is perfectly traditional and orthodox. What struck me, though, about my friend's report, is that she called the practice "bibliomancy," using the same Greek suffix as other divination practices: geomancy, cartomancy, etc. This made me realize the common thread: seeking Divine inspiration by using chance to quiet the rational mind temporarily, allowing new conclusions to come forth.

Bibliomancy helped St. Augustine reach a decision he knew he needed to make, but did not want to. I've seen the practice abused as well, as a way of avoiding a necessary rational decision. If "original sin" darkens the will utterly, then we could never decide what to eat for breakfast without sinning! In any case, the point is that "bibliomancy" is really just another "-mancy": the only difference is the symbol set from which one picks.

"The Queen's Servant"

On request, I'm posting a poem of Charles Williams, from his second Arthurian collection "The Region of the Summer Stars." The poem is called "The Queen's Servant." I am posting this poem without permission, but the relevant books are out of print, and used editions come only expensively. Any typographical errors are mine alone; I found none in the edition I'm using ("Taliessin through Logres, The Region of the Summer Stars, and Arthurian Torso," (CW and C. S. Lewis, Eerdmans Publishing Co., 1974).

The lord Kay wrote to the lord Taliessin:
'Now the queen's majesty has need of a maid
for certain works -- to read Greek and translate,
to manage the building of rose-gardens, to wait
about her in actions of office; one who knows
the rhythms of ceremony, also of the grand art.
The house of Your Sublimity, besides its name in battle,
sends forth a fame of such knowledgeable creatures; please
the king's poet to sign this warrant I send,
adding what name he choose to bear it back.'

Taliessin sent for one of his proved household,
proper to the summons, near his thought. She came;
he exhibited the warrant, saying: 'Now be free.
The royalties of Logres are not slavishly served,
nor have you deserved these years less of Us
than to go to the queen's meinie.' She said: 'So.
Freedom, I see, is the final task of servitude.
Yet buy, sir, still what was bought in your thought --
myself with a clear sum purchased from the world.
Though I pay the ransom now, it is but with your gold;
hold well now to the purpose of the purchase.
How shall I serve else?' He said: 'The spells
of Merlin were mighty in time, but rhyme trebles
the significance of time. Where once did We buy you?'
She answered: 'In a shire of Caucasia, when my lord,
growing in glory of song, passed from Byzantium
eastward through Caucasia.' He said: 'The lambs
that wander among roses of Caucasia are golden-lamped.
I have seen from its blue skies a flurry of snow
bright as a sudden irrepressible smile
drive across a golden-fleeced landscape.'
'Nay,' she said, 'though I was bought there,
have I ever seen such a place? Sir, what shire
is noted for such fair weather?' He answered: 'Read
the maps in Merlin's books or Ours or the one
small title We brought by the Emperor's leave from Byzantium.
Or even learn it a quicker way. Unclothe.
We who bought you furnish you. As was Our thought,
so be the truth, for Our thought was as the truth.
Know by Our sight the Rite that invokes Sarras
lively and lifelong. O We most unworthy!'
She cast her garments from her; shining-naked
and rose-flushed she stood; in that calm air,
fair body and fair soul one organic
whole -- so the purchase, so the purpose,
the prayer of Dindrane in the convent at Almesbury so
and the benediction (unspoken yet) of Galahad
on all the derivations. The lord Taliessin
said: 'And so, in a high eirenical shire,
are flashing flaunts of snow across azure skies,
golden fleeces, and gardens of deep roses.
There, through the rondures, eyes as quick as clear
see, small but very certain, Byzantium,
or even in a hope the beyond-sea meadows
that, as in a trope of verse, Caucasia shadows.
Uncurtain the roses.' He named a blessing from Merlin,
and she stretched her open hands to the air; there
they were full at once of roses; again and again
she gathered and flung them at Taliessin's feet --
brushing off buds that clung to her, crimson, centifoliae,
Caucasian roses gently falling in Camelot.
Art-magic spiritual, they neither faded
nor vanished; so holy, over all wizards, was Merlin.
The whole room was shaded crimson from them.
Taliessin lifted his hand; she stayed; he sang
a sweet borrowed craft from Broceliande,
and the room grew full at once of the bleat of lambs.
Visibly forming, there fell on the heaped roses
tangles and curds of golden wool; the air
was moted gold in the rose-tinctured chamber --
as in the land of the Trinity those few
who have seen say that the light is clear or roseal
or golden-cream, each in each and again in each.
Taliessin said: 'Thus the gathering through Broceliande
of the riches of Caucasia; but We -- did We not see
a poet in Italy do more for a beggar
by the grace of the Lord? neither wizard nor saint
are We; yet something perhaps -- Let the Flesh-taking
aid Us now for the making of Your Excellency's coat,
if it please the Mercy.' Thrice he genuflected,
thrice he murmured inaudible Latin, thrice
with blessed hands he touched the roses and the wool.
The roses climbed around her; shoulder to knee,
they clung and twined and changed to a crimson kirtle.
The wool rose gently on no wind,
and it was flung to her shoulders; behind her, woven of itself,
it feel in full folds to a gold-creamed cloak;
hued almost as the soft redeemed flesh
hiding the flush of the rich redeemed blood
in the land of the Trinity, where the Holy Ghost works
creation and sanctification of flesh and blood.
Taliessin fastened the cloak with his own brooch
at her throat; only he drew round her the old leathern
girdle, for a bond and a quiet oath
to gather freedom as once she gathered servitude.
Shoes he fetched her from the household's best store,
to wear still the recollection of her peers,
under whatever election she graced them still.
Clothed and brilliant, she faced the king's poet.
He said: 'So bright? yet be seen now in Camelot.'
The colour's height about her a little quenched
its power; she, still drenched by the power,
murmured: 'Let my lord end this hour with a gift
other than the Rite; that the Rite be certain, let
my lord seal me to it and it to me.'
Gravely, considering the work, the king's poet said:
'As the Roman master sets his bondman free?
or the bishop in the Roman rite the instructed neophyte
at his proper confirmation?' She said: 'To choose
were insolence too much and of too strange a kind;
my lord knows my mind.' Her eyes were set
upon him, companion to companion, peer to peer.
He sent his energy wholly into hers.
'Nay,' he said, 'henceforth, in the queen's house,
be the nothing We made you, making you something.'
Lightly he struck her face; at once the blast
of union struck her heart, the art-magic
blended fast with herself, while all she
burned before him, colour of cloak and kirtle
surpassed by colour of flesh and blood and soul
whole and organic in the divined redemption
after the kind of Christ and the order of Logres.
He said: 'Till death and after,' and she: 'Till death,
and so long as the whole creation has any being,
the derivation in certain, and the doom accomplished.'

In his room at Camelot the king's poet signed
the warrant; he gave it to the queen's free servant,
saying: 'Carry this to the lord Kay, companion.
Be as Ourself in Logres; be as Dindrane
under the Protection, and in the Protection prosper.
Depart, with God.' She said: 'Remain, in God.'

The oppression of habit

Slowly, slowly, i've been starting to apply all of my Tarot studies to practical readings. I've been using the Medieval Scapini deck, which interested me originally because of Ronald Decker's delightful little review of Tarot history, "Art and Arcana." Scapini's Minor Arcana differ quite a bit from the Rider-Waite-Smith deck's, which came up in particular with two cards from last night's reading: the 8 of Swords and the 8 of Wands. When i started writing this post, i caught myself conflating versions of those two cards from different decks; i'll explain this below.

For the 8 of Swords, the RWS deck depicts (according to Rachel Pollack, a student of that deck) "oppression," but not in the form of naked violence. (The fortification looms in the background, but no one holds up the swords or guards the prisoner.) It refers instead to "mystification" in the Marxist sense, where the oppressed "oppress themselves" by their own assumptions (reinforced by misinformation from above). (Why else would people on the edge of poverty staple tea bags to their hats and protest government handouts?) Scapini's 8 of Wands shows instead what seems a more pleasant scene in a vineyard (the wands cleverly woven into sakes for the vines). A couple appears in three stages of romantic development: youthful games, courting, and squabbling.

It took me a while to realize that Scapini's 8 of Wands illustrates a darker phenomenon, namely the oppression of instinct, custom, or habit. The couple in that card acts only according to biological and social expectation, not according to Will (to which Wands ultimately refer). This too is Will, but only the dark will of the blood and the unfolding of the mother's and father's example. The similarity with the RWS 8 of Swords is that the self imposes bondage: to a position in the RWS 8 of Swords, or to a scheme of human relations in Scapini's 8 of Wands.

This pair of cards speaks to two different views on moral enlightenment, which amount to the same thing. A Marxist might say that proletarians must see through the false assumptions and misinformation in order to attain the social order they desire. A traditional mystic might say instead that the patterns of the blood (biological or familial) must be discarded when they hinder the desired development of the spiritual life. Both the mystic and the Marxist speak of the triumph of True Will over lesser wills. Wands and Swords offer two complementary techniques for achieving this: "seizing the Wand" (taking the first step, overcoming lethargy, daring) and "cutting through the veil" (discernment, Scheidekunst in the good sense).

Lent is a good season to attack lethargy, habit, and misinformation. May i use it fruitfully for this purpose, and through grace attain that perfect correspondence of Divine and human Will, Amen.

Nothing!

In what spare free time I can grab here and there, I've been reading Dan Simmons' Endymion and Rise of Endymion -- the last two volumes in the four-part series begun with Hyperion. I've heard these novels described as "science fiction through theophany," and they certainly have a lot to say about human evolution and the fundamental nature of reality while romping through the galaxy (and a neighboring one). I was reminded of Frater Acher's recent posts on whether magic is the search for truth, and on three approaches to reality, which in turn reminded me of Meister Eckhart's 19th sermon, about which I wrote previously.

Frater Acher rightfully criticizes the approach to magic that is just badly done physics or chemistry, that wants to define reality by dissecting it into its constituent components that can be understood and manipulated. Indeed, the old German word for chemistry was "Scheidekunst" -- the "art of separation" -- which presumes that identifying the constituent elements of a compound would reveal all its properties of interest. Novalis' scorn for this art found its vindication in modern biochemistry, where the proportions of elements in a protein mean almost nothing next to its global geometry -- the order in which the elements appear, how they bond, and how the subtle interplay of electronic interactions makes the giant molecule fold up, exposing or concealing active regions as the molecule's environment changes. Dissection is the beginning of insight, but only the beginning.

Frater Acher's post suggests that what we find after investigating the fundamental nature of reality is mere subjective experience -- in other words, "nothing." I can imagine two identical answers with different (yet complementary) meanings to the question, "What is the fundamental nature or origin of reality?" A plausible Zen Buddhist response might be "Nothing!", which would mean something like "That's an absurd question; the essence of nature is beyond categorization." The Kabbalist might answer in reference to Ayin and negative theology in general: Our efforts to carve up reality ultimately fail, because we eventually reach "something" that is NO-THING and therefore we cannot describe it. Nevertheless, Kabbalists seem to like writing about Ayin! The Hyperion series even has its "Void Which Binds," which is this sort of Nothing more in name than in substance, as grand as it is.

I can only conclude by returning to the first of Meister Eckhart's four interpretations of the quote from Acts: "...when he rose up from the ground with open eyes he saw Nothing, and that Nothing was God..." Investigations into the fundamental nature of reality only find Nothing, but Paul was not investigating; he was perceiving, not even willingly! Finding that God is Nothing can be a great revelation, even a great wonder and joy. Paul had been constructing a god of intolerance; what a joy to find that the real God is "Nothing," is the opposite of all of the constructions, indeed even swallows them up in grand Nothingness and replaces them with innocent child-like wonder. Perhaps, though, it's necessary to begin with all those constructions in order that one understands the meaning of their destruction.

"Paul rose from the ground and with open eyes saw nothing"

This quote from Acts (9:8) begins Meister Eckhart's 19th sermon (Vol. I, Walshe's edition).  I love Meister Eckhart's sermons for the way he takes a simple story from Scripture and subverts its literal meaning to wring higher truth gloriously from it.  (His sermon on Martha and Mary is highly recommended as the most subversive of the genre.)  Acts 9 recounts (S/)Paul's conversion, where he was struck by lightning, fell to the ground, and hear the voice of Jesus: "Saul, Saul, why are you persecuting me?"  It's a simple story because the three-day blindness is a practical consequence of the event, a moral and symbolic lesson, and also a means for Paul (through Ananias) to validate his conversion among the naturally suspicious Christian community.  The translator faithfully renders the Latin (straight from the Vulgate), but it's a stripped-down translation, compared with the Douay-Rheims (an English translation of the Vulgate):  "And Saul arose from the ground; and when his eyes were opened, he saw nothing."  The striking phrase "and with open eyes saw nothing" serves Meister Eckhart's opening paragraph:

I think this text has a fourfold sense.  One is that when he rose up from the ground with open eyes he saw Nothing, and that Nothing was God; for when he saw God he [Luke, the author of Acts] calls that Nothing.  The second: when he got up he saw nothing but God.  The third: in all things he saw nothing but God.  The fourth: when he saw God, he saw all things as nothing.

Eckhart bypasses both the literal story (flash of light causes physical blindness) and the allegorical lesson (physical blindness symbolizes Saul's moral and spiritual blindness) to draw a metaphysical conclusion that seems to have nothing to do with either!  This kind of sermon, however, can only come from someone who has studied and internalized Scripture completely: now the words serve as keys to insights, rather than stories or lessons.  How I wish I knew it that well!


I mention this sermon of Eckhart's because last night I was leafing through a volume of his sermons and treatises that I found in a used book store this weekend.  This one stuck with me and I was thinking about it as our sub-choir set up to sing the Introit near the manger.  I had to miss all the Christmas liturgies up to Epiphany due to family-related travel, so it was striking to stand next to the manger, a bit messy with straw and pine branches and neglected after the Christmas holiday, and be reminded of the great Nothingness of God made a tiny baby -- Nothing made nothing. 

Meister Eckhart, Qabalah, and the Tao Te Ching complement each other nicely, incidentally ;-)

New Year's resolution?

Merry Christmas everyone!  Remember, it's Christmas until the Ave Regina Caelorum replaces the Alma Redemptoris Mater ;-) (that's 02 Feb, Candlemas!)
 Christmas is my favorite liturgical season, but over the past few years I've often been yanked away from the liturgies by travel, family demands, and sometimes even work. That's likely to continue for a few years at least, and I'm starting to face the fact head-on and cope.  The ancient Jews certainly did: synagogue life and perhaps even an entirely new theology grew out of the experience of exile in Babylon, with only the rubble of a temple awaiting them in Jerusalem.  God not specific to a place becomes God everywhere, even God in oneself.  Yet this doesn't satisfy in the same way that place-centered ritual does. 

"I rejoiced when they said unto me, 'Let us go to the house of the LORD.' And now our feet are standing within your gates, Jerusalem" (Ps. 122:1-2).  How sweet that sounds!  I've often been lucky to live either next to or within a short drive of a church where liturgies were celebrated regularly.  My favorite place was up in the choir loft, my favorite clothes choir robes, my favorite smell the lingering odor of incense and faint candle smoke, and my favorite way to worship singing.  This was for many years, in fact, the only way I could manage to pray meaningfully. 

I still have great opportunities to sing and participate in other ways liturgically, but that may not last long.  Part of the way I've been preparing for that is to avoid bad experiences with prayer in the past, where my mind was alone with itself (maybe it just seemed that way) and left to wander in dark valleys.  As my beliefs have evolved, I feel more comfortable about developing something of a "home liturgical life," rather than dragging along a miserable kneeling existence in exile.  In that context, I appreciated Jason Miller's post on drawing deeper meaning from the Christmas story.  Ritual draws its meaning from theology, and Theosis via Incarnation is a great theological basis for ritual actions in place and time. 

I'm afraid of losing meaning in ritual and turning it into something escapist, and I'm also afraid of my own lack of discipline in keeping habits -- especially when those habits involve conflicts and balancing responsibilities with loved ones and other things.  I'm not sure if the habit of a New Year's resolution is always good, but if I had one for the coming year, that would be it.  I really want to pick myself up and keep a habit like this, that's not externally driven, and that I can feel comfortable defending if it needs defending.  I'm hoping also that the practice of "defending my own" will help me defend other good things I'd like to do in the world, but haven't felt free to do for a while.

Woah, that's like the first intentionally vague, self-helpy post I've written in a dreadfully long while!  Hope it's not oppressively annoying ;-)  I really have nothing to complain about, compared with some blog friends I know who are really struggling materially, emotionally, _and_ spiritually.  Being blessed with many choices really isn't a bad thing!

The power of the alphabet, part 2

On the commute to work this morning, I was thinking about my last post, on the "power of the alphabet."  Both Kabbalists and more orthodox readers of Scripture describe language as created with the universe, and the means by which the universe was created.  Before the creation event, existence is called a "formless void" -- in some sense, perhaps only because no language exists by which to describe it.  Names of the Divine, then, would not predate creation; we cannot address It in words in Its "original state," but only as a creating Being.

It's interesting that we as humans share in that power to create with language.  This point never strikes me more than when I think about the computer scientist's task of writing an interpreter or compiler for a programming language: here, language is turned in on itself, and abstraction and expressive power increase.  It's no coincidence that the bane of many an MIT undergraduate, the textbook "Structure and Interpretation of Computer Programs," has a wizard on its cover!