On a Monday night in November of 1654, the French philosopher and mathematician Blaise Pascal experienced a remarkable spiritual encounter. He was alone, and the only record he left of the evening was a cryptic document sewn into his jacket — it was discovered after his death.
Scholars have referred to this as his “night of fire.” In a poetic document that in English is only 230 words (shorter than this post), he described about a two hour period of experiencing “fire” and “joy, joy, joy, tears of joy” — woven together with the kind of pious religious language that many of us might chafe against today:
“He is only found by the ways taught in the Gospel… Righteous Father, the world has not known you, but I have known you… Let me not be separated from him forever… He is only kept securely by the ways taught in the Gospel: Renunciation, total and sweet. Complete submission to Jesus Christ and to my director.”
In the past, there was a time when I loved Pascal’s Night of Fire; in all honesty, I now find it troubling. Not that I doubt his experience: I trust it was genuine, that the tears of joy he shed were real. Nor do I begrudge him the experience of finding his encounter with the Holy through the medium of the religious institution: he was certainly not the first, nor will he be the last, to do so.
What bugs me is the way in which his words could easily be read to suggest that the only way to meet the God of Fire is through “complete submission” or “total and sweet renunciation.” Perhaps here is a clue to what we all need to consider when we talk about our spiritual experience, or attempt to share it with others:
It’s beautiful to try to express, as best we can, experiences that can never be finally described in words. May we all strive to do so. But may we also remember that no one’s experience is authoritative for anyone else. If I try to describe my encounter with God in a way that implies I know what is best for you in your spiritual life, then I have lost my way — and what I have written ceases to be helpful, or at least, its helpfulness is compromised. May we all remain humble even when speaking of our intimacy with God. Such humility makes all the difference between pious language that is laced with judgment, and contemplative language resonant with possibility.
May we all find ways to tell our sacred stories in a manner that radically respects how everyones path is unique and singular. May we tell our stories never to control or dictate to each other, but always in a spirit of down-to-earth service.
Thanks for this.