When the Void Becomes an Idol
The story of St. John of the Cross (1542-1591) is often told as a tale of heroic sanctity. The great Carmelite reformer endured imprisonment, humiliation, and suffering in his quest to restore the contemplative life.
Yet his story also reveals a paradox that runs through much of mystical history.
At the centre of the Carmelite conflict was a dispute that appears almost absurd to modern eyes: shoes.
The “Calced” Carmelites wore shoes. The “Discalced” reformers, led by John and St. Teresa of Ávila (1515-1582), embraced a stricter and more austere way of life.
To be fair, neither John nor Teresa believed that God literally resided in bare feet rather than sandals. Their concern was discipline, simplicity, and freedom from attachment. Ascetic practices can undoubtedly help loosen the grip of habit and comfort. Silence, fasting, solitude, and renunciation have served as powerful aids to contemplation for centuries.
The problem begins when a useful discipline quietly becomes a metaphysical principle.
A subtle shift occurs.
What began as a means of recognizing Reality becomes mistaken for Reality itself.
The contemplative discovers the silence beneath thought and concludes that silence is holier than sound.
Discovers emptiness and concludes that emptiness is superior to form.
Discovers stillness and concludes that movement is a distraction.
Discovers God in the desert and begins to overlook God in the marketplace.
This is a danger recognized in the Zen tradition itself.
One discovers the Void and then quietly begins to treat the Void as a special state. One discovers Nothingness and starts looking for it only in silence, solitude, and renunciation. But if the Void is truly empty, it cannot exclude anything. It must be equally present as shoes and bare feet, fasting and feasting, celibacy and intimacy, monastery and marketplace. Otherwise the Void has become another object, another idol, another subtle attachment.
The discovery is genuine.
The reification is the mistake.
The mystic discovers water as ice and becomes fascinated by its purity and stillness. The next step is to recognize the same water flowing as a river, falling as rain, rising as vapour, and crashing as waves. Otherwise one has not realized water, but only a particular state of water.
Likewise, one has not fully realized God if God can only be found in the monastery and not in the marketplace, in the fast and not in the feast, in the Void and not in its endless display.
If God is truly omnipresent, then God is not more present in fasting than in feasting, in celibacy than in intimacy, in bare feet than in shoes.
The person drinking wine while seeing clearly into their true nature is not farther from God.
The lover embracing their beloved is not farther from God.
The ascetic sleeping on a bed of nails is not closer.
The difference lies not in God’s presence but in recognition.
From this perspective, the deepest question is not whether asceticism is useful. For some people, it clearly is.
The deeper question is whether we eventually learn to recognize the same Reality everywhere.
In silence and sound.
In solitude and relationship.
In monastery and marketplace.
In ice, water, and steam.
The history of religious reform movements often follows a familiar pattern.
A mystic rebels against rigid forms in pursuit of Truth.
A new movement emerges.
The movement develops its own forms.
Those forms harden into new rules.
The next generation rebels against them.
The cycle repeats.
The irony is that Truth itself never belonged to any of the forms.
The challenge is not merely to discover the Void.
It is to recognize that the Void appears as everything.
The final freedom may not consist in escaping the world, but in seeing that nothing was ever outside the Divine in the first place.
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