The Price of Spirituality

My spirituality has come at a price. Spirituality always does when you are a mystic. Listening in classes in grade school and reading books led me to the incorrect conclusion that only saints had to pay a price. They lived good lives and enjoyed spiritual, and sometimes physical, union and communion with their Creator. I was not paying attention to the fact that they were often shunned by their families and friends. They were frequently outcasts from society. Even if they were clergy or religious, within those institutions they could be looked down upon. We think of Francis of Assisi as a heroic figure. We ignore the fact that he did not run his merry band of misfits. They were fractious and split into three different groups run by three different men. In the last days of his life he was in ill-repute with the men of the religious order he founded. His death, as in the case of so many other mystics before and since, made it easier to handle how he was perceived. To this day the reality of the man is overlooked.

Obviously, I was not a saint as a child nor am I as an adult. I am far too ordinary to be anybody’s idea of a saint. For that matter, I am not precisely somebody that almost anyone with an ounce of common sense would consider a mystic. As a child I was told not to pretend to myself or anyone else that I was something special just because I said I saw God and saints and angels. It was clear to the adults in charge that I was a liar. My response was to choose an outward form of life that prevented people from ever coming close to guessing who I really am.