Vagus in Litore
“In the days ahead, you will either be a mystic (one who has experienced God for real) or nothing at all.” ― Karl Rahner
It was on one of my last days of the recent surfing/wild swimming trip.
It was morning, just past dawn, when only the hearty watermen1 are out, either due to their devotion to the water or, as with me, to their chronic Short Sleeper Syndrome. [It’s a real thing, apparently.]
Without realizing it, when coming out of the water, I found myself in the middle of a local church group that gathered most mornings on the beach for prayers. Ordinarily, I do not notice them any more than I do sandpipers.
They noticed me, though, as I received smiles and greetings. This is a tourist town, so strangers are common, and they welcomed me into the congregation.
There was no agenda for their worship, of course; no moderator. It was more an open conversation laced with prayers and thanksgivings that ended not with a concluding statement or benediction, but when the surfers had finished waxing their boards.2
Save for those who headed directly into the water, the rest then dispersed, either in smaller groups or one by one. As some padded away in the sand, solitary in their thoughts and their company, I was reminded of an image, once common in Western philosophy, known as the “wanderer on the beach,” or, in Latin, vagus in litore.3
Traditionally, the wanderer can appear without warning, seemingly without purpose; sometimes a stranger to those whom he encounters.
The Wanderer has no obvious agenda, save to be searching for something that may be beyond definition. He or she proffers some wisdom, perhaps makes an exchange of value with those who are visited, and then departs from the other characters and the narrative.
For a Christian context, consider what happens in John 21:1-14. This is after the Crucifixion and the disciples are trying to reset their rhythm by returning to what they know, having spent three years among the things that they do not.
Naturally, they go to the water.
Jesus then appears on the shore, an apparent wanderer on the beach, and directs their boats and nets to where they may find fish. Upon realizing who it is, the disciples race to shore and find themselves before one of the greatest, if most subtle, moments of cosmological revelation offered in the Newer Testament.
At a moment when they are eager for eternal wisdom, Jesus offers them…breakfast.
I have often wondered if they were initially disappointed. They should be used to obtuse teaching by now, of course, but perhaps the Resurrection has disrupted their senses with the sudden upheaval of reality.
Personally, I hope they sat together and laughed. I have never been on a beach with others when we were not laughing, joyous, and giving thanks for nature, bodies, friendship, and the possibilities for celebration.
It is the perfect lesson. Jesus aids them in their quest [for fish, in this case]. He then provides the means for utilizing the result of the quest: the fire for cooking and the bread. They, in turn, bring their catch and add that to the gathering.
There is an exchange; each shares what he has.
It is a gloriously mystical experience, as those thrust outside of common community now begin to create their own, one that is stronger, more loving, and of greater support.
This new creation is marked not by words, teaching, or even miracle. It is marked with a common meal, simply presented.
The stone that the builders rejected has become the chief cornerstone.
– Psalm 118:22
So, among my beach musings that morning, I found myself wondering how true mysticism could be experienced in our highly secular, technological, differentiated, and consumer-based age. Especially as it appears that even mysticism is de-natured in our flattened culture.
The folks on the beach gave me clue.
The other day I heard of someone I knew in seminary. He was just out of one of the Ivies when I first met him. Upon ordination, he was given the position of bishop’s assistant in one of the larger, wealthier dioceses in the church.
He subsequently began a career at a large university, a position that he still enjoys. In fact, I understand he encouraged his wealthy family and their friends to endow the academic chair he currently inhabits.
He has taught students for decades in what I am sure is a careful, systematic manner; he has written and edited helpful books and articles. If not challenging, they are informative.
He was, and I assume still is, a solid, faithful, and orthodox priest. I always enjoyed classroom and dining hall discussions with him; he was always gracious when I helped him with his homework.
Surprisingly, the other day I heard him described as one of the current leading Anglican mystics.
I was all at sea.4
He has spent his career in “the corporate church.” While there is nothing wrong with that, he has never been outside of the system that helped to produce him. He has never written about a personal, mystical experience nor has offered anything other than anodyne academic information in his work.
Perhaps this is what mysticism has become in the 21st century.
Those words of Henri Nouwen’s returned to me. “The great illusion of leadership is to think that man can be led out of the desert by someone who has never been there.”
We have reached the point where mysticism, now codified as “spirituality,” is so tame that having knowledge of it is considered the same as achieving it.
Among our “Monday Mystics”, we have noted how Nouwen spoke of “the wounded” as he was one of them; Tyranowski overcame his introversion using devotion and faith, enough to raise a pope; Merton knew the sensual travails and spiritual burden of the roué’s life, Thurman the daunting struggles of a Black man in American society. The proto-mystic Augustine admitted that his self-inflicted spiritual wounds brought him closer to God’s love.
Each was a cracked vessel in need of repair beyond human wisdom. Each had been outside of the corporate church and had found God there, perpetually around the edges and always waiting, ready to heal and to love.
Each then returned from that edge with greater, and shareable, wisdom.
This is why their perspective is valuable. Each was a vagus in litore. In a mystic quest, one wanders from experience to experience, from notion to notion. Self-doubt and questioning are its grueling tools. The possibility of failure is formidable.
Somewhere on that metaphoric beach, that place that temporarily exists between the high and low tides, a place of no permanence, they interact, learn, teach, and gain in wisdom.
The same is true for us. If we do not wander, we do not grow. If we stay off the beach, we never appreciate the liminal.
The things that challenge us are frightening, as they perpetually push, stretch, and extend our consciousness. Thus, we attempt to tame them.
So, the way for mysticism to continue is through people such as ourselves, bravely willing to make that littoral pilgrimage.
If only through pure metaphor, each of us is called to that temporal plane, to wander without a clear plan, taking and giving among those who are placed in our path and finding through them a new way to see reality and eternity.
This is a non-gender specific term of some veneration.
Although there is no formal study of which I am aware, I have always noted a strong Christian presence in the East Coast surfing community.
“Vagus,” from which we get the English word “vagrant;” “litore,” from which we get the oceanographic term “littoral,” which means the area between the high and low tides.
This is an extension of the nautical phrase ‘at sea’. It dates from the days of sail when accurate navigational aids weren’t available. Any ship that was out of sight of land was in an uncertain position and in danger of becoming lost. In contemporary usage, it means “in a state of confusion”.
Oooo liked this one! I have also been offered breakfast when seeking eternal wisdom 😂
Vagus…the vagus nerve wanders down from the brain to control the heart and to some extent, the stomach. Pretty important body part.