The Boat Called Love

And I saw the river over which every soul
must pass to reach the kingdom of heaven
and the name of that river was suffering,
and I saw the boat which carries souls across
the river, and the name of that boat was love.

—St. John of the Cross
 

Soul Friend,

this Holy Week are you, like me, keenly aware of the river named suffering? 16th-century Carmelite priest and mystic St. John of the Cross describes this river as one every soul must cross to reach the kingdom of heaven. Every soul.

What do you notice about how your soul is relating to this river named suffering?

Are you trying to live in denial of it? Are you insistent on not seeing your own suffering? A loved one's? Our world's?

Might you be distracting yourself from it? Have you scattered your awareness to what is trivial? Are you focused on plans to escape it? With travel? Food? Entertainment?

Is your body or spirit feeling suffering's impact via exhaustion or pain, while outwardly you are determined to maintain positivity? Stoicism? Productivity?

Are you drowning in it? Overwhelmed by all you cannot control and inwardly thrashing about in a panic? Or sinking in despair?

O Soul Friend, you are not alone. These are the life lines our world and egos offer us. And, thankfully, they do offer us some relief. Grabbing on to these life lines can offer us some much needed, if short-lived, respite.

However, none of them will carry us across the river and into the kingdom we seek.

St. John of the Cross was given a vision of what will carry us across and it is a boat. A boat called Love.

Four-hundred years later, the artist Salvador Dali had a "cosmic dream" in which he saw John's image, a simple line drawing, in full color. He was so moved that he created his masterpiece, Christ of St. John of the Cross, pictured above.

It's easy to focus on the completely original and commanding view from above of Christ on the cross (a perspective so original that Dali's portrayal of it is considered the most enduring depiction of the crucifixion of the 20th century), and to miss the boat and boatman resting humbly at the bottom of the painting. In fact, though I gazed and gazed upon this painting in Glasgow last summer this week I had no recollection of the little boat. Amidst the overwhelming drama of suffering, it can be easy to miss Love's invitation. But both John and Dali want us to see it.
 

How might we get into this boat called love?

Dali, in his depiction of the boatman offers us a hint. The boatman pictured is actually a character Dali borrowed from a 17th-century painting by Diego Valezquez entitled The Surrender of Breda.  This painting is a commemoration of the capture of the Dutch by the Spanish at the end of the Eighty Years' War. You can see that image by clicking the link in this paragraph.
 

The website dedicated to Velezquez's art describes the scene:
 

"The center of the painting is dominated by the exchange of the keys. Ambrogio Spinola, the captain of the Spanish troops, receives the keys of the city from Justinus van Nassau. Having descended from his horse, and looking at the Dutch commander eye-to-eye, Spinola places his hand over Justinus' shoulder, most likely in order to stop him from kneeling. This respectful gesture separates The Surrender of Breda from typical surrender scenes.

In The Surrender of Breda, the battle remains in the distance, only noticeable because of the smoke columns rising in the background. It is the human encounter, in the foreground, that Velázquez emphasized. Hence, it is a painting about magnanimity as much, if not more, than a painting about military prowess."

Soul Friend, Love's boatman is awaiting your surrender. Love's boatman is waiting to receive the keys to your little beleaguered kingdom. He is not there to humiliate you or prove his own prowess. Rather, Love's boatman insists you stand your ground, looks you in the eye, places a kind hand on your shoulder, and reverences your dignity —even nobility— as you hand over the keys.

The boatman has made this trip many times. While you may be unsure of what seems an unsafe vehicle before you, he fearlessly commits himself and his care of you in this slight vehicle to the mercy of the most violent weather. The boat called Love will carry you to the other side. The boat called Love will usher you into a kingdom beyond what you can imagine. Of this the boatman is sure.

Maybe, once in the boat, you'll rest. Maybe it will take you some time to settle down. Maybe the boatman will share a blanket or some food. Maybe the torrent of tears you've long kept at bay will break through and the boatman will neither invade nor seek to solve your bewildering mix of sorrow and relief. Maybe you won't be able to take your eyes off the embodiment of such surprising kindness and the mystery of such slight-seeming support through troubling waters.

Maybe, right now, or, maybe returning to this later, you'll imagine handing over your keys and imagine settling into that boat. Maybe you'll rest there in meditation and, who knows, maybe you'll receive your own little mystic vision. Maybe the boat will become a cradle, and the waves will rock you, and the boatman will deliver you, innocent again, to the other side.

These are dark days indeed, but there is a boat called Love. I hope to meet you there.