God Immanent in Man - Paragraphs 3 and 4

Fidelity to What is Already Here

What if what is most real in us does not announce itself? What if learning to notice this “real” is less about effort and more about fidelity? How do we stay close to that which does not hurry, despite the busyness of the season?

Yes, here we are on the cusp of Christmas. One might say a time of darkness and waiting, and within that waiting also the hope of arrival. In the spirit of darkness, waiting, hope and arrival, we note that last week we spoke about that which accesses our being, the recognition that we don’t exist on our own. Roberts said this accessing is not a mental image and that it doesn’t identify itself in any way that we can grasp. By the end of that blog we arrived at something simple, though not easy, which is a posture of receiving this accessing without the need to do anything about it.

This week, Roberts continues her theme by speaking of an indwelling Presence, one that we can become aware of, not through striving, but through a kind of interior familiarity. She writes:

“Although the initial revelation may seem to fade, the Presence remains. If prior to this time we had looked within ourselves we probably would have encountered nothing more than our thoughts and feelings. From here on, however, a look within is an encounter with this indwelling Presence. In time there is no need to look within, because there develops an automatic ‘feel’ for its presence, a knowledge as certain as our own existence. From time to time this presence draws attention to itself, not by way of words or through our mind, but solely by its central, interior timely ‘movement’ that informs and enlightens.

By comparison, this revelation may seem to pale all previous revelations, yet initially it seems to enhance those that have gone before. Now we are no longer outside observers of God’s presence in nature, but also experience God’s presence in ourselves. There is a difference however. Whereas God’s presence in nature is more objective and impersonal, God’s presence within is more subjective and personal. In time this raises a certain dilemma—how are we to integrate these different revelations?”

As I sit with Roberts today, I find myself both drawn in and slightly wary. This is often my response to mystics. What they speak of can feel vast, even outsized in comparison to ordinary experience. It can sound like a kind of spiritual hype, something spectacular, unmistakable, and easy to spot. Yet my own experience tells a very different story. While I was aware that something had transpired within, initially I could not for the life of me figure it out; only that it was there within. Today, what she points to is subtle, thoroughgoing, and easily overlooked. It doesn’t require fireworks, but a certain kind of attention.

Her phrase “looking within” stands out to me. Not only because Roberts used it, but because many mystics do, Teresa of Ávila comes to mind. To the average person, “looking within” can sound strange or unnecessary. Don’t we already do this? Don’t we pause, reflect, and make decisions from a more considered, adult place?

And yet, in my experience, this kind of looking within is something quite specific, something you actually become accustomed to over time. As Roberts says, it becomes effortless. I suspect this is why mystics often prefer the word movement over looking. Movement is closer to the felt sense of it. Looking suggests vision and control; movement suggests participation. Yes, actual real-time participation best describes it. Like when you know you’ve misspoken or dropped into story yet have the where-with-all to take a step back and participate with what is actually unfolding. 

What I hear Roberts saying is that on this transformative journey we come upon something we were not previously aware of, she calls it Presence. From my own experience, this coming upon took many years to recognize and even longer to trust. At first, it felt intrusive, like someone standing behind me, watching. Over time, that sensation softened as integration occurred. Now the sense of it is a quiet warmth in the heart, something I can attend to, or not. It is always there, regardless of what I am doing or how well I am doing it.

And because the beauty and mystery of it is always there what these words ask of me today can be summed up in one word: fidelity. As far as I can tell fidelity is not effort, improvement or heightened experience. When I consider fidelity it means staying true to what is actually here. It means resisting the ego’s familiar interference, the voice that insists I should be doing more, feeling more, being more, or somehow managing this Presence. Fidelity asks something quieter: to remain present to what is unfolding now, without leaving the moment for a better story or a more flattering narrative.

This Presence does not ask to be enhanced. It only asks not to be abandoned.

To live in fidelity is to let the mystery be what it is, and to trust that it knows how to inform, illuminate, and prompt change without my supervision. My role is not to orchestrate the relationship, but to stay available to it, to notice when I drift into preoccupation or self-concern and gently return to what is already holding me from within.

As for how this is going. After a decade of settling in, I find myself trusting the Presence more than my strategies. I trust it to guide me, to reveal where I am blocked or defended, and to nudge me toward change when change is needed. This pledge to fidelity does not make life easier, but it does make it simpler. There is less self-monitoring, less urgency to get somewhere else, and less anxiety about whether I am “doing it right.”

There is a quiet sense of being accompanied, not by words or images, but by something that knows me from the inside because it is already there.

Perhaps this is what Roberts means when she speaks of certainty. Not certainty about something, but a certainty with something. A knowing that does not depend on mood, intellect, or effort, because it is as close and reliable as our own existence.

A reflective question for the season is what changes do we notice when we stop striving? What might we notice when we receive what has never left?  

Merry Christmas! May it be filled with light piercing darkness, joy in tenderness and hope in receiving.