When the River Becomes Too Deep to Walk

St. Isaac the Syrian, Ezekiel’s Vision, and the Soul Carried by Divine Love

“Afterward he measured a thousand, and it was a river that I could not pass over: for the waters were risen, waters to swim in, a river that could not be passed over.”

— Ezekiel 47:5

There are moments in the writings of St. Isaac the Syrian when he seems to gather together the whole of the spiritual life into a single image. One such moment occurs in Homily Eighteen when he reflects upon the vision of the Prophet Ezekiel and the mysterious river flowing from the Temple.

At first glance his words seem almost cryptic. He speaks of “the apparition of the torrent,” which reveals “the three stages of soul that draw nigh to things divine,” and then quietly adds, “beyond the third, there is no passage.”

These few words contain an entire theology of the spiritual life.

The vision itself is well known. Water flows from beneath the Temple, and as the prophet is led farther into the stream, it becomes progressively deeper. First it reaches the ankles. Then the knees. Then the waist. Finally it becomes a river too deep to cross, where one can no longer walk but must surrender oneself entirely to the current.

Isaac sees in this not merely a prophecy of grace but a portrait of every soul that is being healed by God.

The first stage begins with something remarkably ordinary.

It begins with desire.

Isaac says that the beginning of everything is “a good purpose directed toward God.” Before there are profound experiences of prayer, before contemplation, before tears, before knowledge, there is simply the awakening of the heart. A person begins to want God more than anything else.

This is where every genuine spiritual life begins.

Not with extraordinary effort.

Not with mystical experiences.

But with a heart that has finally become honest enough to say, “I desire You.”

From this desire arise what Isaac calls “the manifold labors of stillness.” Prayer, watchfulness, repentance, fasting, silence, and the slow purification of the passions all have a single purpose: they clear away whatever prevents the heart from responding freely to the love that has already sought it.

Here the river deepens.

Little by little the soul discovers that the spiritual life is not about acquiring something new but recovering a capacity that had long been buried beneath fear, distraction, and self-love.

The Fathers often speak of purification, but they do not understand it primarily as becoming morally impressive. Purification is the gradual healing of desire. It is the restoration of the heart’s ability to perceive reality as it truly is.

As this healing continues, something unexpected begins to emerge.

Wonder.

The world that had become ordinary becomes transparent once again. Prayer is no longer merely something one says but a participation in a Presence. Creation becomes luminous. Scripture opens itself in new ways. Even suffering begins to disclose depths that previously remained hidden.

One discovers that God has not become more present.

Rather, the heart has become more capable of seeing Him.

Yet Isaac refuses to let us imagine that this progress is the result of our own accomplishment.

He ends with one of the most beautiful observations in all his writings.

“There is no passage beyond the third.”

Why?

Because there comes a point where one can no longer advance by one’s own strength.

This is the deepest meaning of Ezekiel’s river.

As long as the water remains shallow, we still walk. We choose our direction. We retain our footing. We imagine ourselves to be making progress through our own efforts.

Eventually, however, the river becomes too deep.

There is no longer any ground beneath our feet.

There is only surrender.

The soul ceases trying to possess God and instead allows itself to be possessed by Him.

Perhaps this is the great secret that Isaac wishes to reveal.

The spiritual life does not culminate in mastery.

It culminates in abandonment.

Even contemplation is not something we achieve. It is something into which we are received. Grace slowly brings us to the place where our striving gives way to trust, our calculations yield to simplicity, and our need to control dissolves into love.

This is why the saints become so childlike.

Children do not stand on the bank analyzing the river.

They delight in entering it.

The deepest knowledge of God is no longer conceptual but participatory. One ceases trying to explain the mystery and begins simply to live within it.

Perhaps this also explains why the greatest elders speak so little about extraordinary experiences. They have gone beyond the point where such things matter. They have entered the river where love itself bears them along.

The closer they draw to God, the less they speak of themselves.

The river has become too deep for walking.

And they have learned, at last, how to let themselves be carried.