The author argues against using the visions of Saint Martin and Saint Stephen as a model for physically looking upward in prayer. He explains that such biblical and hagiographical events have spiritual, not literal, meanings. Saint Martin’s vision of Christ wearing his mantle was a miracle intended to show that any good deed done bodily or ghostly for God’s love—to any person in need—is done unto Christ spiritually. The author suggests that if the saints had been spiritually advanced enough to grasp the meaning without a physical sign, the visions might never have been shown in bodily form. He uses the analogy of a nut: One should “pick off the rough bark” (the physical vision) to “feed us off the sweet kernel” (the spiritual meaning), while still respecting the vessel of the miracle (87).

Similarly, Saint Stephen’s vision of Christ standing in heaven was not a literal depiction of God’s posture. The author believes that it was a symbol of His readiness to help Stephen in his martyrdom. The author states that no one knows how Christ’s body is situated in heaven—whether sitting, standing, or lying—and that it is not important to know. Any such bodily manifestation in a revelation is for a “ghostly bemeaning,” or spiritual significance, not to give an example of physical prayer technique.

The author next addresses the example of Christ’s bodily ascension, acknowledging it was a physical event but arguing it is not a model for our spiritual work. While Christ’s resurrected body could ascend, and while our glorified bodies at the Day of Revelation will also be able to move with the swiftness of thought, our current state is different. We cannot approach heaven bodily, only spiritually.

This spiritual work, however, must not be performed in a bodily manner—neither upwards, downwards, nor side to side. The author clarifies that while the practice described in the book is called a “stirring,” it is not a movement from one place to another but rather a “sudden changing.” He establishes a foundational rule for all spiritual work: “[T]ime, place, and body: These three should be forgotten in all ghostly working” (89). Therefore, a practitioner must not strain the imagination physically upwards as if to climb above the moon. This is a false and impossible path, the author says, for—as Christ said—no one can ascend to heaven except the one who descended from it.

The author anticipates the objection that heaven must be “upwards,” since Christ ascended into the air and the Holy Ghost descended from above. He answers that this direction was chosen for “seemliness,” or symbolic appropriateness, not because it was physically the nearest way to God. In the spiritual realm, direction is irrelevant: “[H]eaven ghostly is as nigh down as up, and up as down” (90).

The true path to heaven is not measured in physical distance or “paces of feet” but is “run by desires” (90). A person with a true desire for heaven is, at that very moment, “in heaven ghostly” (90). To support this, the author cites Saint Paul, who spoke of himself and many others, saying that even while their bodies are on earth, their “living is in heaven” (90). The author explains that Paul meant their love and desire—their true spiritual life—were already with God. A soul’s true location, the author believes, is where it loves. Therefore, in our spiritual work, it is needless to strain our spirit in any physical direction.

The author clarifies that physical gestures like lifting one’s eyes and hands toward heaven are appropriate, but only if they are an outward expression of an inner “stirring of the work of our spirit” (91). The guiding principle is that the bodily is subject to the spiritual, not the reverse. He uses Christ’s ascension as an example: The body followed the spirit upward because it was the most symbolically “seemly” direction.

This principle also applies to the contemplative work itself. When a soul truly disposes itself to this work, the body will often naturally and unconsciously become upright, following the spiritual action. The author notes that humanity’s upright posture itself is a physical symbol of the soul’s proper spiritual work, which should be “upright ghostly.” He concludes with an important warning: One must not conceive bodily that which is meant spiritually. Although spiritual concepts must be described using bodily words like “up,” “in,” or “out” (91), because speech itself is a bodily act, the practitioner must always interpret them spiritually.

To help the reader avoid error, the author provides a spiritual map to understand the nature of one’s inner work. He defines three distinct realms of focus for the soul. The first is “beneath thee and without thee” (92), which includes all bodily things in creation, from the sun and stars to the earth. Though the stars are physically above the body, they are beneath the soul in nature.

The second realm is “within thee and even with thee” (92). This includes the powers of one’s own soul—principally Memory, Reason, and Will, and secondarily Imagination and Sensuality. This realm also includes all other created spiritual beings, such as angels and other human souls, which are equal to the practitioner in nature, even if superior in grace.

The third realm, “above thee,” contains only God. The author clarifies that in spiritual writing, “thyself” refers to the soul, not the body. The quality and worthiness of one’s spiritual work are determined by which of these realms the soul’s powers are working upon.

The author elaborates on the powers of the soul. He distinguishes Memory as a principal power that is unique because it does not actively “work” in the same way as the others. Instead, Memory contains and comprehends all the other powers and the things upon which they work.

The other powers are divided into two working groups: principal and secondary. This division is not because the soul itself is divisible, but because the objects of its attention are. The two principal working powers, Reason and Will, operate purely in the spirit and engage with “ghostly things.” The two secondary powers, Imagination and Sensuality, work through the body and its five senses (“bodily wits”) to engage with “bodily things.” The author notes that without the aid of Reason and Will, the secondary powers can never come to know the virtue and conditions of bodily creatures, nor the cause of their beings and makings. Memory, as a principal power, holds all of these functions within itself.

The author details the functions of the two principal working powers, Reason and Will, and how they were corrupted by the Fall. Reason is the faculty through which we discern between good and evil, better and best. Before sin, Reason could do this perfectly by its own nature. Now, however, it is “blinded with the original sin” and cannot function correctly unless it is “illumined by grace” (94).

Will is the power through which we choose, love, and desire the good that Reason has identified. Before the Fall, the Will could not be deceived in its choices or desires. Now, due to the “infection of the original sin,” the Will often mistakes evil for good unless it is “anointed with grace” (94). The author concludes by reiterating that both these powers—and the objects they work on—are contained within the Memory.

The author turns to Imagination, the first of the two secondary powers. He defines it as the faculty through which we create mental images of both absent and present things. Before the Fall, Imagination was perfectly obedient to Reason, its master, and never produced any disordered or false images.

After the Fall, however, this power is no longer obedient. Unless it is restrained by the “light of grace in the Reason,” the Imagination constantly produces a stream of “unordained images of bodily creatures” and “fantasies” (95)—which the author defines as bodily concepts of spiritual things or vice-versa. He identifies these fantasies as “feigned and false” and a source of error (95). This disobedient chaos of the mind is particularly apparent to those newly devoted to prayer, who find themselves unable to quiet the “wonderful and the diverse thoughts, fantasies, and images” that arise (95). The author attributes this inner turmoil directly to the pain of original sin.

The final power of the soul described is Sensuality, the second secondary power. Sensuality is the faculty, operating through the five bodily senses, by which we have physical knowledge and feeling of all bodily creatures, both pleasant and unpleasant. It has two parts: one that tends to the body’s needs and another that serves its lusts.

This power is the source of grumbling when the body lacks necessities or pleasures; it pushes one to indulge beyond what is needed. Before the Fall, Sensuality was perfectly obedient to the Will and never produced any disordered liking or dissatisfaction. Now, however, it is unruly. Unless it is strictly “ruled by grace in the Will,” it will cause a person to “wretchedly and wantonly welter, as a swine in the mire, in the wealths of this world and the foul flesh” (96). Without grace, this power makes human life more “beastly and fleshly, than either manly or ghostly” (96).

The soul’s faculties are corrupted by sin, the author explains, so people are easily deceived in understanding spiritual words and works, especially if they do not know the powers of their own soul. He then synthesizes this psychology with the spiritual map from Chapter 62. When the Memory is occupied with any bodily thing, one’s work is “beneath thyself.” When it is occupied with the subtle conditions of the soul’s powers and their workings in ghostly things—vices or virtues of oneself or of any creature ghostly and equal in nature—one is “within thyself.” However, when the Memory is occupied with nothing but God, as in the work of this book, one is “above thyself and beneath thy God” (97).

He clarifies this paradox: One is “above thyself” because through grace, the soul attains a union with God that is impossible by nature. At the same time, one remains “beneath thy God” because this union does not erase the infinite distinction between Creator and creature (97). God is God by nature, without beginning; the soul was once nothing, made itself worse than nothing through sin, and is now “made a God in grace” only through God’s mercy (97). This complex reality is why the author has used such careful, indirect language, fearing a literal, bodily misinterpretation.

The author rejects common spiritual advice like “gather thy powers […] within thyself” (98), fearing it will be conceived in a bodily way. Instead, he offers a paradoxical instruction: be nowhere. When the disciple asks where he should be, the author replies, “Nowhere […] For why, nowhere bodily, is everywhere ghostly” (98). The goal is to detach the spiritual work from any physical location.

The author urges the disciple to persist in this “nought,” even though the bodily senses find nothing in it to feed on. He declares he would rather be “nowhere bodily, wrestling with that blind nought,” than a great lord who could be “everywhere bodily” (98). This “nought” is beyond the grasp of reason, a sign of its worthiness. It is felt rather than seen, and its darkness comes from an “abundance of ghostly light” that “blinds” the soul (98). The author concludes that it is only our “outer man” (the bodily self) that calls this experience “nought.” For the “inner man” (the spiritual self), it is “All”, because from it he learns the reason for all things.

The author describes how a person’s experience of this “nought” changes dramatically as they progress in the work. Initially, it feels like hell. The soul finds all the sins it has ever committed “painted” upon this “nought,” and it must labor with “sore sighings, and many bitter weepings” to wash them away (99). Many practitioners, discouraged by this pain and lack of comfort, retreat from the work at this stage.

For those who persevere, the experience becomes like purgatory. As specific sins are gradually rubbed away by grace, the pain lessens, and hope for perfection emerges. Sin is no longer felt as a collection of individual acts, but as a “lump,” the root of original sin itself. In later stages, the “nought” may feel like paradise or heaven, filled with “wonderful sweetness and comforts.” At other times, it may even seem to be God himself because of the deep peace and rest found within it. The author concludes, however, that regardless of these shifting perceptions, the experience remains fundamentally “a cloud of unknowing, that is betwixt him and his God” (99).

The author instructs the practitioner to abandon the five outward bodily senses, as they are incapable of conceiving God or any spiritual thing. The senses are limited to physical qualities like shape, color, sound, and texture, none of which apply to the divine. Trying to use these senses for inner, spiritual work is to go “against the course of nature” (100).

The senses can, however, point to the spiritual realm through their failure. When we encounter something our senses cannot measure or define, we can be sure it is a spiritual, not a bodily, thing. The author applies this same principle to our “ghostly wits,” or intellect. While the understanding may be able to grasp created spiritual things (like angels or virtues), it can never comprehend the uncreated spiritual thing, which is God alone. Therefore, the intellect comes to know God precisely at the point of its failure to grasp Him. To support this, the author cites Saint Denis, who wrote that “the most goodly knowing of God is that, the which is known by unknowing” (100).

The author addresses the concern that this contemplative work is too difficult and can only be achieved rarely, in a state of “ravishing” or spiritual ecstasy. He responds that access to this grace depends on God’s will and an individual soul’s capacity. Some people can only experience the perfection of this work after long and difficult spiritual exercise and then only seldom, when God grants a special calling known as ravishing.

Others, however, are so “subtle in grace” and “homely with God” that they can enter this contemplative state at will during the ordinary activities of life—sitting, walking, or kneeling—while remaining fully aware of their surroundings (101). To illustrate this difference, the author uses the Old Testament allegory of the Ark of the Testament, which represents this grace. Moses, who had to climb the mountain and endure great travail to see the plan for the Ark, represents the first type of practitioner. Aaron, who had the Ark in his keeping in the Temple and could see it “as oft as him liked” (101), represents the second type.

Building on the previous chapter’s analogy, the author warns against judging others’ spiritual progress based on one’s own experience. A person who struggles to attain this grace—a “Moses” type—might wrongly assume that it must be equally difficult for everyone. Conversely, a person who can access it at will—an “Aaron” type—might mistakenly believe that anyone can do so with ease.

The author insists this is a false assumption, as each person’s spiritual journey is unique. Furthermore, a person’s capacity can change over time. Someone who begins by struggling may later find the work becomes much easier. He uses Moses as the prime example of this development: At first, Moses could only see the manner of the Ark on the mountain with great effort, but later could see it in the Veil as oft as he liked.

The author introduces a third figure connected to the Ark of the Testament, Bezaleel, the craftsman who physically built the Ark. This allows the author to present three distinct ways in which people profit from the grace of contemplation. Some, like Moses, learn directly from God through pure grace, but with great effort and infrequency. Others, like Bezaleel, profit by applying their own spiritual skill and craft—their “ghostly cunning”—guided by grace and the divine pattern. Finally, some, like Aaron, benefit from the teaching and work of others, having regular access to the finished product.

The author humbly positions himself in the role of Bezaleel, the craftsman who is building this “ghostly Ark,” by which he is referring to his own book, which he is building for the reader’s benefit. He then casts the reader in the role of Aaron, the one who has the opportunity to continually work with and benefit from the Ark that has been prepared. He concludes with a plea for the reader to fulfill their role through practice and to pray for him.

The author offers practical advice to the reader. If this method of prayer does not suit someone, they should leave it and, with good spiritual counsel, find another path without blame. He suggests reading his book multiple times, as passages that seem difficult at first may become clear upon later readings. He asserts that any soul truly disposed to this work will feel a “very accordance” with its message while reading.

He then repeats the charge from the prologue: The book should not be shared indiscriminately. It is intended only for those who seem suited to a contemplative life. If it is shared, the new reader must be urged to read it in its entirety, as isolated passages could be misunderstood and lead to error. The author explicitly states that he has no desire for “fleshly jangles, flatterers and blamers” or merely curious people to see his work (104). The book is not even for good people dedicated to the active life of service, because “it accordeth not to them” (104).

In the final chapter, the author outlines the criteria for determining if an individual is genuinely called to contemplative spiritual work. The text argues that mere intellectual interest in the subject is insufficient, as it may stem from natural curiosity rather than divine grace. Instead, a true calling is characterized by a clear conscience and a persistent, underlying focus on this spiritual practice that makes all other religious exercises feel incomplete without it.

Furthermore, the author explains that the emotional experience of this calling will inevitably fluctuate: God may temporarily withdraw this feeling of grace to prevent spiritual pride, correct carelessness, or cultivate deeper devotion. Ultimately, the author says, the most reliable indicator of a genuine divine calling is how an individual responds to these periods of absence. Drawing on classical theological concepts, the author concludes that true “holy desires” grow stronger through delay, meaning that the sudden return of this spiritual connection will yield even greater joy and fervor than before.