"I said to my soul, be still, and let the dark come upon you
Which shall be the darkness of God. As, in a theatre,
The lights are extinguished, for the scene to be changed
With a hollow rumble of wings, with a movement of darkness on darkness,
And we know that the hills and the trees, the distant panorama
And the bold imposing facade are all being rolled away—
Or as, when an underground train, in the tube, stops too long between stations
And the conversation rises and slowly fades into silence
And you see behind every face the mental emptiness deepen
Leaving only the growing terror of nothing to think about;
Or when, under ether, the mind is conscious but conscious of nothing—
I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope
For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love,
For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith
But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.
Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought:
So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.
Whisper of running streams, and winter lightning.
The wild thyme unseen and the wild strawberry,
The laughter in the garden, echoed ecstasy
Not lost, but requiring, pointing to the agony
Of death and birth."
Which shall be the darkness of God. As, in a theatre,
The lights are extinguished, for the scene to be changed
With a hollow rumble of wings, with a movement of darkness on darkness,
And we know that the hills and the trees, the distant panorama
And the bold imposing facade are all being rolled away—
Or as, when an underground train, in the tube, stops too long between stations
And the conversation rises and slowly fades into silence
And you see behind every face the mental emptiness deepen
Leaving only the growing terror of nothing to think about;
Or when, under ether, the mind is conscious but conscious of nothing—
I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope
For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love,
For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith
But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.
Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought:
So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.
Whisper of running streams, and winter lightning.
The wild thyme unseen and the wild strawberry,
The laughter in the garden, echoed ecstasy
Not lost, but requiring, pointing to the agony
Of death and birth."
--T.S. Eliot (The Four Quartets)
I. LOVE. THIS. POET.
After a long period of silence about the issues I'm dealing with (I'm choosing to be vague here), I reached a point where my need for answers began to outweigh my fear of being honest. I have finally been able to talk things through with several good friends; some who are dealing with the same things, and some who aren't. These conversations have been healing, life-giving, and honest. I'm grateful for them.
I started re-reading Ecclesiastes after friend reminded me that it was once my favorite book. This time around, I'm realizing how much uncertainty Solomon expresses in his writing. My current reading of it is likely being influenced by my state of mind. Still, the supposed wisest man seems unsure of the possibility of a resurrection, the difference between animals and humans, the existence of a soul, God's degree of involvement with the world, and the purpose of man's existence. Interestingly, uncertainty on such issues is not popularly expressed or acknowledged in the church. If I've learned one thing over my past few months abroad though, it is that silence surrounding these issues solves nothing. Openness about my doubt has given me a new kind of freedom from it.
In my doubt, I have also gained a new understanding of what faith is. Faith is not independent of doubt. In fact, you cannot have faith without doubt. Believing is a process. And "certainty" is often a crutch. Faith is not as safe as we would like to think it is.
"And the lost heart stiffens and rejoices
In the lost lilac and the lost sea voices."
--T.S. Eliot
