Leaps and Descents
Spiraling,
spiraling,
down,
down....
I’m thinking about the song, “Cold Water” by Damien Rice.
Cold, cold water surrounds me now
And all I've got is your hand
Lord, can you hear me now?
Lord, can you hear me now?
Lord, can you hear me now?
Or am I lost?
It aptly expresses my own current feelings. Sometimes I miss God so much—the God who, in my former, simpler faith, was so tangible to me. The God of the Bible, the Christian God, my Heavenly Father whose love was so accessible I could feel his spirit in my marrow.
Now, however, that god is the god of The Leap. Kierkegaard’s leap of faith. I’m no longer willing nor capable of making such leaps. In the above song, Rice laments his profound sense of isolation and disconnectedness. His anguish is palpable. He pulls me in with word and melody; I am there in the water, floating, treading, slipping under. But then the monks enter the atmosphere with their haunting, monotonic chant, bearing a message from God: “Don’t worry, you’re not alone. I’m here. I love you.” And there it is: the Leap.
I have a saying I often tell my kids, a twist on the Golden Rule: “Treat others the way you wish they treated you, not the way they necessarily do treat you.” In other words, model the ideal behavior rather than imitate the base. In a way, I think this is what we do when it comes to God: Envision the ideal and live as if it were real rather than face the real-ity of what is. This is probably a bad analogy; I guess my point is that the concept of God has become to me little more than a preferable illusion. Rather than drown alone in the icy water of what is, we imagine a fatherly figure reaching out to hold our hand. We are children, terrified of this immense, unpredictable, hostile world, and we long for arms, a hand, a lap, the enfolding of another around us. I completely understand this. Many days I’d rather return to the womb than face my life.
Yet…"How can a man be born when he is old? Can he enter the second time into his mother's womb, and be born?" (John 3:4 KJV). How can we go back? In my opinion, we can’t. At least I can’t. I refuse to revert back to childish ways, to magical thinking. Even if I wanted to (which I often do, to be honest), I would not be able to. For how can a man (person)...?
In my literature class this week we’re reading Kafka’s “The Metamorphosis” and discussing Existentialism. Kierkegaard was an existentialistic theologian who somehow managed to retain his belief in the Judeo-Christian God. From the little I know about him, he was brilliant. Still, he opted for hopeful imagination rather than reason when he confronted the abyss. I had a waking dream a number of years ago in which this Middle-Eastern-looking guy in a skull-cap and colorful burlap robe appeared to me on a grassy plateau. We walked together, then started skipping and laughing giddily. Then we came to a crevasse deep and wide as Colorado’s Royal Gorge. I couldn’t see to the bottom of it; it was pitch black. My companion sprang across the chasm like a gazelle and stood on the other side, smiling. “Come on!” he yelled. “Just jump!” I had the sense that I probably could have if I really wanted to; after all, my friend did it. Yet I knew I shouldn’t. “No,” I yelled back, “I’ve got to go through the abyss.” He nodded. “Okay,” he said. “I wait at the edge of you.” Then I started down, down into the dark unknown.
I suppose I’m down here right now writing this. Often I want to reach for a hand, but there is no hand. Is the consequent despair worth it? I don’t know. I could probably imagine a hand and convince myself that it’s real and even begin to feel it on my skin. But would that make it real?
The God we’ve managed to envisage down through the centuries and record in sacred texts has given us both “a hand” and a crippled leg. More people have been killed in the name of this Hope Personified/Deified than for any other reason. And on those who haven’t been able to suspend reason and tacitly put their faith in this God, cruelty has been inflicted in countless ways. I think of Julian, the Roman emperor (and nephew of Constantine) whom the Christians nicknamed “Julian the Apostate.” He was an incredible man with a superb intellect who knew more about Christianity than most of his contemporaries yet couldn’t put his faith in it. He couldn’t take the Leap. Instead, he loved the pagan myths, the wisdom of philosophers and the ancient poems. Thus, he was demonized by the Church not only during his lifetime but by later generations.
It’s lonely down here. However, I take comfort in the fact that others like Julian have passed this way before me. And I’m convinced that I’m doing what is right for me: descending and climbing rather than vaulting across the here and now toward some illusory wished-for.
[Just thought of another song that has to do, like the Rice song, with loneliness. In this song, though, Trent Reznor--like a true, angst-riddled existentialist (and fatalist?)--does not resort to The Leap. I'm not sure who the "you" he's addressing is. Could it be God? I don't know.]
"All The Love In The World"
Watching all the insects march along
Seem to know right where they belong
Smears of face reflecting in the chrome
Hiding in the crowd I'm all alone
No one's heard a single word I've said
They don't sound as good outside my head
It looks as if the past is here to stay
I've become a million miles away
Why do you get all the love in the world?
All the jagged edges dissapear
Colors all look brighter when you're near
The stars are all afire in the sky
Sometimes I get so lonely I could die
Why do you get all the love in the world?
--Nine Inch Nails
Book recommendation: Sam Harris' The End of Faith: Religion, Terror and the Future of Reason. I don't agree with him on every point--he's blunt and outspoken--but his arguments are extremely compelling (and well-documented). He effectively exposes the insidiousness of fundamentalist religion, especially modern-day Islam. Here's a quote: "Islam, more than any other religion human beings have devised, has all the makings of a thoroughgoing cult of death" (p. 123). A frightening reality. To read an interview with Harris, go to http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/tg/feature/-/542154/002-5665840-8513608.
spiraling,
down,
down....
I’m thinking about the song, “Cold Water” by Damien Rice.
Cold, cold water surrounds me now
And all I've got is your hand
Lord, can you hear me now?
Lord, can you hear me now?
Lord, can you hear me now?
Or am I lost?
It aptly expresses my own current feelings. Sometimes I miss God so much—the God who, in my former, simpler faith, was so tangible to me. The God of the Bible, the Christian God, my Heavenly Father whose love was so accessible I could feel his spirit in my marrow.
Now, however, that god is the god of The Leap. Kierkegaard’s leap of faith. I’m no longer willing nor capable of making such leaps. In the above song, Rice laments his profound sense of isolation and disconnectedness. His anguish is palpable. He pulls me in with word and melody; I am there in the water, floating, treading, slipping under. But then the monks enter the atmosphere with their haunting, monotonic chant, bearing a message from God: “Don’t worry, you’re not alone. I’m here. I love you.” And there it is: the Leap.
I have a saying I often tell my kids, a twist on the Golden Rule: “Treat others the way you wish they treated you, not the way they necessarily do treat you.” In other words, model the ideal behavior rather than imitate the base. In a way, I think this is what we do when it comes to God: Envision the ideal and live as if it were real rather than face the real-ity of what is. This is probably a bad analogy; I guess my point is that the concept of God has become to me little more than a preferable illusion. Rather than drown alone in the icy water of what is, we imagine a fatherly figure reaching out to hold our hand. We are children, terrified of this immense, unpredictable, hostile world, and we long for arms, a hand, a lap, the enfolding of another around us. I completely understand this. Many days I’d rather return to the womb than face my life.
Yet…"How can a man be born when he is old? Can he enter the second time into his mother's womb, and be born?" (John 3:4 KJV). How can we go back? In my opinion, we can’t. At least I can’t. I refuse to revert back to childish ways, to magical thinking. Even if I wanted to (which I often do, to be honest), I would not be able to. For how can a man (person)...?
In my literature class this week we’re reading Kafka’s “The Metamorphosis” and discussing Existentialism. Kierkegaard was an existentialistic theologian who somehow managed to retain his belief in the Judeo-Christian God. From the little I know about him, he was brilliant. Still, he opted for hopeful imagination rather than reason when he confronted the abyss. I had a waking dream a number of years ago in which this Middle-Eastern-looking guy in a skull-cap and colorful burlap robe appeared to me on a grassy plateau. We walked together, then started skipping and laughing giddily. Then we came to a crevasse deep and wide as Colorado’s Royal Gorge. I couldn’t see to the bottom of it; it was pitch black. My companion sprang across the chasm like a gazelle and stood on the other side, smiling. “Come on!” he yelled. “Just jump!” I had the sense that I probably could have if I really wanted to; after all, my friend did it. Yet I knew I shouldn’t. “No,” I yelled back, “I’ve got to go through the abyss.” He nodded. “Okay,” he said. “I wait at the edge of you.” Then I started down, down into the dark unknown.
I suppose I’m down here right now writing this. Often I want to reach for a hand, but there is no hand. Is the consequent despair worth it? I don’t know. I could probably imagine a hand and convince myself that it’s real and even begin to feel it on my skin. But would that make it real?
The God we’ve managed to envisage down through the centuries and record in sacred texts has given us both “a hand” and a crippled leg. More people have been killed in the name of this Hope Personified/Deified than for any other reason. And on those who haven’t been able to suspend reason and tacitly put their faith in this God, cruelty has been inflicted in countless ways. I think of Julian, the Roman emperor (and nephew of Constantine) whom the Christians nicknamed “Julian the Apostate.” He was an incredible man with a superb intellect who knew more about Christianity than most of his contemporaries yet couldn’t put his faith in it. He couldn’t take the Leap. Instead, he loved the pagan myths, the wisdom of philosophers and the ancient poems. Thus, he was demonized by the Church not only during his lifetime but by later generations.
It’s lonely down here. However, I take comfort in the fact that others like Julian have passed this way before me. And I’m convinced that I’m doing what is right for me: descending and climbing rather than vaulting across the here and now toward some illusory wished-for.
[Just thought of another song that has to do, like the Rice song, with loneliness. In this song, though, Trent Reznor--like a true, angst-riddled existentialist (and fatalist?)--does not resort to The Leap. I'm not sure who the "you" he's addressing is. Could it be God? I don't know.]
"All The Love In The World"
Watching all the insects march along
Seem to know right where they belong
Smears of face reflecting in the chrome
Hiding in the crowd I'm all alone
No one's heard a single word I've said
They don't sound as good outside my head
It looks as if the past is here to stay
I've become a million miles away
Why do you get all the love in the world?
All the jagged edges dissapear
Colors all look brighter when you're near
The stars are all afire in the sky
Sometimes I get so lonely I could die
Why do you get all the love in the world?
--Nine Inch Nails
Book recommendation: Sam Harris' The End of Faith: Religion, Terror and the Future of Reason. I don't agree with him on every point--he's blunt and outspoken--but his arguments are extremely compelling (and well-documented). He effectively exposes the insidiousness of fundamentalist religion, especially modern-day Islam. Here's a quote: "Islam, more than any other religion human beings have devised, has all the makings of a thoroughgoing cult of death" (p. 123). A frightening reality. To read an interview with Harris, go to http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/tg/feature/-/542154/002-5665840-8513608.
posted by Susan Adams Kauffman at 8:42 AM
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