I do love the good-humoured mathematician and lay theologian John Lennox. Not only for his intellectual brilliance in articulating the apologetics of the Good News, in a manner evocative of the great C.S. Lewis, but also for the ways he has reminded me of a dear friend, the logos-inspired poet Les Murray. Yet there is something else as well. Especially given the present challenges in my own life, the charismatic Lennox has often spoken of “finishing life well.” This right counsel, takes us back to Saint Paul’s moral parenesis, which has inspired and lifted the spirits of countless souls across the centuries: “I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith” (2 Tim. 4:7).

https://pixabay.com/photos/flower-dandelion-wildflower-nature-7700011/

At different times I have wondered how I would respond if I were sitting in a specialist’s surgery, waiting to hear the results of medical tests for a potentially life-threatening disease. For instance, would I remain stoic upon hearing the word cancer? Would I break down, if only for a moment, terrified of what it could mean? Or might my reaction fall somewhere entirely outside what I had imagined? In truth, one never knows how they will respond to news—good or bad—until it actually happens. Is it, then, the same for a believer of a religious community, and particularly for one of its theologians? I was to learn this on a pleasant morning in Wollongong, in late January of this year, during a consultation with my empathetic urologist, Dr. R. It was not at all as one might have imagined. The news was delivered no differently than if a general practitioner were calmly informing you that it was nothing more troubling than a sore throat. Except that this time, it all appeared to unfold in slow motion. Each word carrying with it a resonance that would need to be newly explored and analysed: “I am sorry it is cancer—Michael, but it is not a death sentence.” For a few moments at least, it seemed as though I had stepped into another world. This is a place where the archetypes stood in sharper relief, and where at any moment they might cut straight through you.

This is the hour when one’s metaphysical beliefs, whether deeply theistic or commendably stoic are pulled apart and, for some, stretched to their breaking point. Suffering in its various guises, if we should allow it, can easily undo us. When death rises to speak in its own ex cathedra voice, there is, one way or another, little to say in reply. The Great Divide has spoken shāh māt ("the king is helpless")–Or is he? Maybe not quite yet. If you are familiar with Moritz Retzsch’s 1831 painting The Devil’s Checkmate and with the story of chess master Paul Morphy’s response, you will know what I mean. For those of us who belong to a religious community, how often have we heard, or ourselves declared, the words offered in consolation by the Prophet Hosea but later to be made famous by Saint Paul: “Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?” (1 Cor. 15:55). The counter of every soul to such news is as unique as the individual response to our deepest joys or hardest sorrows. A range of emotions, natural to the human condition, can overwhelm us, and the comforting illusion that such things only happen to other people is fast destroyed. The reality is that it will happen to us all. Death comes, sooner or later—if not for us now, then to those we love, to our close of kin, and to our friends. And our hearts ache, too, at the daily images of lives taken in faraway places, without the blessings and benefits we ourselves have become ordinarily accustomed to. Perspective remains one of our most trustworthy teachers, and if we remain honest enough, it cannot fail us.

It all goes much too quickly. I could close my eyes and, for a few moments, go back to my untroubled teenage years, running about like a puffed-up bull on rugby league fields in Sydney and the country. Then before long I snap out of it. The mirror will make liars of us all. If we have not mentally prepared for this unavoidable and messy rencounter, one that philosophers and theologians alike agree will become the absolute test of our core beliefs, we are likely to panic and fall into those self-defeating emotions of denial and anger. Still, if we can get through this fiery trial and comprehend it as an awakening to something deeper and more nobler within us, then we will not only endure and persevere through it, but we will be initiated into revelations and lasting lessons we once believed beyond our reach. The giving and the asking of forgiveness becomes a commonplace experience. All manner of colour and sound become more vibrant and sharper. We can become humble, yet strong vessels of comfort to others. The expression of love and compassion are now as commonplace as our daily bread. Material aims and professional goals are much shifted or made altogether insignificant. Divine grace and moral strength can arrive in the most unexpected way. Saint Nilus of Sinai speaks in the tradition of Socrates (who posited that philosophy is a preparation for death): “You should always be waiting for death but not be afraid of it; both are indeed the real characteristics of a person who pursues wisdom.” This is the “memory of death” which the contemplatives of our major religious traditions practise, this they do in the most positive of ways as a reminder to cherish this present hour, and to not misuse the time we have each been given.

After a while these archetypical disclosures of the battle, should we open up ourselves to them, will allow for bursts of light to enter into our hearts. This is not to whitewash our suffering or our fears, these conditions are all too real, and they will leave their rough mark on both ourselves and on those we love, but how we respond to this confrontation and where we allow for the dark side of our imagination to take us, is what altogether matters at present. There will be the dark night when for a believer it could appear that the Father is scandalously absent, or for our other brothers and sisters to seem that it has all been meaningless. These are very much the same feelings of inner collapse and that dread condition beyond the disease of the body—Søren Kierkegaard reflected in these terms when speaking on the “sickness unto death” that is, the deepest of despairs. Our modern existentialists have similarly spoken of this paralysing angst, as “the nameless fear”. It is not out of place, then, to recall that as a young student of divinity many decades ago now, I was struck by this fascinating revelation, that in the New Testament Gospels, the God-Man’s most repeated exhortation was not to be afraid: “Take courage; it is I, do not be afraid” (Mk 6:50).

“The heart governs the entire bodily organism and reigns over it, and when grace possesses the heart, it governs all the members and all thoughts, for it is in the heart that the intellect is found and all the thoughts of the soul as well as its desires; through its intermediary, grace equally penetrates into all the bodily members.” (Saint Macarius of Egypt)

“Mythology is not a lie, mythology is poetry, it is metaphorical. It has been well said that mythology is the penultimate truth--penultimate because the ultimate cannot be put into words. It is beyond words. Beyond images, beyond that bounding rim of the Buddhist Wheel of Becoming. Mythology pitches the mind beyond that rim, to what can be known but not told.” (Joseph Campbell)

“The metaphor is perhaps one of man’s most fruitful potentialities. Its efficacy verges on magic, and it seems a tool for creation which God forgot inside one of His creatures when He made him.” (José Ortega y Gasset)

“It was books that taught me that the things that tormented me most were the very things that connected me with all the people who were alive, or who had ever been alive.” (James Baldwin)

“Every canvas is a journey all its own.” (Helen Frankenthaler)

In the tradition of Hamlet

In the brooding tradition of Shakespeare’s Prince Hamlet of Denmark, the French writer and Nobel laureate Albert Camus has said that if life is without meaning and purpose, this “feeling of absurdity” he called it, then suicide becomes the only “really serious philosophical problem.” So we must live he concludes, as if our lives have some meaning.[1] But to simply act on this premise, that is, to create a ‘theatre of meaning’ [or of the ‘absurd’], can only end in disaster for eventually this deception will catch up with us to dismantle our every foundation. We cannot hope to convince ourselves that there is some intelligent meaning to Sisyphus pushing his boulder up the mountain to only have it roll back down again. Peace and happiness are not to be found in futility. Augustine in his Confessions describes the heart as “restless” unable to stay still or quiet for we are primarily desiring beings before we are rational. The role of the senses is strong, ears and eyes open to divers input, and so our senses are connected to the movement of the heart which is the seat of our attitude and will. All the great poets have understood the basis of this truth: “I hold a beast, an angel, and a madman in me.” (Dylan Thomas)

The endearing Didi and Gogo

The endearing Vladimir (Didi) and Estragon (Gogo) meet near a “leafless tree” to engage in a series of discussions waiting for the mysterious Godot who never arrives. It all seems so meaningless. They, too, consider suicide. Whether they are to be taken seriously or not is beside the point. But the problem is neither of these characters actually articulates what they want; or what they are looking for; or who Godot actually is. Or even if he ultimately exists. Ennui is at them. Entropy. Apathy. “[t]he boredom of interminable waiting. The entire play, in fact, is made up of attempts to fill the time.”[2] In existential terms, it is not even knowing what you want. It is, as some critics have said, the most successful literature ever written about “nothing”. Nothingness leads to ‘nothing.’ And to the deepest of despair. “Nothing happens. Nobody comes, nobody goes. It's awful.” (Samuel Beckett)

Viktor Frankl and the search for meaning

Throughout history philosophers have postulated different motivational forces behind the lives, acts and decision-making processes of men and women. According to Viktor Frankl this “force” is “man’s search for meaning”.[3] Frankl believes, and he is not alone in his contention [for example Kierkegaard and centuries before him the prophet Jeremiah], that humans are motivated by the "will to meaning". Logotherapy is pursuit of that meaning and particularly in our attitude and response to unavoidable suffering. Logos is the Greek for “reason”. That is, he argues, that human nature is motivated by the search for a life purpose. This contra Nietzsche’s “will to power” as the driving force in humans and against Schopenhauer’s “will to live”, or Freud’s “will to pleasure”. Certainly, it can never be this clear cut for we are much too complicated in our psychosomatic make-up, but there is something universally engaging and trustworthy with Frankl’s discernments. His influential and reflective voice was authenticated having survived the horrors of the holocaust and by his personal experiences of suffering and loss in Nazi concentration camps. Logotherapy proposes that humans have a will to meaning, which signifies that meaning is our primary motivation for living and acting, and allows us to endure pain and suffering:

“The ultimate meaning necessarily exceeds and surpasses the finite intellectual capacities of man; in logotherapy, we speak in this context of a super-meaning. What is demanded of man is not, as some existential philosophers teach, to endure the meaningless of life, but rather to bear his incapacity to grasp its unconditional meaningfulness in rational terms. Logos is deeper than logic.”

How many great symphonies have not been written

Source: “Ascent” - Jacob’s Ladder https://www.chabad.org/blogs/blog_cdo/aid/3787024/jewish/Ascent-Jacobs-Ladder.htm

Sometimes we are scared to approach that which we believe to be beyond us, like a grand challenge which will push us to our limits, or terrified of declaring our love lest we be rejected. Perhaps worse still saying we are sorry or admitting to our mistakes. It has been asked how many great symphonies have not been written because composers were reluctant to compose their own Ninth. The ‘curse of the Ninth’ they call it, for the fear of comparison with Beethoven’s ‘Choral’ masterpiece.[4] We need to be climbing our ladder, built to our own unique height and measure, climbing it to our greater potential. Not to be afraid at what revelation we encounter at the top. Jacob would not have encountered the Divine had he not dared to go up the “stairway” to hear these tremendous words from his Maker: “I am with you and will watch over you wherever you go, and I will bring you back to this land. I will not leave you until I have done what I have promised you” (Gen. 28:10-15). Rainer Maria Rilke many centuries later could summarize this disclosure thus: “The purpose of life is to be defeated by greater and greater things.”

The desire for fame is one of the gravest dangers to the soul

The desire for fame is one of the gravest dangers to the soul. Few things are as corrosive to the self. Not many have been able to withstand its contagion. It is wanting to be adulated, to rise above the rest, together with the sense of power it delivers. It is one reason why the holy bishops of the past would flee into the desert when news of their elevation would reach them. This narcissistic aspiration, for human beings are not made to bear such adoration, goes back to the darkest but once the most beautiful of all the angels, Lucifer [“the morning star”]. Did he not want the glory properly belonging to the Creator alone? “For you have said in your heart: ‘I will ascend into heaven, I will exalt my throne above the stars of God’” (Is. 14:13). This is a sobering lesson, in whatever way we might want to understand this story, for when we do battle against the desire to be our own ‘kings’, to place our own selves on the ‘thrones’ of our hearts. See here what the marvellous Rumi writes of fame which he has termed the “dragon’s jaw”:

“Many have a talent that urges them/ to seek fame for themselves,/ but in truth it only leads them to disaster./ If you want to save your own head,/ humble yourself like a foot,/ and put yourself under the protection/ of someone rooted in spiritual discernment./Even if you are a king, don’t put yourself above him/. Even if you are honey,/ gather up his rough sugar./ Your own ideas are merely shells,/ his are the soul of thought./ Your coins are false,/ his are the purest gold./ You are really he,/ but seek yourself in him./ Cool like a dove, flying toward him./ And if you cannot bring yourself to serve,/ know you are in the dragon’s jaw.”

Transformation, sometimes used for the metamorphosis

Transformation, sometimes used for the metamorphosis of the life cycle of an animal, will not happen overnight, or with ‘warm feelings’ which could last for an hour. It will be a long and testing journey. It will take much spiritual labour and lots of patience. It is good to remember when things get difficult, as they undoubtedly will, that it is temperature shock which hardens steel and that it is intense heat which changes molecular structure. Change can hurt, and it will often hurt a lot, but it will make the difference. Franz Kafka who was fascinated with ‘transformation’ considered “patience” very high on the list of virtues. Conversion is only the beginning. It took Christ an eternity to reveal his glory to his creation, “where his face shone like the sun” at his Transfiguration (Matt. 17:1f.).[5] It can take time for the grace of God to fall, like new colours which are created with the passing of the years on natural landscapes. Sometimes it can be like breaking your knuckles on steel or smoothing your heart on a piece of pumice stone. We are for now, where we are meant to be: “Then Peter answered and said to Jesus, “Lord, it is good for us to be here…”. (Matt. 17:4)

And forewarn the builders of our new technologies

Secreted behind the words below rest some of the greatest truths expressed in world literature. As many times as we might read these paragraphs neither their beauty nor their sting are diminished. They inspire the wise, humble the knowledgeable, and forewarn the builders of our new technologies. Especially in the last lines of this quote from Anton Chekhov’s short story “The Bet” (1889),[6] the universally celebrated Russian playwright and short fiction writer [via ‘the mouth’ of his young lawyer protagonist] could have been an Old Testament prophet looking ahead at the technological innovations of the 21st century:

“I have spent fifteen years making a careful study of life on earth. True, I haven’t seen anything of the earth, of people, but in your books I have drunk fragrant wine, sung songs, hunted deer and wild boar in forests, love women… Beautiful creatures as ethereal as clouds created by the magic of your great poets have visited me at night and whispered marvellous tales in my ears, making my head reel. In your books I have scaled the summits of Elbruz and Mont Blanc and from them I have seen the lightning flash above me and cleave the clouds. I have seen green forests, fields, rivers, lakes, towns. I have heard the sirens sing and the music of shepherds’ pipes. I have touched the wings of beautiful demons who flew down to talk to me about God. In your books I have hurled myself into bottomless abysses, wrought miracles, murdered, burnt cities, preached new religions, conquered entire kingdoms.

Your books have given me wisdom. Everything that man’s indefatigable mind has created over the centuries is compressed into a tiny lump inside my skull. I know that I’m cleverer than the lot of you.

And I despise your books. I despise all the blessings of this world, all its wisdom. Everything is worthless, transient, illusory, and as deceptive as a mirage. You may be proud, wise and handsome, but death will wipe you from the face of the earth, together with the mice under the floorboards. And your posterity, your history, your immortal geniuses will freeze or be reduced to ashes, along with the terrestrial globe. You’ve lost all reason and are on the wrong path. You mistake lies for the truth and ugliness for beauty. You’d be surprised if apple and orange trees suddenly started producing frogs and lizards instead of fruit, or if roses smelt of sweaty horses. I’m amazed at people who have exchanged heaven for earth. I just don’t want to understand you.” (Anton Chekhov, The Bet)

Perspective meaning ‘through’ and ‘to look at’

Homer’s first epic poem Margites exists only in a few scattered mentions; the biblical book “Book of the Wars of the Lord” of which no copy survives is lost forever but for its reference in Numbers (Num. 21:14); at least one third of Aristotle’s works are lost; the great Library of Alexandria was burned down twice; 80 per cent of Leonardo da Vinci’s manuscript books lost; Lord Byron’s two volumes of memoirs were burnt; Hamlet’s predecessor the ‘Ur-Hamlet’ by Thomas Kyd lost; Ted Hughes destroyed the last writings of Sylvia Plath; almost everything Hemingway wrote to 1922 was lost in a trunk somewhere in Europe; Kafka’s love letters to Dora Diamant and other irreplaceable literature destroyed and/or burnt by the Nazis. This is a symbolic list of one which could continue for volumes. Perspective [meaning ‘through’ and ‘to look at’] has always been one the most important keys to the acceptance of the unfolding of our individual stories. Margaret Atwood has put it characteristically well when she says without perspective we live with our faces "squashed up against a wall". Loss does not mean not moving forwards. And it never means to stop creating. Sometimes, too, we need to ‘lose’ our life in order to find it: “Whoever finds their life will lose it, and whoever loses their life for my sake will find it” (Matt. 10:39).

[1] https://www.philosophytalk.org/blog/camus-and-absurdity

[2] https://www.bl.uk/20th-century-literature/articles/an-introduction-to-waiting-for-godot

[3] https://www.amazon.com.au/Mans-Search-Meaning-Viktor-Frankl/dp/080701429X

[4] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t4N5-OALObk

[5] https://orthodoxwiki.org/Transfiguration

[6] https://www.indianfolk.com/130-years-bet-anton-chekhov/