"LET THERE BE DARK"
A Sermon by the Rev. Bruce Clear
Sunday, December 14, 2003
All
I want to play a little with our minds this morning. I want to look at our
fairly settled thoughts and juggle them around a bit. I want to examine our
common metaphors of light and dark, and see if there is something different
there that is worth considering.
I approach this task as we draw nearer to the winter solstice, the darkest
time of year. This is the time when so many of us go to work in the dark and
return home in the dark. Here in
Winter, the psychologists tell us, is a depressing time of year for many.
This is eloquently expressed in a poem by William Carlos Williams:
These
are the desolate, dark weeks
when nature in its barrenness
equals the stupidity of man.
The year plunges into night
and the heart plunges
lower than night
to an empty, windswept place
without sun, stars, or moon
but a peculiar light as of thought
that spins a dark fire....
So we anticipate Spring and summer, and the longer
light of day they bring. In metaphor, and sometimes in reality, we curse the
darkness and yearn for the return of the sun.
Part of the reason I wish to examine this metaphor of light and dark is that I have long believed, and mentioned from this pulpit from time to time, that the most dangerous thinking found deeply imbedded in the Western philosophical world, is what is called "dualistic" thinking. "Dualism" is the world view which sees everything divided into opposing forces: good and evil, right and wrong, strong and weak, sacred and profane, spirit and world, mind and matter, male and female, love and hate. Looking at the world through these bi-polar lenses is a Western bias. It is a way of thinking foreign to Eastern thought. This is not the place for me to elaborate on why I think dualistic thinking is dangerous and has been our biggest philosophical mistake as a civilization, but you may be able to decipher my reasoning by what I have to say on today's subject. Dualistic thinking binds our minds and prevents us from thinking creatively and holistically.
I hope to illustrate this by elaborating on how to re-think the dualistic metaphor of "light and dark." Our common image is of opposites, and our associations make light good and dark bad. We curse the darkness and long for the light. Can we forget, though, that light and dark support each other. The Taoists remind us that yin and yang, the opposites of nature, are joint elements of the same essence.
I once visited
So just as a campfire has its beauty enhanced when its backdrop is night rather than day, and just as a star's splendor is invisible without the splendor of nighttime, so also the radiant glory of Summer can only happen when we experience the quiet greatness of winter.
Light and dark -- we need both.
My thoughts this morning about our metaphors concerning light and dark were triggered years ago by the efforts of the Unitarian Universalist Commission that put together our hymnal. In compiling these songs, they noticed that nearly every reference they found using the metaphor of "light" was positive, and nearly every reference to the word "dark" was negative. The commission wondered whether these metaphors affected, or reflected, our culture's racial stereotypes.
It is a reasonable question. If every association with metaphors of darkness are negative -- if Africa, for example, were to continue to be called "the Dark Continent" and its people given negative images through that metaphor -- what stereotypes are being reinforced? <
I read earlier from an essay by Jacqui James, the woman who chaired the Hymnbook Commission. She articulates well, I think, the concerns raised in limiting ourselves to metaphors of light and dark that always portray light in positive terms and dark in negative ones. The Commission determined to seek balance. As Jacqui James wrote, "The words black and dark... or white and light don't need to be destroyed or ignored, only balanced and reclaimed in their wholeness.... We need both."
So the Hymnbook Commission, I am glad to say, did not shun music lyrics that affirmed positive images of light or negative images of dark. But they did seek the balance Jacqui spoke of, and sought out positive images of dark that are affirming and beneficial. Along the way, by publicizing their concern, they encouraged many of us to rethink the metaphors of "light" and "dark" that we have been using all our lives.
The hymnbook has been out for a decade now, and sure enough, along with the familiar songs such as "Light of Ages and of Nations" and " O Day of Light and Gladness," we find titles such as, "Dark of Winter, Softer Still," and "Joyful is the Dark."
What I am speaking about is not just words. Language we use makes a difference in our thinking. We sometimes go overboard on what is called "political correctness," but sometimes being intentional in our words contributes to a more healthy society. If for a hundred years everyone referred to the secretaries as "the girls in the office," is there little wonder why these women received little respect?
I have discovered that to a lot of people in other parts of the country, to call someone a "Hoosier" is to call them a "hick," and is an insult. We take the word with pride, though we would probably be offended -- I know I would -- to be called a "hick."
Words carry images with them, like the word "Hoosier," and if one wishes to use language effectively, one should be sensitive to the images that are attached to the words. In many cases, it is not so much a question of being "politically correct," but rather a question of being respectful.
Can language shape our attitudes? Every semanticist would agree that attitudes can be shaped by language, and vice versa. Then is there an impact of our disparaging use of "dark" on our attitudes toward race? That is not a question I will answer this morning -- in fact I will not return again to the subject of race. I will use that question, though, as a challenge and a springboard to stretch our minds, rearrange our thoughts, and upend our metaphors. I know a minister who once said he saw his job to get inside peoples minds and rearrange the furniture he found there.
That is sort of what I want to do: rearrange the furniture of our thoughts
about these metaphors. I want to examine the limits of our imagination, the
restraints of our language, and the confining human habit of dualistic
thinking. Dualism is needing to divide the world into
opposite forces - good and evil, or in this case, "the powers of light and
darkness." I believe it is always liberating to look more closely at our
assumptions and language and try on a different perspective. (How tempting it
is to say here, "to view our assumptions and language 'in new
light'." See how deeply the imagery goes?)
There are three common images or metaphors of "darkness" I'd like to examine. A close look reveals, I believe, that our knee-jerk dualism doesn't always hold. The light of goodness and the dark of evil become, upon careful inspection, and like almost all dualisms, too simplistic and misleading to guide our minds and hearts.
The first imagery of light and darkness is one that is close to the heart of most Unitarians I know. The word "light" suggests knowledge and wisdom, and the word "dark" speaks of ignorance and foolishness. The great human journey into knowledge is known as "enlightenment." To find the truth is to "shed light" on a subject. To hide truth is to take that light away.
If we Unitarian Universalists have any specific faith in common, it is an underlying belief and confidence in the search for truth and wisdom. We refrain from faith in creeds and dogma, because we know that new insights and new understandings may make yesterday's "truth" obsolete. "New light," we say, is always waiting to break forth. History, of course, bears this out.
Those who stubbornly refuse to change their minds in light of new knowledge are blinded by dogma; they live in "darkness," we might say. It is much better, we profess, to open ourselves to the ever-breaking light of new knowledge.
One of my favorite quotes coming from our religious tradition is from
American Universalist founder John Murray, spoken more than two hundred years
ago:
"You may possess only a small light, but uncover it, let it shine, use
it in order to bring more light and understanding to the hearts and minds of
men and women. Give them, not hell, but hope and courage."
I cannot give up the affirmation of light as knowledge, nor would I expect anyone else to do that. Nor do I suggest that we abandon our embrace of the light of truth and knowledge by somehow honoring ignorance.
What I do ask, for a few moments, is that we consider that an honest appreciation of the human situation accepts and even respects the limitations of our knowledge and understanding. As human beings, much of our experience is not known or understood. I would even argue that much of what it means to be human is ultimately unknowable. We live much of our lives in the darkness not of ignorance, but the darkness of mystery -- a mystery that fascinates and inspires us.
It is mystery, not ignorance, that is the affirming darkness of the human condition. We must confess that there is far more of significance about life that we do not know, than there is that we do know. Life is pervaded by unanswered questions, and to be human is to learn not just to live in the darkness of uncertainty, but to respect the very human condition of ambiguity.
Here, for example, are some things we don't understand, about which we human
beings are pretty much "in the dark." And the fact that we don't know
the answers to these questions, that we are in the dark about them,
actually makes our human life more, not less, engaging.
* Why do human beings love; what makes us love?
* Why do we have hope; and how can we find more hope? How do we cope with despair when the world seems overly threatening?
* Do I do the things I do because my culture makes me that way, or because of my upbringing or because of my genes; or do I choose to be the way I am?
* Why can't I always seem to live up to my principles?
* What really happens when we die?
* Are there values more important than life or death, that are worth dying for?
* Am I the same person I was when I was as child, decades ago? Am I the same
person I was ten years ago when I moved to
* Why are sunsets and mountains beautiful? Why are clear-cut forests ugly?
* What does it mean to be "inspired"? By music or a speech or a
book, what happens to us when we feel inspiration?
We live with open questions, questions about which we are clearly "in
the dark." And I suggest that this enhances human life. These are
questions that energize us, inspire poetry and action from us, and move us to
live -- as Thoreau said -- "to live more deliberately."
I enjoy learning about what is often called "the new science." It is called "new" because it displaces the old which, it turns out, was not only old, but basically "wrong." There is something invigorating about learning that what we once thought was light and truth turns out to be a mistake, and we learn we were in the dark all along.
The fact is that most meaningful human experience is largely in the dark
filled with curious wonder and tentative exploration. "Bewilderment"
is the word that Lewis Thomas, the scientist and popular science writer, uses.
Here is his comment about the human condition:
"Human knowledge doesn't stay put. What we have been learning in our time is that we really do not understand this place or how it works, and we comprehend ourselves least of all. It is called bewilderment. Everyone knows this, but it is not much talked about; bewilderment is kept hidden in the darkest closets of all our institutions of higher learning. And the more we learn, the more we are -- or ought to be -- dumbfounded."
[From "On Matters of Doubt" in Late Night Thoughts on
Listening to Mahler's Ninth Symphony, somewhat re-cast.]
We speak of light as knowledge, but unless we learn to appreciate the limits of what we know -- the dark mysteries and bewilderment that surrounds us -- we neither understand nor honor nor respect our human condition very well.
The Bible uses many images of light and dark, and I discovered that one of the Hebrew words translated as "darkness" actually means "riddle," the sense of not knowing the answers to some puzzle. It also means "obscure."
This is in part the human condition: life is full of puzzles for which we are without certain answers. We can deny, or we can accept and appreciate life for what it is: puzzling.
In the darkness of mystery and bewilderment, we learn to appreciate two
human qualities that cannot be learned without the darkness of mystery. We
learn to trust the world -- trust happens when we don't have guarantees or
certainty. Trust is possible only when we don't have absolute certainties about
the world. Trust happens when we learn to accept the limitations of our
knowledge, the inherent darkness of mystery.
And it is in the darkness of mystery and bewilderment that we also learn humility. Arrogance comes from the illusion of having certain knowledge. Humility happens when we respect the limitations of what we know.
I say, therefore, "Let there be dark." Not the darkness of
ignorance and superstition, but the darkness of mystery and wonder and awe and
riddle. None of this is to disparage or devalue the light of knowledge that we
do and must seek. But may we balance it with an appreciation for the
limitations of being human: the darkness of human bewilderment at an astounding
world. Let us affirm the human situation which marvels at curiosity, the life
we don't fully understand. Let there be dark.
I turn now to a second common metaphor of light and dark: The darkness of night. Dark nights are thought to hold terror and fear. Nighttime is a dangerous time, especially in the city, and especially when you're alone. Things do go "bump" in the night, after all. Don't they?
At night, we learn to be on our guard, to look over our shoulder. In the dark of night, much mischief and some wickedness is done. Is not night the setting for tales of fright and horror?
Yes, all that is true, but it is only part of the truth. The dark of night has other attributes as well. Far more common is the use we make of the dark of night by resting ourselves, in restoring ourselves, in finding calm and quiet respite from life's frenzied pace. Each one of us depends on night's darkness for sleep and for rest. In the night's darkness, we can also be alone with our thoughts and imaginations without the distractions of a busy day. In the night's darkness we discover romance. In the night's darkness, we encounter a stillness which too often eludes us in the light of day.
There is a quiet majesty to the nighttime that is difficult to match in the
light of day. That quality is identified, for example, in these lines from
Shakespeare:
How sweet the moonlight sleeps
upon this bank!
Here we will sit
and let the sounds of music
Creep in our ears: soft stillness
and the night
Become the touches
of sweet harmony."
[from, "Merchant of
I confess to be one who does love the night, though it is not my intent to
suggest that night does not contain its dangers, either literally or
metaphorically. It is my intent to suggest that night, because of its
darkness, carries also an affirming quality of renewal. The wholeness of the
night, its risk and its restfulness, is captured in Robert Frost's verse:
I have been one
acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain --
and back in rain.
I have outwalked
the furthest city light.
I have looked down
the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman
on his beat
And dropped my eyes,
unwilling to explain.
I have stood still
and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses
from another street,
But not to call me back
or say good-bye;
And further still
at an unearthly height,
One luminary clock against the sky
Proclaimed the time was
neither wrong nor right.
I have been one
acquainted with the night.
So I say today, "Let there be dark." Not the darkness of a
fear-filled night, but rather the darkness of a night that restores and renews
the spirit. Let there also be the light of day, but may we respect the balance
that night brings to our soul. May we welcome the night as well as the day,
with appreciation and anticipation. Let there be dark.
The third and final imagery of light and dark I'd like to consider is a bit more difficult to characterize. The metaphor of darkness is often extended to our human experience of pain and personal suffering. To despair of life is often painted in dark words: a dark time of life, the heart of darkness, the dark night of the soul, or the Psalmist's imagery of walking through the "the valley of the shadow of death."
Life, after all, isn't fair -- or so we learn soon enough. But it is not enough simply to observe that we cannot avoid these dark moments of life, that these are the cards that life deals. It is not enough to grant that we learn from our pain and get stronger by adversity. All that may be true, but it is not, to me at least, all that reassuring.
If nothing else, though, I believe that it is during and through these dark episodes of life that we do discover what is truly important and precious to us. Nothing else can teach more surely the lesson that healthy relationships matter, and matter more than any material possession, than to experience an unhappy relationship. The dark times of life help us cut through the facades of our personality, the masks of our character, and effectively reveal the essential quality of being human.
Through the darkness, we discover more clearly who we are, and what we value, and what is, in the end, important. Is there any lesson more important than this? Is there any learning more valuable, that can give us deeper meaning?
I do not wish, here, to celebrate suffering in any way. It would be better, of course, to find this core of ourselves without undergoing any agony. But it is not celebrating suffering to acknowledge that the dark experiences can bring us insights into ourselves -- maybe insights we'd rather pass up -- but insights we can probably encounter in few other ways, insights that make us stronger.
So I say, "Let there be dark." Or, to word it differently: Let the
darkness prepare us better for self-understanding and self-discovery. Let the
darkness prepare us for the light, and the light for darkness.
We cannot, I think, wholly abandon the symbols of light and dark that we've nurtured over the centuries. But what I think we can do, without too strenuous an effort, is to seek a wholeness in our imagination, a balance.
It is a religious principle I hold that we are usually mistaken when we
attempt to divide the world dualistically: between good and bad, absolute right
and wrong, or (if you will) black and white. Life is more commonly an
experience of "in between," a mixture. To live with integrity is to
embrace life in its wholeness, in its fullness, embracing both the light and
the darkness we encounter.
Let there be light. And let there be dark. Let there be both the light of
knowledge and the darkness of curiosity and wonder, mystery and riddle; let
there be both the light of the active daytime, and the darkness of the quiet
and restorative nighttime; let there be both the light of joyful celebration,
and the darkness of self-discovery in times of adversity.
Our hymn book, includes readings as well as songs.
I will close by a reading written by Kathy McTigue:
"May the light around us guide our footsteps, and hold us fast to the best and most righteous that we seek.
"May the darkness around us nurture our dreams, and give us rest so that we may give ourselves to the work of the world.
"Let us seek to remember the wholeness of our lives, the weaving of
light and shadow in this great and astonishing dance in which we move."