When I was a kid my favorite movie was The Never-ending Story. The enemy in that movie wasn't a sadistic villain or a nefarious force. It was a brooding, stormy blackness simply called "the Nothing."
It's no secret that counselors and therapists are busier from Christmas through the winter months. There's all sorts of theories about the influences of the weather and seasons, not to mention the sobering reality of one less table setting at Christmas dinner, or the "multiple Christmases" to be celebrated amongst once-in-tact families. Somewhere between the trips to the mall and the tree-trimming, our emotions have a way of catching up to us.
Last night I heard a friend speaking to a group of college students. He talked about the joy of Christmas, but shared stories from his childhood of how Christmas was a time of great emotional pain and darkness. I have to confess that hearing those words made me stare into the long, dark, night of my soul. It has a way of never leaving you--always lurking just beneath the surface. Even if you've gotten good counseling, moved on, put it behind you, it still comes back in cold, shadowy form, creeping up like a fog. If you've ever felt it, you know what I mean. It never completely leaves you.
I remember sitting in a church history class in seminary as we talked about St. Anthony, one of the "Desert Fathers" of the Church. He fled the vices of the city to live in the desert, alone and in communion with God, but he found the voices did not stop calling. His bouts with the demons were so famous that Athanasius, the fiery apologist who presided at the First Ecumenical Council, penned
The Life of Anthony making it one of the first Christian biographies. Anthony is immortalized by medieval artisans, from Schongauer's depiction above to the archetypal Hieronymus Bosch. These devils are the things of nightmares, but they represent the pain, the torture, the temptation, the seduction, the malaise, the miasma of darkness and isolation.
Luther was afflicted with many of the same thoughts, frequently referring to the
Anfechtung , a word that means (we think) trials or tribulations. The renowned poet and spiritual writer
Kathleen Norris' latest work speaks to some of the same feelings, using the ancient Greek term
acedia , which loosely translates as listlessness tending towards apathy. It is distinguishable from depression, though I think only in the way a blue-jay is from a cardinal--they are members of the same family and with generally the same role and purpose.
(There are clinical levels to all of these things and I am not meaning to suggest that those things should go unseen. If that's you, or someone comes to mind as you read this, please, get help now. Send me an e-mail, we'll track somebody down who can help-you can't do it alone.)
I've always struggled with how to push back the darkness when it comes. There is a genuine sense that it would be best to just lay there and let the nothing-ness cover you. I think that's why the words of a Snow Patrol song always come back to me. It's not perfect, but it conveys a lot of the feelings that precede the acedic night of the soul. Even in the midst of the listlessness there's a sense that there was something real--"the final word of the final sentence you ever spoke to me was love"
And then, from the depths, a lilting piano with these words...
And I don't know where to look
My words just break and melt
Please just save me from this darkness
I can't think of anything truer. We want to believe there's something that can pull us out.
And that is when the Christ of presence comes. Not in deep existential tones or dramatic whirlwinds, but most often in the presence of another human being reaching out in love.
The writer
Anne Lamott says "The most powerful sermon is two words, 'me too'." There is nothing in the world like another human being waiting with us in the darkness.
I was reminded of this yesterday as I read a poem a member of our church had written. I think her words more clearly articulate this idea than this whole post.
here
by Jonnia Smith
here
in your darkness
i will wait
with you
i will hold
your hand
and remind you
of the light
in reverent whispers
i will wipe
your tears
and softly sing
the lilting notes
of hope
here
in your darkness
i will wait
with you
it
does not
own you
it
never
did
