[12/11/05] Winter Light
by Rev. Patti Pomerantz
When I was a little girl, I was afraid of the dark; actually, I was terrified of the dark, so much so that I still remember the images that would come to me at night in my bed. There was the room filling up with water and sharks swimming all around me, and there was the horse drawn carriage that would come to get me and take me away. I would hide from it under my covers even in the humid Philadelphia summers. When these waking dreams would get too overwhelming, I'd wake up my mother who, in her very practical parental fashion would reassure me that the fish weren't real and that my bedroom was fine. Then she'd send me back to bed.
These visions came from my very active imagination--something that in my practical family was discouraged, however unwittingly. According to Dorothee Soelle, a twentieth century feminist scholar, ecological and political activist, theologian and teacher, my story is an example of our culture's tendency to deaden childhood imagination at as early an age as possible. So, as adults, we have lost the language and the memory of our imagination. With this loss we have also silenced the articulation of the sacred in our lives. She explains how this process occurs:
We label [imaginative] experiences as craziness or silliness and then hide or trivialize them in terms of our 'nothing but . . . " formulae . . . By banishing them from our children, we destroy them within ourselves at the same moment. The trivialization of life is perhaps the strongest antimystical force among us. [12]
Some might say, 'so what.' Mysticism doesn't move me. And that's as it should be. But I gotta tell you it is my mysticism-my direct experience of my own inner truth - that is my primary defense against our materialistic holiday culture--what some may call the dark side.
Let me tell you how--and invite you to try it on. I never have outgrown my childhood problem with darkness. It's still scary, and aging isn't helping much. The manifestation of the fear has simply aged with me. Add to that the darkness of chronic depression and I can be one blob of paralysis at this time of year. If the growing darkness doesn't sap my energy, the depression surely will. But I have learned over the years that my reaction to darkness doesn't mean that it is evil or out to get me. Like other shadows, there is an opportunity to learn.
One of the tools I've been using is something called the dark night of the soul. St John of the Cross a sixteenth century Carmelite monastic wrote about this in his own journey to know God during his imprisonment for refusing to obey an order of his provincial supervisor. He was almost totally in the dark in a small, airless cell. He wrote some incredible poetry at the time, which he would memorize bit by bit as he had nothing with which to write. What I find remarkable about St John is how he used the darkness to move into a deeper connection with the larger universe. Along with his mentor, Teresa of Avila, he developed an understanding that in order to be fully in relationship with the Holy, one must loose even their most basic belief in the Holy--the experience they termed the dark night of the soul.
Only by letting go of all expectations of hope or salvation, by facing our own doubt in the existence of truth, can we fully experience truth. Like bottoming out in addiction counseling, you must let go of what you think you know or how you think you are, in order to truly heal. St John's dark night helps me in two ways. First, it gives me hope. I don't imagine I'll ever really know if I've hit bottom, if I've had a true dark night of the soul. But I know I've been close--and when I am, I'm pulled toward knowledge that the light, the other side of whatever darkness I am in will be glowing stronger when I return to it--or it to me. It's a metaphor that seems particularly apt these days. By looking at our national leaders, our imperialism as this country's dark night, I can imagine there may be a light of truth waiting to emerge--incubating in all this craziness. I don't mean to minimize the crimes committed in our name, or the hatred cultivated in the name of democracy. But I can't see living through this time without a hope that as all life is part of a cycle, so, too, are the modern travesties we struggle against. I believe I will be reborn--reintroduced to the light.
The dark night of the soul also reminds me that there is meaning in the darkness--not necessarily apparent while I'm stumbling around in it, but available as I move through it. One of my life's most difficult lessons is that in order to grow into who I can become, I must let go of who I was, that holds me back. Letting go often plunges me into darkness. This is really a very pragmatic lesson. If I'm holding on to something behind me, I can't move towards what waits ahead of me. It is a challenging practice to believe in this paradigm. But I'm not sure I could be here with you today if I did not take it into my heart over and over again. In order to get out of the darkness I must not only face it, but trust enough to turn within it to face a light only promised.
Nils Peterson helped me with this next part. In conversation with him just the other day, Nils helped me to name the other important tool I use during this time of year. It is the appreciation of twilight--the in between time when neither darkness nor light claims precedence. Twilight has a number of uses in my metaphor. Let me give you two. First, twilight reminds me that nothing is absolute--that there is light in darkness just as there is darkness in light. It helps me to keep a sense of balance in my own moods whether I name them good or bad. I also believe that important things in life manifest in twilight times, when my vision is not clear, when the path is not brightly lit, when I'm unsure.
Twilight often serves as a beacon of sort in my journey. Twilight prepares me for the coming of the dark, gives me something familiar when I can't see. And it also gives me something to look toward in the dark. It doesn't always take very much energy to change complete darkness to twilight. Just that thinnest line on the eastern horizon and I know the cycle will continue. Both twilights--coming out of the dark as well as moving into it--are hints of returnings. I need to remember that even in my time of light and joy there will be a return to dark and sadness. It is the movement of my life. Accepting the cycle keeps me from manic responses to both light and dark. I use other tools - medication, good self care, understanding scientific descriptions all help me hold onto the continuity of the cycle--the movement from darkness to light to darkness. These things enhance my faith that there is a rhythm in the universe, manifested in my own life, that will feed me regardless of my tendency to ignore its nurture.
In the few months I've been here with you we have had many conversations about the cycles of the universe--the origin of energy and matter, the criteria of scientific inquiry, the beginning of the world as we know it, and the ending. I listen with rapt attention to these conversations, the scientific explanations of our universe; I try also to listen for some kernel of agreement in the tirades of conservative creationists as well--not because I think they are correct in their beliefs, anymore than I think the scientifically tested laws of the universe are incorrect. But my understanding of the cycles of darkness and light, and their relationship to each other instruct that I cannot hold exclusively to either side. They each need the other to exist.
The nature and depth of our universe will always be a mystery to me. And I like to believe that some of that mystery that will remain always beyond our grasp. Like the relationship of the dark to the light, the Taoist Yin and Yang, both science and faith must be real for me. It is my job to weave the two together. What we understand scientifically cycles with the unknown, the as yet undiscovered. To be fully present each of us must find appreciation and value in both the known and the unknown parts of the cycle of knowing. How much does it matter if what is unknown today is ultimately unknowable? I can't imagine being human without the darkness of the unknown--knowing would pale without not-knowing. Where would our drive to explore come from? What would we do without questions to answer?
Perhaps accepting the cycle of mystery has its own lesson. Regardless of where I find myself today, I must always believe that there will be another twilight, another time to learn, to integrate both the darkness and the light. I may not like the dark, but I must embrace it. The light may be blinding, but I must live in it. I need both. Do you?
(c) 2005 Rev. Patti Pomerantz
When I was a little girl, I was afraid of the dark; actually, I was terrified of the dark, so much so that I still remember the images that would come to me at night in my bed. There was the room filling up with water and sharks swimming all around me, and there was the horse drawn carriage that would come to get me and take me away. I would hide from it under my covers even in the humid Philadelphia summers. When these waking dreams would get too overwhelming, I'd wake up my mother who, in her very practical parental fashion would reassure me that the fish weren't real and that my bedroom was fine. Then she'd send me back to bed.
These visions came from my very active imagination--something that in my practical family was discouraged, however unwittingly. According to Dorothee Soelle, a twentieth century feminist scholar, ecological and political activist, theologian and teacher, my story is an example of our culture's tendency to deaden childhood imagination at as early an age as possible. So, as adults, we have lost the language and the memory of our imagination. With this loss we have also silenced the articulation of the sacred in our lives. She explains how this process occurs:
We label [imaginative] experiences as craziness or silliness and then hide or trivialize them in terms of our 'nothing but . . . " formulae . . . By banishing them from our children, we destroy them within ourselves at the same moment. The trivialization of life is perhaps the strongest antimystical force among us. [12]
Some might say, 'so what.' Mysticism doesn't move me. And that's as it should be. But I gotta tell you it is my mysticism-my direct experience of my own inner truth - that is my primary defense against our materialistic holiday culture--what some may call the dark side.
Let me tell you how--and invite you to try it on. I never have outgrown my childhood problem with darkness. It's still scary, and aging isn't helping much. The manifestation of the fear has simply aged with me. Add to that the darkness of chronic depression and I can be one blob of paralysis at this time of year. If the growing darkness doesn't sap my energy, the depression surely will. But I have learned over the years that my reaction to darkness doesn't mean that it is evil or out to get me. Like other shadows, there is an opportunity to learn.
One of the tools I've been using is something called the dark night of the soul. St John of the Cross a sixteenth century Carmelite monastic wrote about this in his own journey to know God during his imprisonment for refusing to obey an order of his provincial supervisor. He was almost totally in the dark in a small, airless cell. He wrote some incredible poetry at the time, which he would memorize bit by bit as he had nothing with which to write. What I find remarkable about St John is how he used the darkness to move into a deeper connection with the larger universe. Along with his mentor, Teresa of Avila, he developed an understanding that in order to be fully in relationship with the Holy, one must loose even their most basic belief in the Holy--the experience they termed the dark night of the soul.
Only by letting go of all expectations of hope or salvation, by facing our own doubt in the existence of truth, can we fully experience truth. Like bottoming out in addiction counseling, you must let go of what you think you know or how you think you are, in order to truly heal. St John's dark night helps me in two ways. First, it gives me hope. I don't imagine I'll ever really know if I've hit bottom, if I've had a true dark night of the soul. But I know I've been close--and when I am, I'm pulled toward knowledge that the light, the other side of whatever darkness I am in will be glowing stronger when I return to it--or it to me. It's a metaphor that seems particularly apt these days. By looking at our national leaders, our imperialism as this country's dark night, I can imagine there may be a light of truth waiting to emerge--incubating in all this craziness. I don't mean to minimize the crimes committed in our name, or the hatred cultivated in the name of democracy. But I can't see living through this time without a hope that as all life is part of a cycle, so, too, are the modern travesties we struggle against. I believe I will be reborn--reintroduced to the light.
The dark night of the soul also reminds me that there is meaning in the darkness--not necessarily apparent while I'm stumbling around in it, but available as I move through it. One of my life's most difficult lessons is that in order to grow into who I can become, I must let go of who I was, that holds me back. Letting go often plunges me into darkness. This is really a very pragmatic lesson. If I'm holding on to something behind me, I can't move towards what waits ahead of me. It is a challenging practice to believe in this paradigm. But I'm not sure I could be here with you today if I did not take it into my heart over and over again. In order to get out of the darkness I must not only face it, but trust enough to turn within it to face a light only promised.
Nils Peterson helped me with this next part. In conversation with him just the other day, Nils helped me to name the other important tool I use during this time of year. It is the appreciation of twilight--the in between time when neither darkness nor light claims precedence. Twilight has a number of uses in my metaphor. Let me give you two. First, twilight reminds me that nothing is absolute--that there is light in darkness just as there is darkness in light. It helps me to keep a sense of balance in my own moods whether I name them good or bad. I also believe that important things in life manifest in twilight times, when my vision is not clear, when the path is not brightly lit, when I'm unsure.
Twilight often serves as a beacon of sort in my journey. Twilight prepares me for the coming of the dark, gives me something familiar when I can't see. And it also gives me something to look toward in the dark. It doesn't always take very much energy to change complete darkness to twilight. Just that thinnest line on the eastern horizon and I know the cycle will continue. Both twilights--coming out of the dark as well as moving into it--are hints of returnings. I need to remember that even in my time of light and joy there will be a return to dark and sadness. It is the movement of my life. Accepting the cycle keeps me from manic responses to both light and dark. I use other tools - medication, good self care, understanding scientific descriptions all help me hold onto the continuity of the cycle--the movement from darkness to light to darkness. These things enhance my faith that there is a rhythm in the universe, manifested in my own life, that will feed me regardless of my tendency to ignore its nurture.
In the few months I've been here with you we have had many conversations about the cycles of the universe--the origin of energy and matter, the criteria of scientific inquiry, the beginning of the world as we know it, and the ending. I listen with rapt attention to these conversations, the scientific explanations of our universe; I try also to listen for some kernel of agreement in the tirades of conservative creationists as well--not because I think they are correct in their beliefs, anymore than I think the scientifically tested laws of the universe are incorrect. But my understanding of the cycles of darkness and light, and their relationship to each other instruct that I cannot hold exclusively to either side. They each need the other to exist.
The nature and depth of our universe will always be a mystery to me. And I like to believe that some of that mystery that will remain always beyond our grasp. Like the relationship of the dark to the light, the Taoist Yin and Yang, both science and faith must be real for me. It is my job to weave the two together. What we understand scientifically cycles with the unknown, the as yet undiscovered. To be fully present each of us must find appreciation and value in both the known and the unknown parts of the cycle of knowing. How much does it matter if what is unknown today is ultimately unknowable? I can't imagine being human without the darkness of the unknown--knowing would pale without not-knowing. Where would our drive to explore come from? What would we do without questions to answer?
Perhaps accepting the cycle of mystery has its own lesson. Regardless of where I find myself today, I must always believe that there will be another twilight, another time to learn, to integrate both the darkness and the light. I may not like the dark, but I must embrace it. The light may be blinding, but I must live in it. I need both. Do you?
(c) 2005 Rev. Patti Pomerantz
posted by UUCP Sermons at 12:24 PM
