The Sea of Faith

That, I thought, is a very old painting.

I was in the middle of London's famous Victoria & Albert Museum, standing with my chin tipped toward the ceiling, staring at an enormous piece of art. The Queen herself had lent this original Raphael painting, "St. Paul Preaches in Athens," to the museum--and Raphael is a majorly famous Renaissance artist. As I stood, transfixed, something gradually grabbed my attention: the sounds of rapid-fire foreign languages buzzing all around me. I leveled my gaze, and took in the scenery. In the large museum, droves of people from every corner of the globe--Asia, Africa, the Americas, Europe, both old and young--were jostling to catch a glimpse of ancient historical artifacts and displays, including the painting that held my attention now.

I can't help but wonder.

What in the world are all these people doing here?

Why does the ancient tradition/sculpture/painting/relic/artistic tradition of the Italian Renaissance matter one bit to me? Or anyone else, for that matter? Isn't life all about progress, pushing forward, and generating the new?

I took in the awed stares of the tourists' faces, the respectful murmurs. Something. Something here matters. They're here, I realized, to find meaning. 

I believe that hope, and purpose, are integral for the spirit, and without them, people lose something unseen but very real. We must place our hope in something, no matter what that thing is.

The critically acclaimed play, “Endgame,” by Samuel Beckett, makes a very poignant exploration of death, duty, and nothingness. Life is just that--an "endgame." We're here for a while, and just like that . . .gone. Many notable philosophers, like Camus and Sartre, and writers like Dostoevsky and Stoppard, explore absurdist/existentialist philosophy and the vain struggle of life. Their conclusions are simple: there is no conclusion, because there is nothing.

As we sat on the cliffs of Dover—in our first weekend in the UK— I recalled the famous poem, “Dover Beach,” by Matthew Arnold, in which he speaks of this very idea to his lover as he gazes at the white cliffs.

“The Sea of Faith

Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore

Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.

But now I only hear

Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,

Retreating, to the breath

Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear

And naked shingles of the world.

Ah, love, let us be true

To one another! for the world, which seems

To lie before us like a land of dreams,

So various, so beautiful, so new,

Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,

Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;

And we are here as on a darkling plain

Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,

Where ignorant armies clash by night” (21-37).

Arnold is betrayed by the richness he sees, and struggles with the bleak emptiness. Yet he still grasps at something—-he asks his lover to remain true, because Arnold needs something to hold onto, some form of hope.

So it must be.  We cannot exist apart from some unseen, sustainable force.

This is why I believe. This is why I have faith.

I don’t place my trust in my own knowledge, and my own experiences—even my acquaintance with grief and joy.  I’ve met too many people, and heard too many stories, to pretend for an instant that I alone, in my small brain, hold ultimate knowledge.

I don’t place trust in intellect.  I’ve seen too many faulty theories, “supreme knowledge,” like the humeral system, bloodletting, flatness of the Earth, “scientific racism” (that justified the Holocaust), among hundreds of other failed but popular ideas.

I can do nothing, at this point, but to put my faith in something I cannot see, but feel—in every fiber of my being—in the quiet moments; when the mind fails, the heart hurts, and the body is tired.  In these moments, I am profoundly aware of my own inability to sustain or answer my deepest questions and feelings.  But one thing, I do know: I am a being, and I feel, I think, I sense, I exist.  The universe, perhaps, has no obligation to me, but someone—something— does. That someone is God.  A God who sees me, hears me, created me with a profound sense of purpose, and an incredible ability to love; and this is the path I choose. This is where I choose to place my life and my hope. If I’m right, then I shall live in eternal light of this love. If I’m wrong, then I shall die nobly—if ignorantly—believing in my soul that I have lived life to its fullest, in the love of a God who hears my heart, and sings the melody of life,even when I've forgotten--or refused--to hear the words. This is faith. This is the journey. Cambridge has helped me to see that. 

Cheerio.