Melancholy and Certainty

When I was younger, great art seemed to me that which was most shrouded in melancholy. My favorite word was "tenebrous," because it evoked the essence of my preoccupation, the darkness and the desolate chill I felt all good stories must impart. The word Gothic had more power to excite me than any other. I constructed a dark dwelling and sat in it, hunched, because there is no other way to live beneath a roof made only of gloom and shadows.

There is something tantalizing about the nighttime, some mysterion of the dark that calls our attention and demands our gaze. Objects become indistinct, and though familiar in sunlight, in the murk they turn traitor and shapeshift, obscuring what we thought we knew. That is the true delight of the melancholic, to be in a constant state of flux, to be perpetually uncertain, to ask questions at all times.

As I got older, I saw that much of my melancholia was a mere construction, built to house a childish understanding of creativity. I turned against it, the way a fond but sarcastic son turns against his father, always poking fun, always mocking, always denying kinship. Eventually I even made fun of myself, reading poems I'd written years ago in front of other people, deriding that former version of myself whose vocabulary was limited to words like "autumn," "death," and "despondent."

Eventually even the mockery faded, all melancholy dropped by a littered roadside, where everyone must get rid of their burdens or be dragged with them into quicksand. I learned to have no fear of the dark, but also to have no great love for it, to traverse a blank landscape by feel for no other reason than to obliterate the mystery. We don't live in a world of perpetual glee and kindness, and to pretend we do is as wrong as to pretend we live in a world of mild weeping and eternal twilight.

We simply live in the world. The world is in constant cosmic tension: created by God for the purpose of being good, and diverted from that purpose by the ubiquitous presence of sin. The proper response to such a dire situation is not to pen weeping poems with tear-diluted ink. The proper response is not to revel in the darkness. The proper response is not to bury ourselves in angst, the heaviest earth of the human soul, no matter how synthetic one's particular angst may be.

Christ's people have no need for the comfort of uncertainty. The enemies of God relish unknowing, finding a gleam of hope in the perceived fact that "no one can know anything." If they die, they reason, there's a chance something good will happen, rather than the utter misery of Hell and its godless fleshliness. They cling to shadows. They love melancholy and angst, the purposelessness of fear, the nihilism of knowledge.

We ought to know better. To know Christ is to revel in certainty—the certainty of our own sin, the certainty of the Cross, the certainty of Yahweh's dominion over death and evil, the certainty of life forever with Him. We have no need of the shadows; in fact, the truth we carry close to our hearts is the truth that dispels all gloom, that blanches the darkness, that turns what is hidden into brilliant blinding light.

Of course we aren't without sadness. Sorrow dogs each of us as long as we make our home here, the real Hell-hound so many have feared. We can't outrun sorrow, and we mustn't try to diminish its power by making it less horrible, by softening the harsh black into the sepia tones of maudlin melancholy and misplaced sentiment. To do so is to eschew not only the truth, but the certainty of light we have in Jesus Christ our Lord.

God is very near.

I see a field of barley swaying to its own musicality, augmented by a diminished sea wind coming off the hills. The sun is round but gentle, the breeze enough to keep things cool, the deep sky a lesson in prayer. Birds don't need to fly on such a day; they simply unfurl their little sail-like wings and move to the rhythms of the air. There is no one in the field.

I see a green meadow with daisies like daytime stars, and there are two rabbits in it, eating. But I don't look at the rabbits, I see the way the two hills converge to form a V, and the way the bottom of the dell is like a manger I want to sleep in, pocketed from evil and turmoil. Then I do watch the rabbits, running through the grass and flowers, but not for fear.

I see an abandoned house at the edge of woods, the doorframe wreathed in wisteria (or maybe lilac) with asters where the footpath should be, and foxglove shaking their deadly bells inside on the dirt floor. It is wholly quiet, with no music of animals, men or wind, a place guarded by beauty and ancient power over the living. When I go there, I step lightly in reverence for old ghosts.

I see the greenest river in the world. It's not green from scum or filth, but from trees and bushes reflecting off the surface in the daylight. The fish are not afraid, knowing fishermen will find noisier waters to do their killing, knowing the hand of God rests on the surface, hiding behind vines and leaf-heavy branches. The water flows almost without sound, but with enough sound to lull you to sleep.

I see a mountain like a ram's head jutting out of the earth, locking horns with the sky to see which can successfully throw the other. Every revolution of the globe gives a false impression, and mountain and sky both feel strong and without equal. They have no equal. Instead, their Better sits aloof and watches the frightful combat from clouds of dissolving fire.

I see an ocean too wide to be loved. Men love the thought of the sea more than the sea itself, but it uses them like a fierce maiden, sucks blood from their veins and replaces it with salt, turns gentle men into ruthless figureheads of rust and beaten wood. The sea crashes at my feet, and I know in time it will take me, too.

I see Jesus in everything good. He is rubbing grain between His palms in the grain field; laying on His back in the meadow; tending the flowers on a worn-out path; parting the green river waters; riding the clouds like a chariot; walking on the furious waves. He is not the thing itself but its master, the Lord of Heaven, and the God of Earth, friend of the meek and scourge of the proud.

Creation Science is dead.

Pugnacious "creation scientists" like to inform their evolution-defending opponents that the debate isn't about science, it's about God. And yet, they continue to hide behind the science moniker, calling their profession "Creation science" and themselves "Creation scientists."

A fair number of Evolution proponents actually admit that it's about God; or, they used to. Now, it's simply assumed that naturalistic evolution is true, and that God is a fairy tale, a quaint custom, or at worst a pernicious lie.

Let me be clear: I believe that God created the universe and everything in it without help of any kind, and I reject naturalistic evolution as a theory and as an ideology. But, I will not align myself with Creation scientists. They're charlatans when it comes to science, and confused when it comes to the Christian faith. (As for the ID crowd, they're the worst of the lot, but that's another post.)

Creation science (or CS as I like to call it, for reasons of my own) is supposedly the application of the scientific method to prove the hypothesis that God created the world in six literal days. They look at the fossil record, the geological evidence, etc., "proving" that God created and that Charlie Darwin was just an atheist and a fool. As true as the assessment of Chuck Darwin may be, the CS crowd fails to acknowledge that the issue they champion isn't open for debate.

(They also fail to acknowledge that the tactics the evolutionists use are the same ones they use; evolution can't be proved, they say, but they expect us to believe that biblical creation can.)

The point of Christianity isn't to prove any of its claims from purely empirical grounds. To attempt to do so is to give in to the empiricism from which evolutionary theory emerged. Neither God, nor His mighty works, can be proved through mere physical evidence. If creation could be proved, why do we have the Bible? If Thomas Aquinas was right and man can know God through nature, why do we need direct revelation in the form of God's Word? To suggest either is to assume that to be a Christian is simply to intellectually acknowledge the truth of the Gospel....which can presumably also be proved through careful marshalling of facts.

It's a weird junction of Christian fundamentalist dogmatism and Enlightenment-fueled empiricism that has led to the oxymoronic "Creation Science" that purports to defend biblical truth against the advances of atheistic rationalism. The Gospel of Christ is our primary concern as Christians, not proving that the miracles of the Bible actually took place, or that Jesus really rose from the dead, or that God actually created the world from nothing. The CSers get it backwards: if someone trusts Jesus for salvation from sin, they'll trust His Word, and if they don't trust Him all the evidence in the world won't convince them. God saves, and that's the end of the matter.

People who spend all their time talking about how badly the Theory of Evolution has corrupted society are ignorant. First of all, it's a West-centric attitude that fails to account for Eastern origins theories. Secondly, evolutionary theory is an old idea, as old as Greek philosophy at the very least; Darwin was merely a popularizer and codifier, not an originator. But, more importantly, CSers aim their artillery against a symptom of sin, rather than against sin itself. Evolutionary thinking is a result of man's rebellion, not a cause of it. To say otherwise is to reject the Gospel.

The Last Part

And just like that the trip was over.

Beyond the swamp was a grassy place with sunlight and warm earth. The hermit stepped onto it and immediately took off his shoes. He felt the green and brown on his soles, and his two legs were like trees newly but firmly rooted. He turned to the Boatman.

"Is this the end?" he asked.

"Yes," said the Boatman. "I just need my payment."

"What is it?"

"I think you know," and the Boatman almost smiled.

"Is it my soul?"

"It is."

Then the hermit became confused. "I have two," he said, and looked at the ground.

"No, you don't. Just your own."

The hermit looked at the Boatman. "I have carried another's with me all this way."

The Boatman shook his head. "No, you haven't. It was gone long ago."

"What do you mean? No one would take it from me. I couldn't lose it. I couldn't get it off. How do you mean, it was gone long ago?"

"Just what I say. You think giving his soul to you could save that young man? You think his soul was preserved through all he did? Souls aren't like that."

"Did he transgress much?"

"Yes," answered the Boatman. "But it was the senseless good he did that counted against him, that turned his soul to what it is now."

"What is it?"

The Boatman held up a sack filled with ashes and maggots. "This," he said. "It fell apart quite quickly, and then one day it was gone altogether. Surely you found it growing lighter?"

"Yes," said the hermit. "But I just thought I was getting used to it."

"It didn't belong with you. Another man's soul isn't something you can get used to. But nevermind about his soul anymore. Give me what I want and I'll leave you here in peace because I must."

The old man found the soul slipped lightly from his shoulders. He remembered trying to give away the other one he supposed he also carried, trying to cut it off the way sailors cut dead rigging from the mast during storms.

"Is it wisdom to give you my soul?" the old man asked.

"It's wisdom kept your soul intact," said the Boatman. "But not your own."

"I looked for wisdom and never found it."

"Who does? But you looked in the right places. That's all a man can do."

The hermit never found his wife and daughter; he didn't miss them anymore. He found a  mountain, but didn't climb it. He stayed in the valley where there were people, and everyone felt the warmth of God on their faces, and were filled with untranslatable joy forever until they could no longer remember what they had been like as mere people.

12th Part

From the mountain crest it had looked like the sea, or what he supposed the sea would look like. The blue-gray faded from horizon to horizon, capped in fog and undulating like a pregnant woman's belly in the midst of labor. He stared for a long time before making a descent.

The road down the mountains was poorly kept but smooth as if from many feet. The hermit was tired, and wondered how far he'd fall should his feet slip, but he didn't loose footing and made it all the way to the bottom without hurting himself. Then he drank a little water and ate some dried meat, and walked toward the water without looking backward.

He sensed before he saw that it wasn't a sea. It was too cold on the surface, and too many tendrils of steam or fog or mere odor grew from the surface like unhealthy and insubstantial plants. A pang of worry stabbed his legs and his guts, but he walked in a straight line and kept his eyes lifted and straight ahead.

The man with the boat appeared to be waiting for him. He stood cloaked, the mist wrapping him in weird arms, and was silent till the hermit stood before him.

"Hello, old man," he said.

"Who are you?" asked the hermit. "What do you want?"

"I'm the Boatman. I'm here to take you across."

Then the hermit knew why the cottagers had looked at him as though at a ghost, why they'd feared he was a soul come to take their child away from earthly things. He'd heard of the Boatman, and met him in books. It was odd that the Boatman should be here before him, plying his trade. It made the stories at once more terrifying and more absurd. He reached in his pocket for a few coins.

"What are those?" the Boatman asked, not taking the pennies. "Why are you giving me money?"

"I thought—" but the old man stopped, because he didn't know what he thought.

"You thought I required payment. I do. But not that, and not till we get to the other side."

"Should I leave my things here?"

"Do what you want."

"Will I need them?"

"Do you think you'll need them?"

The hermit left his pack in the mud and climbed aboard the vessel. It rocked in the waves, but he had no fear the boat would capsize, not with the Boatman at the helm. He sat on the bench and folded his arms with his hands beneath his armpits to keep them warm, but it didn't work. The mist was stronger than the heat of his own body.

"Am I dead yet?" asked the hermit.

"Not yet," said the Boatman. "But almost."

The hermit resolved to keep his mouth shut for the duration of the trip. He looked ahead, but he could see nothing. The way was altogether hidden. He supposed he'd expected nothing less, and wondered how his wife and daughter had felt, huddled on this small boat with such a taciturn guide, going who knew where and completely at the Boatman's mercy. If it is mercy, the hermit thought, and wondered what price the Boatman would ask of him, on the other side of all this darkness.

11th Part

The hermit remembered his second burden on the way to the mountains. He'd begun to lose focus, to think only of finding the sea, but the little girl reminded him of his daughter, which reminded him of the mountain, which reminded him again of the young man with his strange request.

It became very important to the old man that he get rid of the second soul. There were fewer people on the road now, and fewer houses to the left or right, but whenever he met anyone he tried to cajole them or bribe them or beg them to take the weight off him.

"I can't go to the sea with this other soul on my back!" he'd cry, clinging to the strangers' shirts. Most of them looked concerned, but no one offered to help. It was his own damn fault, they thought, for taking such a heavy burden in the first place.

He began building fires at night, hoping indefinitely that they would bring help. Perhaps he expected ghosts to emerge, and like moths dance around his small blazes, offering to take what he could no longer carry, offering to relieve him of his unhallowed bundle. But no ghosts came, and no one would take the soul off his shoulders.

One night he tried to remove it himself. He took out his knife, and pared away at his shoulders until he was too tired and sore to keep at it. Eventually he had to bandage himself up and forget about losing the soul, abandon the project as a lost cause. It made him very sad, and very afraid, and yet there was nothing he could do about it.

So the mountains got bigger, and the man's hope of ridding himself of the soul became smaller, until he found himself climbing the mountain like a mountain goat in trousers whose sadness is that of two men, and whose head is full of fears and doubts and trouble.

He climbed and climbed and climbed, and eventually the sea filled his thoughts again, but he couldn't forget the young man's soul altogether as he'd done before. He could only hope the sea was strong enough to bear it and him toward another shore.

10th Part

It was a little child, he saw, not a goat as he'd first believed. The bleating was crying, and what looked like horns were strands of hair twisted among branches. Thorns scraped the clear young skin so the red stood out like street maps. The hermit wondered vaguely what kind of city would have maps like that, its streets marked in pain, and then remembered that every city was that city.

He approached the bush with his arms at his sides. The child's eyes rolled around to meet the hermit's, and they were blue in the middle and red at the edges. It was a little girl. She stopped struggling as soon as she saw the hermit, and shut her mouth.

"Well, child," he said. "You're stuck."

She looked at him with swollen lips turned down at both sides. Her hair was the color of a new penny, straight near the scalp but wavy further down. There were welts and scrapes all over her.

"Don't scream," the hermit said simply, and wrenched some of her hair from the thorns.

The child didn't scream. Tears stood in her eyes then fell, the salty drops falling into her open wounds, and she opened her mouth as if to scream, but closed it tight instead. She closed her eyes as if not to see what else had to be done to set her free.

Remembering pain, the hermit worked quickly. He wanted her out of the plants and home with her mama and daddy as quickly as possible, not because he was afraid of her screaming, but because he could see the pain she was in. Her little white tummy was visible through a tear in her dress, and on it were raised lines like whipmarks. The thorn bush was a cruel captor, much worse than most humans, and it worked its chains deeper even as the hermit tried to pry them off the little girl.

"Is your house nearby?" the old man asked at length, just to keep her occuppied some other way.

She nodded. One arm was free, and she pointed across her shoulder. He could see a small stone cottage with smoke coming from the chimney like the breath of hell's inhabitants. There was no one outside it that he could see.

"Your parents live there?"

A nod.

"They nice folks?"

Another nod, and "Yes. Very."

"Good," said the hermit. "I'll get you back to them in no time."

The girl accepted this forlornly. Once he'd freed her entirely, he picked her up and carried her to the house she'd pointed to. As he approached, her father came running out, a pipe bursting from his lips like a dead flower. He was wide-eyed.

"Where'd you find her?" he asked.

"Over there," said the hermit. "In the thorns."

"Come in, have some dinner," the man said. His wife came running to join them. She looked like the little girl, except womanly. "We've got plenty."

"No," said the old man. "I'm on my way."

"Where to? Surely you can come inside?"

"I'm for the sea," and he pointed across the last range of mountains. The whole family stopped and stared, white-faced and white-eyed. "Got to keep moving."

"That's not the sea over there," the man said. "You better move along, mister."

The man gathered his family back into the house, and closed and bolted the door. The hermit wondered what the farmer was talking about, but decided it didn't make much difference, and anyway he wasn't getting a meal now for sure, so he walked back to the road and continued straight on to the mountains. The salt breeze was stronger now, and he thought he could hear waves, and maybe even the wail of seabirds.