From the first distance, it looks like a faintly lurid overspill from the window above, which is full of scattered lights—as if the fragments of rose glass hadn’t quite been able to contain themselves. It hovers over the void below, rather like a flash of Islamic script, perhaps the soft fiery writing of God himself, a muted warning, a tinted fiat. Looking back from the East transept, just glimpsing the pink glint under the Nave bridge, but too far away to make out the words, the bright caption almost looks magisterial, a condensation of the window’s eruption.
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Descartes flattened the sun and flattered our vision when he imagined that to know, all one need do is open the window of an underground cellar for all to become apparent. This is to suppose that because light is the presupposition for clarity, it must be a simple matter. But does not a moment’s (infinite) reflection show that it is neither simple nor even a matter? Never can we stand in daylight without being aware that the fundamental element of light nonetheless has a point of concentrated origin which we cannot gaze upon nor encompass, and which is therefore a dark mystery. Moreover, pure light would not illuminate at all. To be light, it requires the very things opposed to its nature that it illuminates; dense dark things which halt its passage and at the same time alone make manifest any passage whatsoever. And without manifestation, who can say that this passage would exist since light is Being as manifestation? Thus light lies somewhere between an infinitely dark source and the immeasurable matrix of solidity. In this no-man’s-land, light boasts its brightness and yet this absolute condition of all truth itself dissembles (though without deceit, since it has no other side, no substance to deny) from the outset, since all it shows is what it is not. Although light is the first source, it only begins to be when it leaves its unrevealed origin and even these beams do not become visible until they have been reflected back from some quiddity. Tomorrow, November 22, Christians celebrate the Feast of St. Cecilia. In the late seventeenth century, the Roman martyr Cecilia became the focus for a strange cult concerning the relation between music and religion. The cult was most manifest in England where it was associated with the foundation of the Three Choirs Festival and a tradition of preaching sermons on Cecilia’s Day in defense of sacred music. What is the significance for us of the saint who sang divine praises in the sudatorium that was being used as her torture chamber? Perhaps it is that worship, or praise of the divine, is the goal of life. The idea that we live in order to worship might suggest a suspension of life for the sake of pious performances. This need not follow, though, since according to the Psalmist the seas and the hills praise God simply by being themselves (Ps. 98). If the point of existence is to worship, it seems that it is equally true that worship is not an extrinsic task we perform, but consists in authentic existence. Prayer is not something other from us which we take up and put down. It is our very incorporation into the cosmos. This perhaps sounds a little individualistic. However, we can only be ourselves in relation to everything else, and our own harmonious living depends always upon the actions and responses of other people. Not only that, but we develop by borrowing and adapting each other’s rhythms. Human history is a kind of perpetual modulation. This does not mean that life is necessarily harmonious or that we simply tune in to the cosmic vibes. To the contrary, the prime tonal mixture of human life constantly blends sorrow with rejoicing. The Gospels tell us that we must accept that sadness and happiness occur for different people at the same time, often with apparent inappropriateness (Mark 14:3–9). It is also true that all rejoicing is haunted by sorrow, while sorrow is sorrowing because it remembers occasions of delight. |
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