Living the Questions: Journeying into the Shadows of Death, Despair, and Meaninglessness

[[Sister Laurel, in your piece on Hiddenness and witnessing to the journey to deeper union with God, you quoted Merton on journeying in the desert area of the human heart. I wonder if you could say more about that? I was especially interested in Merton's description that he has been called to explore places most people were not able to visit except in the company of one's psychologist, and that they studiously avoid except in their nightmares. Is this the way you understand your vocation? Can you say more about this? I also wondered what Merton meant by saying that one cannot truly know hope unless one has found out how like despair hope is. Do you understand that?]]

These are particularly good questions, and I appreciate you asking them. Merton's quote here is dense and incredibly significant. It corresponds to the inner journey made by many contemplatives and hermits, and yes, I think I can explain some dimensions of it based on my own experience. Let me quote the entire passage and then comment on it in terms of two things: 1) becoming Emmanuel (God with Us) as we allow God to be Emmanuel, and 2) learning to be one who "lives the questions". These are two of the ways I understand the nature of eremitical life. Merton's passage reads:

When I first became a monk, yes, I was more sure of  'answers'. But as I grow old in the monastic life and advance further into solitude, I become aware that I have only begun to seek the questions. And what are the questions? Can man make sense out of his existence? Can man honestly give his life meaning merely by adopting a certain set of explanations which pretend to tell him why the world began and where it will end, why there is evil and what is necessary for a good life? My brother, perhaps in my solitude I have become as it were an explorer for you, a searcher in realms which you are not able to visit --- except perhaps in the company of your psychologist. I have been summoned to explore a desert area of man's heart in which explanations no longer suffice, and in which one learns that only experience counts. An arid, rocky, dark land of the soul, sometimes illuminated by strange fires which men fear and peopled by specters which men studiously avoid except in their nightmares. And in this area, I have learned that one cannot truly know hope unless he has found out how like despair hope is.

Sinful human beings are profoundly (existentially) alone and threatened by death and meaninglessness. Moreover, because of sin, we also experience estrangement from God even when personal sin is not a particular problem. (We experience this estrangement as a yearning for both being and meaning. This means we are hungry for and seek an ever fuller existence that is full of value and purpose.) We are taught that our lives are meaningful and precious, that we are made in the image of God, and so, that we are called to union with God. We are taught by Scripture (cf. Romans 8:26ff) that nothing at all can separate us from the love of God, and that the hope we are called to live is rooted in the Christ Event and the death, resurrection, and ascension of Jesus. Every religion or theology class we may take or have taken throughout our lives, every homily we hear, every conversation we may have with spiritual directors, every book or article on the Gospel we have read, serves in some way to affirm the truth that God is the ground and source of our lives and that ultimately, we cannot be separated from him. This means God is the ground and source of every potentiality, every talent, and gift we have. Further, God transcends any threat to being or meaning we might experience. All of this also means that the anxiety associated with the fact that our lives are marked and marred by finitude and sin (separation from God as ground and source of being and meaning), though these are real and a source of suffering, can be transformed into the peace of God whenever God is allowed to be Emmanuel.

The fact that we are made by and for God also means that without God, we are incomplete. The ways sin, death, and meaninglessness threaten us are reminders of both our need and hunger for the God who completes and makes us whole and wholly or exhaustively alive. All of the ways we seek to give our lives purpose, fulfill them, seek meaning, and create representations of and reflections on these things testify both to what we are made for and what we yet lack. As human beings in search of a more exhaustive being and meaning, that is, as people seeking fullness of life in, with, and through God, we are like questions in search (and in need) of a completing and illuminating answer. Ironically, only once a question is paired with its truest answer can we truly see the full sense, depths, and significance of the question. Only when the answer is provided do we have a complete articulation of the truth. Similarly, it is only when we begin to have a sense of the answer that we find the courage to pose the question as radically as we really need and are called to do. And this is especially true with the question that we each are and the answer God represents.

It is in our hearts that we hear and struggle with the questions that are part of our being human and made for God. It is in the desert of the human heart that we know the questions that excite and propel us further towards transcendence and those that agonize us with apparent absurdity, loss, limitation, disappointment, contradiction, and crisis. It is in the human heart that we sin against others and, in the process, betray ourselves, those others, and our God as well. Here we make ourselves not just a question, but questionable. Here we battle with demons and seek out angels; here we embrace, then reject idols, and seek the real God even more intensely and profoundly. And in all of this struggle, seeking, and questioning, it is in the human heart that we pose the question of the truth of ourselves and of God, and eventually, that we can discover the union that exists deeper than any brokenness, distortion, or estrangement we might also know or have known.

Thomas Merton knew all of this very well, and as he journeyed more deeply into solitude, he did as every hermit is called to do and began to explore the desert of his own heart. Merton understood that most folks do not make this same journey as consistently or as profoundly as a monk or hermit is called to do. Such a journey is entirely too demanding, too painful, and in any case, everyday life and responsibilities prevent it. This is part of the reason eremitical vocations are seen as second-half-of-life vocations. They arise out of deeper questioning and seeking, out of a more profound posing of the question of self in conjunction with a relatively mature sense of the answer that (who) is God. Eremitism is embraced as a full-time commitment to seek and receive or be received by God, which also necessarily means posing the question of one's own existence as profoundly as one can while remaining open to the answer**. The question of God is not an abstract one. It is a deeply personal question requiring our entire commitment and the exploration of a whole life's experience. This is what canon 603 refers to as a life of assiduous prayer and penance. We approach this question existentially, understanding that the answer is something we must also come to know experientially. Dogma and doctrine, no matter how true and important they are, are not the answer our existence ultimately requires. Only God Godself is the true answer.

I believe that my vocation is about letting God love me as exhaustively as he wills to do. This means opening myself to and allowing God to be Emmanuel in the same way Jesus did, and doing so in Christ through the power of the Holy Spirit. I believe another way of saying this and describing the self-emptying this requires is to define eremitical life as one of living the questions as deeply and exhaustively as I can. In my own experience, this involves journeying into the shadows of meaninglessness, near-despair, and death. Only the Holy Spirit, I believe, gives a person the power (courage) to make such a journey. Thus, Merton speaks of nightmares, or specters, that persons studiously avoid except, perhaps, when working with their psychologist (I would add "with one's spiritual director" here). To pose the question of oneself in all of the ways that question is raised throughout one's life, and to do so ever more profoundly, prepares us to receive God (or, more truly, to be received by God) as the answer. For that reason, it prepares us to receive the ground and source of all hope as well. I believe this is what Merton meant by saying how like despair hope really is. 

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** Here I am thinking of Jesus’ cry of abandonment on the cross. In this moment, Jesus posed the question he was as deeply as possible and remained open to allowing God to be the answer that He would be. On the cross of Christ, the human question (which is also the question of God!) is posed as radically as we will ever see it posed. At that moment, Jesus stood at the doorway of death, despair, and meaninglessness, and was open to God as the only adequate and completing answer. This openness is not assured in most of us, and we can struggle to "achieve" or allow it as our inner journey into the shadows and darkness deepens, but it is this openness or "obedience" that was key to (God's) transforming the cross into the very center of redemptive and revelatory history. I would not be surprised if Thomas Merton had been reflecting on the same event as well as his own profound experiences in solitude as he wrote what he did on the relation and likeness of despair and hope.

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I will need to reflect on and address this in further posts, but Merton's quotation, and my own understanding of the reason for this contemplative vocation to "live the questions," in the very heart of the Church is precisely so that the experience of God's sustaining love is witnessed to as the assured answer to the human question each of us is. Dogma and Doctrine proclaim this in many ways. The Scriptures witness to and proclaim this truth in the proclamation of a crucified Jesus' resurrection, and perhaps most powerfully in Paul's affirmation in Romans 8:31-39. Merton makes the point that sometimes this is simply not enough for those seeking being and meaning. Experience is necessary. I would also point out that the hermit makes this journey for the sake of others as well as herself, first for God's sake, then for the Church whose task is the mediation of this reality (Emmanuel) to the world, and finally, for the sake of all those whose existential questions require encouragement and, above all, a source of hope.

Looking Again at Merton's Comment on the Likeness of Despair and Hope

I have been asked by a couple of people to say more about what Thomas Merton meant by stating that hope and despair are very much alike, as I raised the question rhetorically without providing a direct answer. The original post can be found here Why does the Church Need Hermits? and includes the pertinent Merton quote.

The passage in that post that I want to write about here is the one reflecting on Jesus' cry of abandonment from the cross, because I think that it is here we see most clearly a hope that could be mistaken for despair.  What I wrote there said, "And in the very depths of Jesus' journey into the darkest absence of being and meaning, life and love, God was there. But Jesus' question in the Garden was also sharpened there on the cross: why can't you pluck me out of this situation? Why HAVEN'T you rescued me? How will you vindicate me and, more importantly, my proclamation of the truth of your Reign, your sovereignty, if sinful, godless death is allowed to win out? Don't you see, godless death is swallowing me up!! I have nothing whatsoever left to give!! My God (not the more intimate, Abba!), why haven't you rescued me?"

What I think it is important to recognize about Jesus' so-called cry of abandonment is the fact that, despite the use of a more formal, "O God, my God" rather than Jesus' more usual and intimate, "Abba" Jesus was speaking to God and remained open to God doing whatever he willed to do to vindicate Jesus and his proclamation of God's coming Kingdom. The questions I posed in the above passage were meant to reflect a sharpening of the question Jesus posed in Gethsemane, "Isn't there another way?" It was as I meditated on and struggled with Jesus' experience on the cross that it became clear to me that I might have a sense of what Thomas Merton was saying about the kinship of hope and despair. 

In my own experience, I described these two realities as being "an eyeblink apart". When I said that, I was thinking of the parallax phenomenon where we look at an object first with one eye, and then with the other, without moving our head. There is a decided difference between the two views, yet they are still views of the same reality. I think in some ways this might have been what Merton saw about the relation of hope and despair, whether the source was his own experience or his meditation on Jesus' cry of abandonment or both together (which is what I believe he was speaking of).

Imagine yourself closing your right eye and looking at the events on Golgotha with just your left eye, so to speak. Jesus had reached the end of his own resources. In many ways, his situation seemed hopeless. It was a situation that struck fear and revulsion in the hearts and minds of those who even considered such a death. Crucifixion was considered a literally godless reality, and this was true for Jews as well as for the Greco-Roman world. Jesus' cry of abandonment (or any inarticulate cry, such as Mark gives us) could well be seen as a cry of abject despair, particularly as Jesus shifts his usual Abba to O God! Everything about the situation seems worthy of despair. When someone comes to the end of their resources and their life project seems to have collapsed not only in failure, but in abjectly humiliating failure underscored by personal betrayal and rejection because that life project was built on the proclamation of a God who loved without condition or limit and willed to be with us in every moment and mood of existence, well,  this is the stuff human despair is made of.

But let's look at the events of Jesus' crucifixion from that slightly different perspective using the idea of parallax and what it might be able to show us. Imagine you now close or hold your hand over your left eye and look at the same events with only your right eye. The change in perspectives is very slight, but the shift in the image being perceived is very real. Jesus had reached the end of his resources. In almost every way, his situation seemed hopeless. It was a situation that indeed struck terror and revulsion into the hearts and minds of every person in Jerusalem that day. It was a literally shameful, godless death in Jewish theology and abject foolishness and ignominy from the Greco-Roman perspective. Jesus' cry of abandonment (or his inarticulate cry in Mark's Gospel), even if it is taken from the first half of Psalm 22, appears at first to be a mockery of the eventual vindication that comes in the second half of the psalm --- perhaps a repudiation of his faith. Yes, Jesus has been betrayed and rejected by those who most loved him, except for his Mother and a couple of hangers-on. The God Jesus proclaimed with his life is apparently powerless -- if he exists at all. This is definitely the stuff despair is made of. And yet, what you can just barely see from this slightly different perspective is that Jesus has not closed himself off to God. His cry is not just a plaint of horrific suffering. It is also truly a prayer, the giving up of the last vestige of self-defense, the whole-hearted and heart-breaking embrace of a God that is bigger than even the greatest of human resources or their loss.

From this perspective, one can glimpse more clearly than one was able from the first perspective, that Jesus knows this God whose sovereignty he proclaimed and, despite the loss of everything else that could be called a resource, Jesus has not given up all hope.  This is not failure. This is what it looks like for the one who was utterly open and transparent to God to show us precisely how far this God would journey to truly be with us in every moment and mood of our lives. And Jesus allowed this; his own journey of integrity made it possible for God to enter this darkest and most senseless of realities, and transform it with his presence.  I believe this may have been what Thomas Merton was talking about when he referred to how similar despair and hope are. It is very like what I experienced at the beginning of Lent when I realized my deepest hungers and yearnings showed me the face of God and my own deepest self as well. For me, hope and despair were only an "eyeblink apart". They were so closely related that there were times I could not (thanks be to God!) tease them apart. But it was only in entering into the shadow of death and the precincts of despair or near-despair that an even more vibrant hope was possible.

Nothing and no one but God could have redeemed my own experience, just as only Jesus' Abba could have redeemed his experience and raised him to new life. I believe Thomas Merton's own life, prayer, and human struggle for wholeness and holiness brought him to something of the same experience that led him to say, " I have been summoned to explore a desert area of man's heart in which explanations no longer suffice, and in which one learns that only experience counts. An arid, rocky, dark land of the soul, sometimes illuminated by strange fires which men fear and peopled by spectres which men studiously avoid except in their nightmares. And in this area I have learned that one cannot truly know hope unless he has found out how like despair hope is." How alike indeed! Sometimes that huge difference really is only an eyeblink apart.                                         

On the Question of Despair as Mortal Sin: Looking Again at Dimensions of my Journey into Existential Solitude

[[Sister Laurel, in your recent post, you seemed to be saying that God would be present even if one reached a point of despair and committed suicide. I thought despair was always a mortal sin, and it never occurred to me that Jesus had reached a point of despair because he never sinned. If you reached a point of despair, then didn't you also commit a mortal sin?]]

Thanks for your question. It is important to distinguish between the feeling of despair or hopelessness and the act of despairing or giving up all hope. We also need to be clear that we take seriously what the Church teaches today, and not only in the past regarding despair and suicide. Remember that the Church has always been explicit about the voluntary character of despair as a mortal sin. She said, essentially,  [[Despair (Latin desperare, to be hopeless) is ethically regarded as the voluntary and complete abandonment of all hope of saving one’s soul and of having the means required for that end. It is not a passive state of mind: on the contrary, it involves a positive act of the will by which a person deliberately gives over any expectation of ever reaching eternal life.]] 

This definition stands, and at the same the Church today has a greater sensitivity to the psychological conditions that can eventuate in acting out of despair. After all, most people who are truly despairing are so because they have been overwhelmed by circumstances and can no longer see clearly or act freely. They feel despair, which is not what the Church considers a sin. Remember that Par. 2282b  of the CCC reads as follows: [[Grave psychological disturbances, anguish, or grave fear of hardship, suffering, or torture can diminish the responsibility of the one committing suicide.]]

In relation to the post you reference, I am thinking of what the Church teaches about suicides here as she approaches, cautiously and prudently, the ultimately reassuring conclusion I wrote about in light of Jesus' cry of abandonment.  What I said was,  [[(Hermits) make this choice [to make this inner journey] so that they might experience genuine hope rooted in God and the Christ Event for the sake of God's Kingdom and Gospel. Doctrine, per se, while important, is not enough for the life of the Body of Christ. Interpretations of the cross by others are a critical start, but what is essential if one is to really witness to the truth of the Gospel to others, and bring them to genuine hope, is the truth of our own experience -- even, and perhaps especially when that experience is one of journeying into the shadow of death and despair or near-despair. Recently, I said to my director, "I would not wish this particular journey on anyone, and yet, what I have come to as a result of this very journey, I want for everyone!"  

In the Catechism of the Catholic Church (Par 2283), we also hear: [[We should not despair of the eternal salvation of persons who have taken their own lives. By ways known to him alone, God can provide for the opportunity for salutary repentance. The Church prays for those persons who have taken their own lives.]] While I was not suicidal in the personal journey I referred to in my earlier post, because of the nature of that journey and its roots in past trauma and the search for healing, it definitely happened in incredible anguish and the shadow of death and despair or "near-despair". My sense is that Jesus' journey to Golgotha and beyond took him beyond this experience of mine into godless death itself, and still he remained open to God. 

The words of the catechism's reassurance is rarely far from me: "In ways known to Godself alone. . .." These words apply to so many things that seem absurd, incomprehensible, or overwhelming to us! They were also consciously present to me some of the time during the journey I have referred to; at other times, I now believe, they were an unconscious and strengthening pedal tone that made the journey possible at all. Even more strongly with me was Paul's similar assurance from Romans 8:37-39: No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.

In other words, I did not lose hope (though sometimes what I felt made it seem a very near thing indeed!). Instead, I both drew on hope and sought it out in a deliberate search for healing. The irony or paradox here is that faith and hope are required to undertake and engage in such a journey to the depths of darkness and hopelessness in search of God, of one's truest self, and for the greater faith, hope, and abundant life to which this leads. 

Another way of saying this is to affirm that such a journey requires the trust of faith and the courage of hope to look despair full in the face, experience the pain and anguish of that reality as it may have existed in one's past, grieve it, reconcile oneself with it, and find both God and one's deepest self in the process. As I understand it, this inner journey is an essential part of the hermit's asceticism and "dying to self," albeit the "false self" that so distorts and limits our true humanity. Again, I am grateful to God for inspiring this journey and for sustaining me (and those accompanying me in various ways) throughout it. As noted above, I would not wish this particular journey on anyone, and yet, what I have come to as a result of this very journey, I want for everyone! It was not anathema (a curse) but truly a blessing.