We have talked about finding still points
in the midst of confusion; of glimpses of assurance. Such language is reminiscent of T. S. Eliot's
'Four Quartets'. In 'East Coker', Eliot
draws us urgently into a journey through darkness towards a deeper communion.
He invites us to pay uncompromising attention to flesh and bone, waves and
whispers, houses and fields, to time, rhyme, music and dancing. This is the stuff of life - we would add our
own concerns and joys to that list.
He urges us to seek the eternal moment
amidst the disorder of the natural world; he looks beyond the vacant
interstellar spaces, beyond
the motives, flaws and pettiness of distinguished human
lords. Paradoxically, he writes that We must be still and still moving /
Into another intensity. We are perhaps called to pay attention to
what confronts us; to the waves, clouds and storms; yet somehow moving forward
into the intense communion of God's love.
Catherine Clancy: Dark Night of
Crucifixion (2014)
Clancy's 'Dark night of crucifixion'
captures something of both bearing with and moving on through what Eliot calls
the dark cold and the empty desolation / The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast
waters. In
the darkness, there is that scorching flash of colour - a crown of thorns, a shedding of
blood. Might that be a source of hope;
of divine love with us, holding us and drawing us onwards?
Catherine Clancy finds in Eliot's verse a
wayfarer to explore with us the exhortation, assurance or longing within the
phase 'Do not be afraid'. He knows of
light and of reference points; the disturbance of storms and the disorientation
of being overwhelmed. Dawn points, and another day / Prepares
for heat and silence. Out at sea the dawn wind / Wrinkles and slides. I am here
/ Or there, or elsewhere. In my beginning.
He writes too of our human fears: fear
of fear and frenzy, their fear of possession, / Of belonging to another, or to
others, or to God. In darkness, wind and storm, Clancy confronts
us with the fear; yet that radical de-centring allows us to seek after wisdom. Those
things are intimately related for The only wisdom we can hope to
acquire / Is the wisdom of humility: humility is endless.
Clancy's paintings echo the traces
Eliot's journey of assurance in the midst of all that disrupts; hope in the
midst of turbulence; and the longing of waiting in silence. Eliot confronts the intolerable
wrestle / with words and meanings in pursuit of wisdom, allowing images to
resonate, disturb and delight. Clancy takes us in to density of darkness in
such a way as to compel us to attend; to risk stillness amidst movement;
allowing our eyes to adjust to see the incremental breaking in of light.
Clancy describes this as negative
capacity leads to surrender and trust; for creativity and renewed
perspective. Amidst the darkness and
storm, it is the Spirit that comes like wind that moves across the deep like a
flash of violet. It is the Spirit who
gives us life; bringing us to a safe harbour, drawing us to love. It is the Spirit
that brings a blinding brightness; evoking in us the depth of reverent praise.
At a human level, our hopes and loves are
often thwarted, transient or unfulfilling; we focus on the
wrong thing. Wait without hope / For hope would
be hope for the wrong thing, writes Eliot, inviting us to suspend our
human inclinations. This is so hard to
do. We long for trust in our
relationships – whether in the intimacy of our personal lives or the pressures
of our working life. We might hope for short term satisfaction – believing the
advertisers that we just need this experience or product. We might be fearful
about our financial security – about our pensions and mortgages. Those concerns
occupy our institutional life too – as we face questions about our national
vision in the run up to a General Election; as we think about the priorities
for mission and ministry within our parishes, diocese and cathedral.
Do we hope for the wrong thing? So often
what we think of as financial or personal issues are in fact spiritual ones.
How can we encourage one another to have the assurance to place God centre
stage? To fix our eyes on Christ, as Andrew described it last week; to discern
where the Spirit might be leading us. Sometimes it does feel as if we are
stepping into the darkness – as clouds and waves encompass us. And yet, we
abide in the assurance that all hearts to love will come.
In the risk of stillness we find meaning;
the beyond, the transcendent, the eternal breaks in. A new hope emerges in the face of the
turbulence. So
the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing writes
Eliot, as he grapples with finding faith, hope and love in the waiting.
Catherine Clancy: All Hearts to
Love Will Come (2014)
This paradox of movement and attention
finds its focus in Good Friday. In Jesus Christ, God's love for the world is
poured out: Beneath the bleeding hands we feel / The
sharp compassion of the healer's art. Clancy expresses this intensity, union
and deeper communion in darkness, waves, warm haze and light.
Love is most nearly itself
When here and now cease to matter.
Old men ought to be explorers
Here or there does not matter
We must be still and still moving
Into another intensity
For a further union, a deeper
communion
Through the dark cold and the empty
desolation
The wave cry, the wind cry, the
vast waters
Of the petrel and the
porpoise. In the beginning is my end.
The sharp compassion of the healer’s art
takes us to the depths of human despair; and to the foot of the cross. Where we
fear that there is no remedy, God’s love meets us. When we are spent and
exhausted, there hope is renewed. These
things are held together in the mystery of the incarnation – from the warmth of
the womb to the darkness of the tomb.
© 2015 Julie Gittoes
