The Prism of all Beauty

I must warn you, that I am not the type for revelations. But who is? Have you ever met someone who’s had a revelation who was the type for it? Or heard of someone? Of course not – revelation in its very nature is entirely unexpected. Archimedes never expected to solve calculus problems in his bathtub, as I am sure his neighbors never rightly expected to see a naked Archimedes running wildly through the streets. And yet, I have had a minor revelation. I was sitting in my bed, thinking about the movie “Up”, and how it hit me so close to home, when I realized something important.

Humor is distance. It is the distance between pain and reconciliation - it is the path a beam of light travels from emptiness to solid form. Humor is a prism – you can see the light running through it and view at first-hand all the colors of human emotion. In that emotional distance, you can see everything: tears and sadness, regret, happiness, betrayal, excitement, anxiety, joy.

Humor is a way to cover up the void, or at least, to cover up what seems to be a void. But the secret to humor is that there really isn’t a void there, after all. I mean, it may seem that way once or twice, or maybe a few times, but when you keep checking, the void disappears. I’ll show you what I mean:

There’s a void, and it could be empty. And you would say, why is the void always empty? And I would say, why does it matter – look how quickly it fills again. The void just fills and refills, the finite running through the infinite, the light running through the prism and allowing its reflections to bounce off of all objects.

Or you would say, why do you suppose there is a void at all? Isn’t there always something filled, so how could it be empty? What kind of a fool would you have to be to believe in an empty space? That’s the joke, really – the joke is that it doesn’t actually matter whether there is an empty space or not. It really doesn’t matter whether there is a void or not, at the end of everything, mostly because it’s always being filled…whether it’s filled with love or compassion or sympathy or understanding or brotherhood…it doesn’t really matter what was there before, but only what is going into it.

And I suppose that’s why I am a humanist. I see light pouring in from all sides – although I must acknowledge I do not know what was here before. For me, it is a mystery – and it is enough to say that there is a void and that it is being filled up, like the beginning of a joke followed by a punchline, or despair followed by consolation. And I see all kinds of beautiful strains of light pouring into the world, beautiful stained glass revelations from every creed and tradition, overflowing with wisdom and compassion.

Before I was here, there was nothing to tell you what I am telling you. Now I am here. That is enough for me. I know my family and friends will ask me, how can you see the light in this world and not acknowledge its beauty? Please believe me, I do. It is beautiful, and ghastly, and haunting.

I can imagine it with some difficulty, as is usually fitting for these sorts of experiences. I begin to imagine that everything which has ever been imagined does not exist. Then it exists, and it is incredible, and stunning - and then I realize, too, that none of it may ever exist again. I don’t know where it comes from, and I don’t know where it’s going. All I know is that I am surrounded by this beautiful light and I want to fill this seemingly empty and desolate canvass with all of its gorgeous shades and pastels, to pass something surreal through that great void and create beauty again.

My Doubt, My Threat, My Appetite

The band Jimmy Eat World wrote a song that I'm in love with: "My Best Theory", from their album "Invented". A brief snippet of the song goes:

"My doubt seems fine/
My true desire/
My threat/
My appetite"

Outstanding lyrics.

Doubt is many things. It is my annihilation. It is my preservation.

Doubt erodes, a steady stream of questioning which removes the face of well-worn notions, and it sculpts a new impression in old surfaces.

Doubt in its own nature embodies the biggest and most substantial conflict we know of: the chasm between permanence and stability, and change and chaos.

Every human being is a product of change. We originate as embryos, progressing through many stages, until a fully-grown adult form is realized. Each facet of our physical body is in flux: a multitude of cells appear and die each day within our body. Each facet of our consciousness and personality changes, too: throughout our interactions with other humans, we are molded and crafted in accordance with our fellow human beings. Their being is ours.

We depend on change to sustain us. If the seeds for our crops remain seeds, then we die. If the water which feeds many of our reservoirs remains snow or ice, then we die. If the rain which waters the crops remains water vapor in the sky, then we die.

Is it really true that we look for things to stay the same? We are surely blind to the immense changes which surround us in their exquisite insignificance.

We owe everything we have to change, but we seek to ground our lives in eternal truths. To doubt these truths, to chip away at them, is a betrayal of the truths towards which we aim. Our lives are bigger than this trivial nonsense. "Luminous beings are we, not this crude matter", such great religious authorities as Yoda from Star Wars inform us.

Yet what exactly are we considering when we ponder these eternal truths? Our messages and teachings come to us from specific historical eras, and specific cultural contexts. Is it really appropriate to allow the message of Jesus, for example, to remain stale for two thousand years, when he castigated the religious leaders of his day for allowing the laws to become stale within their own hearts?

We humans express our knowledge and our truth through what we actively partake. We partake the body and the blood of truth, when we speak its voice for our times, when we allow our own doubts to refine and distill our beliefs and our values.

Doubt threatens to undo everything, but doubt also allows us to remember everything. Doubt allows us to exercise our faith, to propel ourselves upward, to participate again in the sacred enterprise - we are captivated by it and refreshed by it. We remember. We remember both why we believe now, and why we believed in the first place.

Certainty cannot exist without doubt, nor without change: for if we do not doubt, if we do not risk the possibility of change, then we forget why we are certain in the first place. When we forget to doubt, then we lose ourselves entirely. Our own desire for certainty enables change to erase ourselves: we become clean on the outside, but rotten within. Oh, you hypocrites, you brood of vipers...