The youthful mystical poet Dante Alighieri was inspired when he saw Beatrice Portinari in Florence. His love for Beatrice became the symbol of spiritual love in The Divine Comedy, where he constructs an imaginary journey through hell, purgatory and heaven to reach a vision of God.
Since each man or woman can have a unique experience of God, it follows that no one religion can express the whole of the supernatural mystery. Any moral chauvinism about one’s own faith at the expense of other people’s is therefore unacceptable, since no single faith can contain the whole truth about God. To a hidebound Catholic this would be heresy. But a true man or woman of God should be equally at home in a temple, chapel, synagogue or mosque, since all provide a valid meaning of God. The pure vision of God is not imagined by conflicting faiths but by a coalition of them.
God is alive, not dead, as is suggested by some current thinkers. Auschwitz killed our God, say some Jews. The socialist utopia has replaced Him; besides, He never existed, say the Marxists. Since we are on the point of creating our own Armageddon with nuclear weapons, man, not God, will destroy the world, say the liberals. Even if God exists, then it is necessary to reject Him since the idea of God negates our freedom, or so the existentialists argue. And some say that religion is an immaturity which science will overcome.
But can we feel positive about a godless humanism so soon after the Holocaust, or confident of scientific rationalism in the shadow of Hiroshima? Frankly, I could never trust man’s rationality after the Americans dropped their damnable atomic bombs. So the search for God is a necessity for all mankind; a deep-rooted anxiety is part and parcel of the human condition. This anxiety is not neurotic; it is ineradicable and no therapy can dispel it. We constantly fear the terror of extinction, both individually and collectively, as we watch our bodies slowly but surely decay. As long as there is death, there must be God.
The whole idea of human life has been directed towards the future. We experience our lives as incomplete or unfinished. We always want more: to find that “something” out there that is beyond us. If Marxism dies, as it must, God as utopia will return to more than just the few pilgrim souls. Marxism is merely a temporary secular religion. As for science, in its core is God. Even Einstein appreciated mystical religion. Science may one day find the Great Mechanic of the universe, but the scientific method is not required. Subjective experience, fired by our imaginations, is the true way. This requires long periods of training and considerable time, helped by an expert. We can create God within ourselves. God cannot come ready-made and pre-packaged. He cannot be conjured up by the instant ecstasy of the revivalist preacher.
Human beings cannot endure the emptiness and desolation of no God. The truth is…
The phone rang. It was the American professor wanting to meet for a chat over a beer. Duval put him off with a curtness bordering on rudeness.
The priest looked back over his hours of writing. He knew he was losing his way with Christine’s story. He wanted so desperately to work on the final chapters of the successful search for ecstatic visions, but he had drifted off into a prospectus for Marda. Re-reading it, he knew he was rambling. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to say: to describe the purpose of an anchoress in straightforward language was almost impossible. He would work on the draft again in the hope that Marda would understand it and act on it.
Beneath him Marda was also trying to distil her hopes for the future.
Dear Jenny,
Middle of December (I think) 1967
Michael has told me he might have to go to South America. That means that I can leave my cell. Or I can stay with him forever, he says. Not in here, though. That is the most important thing, getting out of this coal-hole. I cannot survive much longer in this tomb. He says he doesn’t want to marry me, which I thought at first might be his ambition. Which is to the good because he is far too old for me, but in different circumstances I might even have been a little flattered. It would be really odd for a Catholic priest to ask me to marry him, I know.
He has been much kinder to me and we get on very well-under the circumstances. I can exercise in the corridor and he has promised me a room upstairs. I still won’t be able to go out but at least I shall be in a proper room. Perhaps I can even go into the kitchen, or-who knows-watch a little TV, if I can persuade him to hire one. I miss
I am quite happy to learn more about religion because I do feel closer to God, both emotionally and intellectually. I know I never was an intellectual or anything before, especially as I wasn’t that brilliant at school. But I am learning, growing inside my head.
Sometimes I think my head will expand to bursting point with the new ideas. I had never thought of becoming a nun but I am sure there are some good aspects to it. I suppose you could say I have already converted to Roman Catholicism. It’s good to have a religious belief in life. Something to explain death.
If Michael leaves-I don’t know if he will-then I shall have to change my life anyway. If we both leave this house then he will go to South America, but I intend-at the very least-to become a regular churchgoer. I know that I have sinned many times in my life.
And I would like to go to university. I know that I am a bit too old, but some colleges take mature students, I think.
I feel much more positive about life and religion. I know that Michael doesn’t mean to hurt me. He has been so kind after the first difficult period when I had to learn to settle in. He gives me cigarettes and recently even newspapers.
But I do miss you and my family so much. I miss someone to hold. I miss the sun so much. I have forgotten what the colour green is. I want to see fields, and trees, even a blade of grass. I miss my freedom, even if only to choose what I do with my life. Michael says that Jesus Christ is the key which unlocks the doors of the prison cell of our own making. Perhaps that is right. I do know that enslavement against your will is the worst condition of life. I want to choose freedom, if only for the chance to be a better person. There is so much I want to do.
As always, your best, best friend.
Love
Marda
PS. Have a lovely Christmas. Please remember that we will be celebrating the birthday of Christ. Perhaps you will go to church and say a prayer for me. I certainly shall be praying for you.
Dear Christine,
I suppose this is a little crazy, but I feel I need to talk to you, somehow, despite the gap of over 600 years. I have been reading your story, and trying so hard to understand you. Michael has explained the spiritual aspects of your search, but I want to know how you feel…about being cut off from your family above all. I suppose they can…
Marda crossed out the present tense, and shifted to the past tense.
…could at least talk to you, but didn’t you feel like hugging them, especially your little brother or nephew? I would give anything to hug mine. Or talk to my parents at least. God must give strength…to us both, but does that mean that He gives more strength the more we are cut off from those we love? How did you cut off your feelings for Simon? It must have been such a difficult thing to give up all hope of having children, but life must have been very different in your time. I have been reading about the Middle Ages. Sometimes, I wish I could hold your hand and lead you through today’s Guildford-the place you called Guldenford. There are cars, trains, jet planes, TV. I wonder whether all these modern inventions would have affected your faith, your desire to be secluded? Was it easier then than now? God doesn’t change, but we do. How do we adapt?
I haven’t finished your story yet, but I hope-no, I pray-that you found what you were searching for. I will write to you again when I know more about you.
With affection,
Marda
Marda wrote a series of letters throughout the rest of the afternoon, using pages from her supply of exercise books. When she had finished, she climbed on to her bench and managed to winkle out the tiny folded squares that constituted her previous archive in the air vent. She destroyed the old ones by soaking them in the well of the paraffin heater and letting them burn bit by bit. Clearing away the ashes, she put them in her waste bin. Satisfied with her rewriting of history, she put the new letters in the vent.
