That black cat

Part 4: Accomplished – reunited at last!

However, thinking for a moment, the illustration was always ridiculous because haven’t we all accepted that God is nothing like a cat. Some of the ancient Greek images suggest that they may have thought of the gods in concrete terms – that Zeus, for example, was like a superhuman being, who might be seen at particular times and places, doing specific acts. But all today accept that – if God exists – then he is a spiritual being. And this does open the path for conclusions like “God is the feeling of love that I get when I consider how good it is to be alive” – “and that is what I discovered when I finally stopped being frightened and frantically searching, in that dark room, in my blindness. When I accepted that this is my state of life, it was then that I did find something. Not easy to describe, but I did discover a presence, a feeling of being loved, a whispering voice. I cannot tell you what this “thing” is. And I’m not even sure that “thing” is the right word. It’s not like a cat you know! I can’t pick it up and show you it. It’s not solid like a thing; it’s ephemeral and insubstantial – and I know those sound like negative words. It is an experience rather than a thing. A relationship rather than a body. So, in a way, I agree: I found nothing – no “thing”. But I did experience a relationship, and in all my other experience in the world, when I have experienced a relationship, it’s because someone was there”. Notice, how we have moved far beyond the statement “God is the feeling of love that I get when I consider how good it is to be alive” – which is an emotional response that an atheist could easily make – and they would simply drop the word, “God” from the start of the sentence. We have moved back deeply into the sense that something is present, ready to be found.

So, regardless of the evidence, despite the evidence – or, rather, because of the evidence, because of my experience, I have concluded – have had to conclude, and certainly regard it as legitimate to conclude – that there is someone there. I have found the cat. There is no cat, but I have found it anyway. I have certainly found what there is to be found. You were wrong to say in your illustration that it’s like looking for a cat “that isn’t even there”. Of course, superficially, you were also right – but only because you misunderstood what this particular cat is like.

That black cat

Part 3: Deceitful – say what you mean

But this relies on the cat being there, and we are still confronting the punch line of the anecdote that “the cat isn’t even there”. So, is this an accurate illustration? Of course, the honest answer is: “We don’t know!”. Some people say they’ve found the cat – but they can never show you the cat (the room is dark, and we are blind, remember). Some people say they searched and never found any cat. But did they search hard enough and long enough? Were they just unlucky, and they and the cat kept missing each other in the dark? I think we need to judge that the illustration is not apt for the search for God.

Religious believers can sometimes be annoying when they keep using language as though God is the equivalent of a cat – something that can ultimately be picked up and held and cuddled – when really, when pressed, they admit that they have redefined “God” to mean something quite different – something like, “God is the feeling of love that I get when I consider how good it is to be alive”. Not that this is an unprofound way to define what we mean by God, and, in a moment, we will consider the precious validity of such a view, but it is deeply dishonest to tell people to keep looking for a cat, when they have themselves decided there is no cat, as cats are usually understood, but have not admitted that they mean something quite different when they refer to a “cat”.

That black cat

Part 2: Tragic – despair, for all is emptiness

However, we must return to the punch line: “the cat isn’t even there”.

If this is true, then it is an utterly heart-rending condemnation of humanity’s wasted efforts in a futile attempt to find what is not there. If we just take this in for a moment: consider the countless pleas for help, the desperate hope, the senseless sacrifices – all futile, wasted effort, betrayed hopes, unrequited love, calling into the wind for help that never comes, or even simply calling for an answer – but one you never hear, but there is always someone to lie to you, saying that they heard a whisper of something, and so you cling onto that. I think this is how self-confident (and sometimes aggressive) atheists view the matter. And, of course, if the cat is not there, it would be sensible to stop looking for it. We must not gather up crumbs and say that at least searching for the cat gives you something to do and a bit of exercise. If the cat is not there, there are better alternatives – ways to spend our lives that will produce better fruits.

And, to switch the illustration, I think it would also be wrong to use the idea of the cat in the box, which may, or may not, be dead, (and it is dead really) but if we don’t ever look in the box, then we will never know it’s dead, and so we are free to go on believing that it’s alive really. We must always go with the truth. Wherever that leads us, that is the path we should follow.

This also takes us to a crucial matter. We have acknowledged before the powerful truth that the benefits of believing in God are largely realised whether God actually exists or not – just provided the person truly believes he does. However, this truth needs to be taken up truthfully – and we have seen that there are perfectly legitimate ways to live a life of faith where you overtly accept that it is your commitment to your faith values that is at the heart of your belief. Taken to its furthest, this sort of faith is actually compatible with accepting that God does NOT exist – but you believe in the value of love, forgiveness, compassion etc – all those values which the person of God embodies. However, this sort of commitment to faith as a way of life usually relies on a reasonable possibility that God exists. We can happily accept the ambivalence of the evidence, and maybe God isn’t real, but we have a feeling in our bones that he does exist – and this is a legitimate conclusion because the evidence does also point to this possibility. In this case, we are back to the religious believer who acknowledges that finding God can be extremely difficult, because in that dark room the cat can prove pretty elusive – but don’t give up; keep trying and you will find him.

That black cat

(A theological reflection on the search for God, in 4 parts)

That black cat

Part 1: Comic – difficult but worth having a go

There is an old saying – relatively amusing – that searching for God is like a blind man, in a dark room, looking for a black cat – that isn’t there!

It is the final “killer point” that is so tragic.

If we think about it, the saying doesn’t need the man to be blind and for the room to be dark – one or the other will do, but it emphasises the extreme difficulty of finding the cat – and is, in fact, saying something profound about the human condition, that the desires of our hearts, for which we search with such longing, are so hard to find because we are, within ourselves, damaged or not complete, and the environment in which we find ourselves is far from ideal for finding happiness.

Nevertheless, we accept the blindness and darkness as part of the reality of our situation, and they emphasise the difficulty of finding God. However, it would still be possible – if the cat was there. We can smile as we imagine the poor blind man endlessly, and fruitlessly, sweeping his hands through empty air in a vain attempt to catch hold of the cat. Yet, in this scenario – if the cat is there – there is still a chance of finding it. This scenario is actually supportive of the religious quest: if finding God was easy, would that reduce the joy when you finally succeed? There could also be an element of thinking, “Well, of course, only the dedicated, faithful people will persevere till they succeed, while the feckless will give up after a few feeble attempts”. This isn’t necessarily a mean thought, and fits in with the religious view that finding God is so important that it is worth persevering no matter what the difficulties. There is the overriding hope that God can be found, and when you discover him, your rejoicing knows no limit – and this is true whether you find him early in life, or late, late on.

We can explore the illustration further. It would, indeed, be amusing (if a little unkind) to watch through an infrared camera the hopelessly, hilarious attempts of the blind man, in the dark room, to catch the cat – but this is assuming that the cat has a devious determination to avoid the man. However, if the cat is pleased to have company at last, in this dark room, then finding it would be the easiest thing in the world. The man would simply have to keep still, and the cat would come up and rub against his legs. In fact, in good old-fashioned spiritual advice, we could shout encouragement to the man, “Stop flailing about, you’re scaring the cat away. Just be still, and it will come to you”.

Part 2: We are searching for someone who has already found us

So, there is nothing there really? Just darkness? No, this is to misunderstand completely. Think of a person trapped in a dark prison cell in solitary confinement. There is no contact with any other living person for years on end. Then, one day, another person calls to you from beyond the cold, stone wall. Is it another prisoner in the next cell? Or someone free outside the walls? You will have to see what they reveal to you. You will never see this other person – the walls of the prison do not allow it. Yet you have the one thing that matters above all else: for the voice of the other can reach you in your cell. Still in darkness, you are no longer alone; you are no longer unloved. So, now you sit in your cell, your back to the stone, for there is nothing to see, and it brings your ear close against the wall, and on the other side, the other has their ear to the wall, and together you speak of life, and whisper words of love and adoration.

So, even though there is nothing there really but the darkness, this is everything. And I see now that there is no need to press through it, to stretch out my fingertips as though something was just out of reach, and if only I could stretch just that bit further, then I would grasp it. There is no need to worry that I only have fragments and not the whole. No need to be sad that I don’t understand. No need to be unfulfilled because it is beyond me and always will be. Completeness is already here. It speaks to us, day by day, in the fragmentary, passing moment. It is lived out in the myriad movements of hearts searching for wholeness, thinking that they do not have it, when all the time it is the dancing play of searching that makes us whole. It is something we cannot see because we are inside the life that creates wholeness – it would only be possible to see it if we were outside life. And once this is accepted, then we realise that we can already see, for each fragment that flits across our vision is a piece of the whole and speaks to us of God. And when the whirl of all this is just too much, then return to the embracing darkness, which is not emptiness, but fullness. And the voice in the dark calls to us, speaks to us, whispers to us, so faint we sometimes have to hold our breath to catch it, yet so clear, ringing with truth. A voice so small and close we can no longer tell if it is coming to us from the outside or from within ourselves. It proclaims: “I am everywhere, in everything. To catch the faintest glimpse is to see me in all my glory. All things can reveal me – though not all things do. But do not think that I am like stardust sprinkled throughout the universe; I am a person, and I move and have my will, and act to make myself known – as I choose”.

So, we are not separate from God. The veil is the illusion. The sense that he is out of reach, that is the stumbling block that trips us up. We must search for God, but it is not our trying and our searching that brings us close to him. We must search for God until he finds us. Or rather till we discover that he is always with us, waiting for us to stop banging our heads against a brick wall and realise that he has found us. The pain of crying alone in the darkness is so distressing. We are calling, and, it seems to us, he is not answering. Yet this is our mistake; caused because we do not see properly, and so, also, we do not look properly.

There is nothing else; just listen to the voice in the darkness whispering words of love and adoration. Live out the mystery of his presence.

God: hidden in plain sight

(A theological reflection on the search for God, in two parts)

Part 1: Don’t push; finding God is easy – once we understand how to see

This is perhaps the most difficult task of all – for all humanity, and certainly for me. It is like trying to see behind your own mind; we spend our entire lives looking outwards from our consciousness, while, behind our eyes, our own minds are a mystery to us. We can become aware of so much, but we can never turn our eyes inwards to examine in precise detail the person that we are behind the façade of our own outlook on the world.

The task that is more than difficult – it is impossible – is to see God as he fully is. We catch the faintest glimpse of him at the corner of our eye but when we turn to try and see him, he is gone. So many events in the life of the world speak to us of him – sometimes with great revelatory power; yes, they speak of him, but him we do not see. We can focus our minds, and with patience, in stillness and in trust, the muddy waters settle, and we can see deeper into the depths, and then, indeed, truth rises to the surface and enfolds us. And in his grace, gifts of insight, the assurance of his love, being enfolded in his presence: these things are given to us. Yet still we have mere intimations of who he is.

I have pushed hard against the darkness of unknowing within my own mind, trying to force a way through a barrier that I perceive is there and which I know is impenetrable. And I understand, it is not like a person, wilfully blindfolded, but who may one day free themselves from their shackles in order to rip it from their eyes and at last see; rather it is like a person born blind who understands that there is such a thing that others call “sight” but which he will never experience, and can only guess at what such a thing might be. Yet still, for the person born blind and for me who can see, but not see, there is still the voice that calls and guides, and, if followed, we do not stumble, but follow the path that brings us closer and deeper into the voice, though still always in the dark.

By his grace, I have also learnt not to push against the darkness. Not to panic or to fear or to desire for light. For the darkness is not a shroud, a separating veil; the darkness is the way that he presents himself. The darkness is the only way that I, with my mind, can take in that he is here with me. There are, of course, the deep truths that I need the darkness in order not to mistake anything that I can see for the reality of God, and that, like looking at the sun, if he revealed the fullness of his presence, I would be blinded. Yet, even beyond this, the darkness has a substance to it – perhaps like a mould into which pure gold will be poured; we can see the empty mould, but only guess at what the object will look like when the gold has been poured in, solidified, and then the mould removed, to reveal what we really want. So, the darkness holds the reality of God; it is not hiding him from us; it is the way he comes to us.