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Good
Morning.
This morning we celebrate the great mid-winter festival that appears in many
guises in many cultures.
We stand in the days of darkness, the time when, because of the tilt and turning of the earth, the daylight hours are shortest.
Darkness has long been a symbol of evil to human beings, it has represented all that is feared and fled from. It represents the unknown and danger. Since we cannot see in the darkness, we cannot know what is present and so our mind “sees” danger lurking.
Nighttime is the time of fearsome creatures both real and imaginary: bats and wolves, vampires and werewolves. One must move with caution in the darkness.
And so this time of year, this time when the night is at its longest length, has often been viewed with fear and trepidation. Evil spirits are said to inhabit the land, and are often said to be close to conquering it.
Darkness represents not only danger, but also loss and death.
In ancient Sumer and Babylon, the underworld was the abode of the dead. It was a place of not only darkness but also of despair.
Darkness as the place of death or death-like life appears again and again in myths. Consider Jonah in the belly of the great fish for three days. Joseph Campbell describes a variety of myths that contain that same motif, the idea of being swallowed by a giant creature and being held there for a period of time. It is a state of almost non-being.
Only the greatest of heroes enter the darkness willingly, and they only in the most extraordinary circumstances.
That is what makes them heroes, their willingness to enter into the unknown; their willingness to face whatever they may find there.
The Sumerian Innana, the Queen of Heaven, known in Akkad as Ishtar, descends into the netherworld, that is, into hell, in order to conquer it and, perhaps, free people from death. In her case, she actually dies and requires help to be revived.
The story of the Labyrinth is another archetype of the entry into darkness. Young men and women are being pushed into the Labyrinth as a sacrifice; they are being given to the Minotaur. Theseus enters the labyrinth to free them, and ties a thread to the entryway in order to find his way out again. He enters the Labyrinth and slays the Minotaur, freeing the people of a terrible burden.
One truth about these myths is that they speak to the universal human condition because there is always darkness ahead of us. The future is always shrouded, always beyond our vision. We cannot see into it. We strive, we squint, we peer, we guess, we plan, but always the truth of what is to come is hidden behind an impenetrable veil.
Entering into the future, whether we wish it or not, is always the path of the hero. We enter into the darkness not knowing what awaits us. Sometimes joy; sometimes sorrow, but always surprises and unexpected events. We will face troubles; that is a guarantee. Though it is the path of the hero, whether we face the future as a young sacrificial victim or face it as an heroic Theseus is a choice; ironically, it may be the only choice we have: Hero or victim.
And, of course, the ultimate darkness that we face is the extinction of self that is death.
And yet there is another aspect of darkness, one I wish to speak to today. It remains fearsome, but it is also full of promise and growth. And that is expressed in the same myths.
Jonah in the belly of the great fish struggles with his faith. He struggles with God. Only when he determines that his future is doing God’s will does he exit the fish.
Theseus struggles with and slays the Minotaur and escapes from the labyrinth.
Innana dies and is reborn.
Each of these can be read as the story of an outer struggle, but they also can represent the inner struggle, the struggle within and with ourselves.
When we enter into darkness, especially the total darkness symbolized in these stories, we cannot see that which lies without. When we cannot see that which lies without, our vision turns inward.
And there we find the true monsters.
Continually, in the myths of the world, in the sacred stories of religious leaders, we find the struggle with that which lies within, the slaying of that which lies within. That is the symbol of, and maybe the true meaning behind the claim that one dies and is reborn. One dies to one’s self and is born anew, one engages in an inner struggle and comes out of the struggle transformed.
In the darkest days of the year, whether in late December in our part of the world or in late June in the southern hemisphere, darkness closes in. Work is set aside because of nighttime and winter snow. It is a time to ponder, to reflect. It is a time to enter within.
When I do that, when I reflect upon myself honestly, when I seek to know myself through my actions and when I question my motivations, I sometimes see monsters. Greed, insensitivity, selfishness, egotism: these and other less than desirable qualities live within me. They are the Minotaurs that live in the center of the labyrinth that is my soul. I struggle with them; sometimes I am successful for a while. And yet, they are eternal. No matter how often I conquer them, they arise again. Sometimes they do so in a new form, or in a new disguise. Other times, they simply are themselves, present again despite my ongoing efforts.
And yet, with each struggle I am changed. I become something new, something usually better.
It is when I cease to struggle, when I cease to strive to be better that I seem most lost in darkness.
As a nation we have Minotaurs in the core of our being, as well. Callousness toward the poor, hungry and homeless; racism and other “isms”. In a recent poll, forty four percent of Americans believe that we ought to limit the civil liberties of Muslims in this country. Our brothers and sisters need us to stand beside them as they confront these monsters.
Sometimes I delude myself into believing that failure to grapple with the truths that live within is a valid option. I delude myself into believing that acceptance of my faults and failings—or my nation’s—is equal to or even better than attempts to change myself. After all, what could be more important than self-acceptance and self-affirmation. But that is not the path of the hero. That is the act of the person who stands at the doorway of the labyrinth and proclaims that the Minotaur is really not such a bad thing to live with; it is the path of the person who stands at the entryway to the cave of the soul and chooses safety over adventure and known pains over growth.
I do not call that the act of the coward; I do it myself too often to be willing to label it that. But it is not the act of the person who would grow in knowledge and character and spirit.
And of course, the tales tell us that even if we do not choose to enter the labyrinth, we must face our fears and monsters anyway. Jonah did not choose to be swallowed by a great fish; God or fate ordained that it should happen.
Perhaps the message is that we can enter in on our own terms, leaving a thread attached behind us to find our way out, or we can wait to be captured by events, grabbed in an unsuspecting moment, forced to face ourselves in the midst of crisis.
The doorway to the future is the entryway into darkness.
The doorway to our souls is another entryway into the same darkness.
May we enter into both the future and ourselves boldly despite our fears, facing what comes—even death—with fortitude and courage; may we enter the darkness to find out who we are; may we find there our true selves; may we struggle with the demons within; and may we be transformed by the search for truth and born anew into a better and more vibrant world.
And ultimately, may the darkness itself be transformed from a place of fear into a place of rest, of peace and of comfort.
So let it be.
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