On Madness and Grief
It is said that to see the face of God is to instantly be struck mad, so overwhelming would the experience be. By whatever name, or none, you call God, I am beginning to see the truth of it. I prefer to refer to it as the Mystery, since I do not know what it is, or what comes next after this life, and I don’t think anyone else here really knows either, no matter how loudly they preach from their various pulpits. But I believe the Mystery exists, that there is as much unseen as seen, and for now that’s enough for me. Indeed, it is a quantum leap from the beliefs I’ve not held, as it might most aptly be stated, in the past.
When A was 10 years old, his father died, at the too-young age of 39, also from heart disease, an inheritance I wish had not been bequeathed to my sweetheart. A had been brought up Catholic, and the loss started him down the road to losing his faith, for how could a loving god take a little boy’s father away? No one had any answers for him to this question, or any others that followed, and he drifted away from the Church. He read in all religions and philosophies with an open mind, kept what seemed right to him, discarded the rest, and subscribed to none of it with any blind adherence. He described himself as agnostic: he didn’t know, and no one else did either. I daresay he knows now.
It is not hard for me to see how a person would lose faith when they lost a loved one. The question that echoes over and over in the empty hole in our heart is “Why???” If there is goodness, and justice, and reason, how does a 39-year-old, with a loving wife and three kids who need him, die of a heart attack?
When A was taken from me, the question that echoed over and over in the empty hole in my heart was “Why???” It still echoes. Only at the time of his death, I was an atheist with what a friend of mine described as a “metaphysical lime twist.” I would say the description is still apt from a verbal point of view, but these days I think I’m more the whole metaphysical margarita. I have been given reason to believe, (which is not faith per se, but it works for me), that there is more. That death is not the end, but a doorway. Does this ease my heart? Somewhat. Does it ease the missing him from my daily life? Not one iota.
What accounts for this transformation? Why does grief steal faith from some, give it to others, and leave others untouched in their beliefs? I don’t know about the last one, but I think I have a inkling about the first two.
When someone you love dies, you are forced to stand toe-to-toe with the Mystery, whether you’re ready or not. All your illusions of control over your world, your destiny, your ability to keep your loved ones near and safe, are shredded in one fell swoop. In the question “Why?” you are forced to reckon with all that you do not know, do not understand, and realize that it is highly likely that you will never understand it in your lifetime. All your ideas about how things work, about what you can take for granted, are turned on their ear, as you express your surprise that the sun has come up the next morning, as you find you don’t want to eat, and that breathing has now become something you consciously have to do, because the shock leaves you breathing so shallowly that you have to gasp now and again just to catch up. Every code you’ve lived by, where if you’re decent, loving, and reasonably kind, you will be rewarded, is now suspect because you feel like the entire universe has inexplicably decided to focus on you with all the cruelty it possesses, punishing you for a transgression you can’t imagine you committed, for surely, a crime deserving of a punishment of this magnitude would have to stand out in memory, wouldn’t it? And as you navigate grief, your friends fail you, your family fails you, your church fails you, and everything you thought you could rely upon has disappeared, not the least of which is the loved one who died.
So you are in free-fall into the abyss, and the “Why?” expands to “Why did this happen? Why now? For what reason? What does it mean? Does it mean anything? Does anything mean anything I thought it did? What’s it all for? Am I supposed to learn something from this? And what the hell is it?” These are the eternal questions, the ones that would know the unknowable, the Mystery. And you’re trying to suss out answers you’re not even sure exist while you’re at the weakest point you’ve ever been. Is it any wonder we all feel crazy in grief? Perhaps the adage is true. When you’re juggling no less than the meaning of life, the universe, and everything, isn’t madness to be expected? I would think so; but perhaps I only say that because I am mad.
Some people find some answer, or maybe pieces of answers, in the swirling chaos; some turn toward it, others turn away, because there’s no guarantee the answers will be ones we like. C.S. Lewis, who started out as an atheist and later became a staunch believer in god, said himself that he was pretty sure he was in no danger of not believing in god; rather, the real danger was knowing god’s true nature, and not liking it much, and how that would be so much worse for him than just disbelief.
I often wonder if only at the moment I was empty of everything, when I questioned everything, after I’d been crushed under the wheel of life’s inevitable turning, is when I could truly consider all possibilities. When everything I know has proven to be mutable, how can I cling to it? Do I not have to consider all possibilities now? For myself, I think I do, and have been.
I do not claim to have any answers. I actually have to pause and consider how to answer the simplest questions, like “How are you?” now; I certainly don’t have any certainty on more esoteric queries. But I’ve sure been asking some interesting questions, some of which I dare not share with another living soul. They might think me mad.