|
Nobody told me; not anybody, not ever.
Nobody told me that it was and always would be, will be
and continue to be, until it is told, and told fully, and
told forever; that it is all a story, a powerful story
with all the power of its being and for the time of its
being, and its being issuing in an ever-being for the story
emanating, flowing, projecting, fulfilling its projection
unto full projection-projection beyond projection-and arising
and outflowing unto its fulfilment and its fulfilment leading
to fuller, richer fulfilment. No one, not anybody, not
ever anyone told me that it was a story, and why. For that
matter they never indicated-because they never seemed to
know-that it was, and is, and will be a brilliant coruscating
story, of intense light and glaring, flaring beauty, but
not an idiot thing, or a senseless thing, without intelligence,
without point, just a brilliant thing like a planet exploding
but to no purpose other than the exploding, for such explosions
are not to much point and lead to nothing but a momentary
glory, so then they are crass and without a meaning beyond
the momentary, dazzling, effulgence like a billion dollar
planned fireworks display beyond which, in reality, is
a billion billion dollar display of limitless light and
colour and stars and planets, combining to outpace and
outlive all the vast presentations of the combined lights
and explosions that have ever become one to astonish even-we
might say-the Creator of all things.
So nobody, no one person, not anybody,
not just one out of the trillions to be born, to be intelligent,
masters and doctors and hierophants and other servants
of whatever is or could or would be. No one levelled all
things of vast and impossible dimensions, and grasped them
and brought them under his or her constraint, and worked
masterfully to enclose them in reason, and so to develop
that most heady and soul-moving and spirit-shattering conclusion
that it is all a story, one story, and the story containing
its millions of stories and details, but then a story,
the whole story, the complete story, the story of God and
Man and creation. No one told me it was and is and will
be a story behind human conception and human grasp and
understanding, yet it is a story that if a man or a woman
or a child or a human race does not understand it as such,
and as how it is, and even why it is, then that man or
woman or child or race is even as mindless, and without
comprehension of that, which only by its being comprehended
will make anything to be what it is essentially, in the
essential being that it is in its modes of its ontological
being and purpose.
I say again, nobody ever told me. Nobody-it
now appears-ever told anybody. It was never a lip to lip,
mind to mind, spirit to spirit revelation or communication
of what word you will which would indicate that somehow
and at last, and as it should have been and should be,
and must be, and will be, told. When, one night, the thought
of it being there to be told, and not being told, and the
ought of it to be told came to me, then I was dazzled and
illuminated and surrounded by fire that did not burn but
gave the heat of impetus and the assurance that it is what
had never been told and that its telling must come to the
human race. Of course it must have come to the human race
but its coming to me was as though for the first time to
a human being, which doubtless seems to be the case when
anyone receives it.
So, then, I was drawn to think upon it
and about it, and to see-at least as a comprehensible illustration-the
beauty and the blinding glory of the fact of the story,
without which none is complete, none has yet attained to
the fullness accorded to him in his creation betimes for
the purposes of the mighty Creator, the God above all gods,
and the coruscating Lord of all light and the quivering,
vibrating beauty and magnificence that sets all things
at the tips of imminent explosion yet holds them back from
that so that elegance and loveliness be not prematurely
erupting or discharging itself.
It came to me that when a person is humble,
to humility's full and true being, then he will admit that
though none has ever told him, it may not be that the story
has never been begun, continued and continuing, and that
none other than himself has ever sensed the reality of
the fact, the possibility and the probability of it all;
being the story as told by one Storyteller. In humility-as
in gladness-he must say that there is a story which
is the story. For having seemingly been mindless
of this reality and now being wholly mindful of it he must
concede that the Story-Maker may have put in the heart
of every creature born-whether human or angelic-that the
matter of everything is the story. Having in-hearted
it to all as fellow-creatures, He must have in-souled them
to dissatisfaction until the story comes to this one and
that-if not all-the fact of, and reality of, the story.
To make personal being both satisfying
and yet not satisfying He must have given gifts so prodigal
that the distribution of them, the outpouring and dispersal
and vast flooding of them must have brought the delight
and sense and use of those worship elements of poetry,
song and music and articulate literary powers, the arts
which communicate the story-albeit in its delicate and
gentle telling or in its magnificent, imposing and impressive
majesty as cataracts of mountainous waves thunder out the
roaring, purposive voices and utterance of mighty oceans-the
sounding forth of the resounding waters upon which come
the brightness and effulgence of the God of glory.
When creatures of all kinds are drawn
into one harmonious, congenial worship, strong in its intent
yet helpless to do so in the face of the worth they would
give to the infinite Worthiness, then all that is within
and which constitutes the story-all things and elements,
I say-gather to gaze at and witness the outpouring
of creation's adoration and worship in veneration, homage,
submission, thanksgiving and illimitable delight. This
cannot be thus unless, in some way, somehow, by some gift,
the creation has an awareness of the story and the Story-Maker.
Being part of, and yet gazing upon this Most High and Most
Wise, the worship-as it were-thus expands and compounds
itself and thereby enlarges the story and speeds it on
in its way of fulfilment, for what is the story for but
to be the glorification shed out by the Glorious One and
received and returned by the created, adoring ones? In
showing His glory He is showing the glory of that which
He has created: He is showing His glory in creating them.
In the story it is first the reflection of that splendour
but then, in the way of its mystery, it becomes the very
irradiation of it, which must mean that what has been created
has full participation in what it desires to reflect. This,
of course, at the telos, that is, the climaxing
in the goal when all things are reconciled, filled up,
and so completed in the harmony of His most powerful love.
What, then, is this story? Who can tell
it? Is it the great God alone, or the meekest child upon
all the earth? Is it that which has been created from pure
nothing, that can regale us with this pure something-the
created something, to which eternal life is being given
through the immense suffering of the self-emptied and self-filled
Son?1 Is it that all things can tell it
by the simplicity of just being all things, or is it that
we will to be brought to that ultimate fullness towards
which now we are gladly moving, and to which we are now
being drawn in both pain and delight? Are we thus to understand
that the story has ever been with us, as we ever with it,
yet we have not known the story as it is the story, but
have in some way substituted a story of our own, as though
to be without a story is to be not ourselves, for
as children sometimes say, when hearing a parent telling
a story, 'Mummy!'-or 'Daddy!'-'that is my story',
as though to be outside that story is to lose the mother
or the father, or even one's self. A person without a story
is a person without a life, and a person without another,
others and the Other.
Yet, can any story do? Given we all have
a story-the meaning of 'his story'-and that my story or
your story is enough for me or you to make out, is any
story, then, sufficient? Must we not, in a way put all
stories, together since the whole race is constituted of
being members one of another and, ideally, for one another?
Yet how can this be? We catch the coruscations of one another,
but are limited in our catching, whilst those flashings
of splendour seem to be limitless in their being, in their
vibratory, oscillating actions. We are nerveless hands-fingers
wide-spread-trying to catch up the whole, and retaining
only the impressions, for like water they flow through
our fingers.
Ah! Then there is a story! That seems
to be the universal conviction. We are always looking back
to our story, seeking to perceive it in the strands and
threads of the materials we hold and will not surrender.
Warp and woof; woof and warp, and which are the strands,
and whose, and where do they cross, interweave and become
one eternal fabric? Is it that we are not to know, or to
know only faintly? Has someone been telling the story and
we cannot hear, listen though we may, strain at hearing
though we do? Is it even worse: is another story-or stories-being
told, and are the one and the others-or just the others-trying
to black out comprehension of the authentic story, for
comprehending it might be beyond our ensouling or inspiriting
abilities. The matter which seems glaringly apparent to
us in our high moments is that we ought to know the story,
and that what seeks to withhold that inward comprehension
of it is deeply an evil creature or community of devilish
creatures. Can it be that on the one hand that which is
deeply spiritual-He who is God-spares us from knowing the
all of everything in one moment of astonished comprehension
lest we die of it-the abundance, the splendour of it-yet
on the other hand the deeply evil, he who is God's ape
and fierce opponent, could not bear the thought of us having
even intimations of the story, and therefore applies himself
night and day to keeping us in ignorance? Do these two
elements operate simultaneously until the former overcomes
the latter, and we know!?
I am now supposing that it is what we
are which we ought not to be, which hinders us even more
than does the impeding, terrified serpent from knowing
the whole story. Even so, it is what we are truly at heart
which urges us beyond knowing that a story is, to
knowing what it is. Thus, in this moment of thinking,
I am recognising that all my life I have known there had
to be the story even though I may not have consciously
comprehended it. In ways, in starts and stops, in flashes
of light and stabs of darkness, I have in some measure
comprehended-faintly though the intimations may have been
received-that the story is, and is remarkable beyond
description, and powerful beyond computing and knowing
its essence. It is to do with everything one has seen and
heard and comprehended, as also it has to do with what
is unseeable, unutterable, unimagined because ineffable.
There are times when the latter elements have come with
a sudden sight, sound and imagination, but they have not
been comprehended as a whole. They have been flashes
of light, ideas unconnected with each other or others,
revelations in part, mysteries barely graspable, but yet
grasping us.
So I say, again, that we have been created
to know what is essential for us to know, and so we warmly,
avidly welcome the given understandings. We are all for
receiving the mysteries the arts have perceived, the secrets
which nourish our joys and our delighted apprehensions.
From profound musician, depthful sage, depthless hierophant,
fathomless artist we have garnered elements and artefacts
of the story, and now know that we needed more and were
required to puzzle less, for bright intellect and natural
intelligence do not aid us in the long run. Helpful as
all these giftings may have been, they have but helped
to keep alive the instinct for the truth, and have aided
us in not receding into the nothingness from which we came.
Along with this has come the incredible enlightenment that
that which has been created from nothing can never revert
to nothing. It must ever come to terms with its creation
and the purpose thereof.
So, then, I am at the point again when
I cry out that no one had ever told me-not anyone, anywhere-that
the story is, and is what it is. Yet I am
beyond the point of declaiming, for I am knowing that the
story is and what it is, so that my strong thirst
over the years, my avid desire for knowledge of what is,
and as to wisdom and what it is, has suddenly come to its
fullness, to its intended goal of comprehension in my mind.
Because it is born of the Storyteller and not of my creative
or inventive powers, I am now in the vortex of the rivers
that have flowed to-and then from-all corners of the creation
from the primal time; from its centre and its perimeter,
and then back again, so that the all of it has now come
to my mind and has been ensouled and enspirited within
me. I am in the midst of understanding.
So amazed am I, and so astonished in suddenly
knowing, believing and understanding, that it seems to
me that I have all but gone beyond the lawful bounds of
human comprehension. Yes, even all this knowing is still
a knowing in part, and an understanding in part and the
utter knowing is yet to come. I am in the prolepsis but
not yet in the telos.2 I know what
the Spirit has imprinted in my heart and though that has
not as yet arrived, yet its presence is with me. Still
and all, at the same moment, I am understanding that the
divinising of humanity was always the intention of the
Story-teller in telling the story. Even common humility
tells me that I could not-on this strange and glorious
night-have come to know the whole story, and know it from
before its beginning to beyond its completion, and so knowing
all, be the first of all creatures-ever-to know it in this
manner. That would be pride and arrogance of the most terrible
kind. Yet it is true that the story has come to me, and
I know it in its fullness, if not in all its minutest details.
I have to concede, and I do so willingly, that others have
come to know the story. Of course: God has implanted the
reality of it even in creating all things and all details
of the story out of nothing, for He must give the sense
of destiny or we would all be crass and mindless. Thus
we conclude that all who will, will know the matter of
the story. Indeed those who love God in His story have
gained their greatness from it for their wonderment at
it has been fed to fullness, and they could not have become
what they were and are and will be, without that knowledge.
To what then will you put my astonishment
of this hour? To some special power of my own? Certainly
not. To God's kindness, goodness and love? Most certainly.
And as you accord the revelation of the story to Him who
is Father and love in concert with His Son and His Holy
Spirit, then say, 'This man is not in pride and arrogance,
but in grace'. Spare him of your criticism, for in seeing
what he believes to be an ineffable reality, he has but
joined the countless others, who through the ages have
been permitted to see the beatific vision. One who once
was lifted momentarily from this terrestrial sphere and
translated to that most glorious heaven, had to live with
a painful 'stake in the flesh', for knowledge-even heavenly
knowledge, and perhaps heavenly knowledge all the more-can
puff a creature up, whilst love alone can build up that
one, that is, edify it to glory.
At this time of full revelation-I mean
as full as a person can receive it in this earthly sphere-I
am aware of consternation in the enemy camp, for there
is horror, dread, dismay and trepidation, where once there
was belligerent confidence, evil assurance and mockery
at the weakness of the Creator, and carelessness regarding
His love, purity and grace. They believed that they were
not the embattled ones but the embattlers. They had no
pity or love for the One who was steadily writing the story.
In his nefarious designs, the seed of the serpent made
much of original authority and power delegated to him,
but the sight of human beings going beyond their imagined
knowledge, and knowing the heart of the Creator of all
things, and the designation of human creatures for the telos of theosis3 has
lately brought dismay and heart-sickening dread into the
halls of dark pomp and self-born majestic vanity. They
who dwell there and imagine they call the tune of all life,
and design all things in what is called by them 'the real
world': these, I say, are given to deep misgivings, though
they boast they are undefeatable. It is but a moment for
them to think up misery and tragedy and to let horrors
loose again in their 'real world', but this 'real' is but
false, and the end of it all is in sight. Seemingly endless
time is contracting to a constricting sliver of a moment,
and ere they know it, will have brought tragedy to the
tragedians. There is a long, dark and deep slide into nonentity
and the unmasking of the deceit of the ages and the murderous
intent of those who would pose as Love Himself!
Something has settled within me, so that
faith has its full work in the depths of my spirit. I am
aware that all the time I thought I knew so little, and
was seeing as it were scarcely anything, when in fact I
was seeing much, and knowing much and living much, but
this last shower of grace that has come upon me as a flood
does upon the desert, has come in such passion then, that
by it, I do know the story and know it well. When I said
that until now no one has told me aught, and all was hidden
from me so that my yearnings were barren of fruitfulness
and my mind of wisdom and my heart of knowing, then I was
within myself in deep misunderstanding. All know something,
whatever a shred or a snippet it may be, and others-all
unwitting-know beyond that which they believe they know.
It is the ones who have been stirred deeply by what has
come to them who are urgent in their telling. They were
retailing wisely to me, whilst I, for my part, knew I knew
much, yet did not value it as rare and as the substance
of His greatest gift-heart knowledge of Himself. I saw
the movements of history, and it was like being in a wintered
wood where the mists were deep and damp, and they swirled
about the trees as hiding rather than limning the reality
of the beauty. One sensed what they covered, and one realised
that if all that had been given were to be withdrawn, and
all that had been made known were to become unknown, then
one's partial sense of knowing and being would be lost
in the same cold mists-mists of clouded nothingness-and
that, of course, must never be.
How long an essay, how many, many words
to cover acts and happenings and details, imaginings and
cogitations and ruminations of decades of human living,
and how because of this sudden revelation one at last knows
the story, the words and thoughts, imaginations, fancyings,
along with dreams and visions of all the times and situations
of life. Yet how simple the story, the old, old story which
is ever the new, new story, which once comprehended is
never lost, yet once comprehended has, in its own way,
done its tasks, for it is now ensouled and enspirited,
and nothing can reverse or diminish it. Whilst faith must
never be said to be completed and perfected, at least in
what we call 'this life', yet as the base and foundation
of the personal life of each, it is the corporate life
of all; faith is now stabilised and sees what sight is
unable to see or do, unless it be wedded to God Himself.
This story I will now tell, and instead of the volumes
I would wish to write, the endless descriptions of details
and happenings and implications of the substantial story,
yet I can state it in simplicity which contains all that
is needed of wisdom, and all that can be felt of love.
|
