Reflections: Better Left Unsaid

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The unsayable can be given to me only through the failure of my language. Only when the construct falters do I reach what it could not accomplish. ~ Clarice Lispector, The Passion According to G.H.

Our downfall is in naming that about which we must not speak. In so doing we construct a language which filters out Reality. For it is a Reality by which we would be entirely overwhelmed—our “I” ripped from its root—were we to see it Whole. Our consequence, the origin of our perpetual mourning, is to inhabit a paint-by-numbers world, success in coping with the elements of which satisfies no one. Like Oedipus, we blind ourselves in order to avoid admitting through the gates of our eyes that Light whose reception our psyches would not survive: the face of God.

I have thought that the “church,” in the widest sense of the term—meaning not only the Church of Rome, or the Church of Rome plus the Eastern Orthodox church, or even those “catholic” churches plus the mainstream Protestant churches and all their myriad schisms and permutations; but taking “church” to mean the universe of all believers—is nothing more than a medium in which the crystal of sainthood can form. It may be that the great multitude of souls exist and dance their mediocre two-step only for there to be that which the saint is other than. Fueled by words, the meaning of which he only marginally comprehends, the ordinary believer delves in the dirt of this world to grow the grain with which to fill the saint’s beggar’s bowl; and then he fertilizes that soil with the material remnants of his being. But in so doing he has provided the saint with the little he needs in order to shuck the husk of words protecting him from the Truth, and to transcend this cycle of tedium and death.

In the Great Hive, the believer/drone is distracted from his pain by stories about the Gospel. The Gospel--only for the saint--is Life Itself.
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