“And the last state of that man is worse than the first”
It is a terrifying picture really, the picture of the darkness of utter desolation. It is something which our contemporary culture knows about or, at least, experiences in one way or another. We have all been there. “I am desolate and in misery,” the Psalmist says. You know about desolations and miseries. It may because of sorrow and loss; it may be because of hardship and troubles. It may be because of the enmity of others or it may be because of our own sinfulness. “Look upon my adversity and misery, / and forgive me all my sins.”
It can lead to a sense of hopelessness, the sense of utter futility, the sense of the empty nothingness of life.
We live, of course, in a world that is seemingly full of everything; there is a fullness of images. We are constantly besieged and bombarded by a vast array of images which flicker and dance before our imaginations. The consequence is that our sensual imagination is overloaded. What are these images? They are the images of violence and self-indulgence; in short, the images of destruction and consumption.
And yet, there is a terrible emptiness to this fullness of images. They are, as it were, nothing worth and quite unsatisfactory. But, they consume us. We are possessed by what beguiles us. We find that we are strangers to ourselves. We are alienated from ourselves.
What shall we do? Shall we empty our selves of these empty images through some heroic effort of will? Just disconnect the internet? Pull the plug on the TV? Perhaps, but is it really “nirvana,” a state of empty nothingness that we seek? For in the culture of images even the emptying ourselves of the images of sensual immediacy is to find ourselves empty and lost. Whether we are full of these empty images or aware of their emptiness we are nonetheless empty and lost to ourselves. “And the last state of that man is worse than the first.”
What is the antidote? The antidote is the desire for God. For that is what is missing. God. What is missing is our appetite for the Absolute, our desire for God. At the very least, our desire is misdirected and lost in the relentless pursuit of everything and nothing. “Our hearts are restless until they find their rest in thee,” in God, as Augustine said long ago.
In the Gospel, there is the picture of the housecleaning of our souls. At issue is two things: first, how are we going to clean up the mess? And second, for what end? The point is that without the finger of God the housecleaning will leave us truly empty, indeed, desolate and in despair. “And the last state of that man is worse than the first.”
The point is that the housecleaning of our souls is really about setting our houses in order so that our souls are places for God. Then we are no longer strangers to ourselves. We are at home with God, with ourselves and with one another – in a blessed company. “Blessed are they that hear the word of God and keep it.”
The Christian religion par excellence is not about a flight from the world and the images of the world. It is rather a flight to God in whom there is the redemption of all things – a setting in order of everything. The Christian religion is, in this sense, full of images but only as ordered to God and as seen within the pageant of redemption. It means that the naming of the demons of our souls is by the finger of God. God puts his finger on our demons. The finger grace of God has the housecleaning touch. But our souls are put in order by God and for God so that our souls may be places for God.
What does this mean? At one level, it means that our busyness has to give place to a restfullness in God. Our busyness is really our restlessness for God – that is the positive in our busyness. The negative is that without God – without our awareness of our need for God, without our desire for God – we are in danger of despair. In a way, the point is illustrated in another Gospel story: that of Martha and Mary. Ultimately, the busyness of Martha has to be brought into the restfullness of Mary, sitting at the feet of Jesus and listening to his word. Such a resting is about being attentive to Jesus, “listening to his words.” Perhaps the point is best captured by Aelred of Rievaulx:
In this wretched and laborious life, brethren, Martha must of necessity be in our house; that is to say, our soul has to be concerned with bodily actions. As long as we need to eat and drink, we shall need to tame our flesh with watching, fasting, and work. This is Martha’s role. But in our souls there ought also to be Mary, that is, spiritual activity. For we should not always give ourselves to bodily efforts, but sometimes be still and see how lovely, how sweet the Lord is, sitting at the feet of Jesus and hearing his word. You should in no wise neglect Mary for Martha; or again Martha for Mary. For, if you neglect Martha, who will feed Jesus? If you neglect Mary, what use is it for Jesus to come to your house, when you taste nothing of his sweetness?
It is wanted not that we be found empty and in despair but full of the grace of God, attentive to his word and purpose. For only then shall we be in a better state than ever before. Only by the finger grace of God can we avoid the terror of that picture of ourselves where “the last state of that man is worse than the first.”
The antidote is the desire for God. I would like you, if you will, to turn to the Catechism in the Prayer Book, to page 549. The question which follows upon the recitation of the Lord’s Prayer introduces what is known as the Desire. It helps us, I think, to appreciate the crucial import of this Gospel story. It is about the necessity of our desire for God. “What do you desire of God in this prayer? … I desire my Lord God …”
Fr. David Curry
Lent III, 2011