Is faith in the unity of the world simply naive, or perhaps the only hope we can still cling to in disorderly times?
The French philosopher Gabriel Marcel, in one of his most important books, Being and Having, recorded a short but significant confession: “I do not know myself what I believe.” Even today, almost ninety years later, the ambiguity and simplicity of his statement make it sound like a provocation. We must remember that Marcel was religious—he never concealed his attachment to Christianity—and his confession wasn’t merely personal. Rather, it was part of a broader philosophical contemplation on the nature of human presence in the world. His words do not refer to faith centered on certain beliefs about the universe, man, and that which is transcendent in the face of visible, empirical reality; nor are they a confession of nonbelief. Instead, they form an unusual, contradictory, and therefore very moving credo: I believe, but I do not know what I believe.
How can we understand Marcel’s statement? Is faith merely a form devoid of content? Can one be a believer without directing one’s faith to a particular object, even one that is barely defined? No, Marcel doesn’t say that either. Faith is not “without substance” here, on the contrary it is a belief “in something,” but its content remains elusive: something that is yet to come. Without delving deep into Marcel’s musings, let me just say this: in this particular passage, he understands faith as an attitude, a basic approach, a kind of consent to what surrounds us and whatever might come to us. Faith is an affirmation of existence before we even consider existence in more detail. It is a belief that all existence that surrounds us—in all its abundance and complexity, beauty and tragedy—is a gift and “can be accepted” as such.
Faith understood in this way can be variously described as global, holistic, basic, or fundamental. All these terms point to a primordial character predating any religion or spiritual pursuit. This is why the word “trust” is central to the above reflections. Faith understood in this way is in fact an act of trust in the world as we find it, and recognition that this is indeed “our” world. It also provides an opening to the life we have in this world. Before criticism, rebellion against its elements, or even outright rejection transpire (the famous line from Polish poet Bolesław Leśmian: “Such is this world! Not a good world! Why is there no other?”), before we decide whether it is “great,” a “valley of tears”—or actually “a great valley of tears”—there is a kind of consent to the universe in which we live. Over time, this consent may evolve into a question about the meaning of existence—our existence, and that of the universe that surrounds us. But we wouldn’t ask this if we hadn’t already encountered something akin to meaning.
Amid the Darkness of Oblivion
Now that we have examined some ideas, it’s time to reach for images. I suggest reading “In the Nile Delta” by Swedish poet Tomas Tranströmer. The poem transports us into a world which we do not consider on a daily basis. A couple of tourists, presumably from Europe, visit a city in the Nile Delta, where they are surprised by the sight of poverty they never knew existed. We read a factual and restrained description of what they see across one day. The poet does not convey the suffering, but rather focuses on the reactions of the couple. After dinner, the woman goes to bed without a word and falls into a “deep sleep.” Her husband is also silent. For a long while, listening to the sounds of the street, he contemplates what they saw that day. Finally, he falls asleep with a strong feeling of discontent at the fact that so many people live in poverty and humiliation.
Later, he has a strange dream: a sea voyage and a whirlwind that unexpectedly appears on the surface of the water. It means danger, but can also symbolize a supernatural intervention. A voice—a kind of response to his anger—says: “There is one who is good. There is one who can see all without hating.” These words seem to refer to God, but the word “God” doesn’t appear in the poem. Nor is there any indication that the man’s wrath equals a religious rebellion against whomever created such a world. Instead, his is a natural reaction to a confrontation with an enormous amount of suffering.
The sight of boundless misery that renders us helpless underlines what Marcel refers to as “absolute belief.” Here’s a world that cannot be accepted. Yet, says the voice in a dream, there is someone who looks at this world “without hating.” This wording is very interesting. The mysterious person doesn’t look at the world “with love”—that would sound disingenuous, overly sweet, and simultaneously cruel. All the voice says is that the stranger’s gaze is free from hatred. It seems to mean the same thing, but it doesn’t really. A gaze that is free of hatred doesn’t seek explanations for the suffering. It is just another way of looking at what is painful, uncomfortable, and hurtful. A perspective in which the world—in all its misery and cruelty—does not stand accused.
A Big “No”
Tomas Tranströmer’s poem describes an attitude sometimes referred to as “challenging affirmation.” Following the events of the 20th century and our knowledge of today’s world, it’s hard to imagine any affirmation of the world which ignores its challenges—that would be self-deception. We cannot simply—to return to this term—“accept” the world as it is. Neither can we be comfortable in it nor get along with it. The figure “curled in a No” is an emblematic protagonist of contemporary art and literature. As Adam Zagajewski writes in his essay On Living in Freedom—one cannot be free, unless they stand between evil and beauty and “remain vigilant in the face of these two disparate powers.” Admiration detached from an awareness of evil would lead to an “unpleasant, sometimes repulsive aestheticism.” Still, paying attention exclusively to what is bad would confine us—Zagajewski writes—to the role of bitter, gloomy prosecutors who constantly indict both man and the world. Such bitterness is justified, but doesn’t constitute “the only possibility, the only horizon.” Bohumil Hrabal would probably agree: “Life is terrible, but I decided that it is beautiful.”
Tranströmer’s poem also suggests—gently and discreetly—the possibility of a different horizon, but it’s hard to say whether that horizon would equal beauty. Here, we are dealing with a different outlook: one that doesn’t justify nor indict, but is patient, in the sense that it can endure the sight of what is “unbearable.” Deep down, this attitude is far from passive—it is a withdrawal of hatred and therefore a kind of return to primordial trust. Conceivably, this “trust that follows disappointment,” this challenging affirmation and wounded faith, constitute an important—perhaps the most important—condition for the future transformation of our world.
An Ancient Metaphor
Not accidentally, a similar tone—the tone of affirmation—often appears when we talk about our relationship with nature and the need to repair it. A sense of unity with nature, or the desire to be better united with it, is akin to the faith in question. These feelings are also related to perceiving the world as a whole that can be seen as a gift or as something that encloses us, something that we’ve emerged from and will return to. The history of the human imagination is the history of the constant flow of metaphors. “Oneness” and “division” are undoubtedly among the oldest of these.
“I think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid and self-contain’d, I stand and look at them long and long,” writes Walt Whitman in the jubilant “Song of Myself” (1892). “They do not sweat and whine about their condition, / They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins, / … Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth.” In this passage, animals are described as perfect beings: “The tree-toad is a chef-d’œuvre for the highest,” “the cow crunching with depress’d head surpasses any statue,” and even “a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels.” Whitman is characteristically ecstatic, almost religious; the expressions of his awe arranged in a pantheistic litany. At the same time, the idea of oneness appears very concrete, sensual, tangible: “I find I incorporate gneiss, coal, long-threaded moss, fruits, grains, esculent roots, / And am stucco’d with quadrupeds and birds all over.” Although strongly accented by the poet, his own being doesn’t seem to be an obstacle to this unison.
Still, it’s hard to overlook the existence of separation and division. Unity has been lost. “We do not deserve dog, nor bird, nor cow,” writes the poet, Julia Hartwig. “Or even the young horse, glistening like a dark star on the vast meadow. Intrusive, self-absorbed, wanting nothing and demanding everything, we do not deserve the friendship of other species. The rich man, and the poor, covered in sores and lice, are both repulsive. But the dog forgives all that. Reaching for man’s lowered hand, the dog calls for tenderness.”
Here, the poet employs a well-known biblical image: a poor man was laid at a rich man’s gates, and as he longed for the scraps from the rich man’s table, dogs licked his open sores. Hartwig, however, transforms this image significantly: in a wrecked, divided world, the poor—just as the rich—do not deserve the friendship of animals. No one is without blame; everyone is responsible for the bond between humans and other species being broken.
And so in Hartwig’s short piece, unlike in the Bible, the dog is at the forefront, at center stage. The animal’s gesture—seeking human tenderness—becomes an act of reconciliation. Man’s lowered, open hand suggests a hand that let something slip, lost its grip, or longs for human touch. The dog symbolizes not only the reconciliation between humans and animals, but also the need to repair what is broken between people.
Is belief in the unity of the world an illusion, a mere metaphor meandering through the centuries? Today, perhaps more than ever, this belief is backed by our knowledge of the complex system of connections between what is human and what we used to refer to as “non-human.” The boundaries between “human” and “animal” are constantly shifting, and so is our perception of flora. And yet, seeing the world around us as a united whole still isn’t universal. If that were the case, it would be easier to put a stop to the ongoing processes of destruction.
“I do not know myself what I believe … .” Gabriel Marcel’s words are like a beam of light streaming into a dark room. Along with this light opens the possibility of looking differently at who we are and where we are. But his words also force us to ask further questions. Doesn’t the real crisis of faith cut deeper than the question of trust in one or another kind of religion? And is it necessary, in order to change something within our world, to touch the depths laying at the root of our feelings and deepest hopes?
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