There is an oft seen piece of graffiti in the Metro here. It is written with silver paint and an educated hand. It can be seen at several stations. It reads (in Romanian):
Do not worry yourself. All will be well.
Today at a station, I saw that somebody had scrawled underneath one of these the word:
I nearly laughed out loud. However that would never do. Romanians are quiet people and the Metro is often quieter than the public libraries of my childhood in England.
All will be well. Our Faith tells us this is so. All will be well BUT we can not say when. Things are already well, the battle is won. There is not some moment in time when things will be well. The frustrated "when?" on the Metro is unanswerable and the writer knows it. All will be well when time ceases. All will be well when all wills well. All will be well as all is drawn to God and God is the Eternal Present.
Time is not linear. We do not make progress towards some golden future. I've said before that Holy Mass is the cosmic alignment of now, eternity and history into the "singularity" of our Redemption. It is the foretaste of heaven, not a cookery show.
You see folks: Time is NOT greater than Space (though some say it is and I have no intention of judging those who do). And Space is NOT greater than Time. Time and space are part of Man, given to us to bring about knowledge of our Eternal Creator. But there is an endless interchange between them and the lines between space and time are blurred. Physics is full of these dancing shadows, it is the beauty of the subject. I may be a lousy Physicist but nothing I have studied could ever induce me to embrace the linear, Cartesian, rational, "sensible" world of the Enlightenment. That way brings only death; God becomes irrelevant and Man a machine.
The late Scots poet, Harvey Holton understood this. I've included a few stanzas of his poem Thinkan an Daen below.
A few glossary notes for you before you read. Any direct translation ruins the beauty of the metaphysics.
harn: brains, whummelt: upset, swee: swing, end rigs: the last furrow in the field, syne: since, gowd-licket: gold laced, aiks: oaks, spairan: asking
Atween the blink o' the ee an the harn
Atween the seean an the thinkan,
Time and space whummelt in the swee.
Fields, end rigs nae pleuchd syne,
rummel intill the lift.
Aw black staunan aiks,
Awe the gap atween seean an thinkan,
Thinkan an Daean
That oor word micht come
Speiritan oot o' thon gap
Speiran at the yird an a' its cronies
To summarise: between seeing and thinking, thinking and doing, time and space whummelt in the swee, and through it all a word is generated that pierces the emptiness...... surely this word is the Word?
Can we please euthanise the Enlightenment and do it quick? Surely better brains than mine could act as executioner and funeral director. The Enlightenment is dying, put it out of its misery so that we may thrive.