Religion and our loneliness

Loneliness, the common denominator of human existence

From the moment the infant has said the word `I' for the first time, it will be alienated more and more. The small child's wishes are seldom understood. When adolescence is reached, the human being knows alienation in the extreme; it has become like an incurable disease. As we mature, getting to know the ways of the world, we develop worldviews that in their necessary uniqueness separate us from each other. Finally, in old age we are in touch with loneliness in its fully developed dreadfulness.

Death completes this journey through loneliness. After that, what follows? The answer depends on one's mood at the moment of contemplation. Sometimes, when you miss relatives and friends or when you are in a sentimental mood, you prefer the idea of a circle that will be unbroken again. When the sentiment is replaced by balanced judgment, however, we remember the pain we inflicted on each other, intentionally and unintentionally, thereby adding to each other's loneliness. One may then prefer the idea of entering the Nothing that is the All. Somehow this `evaporation' of the self seems to be the more dignified option.

Meanwhile, let us concern ourselves with life, the process of entering out of nothing into loneliness.

Why do we experience loneliness? No other question has occupied me so consistently and no other question has led me to more diverse answers. When I was a child we lived an isolated life. But there were times, which I remember with particular fondness, when being alone was not a problem. I wandered on my own in the veld, fascinated by the variety of trees, the different feelings they evoked as I touched the bark and branches, the thorns or flowers. Absorbed in a world of constant wonder, I wasn't alone.

But life wasn't idyllic all the time. When I returned home and re-entered into family relationships, the feeling of loneliness returned. Psychologists may say I wasn't socialised properly. This may be true, but it is not a sufficient explanation. I enjoyed playing with my sister (that is, when we were not fighting). I loved the company of friends, but preferably not more than two or three at a time.

But somehow those were times of escape. My closest friend was loneliness. My deepest feeling was that of not belonging. In the search for an explanation religion came into the picture; it seemed to have the ultimate answer: `What a friend we have in Jesus.' As a child and even as an adult I didn't allow myself to say it, but even this reassurance did not take away the feeling of loneliness totally and permanently.

An explanation that intrigued me for a time was that we come into this world with the memory, however faintly it may be realised in the conscious mind, of a very deep -- and maybe also a very long -- togetherness. Once, maybe a hundred and maybe thousands of years ago, we knew at-one-ness; maybe with similar beings to those we know now, more probably with beings who were very different. Whatever this at-one-ness may have been like, it haunts us throughout life. In moments of deep self-awareness we experience the agony of this loss. The gnostics, from Valentinus to Cioran, maintain that we have been tricked into this life we are living now. We are alone because our deepest `knowledge' prevents us from compromising with a world that is not the one we `remember', the world with which we had once been at peace. In a deeper sense than the biological, we are all foster children; we have been taken away from `home'.

This position is, however, fraught with unexamined presuppositions. Everything, more, everyone confronts us with the fact of impermanence. Why, then, should we presuppose that there is something permanent and indestructible in us, something that survived a previous existence and will survive the present one as well?

The argument seems to be that something as miraculous as the human person cannot simply return to nothing. Why not? Marguerite Yourcenar once said that there is as much universal pathos in the death of an ant killed by its queen as in the death camps of Dachau and Auschwitz. It sounds sacrilegious, but it does emphasise the point of modern biology: there are more miracles, more misery and agony than those of humankind alone. If a dolphin or a whale, a creature with language and emotions (who knows what else?) simply dies, why not we also?

I am not saying there is nothing beyond our existence or any other form of existence on earth. I can neither prove nor disprove such a more-than-creaturely existence. As a focus of transcendence, supra-human beings or a Supreme Being may be very helpful in that we may get away from our all too human preoccupation with ourselves. We are not the beginning and end of existence.

This may also be the pragmatic value of creation stories. We cannot be credited for the fact that there is something and not nothing. Creation stories may also make sense of our loneliness. In the biblical creation narrative it is said that man was created alone; it was only after the Creator realised that his loneliness amongst all creatures was not good that another human being was created to keep him company.

These observations also allow me to link the idea of loneliness with the latter part of our theme: civil society. I sincerely hope that `civil' is not simply a synonym for `secular'. I distrust the idea of religion as the domain of the holy over against that of ordinary existence. With `civil' in the sense of order over chaos I can go along for the moment, though `civilised' would have pleased me more.

`Society' is a term that refers to you and me trying to cope with each other and hoping thereby to diminish our loneliness. This attempt nearly always leads to disappointment and in more extreme cases to hatred, the ultimate confirmation of loneliness. `Society' is the name of a game we play to pretend that we have been saved from the unbearable loneliness of being. Such togetherness, however, is not without any meaning.

Life in this world would be more unbearable if we did not, however partially and incompletely, however temporarily, have the company of a fellow human being. It is not good that we should be all alone. Friendship, the relationship in which give and take is not counted, is without any doubt of divine origin -- it takes more than human nature to create it.

Society, in so far as it is supportive, is based on trust. The chaos we experience is the result of a process by which expectations of mutual integrity had been disappointed. Not two hundred and not two thousand people, meeting to reach agreements on how this country can be healed from the wounds of distrust, will bring about a change of heart. If `hell [has no] fury, like a woman scorned' (Congreve), a society knows no hatred like a promise broken.

Not keeping promises has, however, become the anomalous norm, from personal to international relations. There is no one to blame, except you and me, for we are society, as Krishnamurti often explained. I follow him also in his conviction that the real revolution should be in ourselves, in you and me, in the values we hold. If we study the politics of our country carefully, we will see that the truth found in many religions, that greed is the root of all evil, is true. The will to have and to have, if possible, all for oneself, is the hidden agenda of which all parties have accused each other. I have no reason to trust any government, however elected, that has not finally scrapped this item from its agenda, from the agenda of its members' minds.

Formal religion as contributor to loneliness

My earliest religious education was limited to biblical stories and poems. Living on an isolated farm, where no transport was available, we did not attend church services. This was fortunate; we had the benefit of reading the Bible without any formal interpretation attached.

Of these stories those about Jesus fascinated me most. A child needs unconditional acceptance. This I found in the picture of Jesus that my imagination created out of the New Testament narratives. In my mind's eye I could see him looking down from heaven, his dark eyes full of sympathy and understanding. All that was required of me was that I love him in turn, which was very easy then.

Today I know that had I grown up in a different culture, another person may have fulfilled this need or, better still, could have eliminated the need itself. But the choices of a child are choices of the heart, and they tend to be irrevocable. I still identify with the Christ, although the relationship has changed and is changing continuously. Stated maybe too summarily, he has become the Friend on the cross -- next to mine, and next to yours, if you wish. I'll have reason to return to this later.

Where does formal religion fit into this story? It began when we moved to where it was possible to attend church services. Children are ritualistic by nature and I liked the ceremonious atmosphere in the small village church. The sermons I appreciated most were those that recreated the stories to turn us into participants. Soon, however, other elements were added. In my early teens I was handed a book containing questions and answers. The questions rarely reflected what was on my mind, but I memorised the questions and answers, nonetheless. Fulfilling this duty seemed to guarantee continued acceptance by the Christ; I obliged, no, I excelled -- at a price: instead of living with stories I memorised eternal truths. The threat of eternal damnation, should one ever become disloyal to these truths, did not, one may say, escape my attention.

So, 'naturally', I became a theological student and a minister of the church. I will not comment on this. It is sufficient to say that love, the deep empathy with the person who is different from you, was often spoken of, and seldom realised.

Why? In organised religion formal correctness seems to be more important than interpersonal compassion. The explanation usually given for this is that conformity is important for group cohesion. Is this purpose, however, served by the strict adherence to formulas that almost always replace stories that emphasise mutual acceptance?

Maybe a new theology would work better than the old one? In almost all theologies, the original narrative that had inspirational power is replaced with a display of intellectual prowess. Formal religion is the replacement of the poetry of faith with pseudo-intellectual questions and answers. Why? What one says and how one says it become more important than what one does. You are allowed to isolate, to intimidate, to destroy a person who doesn't recite the prescribed formulas with push-button regularity. Is there a more acute sense of loneliness than when one has entered what one thought was a community of acceptance only to find that one is rejected simply because one prefers one single word (quatenus) to another (quia)?

Once again, I have included paragraphs from a life story simply because I couldn't find a more adequate argument.

But has the point been proven? Is it not inevitable that people will not only recite, but also reflect on the original poetry of a religion, and that they will then introduce logic that usually takes the form of prose? This I concede. These two, poetry and its logic, can coexist in peace and have succeeded in this for a long time in various religions.

A dramatic change is brought about, however, when a religion becomes insecure. This may happen because the original vision is fading or the social environment has changed. More often, however, this change comes about when it is challenged by another vision or when it is threatened by a militant ideology. Unless a religion's roots are deep it becomes confused. Like the threatening power it becomes rigid and intolerant. Representatives who act as men of unquestionable authority enforce specific formulas. The prescriptive attitude towards its followers is accompanied by an exclusivistic and militant attitude towards outsiders.

Christianity, for various reasons, has become insecure. When I was a student it was explained that the reason for this was the threat called `communism'. As a worldview communism has less influence today than Freud's early psychoanalytic views. So what is the threat now? More than 70 per cent of our society is said to be (nominally) Christian. The minimal requirement to be a Christian is to follow the example of Christ in caring for other people. The violence in this country, however, is, to put it very mildly, not limited to non-Christians.

Having considered many alternatives, I came to the conclusion that Christianity and religions related to it as monotheistic faiths are by their nature exclusivistic, intolerant and ultimately violent. If people in a traditionally Christian society are killing each other for ideological reasons, was the example not also set by the monotheistic religions active in our society? Is it only because the Gospel has become formalised? No, it is because of the frequent occurrence of the word `only' in the Christian and related traditions. `Only' means there are no alternatives, no other god(s) and no other way to God. The attitude of monotheistic believers has set the example for those who legitimise violence.

But don't all religions, someone might still ask, agree at least on this that we should be kind to each other, have pity with one another's plight, that we should, `in so far as it is in our power' (St Paul), live in peace with our neighbours? Yes, they all teach this -- but this is not all they teach. Those that also contain exclusivistic ideas encourage intolerance. The human species is characterised by excessive aggression. When a religion advises both acceptance and intolerance, human nature tends to tip the scale.

I want to radicalise these issues even more: we have created violent religions to have a `divine' legitimation for what is worst within us. We ourselves are therefore the ultimate cause of our separateness from each other. We are the ultimate cause of our loneliness. And the answer to all this is that we should keep our minds focused on what is pure, on what may lead us away from the animals we tend to become towards the divine beings we may become. The spirit of purity is the cohesive power of religions; united they can become a `third force' working for a humane society.

The ultimate question, however, remains: which of the monotheistic religions will give up the `only' first? Which will hang on to it to the proverbial `bitter end'? The answers to these questions will decide our future. Maybe loneliness will come to an end simply because there isn't a society in relation to which one can experience oneself as lonely.

I believe there is a better way.

Mystic religion or between the one and the all

In the second of the three articles of the Christian faith it is said that Jesus Christ was crucified. This is the central and, in my opinion, incontestable truth of the Christian religion, or restated a little less categorically: it is as true that to be human is to be crucified as it is to say that being human is `a being unto death' (Heidegger). It was the existential truth of the crucifixion that also kept Nietzsche from condemning Jesus as he condemned his followers. The more human we become, the more we will be crucified, the more we will crucify our lesser self. Crucifixion is, of course, also extreme loneliness. There is no loneliness beyond the anguish of `My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?' The path of coming to ourselves runs through the agony of rejection, the garden of despair and the cross under a sky where the God of our fathers is silent.

For teaching me this and helping me thereby to come to terms with human existence I call the Christ, in this here-now, my teacher, my brother, my friend. He has become me and I him. This is not evangelism, pietism, or conversion talk. One is not to tell lies; I may not, therefore, deny that in the historical relativity of a life called by my name it was the Christ who first revealed to me the profound mystery of life. There are and there will be others too. As they continue to become relevant, they too are becoming me and I them.

It is this intuitive understanding, the becoming transparent of myths and symbols, which is the effortless entry into mystical realisation. As I see it, mystic religion is not something paranormal; it is not charismatic excess. It is a new simplicity that is experienced as a gift, a new freedom, the freedom of letting go. This is quite different from giving up or not caring any more. One suffers the pain of everyone and everything; one rejoices with all creatures. The `knowledge of God' eventually becomes a not-knowing, the most comprehensive, all-embracing form of knowledge there is.

But is mysticism, one may ask, not simply a vague excuse, a poor apology for not believing in traditional ways any more?

I understand this objection; I also maintain, however, that there is a point where adequate language becomes impossible. Who can explain to everyone's satisfaction what is meant by `the peace of God that surpasses all understanding'? Intellectual understanding is part of the story; logic remains intact. While remaining logical, the mind, like a bird that has been feeding on the ground, now soars into the sky until it becomes almost invisible. The mystic realisation may also be likened to the `sudden recognition' experience: you cannot believe that you have not seen what was in front of you all the time.

I will now stop trying to describe and refer to the practical consequences of what I call religion in its mystic dimension.

We all have a shadowy demon companion; I don't want him to have power over us, so I'll follow ancient instructions and call him by his name: `the past'. This is the collective name for all we did to others and what others did to us. It shouldn't be a problem, of course, but it is. When an illness becomes epidemic, many remedies are recommended and many panaceas are marketed.

Let us look at the traditional Christian response to the burden of an undesirable past. Various terms are used, such as reconciliation and salvation; the best known and most abused term is forgiveness. All of them, however, imply the making good of a wrong. What they have in common, moreover, is that this making good is not in our hands. By doing wrong to each other we have also roused God's anger.

In the Protestant tradition there are (theoretically) no capital sins -- all and every sin is sufficient reason for eternal punishment. If I steal a loaf of bread from you, I not only owe you the bread; I owe God -- unto all eternity. The silliest mistake (cf Victor Hugo, Les Miserables) thereby becomes a life and death issue. To make sure that everyone is in a constant spiritual stupor, it is also stated that no one, even if he or she should lead the best possible life, can escape being guilty. The name of this game is `original sin'. If only we could have entered this existence without conception and birth! Then we may have stood a chance to escape from the wrath of God. However, even if you should be one out of, say, a hundred million cases of virginal births, you will soon enough do something wrong -- and go to hell.

Is there a way out? Certainly. Join a Protestant church and accept its teaching that God is forgiving -- provided you understand it in the following way: the God of love has punished his only begotten Son in our place. He couldn't forgive without this sacrifice, since then his divine honour would not have been restored. I will not elaborate on this. Historically it is easy enough to see that God was made into the image of a tyrant who for the slightest offence would come down on the poor trespasser with all his power.

What is important to note, however, is that in this theory forgiveness is seen as something extremely heavy, something so difficult that even the Almighty couldn't handle it without hurting himself. How, then, are we poor humans to cope with the sins and the accompanying feelings of guilt from our past? Even if we would love to try, it wouldn't help. You cannot clean up with human, that is, with dirty hands. How does one escape from this? The answer has already been given: go to the churches; they deal in the media and methods of salvation. But then, instead of giving you the key to freedom, they offer you a membership card.

Now let us return to the human condition in its individual manifestation. This theory of forgiveness doesn't work, not on the cognitive level, not on the emotional level and, I hasten to add, not on the ethical level. As an illustration I can refer to what Archbishop Desmond Tutu once said in a television interview: If I have stolen your pen, I can't just return sometime later and say I'm sorry while keeping your pen. I should give you back what was yours and then ask your forgiveness for having taken it in the first place. Christmas Humphreys illustrated it by referring to good manners. A gentleman (and a lady, I presume!) pays, he said; instead of trying to avoid it, one asks for the bill to be paid. If this is true of an eating house, it is even more true of life in its countless personal encounters.

I am labouring the obvious, you may say. Perhaps my method is that of labouring, but the issue is not obvious. I am referring to the abuse of what is called `forgiveness'. A person refuses to make good for an offence; instead he says God has forgiven him and he therefore has no further obligation towards you. This means he refuses to accept the consequences of his own choices. That, of course, is the end of ethics. In this sense forgiveness stands over against the principle of causation which means, inter alia, that I am responsible. That is, as far as I can judge, a much better medicine for the wrongs of the past than the dodging of consequences in the name of forgiveness.

But there is another side to it. Theoretically and practically retribution is a thorny issue. Take an extreme example: someone has raped and murdered a child; if he is hanged, is the punishment equal to the crime? My feeling is that it is not. Even theoretically it cannot be upheld: how does one assign a certain weight to a certain crime and how does one establish its appropriate punishment? The Afrikaans poet Van Wyk Louw wrestled with this problem in his play The fall of a righteous man. His conclusion was that appropriate judgement presupposes the omniscience and purity of mind that we associate with God only.

This is the theoretical problem. Of even more consequence, however, is the practical problem of retribution. Even if we would always take responsibility for our choices in our lives, there are wrongs we did or that others did to us that cannot be made good in any way. How is one to get rid of the destructive guilt feelings that sometimes go on for a lifetime? It is not sufficient that someone else tells us not to be so hard on ourselves. How then are we to continue a life after a serious crime has been committed against us or by us?

Our real problem seems to be that we think every crime has an eternally constant weight and that we can do nothing about it. In this fatalistic mood we overreact one against another or (more seldom) against ourselves. As long as we argue along these lines, our problem will not be solved.

I can think of only one way out of the sequence of crime and punishment and the obligation to believe in the traditional theory of forgiveness. I must change. That doesn't mean that I must deceive myself in the sense that whatever happens does not matter. It also does not mean that when a murder has been committed a court hearing and an `appropriate' punishment should not follow. Whatever happens after a fatal event cannot, however, eliminate the event itself.

That is why I must change. I have to make a decision about the weight I am going to assign to a traumatic event. I can survive it only by giving it no weight at all! Real forgiveness means that never again will we try to `balance out' what we have done to others by referring to what we have suffered; and never again will we, deep into old age, punish ourselves for the sins of our youth. Once we have come to realise this, our minds will be unoccupied, useful and clear again.

We are not on this level yet. This is proven by the fact that wrath is the standard of our society. Is it necessary? I once heard about a group of Indians in America who refused to offer resistance to the armies that attacked them. After a while the killing stopped. They triumphed over evil by not resisting it. Will our society ever reach this level of tranquillity?

I don't see it happening in the near future. The hatred that comes from greed, the aggressiveness that comes from the lack of insight into cause and effect, will lead us into ever-deeper conflict; it will bring about an ever-more-violent society. What most people want now is not change, but revenge. The death-wish has overtaken the wish to live a meaningful life.

But maybe the phoenix of hope will rise from the ashes of this suicidal period in our history. When it does, it will not take the form of a formal, an organised, an exclusivistic religion again. Only something beyond formal religion could restore our trust in life and our trust in one another.

The beginning of this process will be enlightened individuals. `Far from the madding crowd' (Thomas Hardy) they will reach beyond the boundaries of ideologies, doctrines and political declarations. Those will be the few who can become totally silent in their minds, without ignoring our cries of agony and despair. They are the ones that will become even more lonely than the rest of us. We will probably not even recognise them when they walk in our midst. Their voices will be heard only when all the declamations we still hear now have been recognised and rejected as meaningless and empty. Only then will the silence of a deep understanding evolve in our minds.

The future of civil society depends on these truly crucified individuals who have turned the despair of loneliness into the spiritual resurrection we need so badly. Their serenity will teach us peace. Supremely natural in their thought and conduct, they are the holy ones who reveal the ultimate meaning of our loneliness.

When will they come? They are here. We are them and they are us -- if only we would let it be.

PS I have deliberately omitted endnotes and a bibliography. If there is any truth in what has been said, it originated from more sources than I can remember or have ever heard of. `Falsities are thousandfold, \\ the truth is one and old' (Van Wyk Louw). What we seem to discover has been common knowledge since ancient times.

Mr J Steyn
PO Box 71073
The Willows
0041