When the Shadows No Longer Satisfy

A Dialogue on the Painful Mercy of Learning to See

“Now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face.”

— 1 Corinthians 13:12

The disciple came to the elder late in the afternoon.

For a long while he said nothing.

Finally the elder asked, “What troubles you?”

“I no longer know what is real.”

The elder looked at him.

“That is not always a bad beginning.”

“I thought you would tell me not to doubt.”

“Perhaps you are doubting the wrong things.”

The disciple lowered his eyes.

“For years I knew who I was. I knew where I belonged. I knew what God had asked of me. There were names for everything. There was a place for everything. Now I look at these things and they seem like shadows.”

The elder was silent.

“Do you remember Plato’s cave?” the disciple asked.

“Yes.”

“I feel as though I have been staring at the wall.”

“And now?”

“I don’t know.”

“Good.”

The disciple looked irritated.

“Why do you keep saying that?”

“Because you keep telling me that you do not know, as though not knowing were the worst thing that could happen to a man.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No. Believing a shadow is God is worse.”

They sat quietly.

After some time the disciple said, “But the things I am speaking about are not illusions. They are good things. Sacred things.”

“Of course.”

“Then how can they be shadows?”

The elder leaned toward him.

“A shadow is not necessarily a lie. It is something real whose source you have mistaken.”

The disciple said nothing.

“You can mistake the vessel for what it contains. You can mistake the place where God met you for God Himself. You can mistake the work He gave you for the reason He created you. You can mistake being needed for being loved. You can even mistake your idea of faithfulness for faithfulness.”

The disciple looked away.

“That is frightening.”

“Yes.”

“What remains if those things are taken away?”

The elder smiled.

“Now we are getting somewhere.”

“But that is precisely what I am asking.”

“And I am refusing to answer.”

“Why?”

“Because you want another shadow.”

The disciple looked at him.

“You want me to give you a new name for yourself. A better name. A holier one. You want me to tell you what God is making of you so that you can replace the old certainty with a new certainty.”

“Is that wrong?”

“It is understandable.”

“That isn’t what I asked.”

“No,” said the elder. “It isn’t wrong. But perhaps God loves you too much to answer yet.”

The room had grown darker.

The disciple said, “Then what am I supposed to do?”

The elder pointed toward the window.

Outside, the last light rested upon the trees.

“Tell me what you see.”

“Trees.”

“What else?”

“The evening.”

“What else?”

The disciple waited.

“Nothing.”

“Exactly.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t need to.”

The disciple sighed.

The elder laughed quietly.

“You have spent too many years believing that understanding is the same thing as seeing.”

“What is seeing, then?”

The elder became serious.

“Seeing is receiving what is before you without demanding that it become something else.”

The disciple was quiet.

“Who is before you now?” the elder asked.

“My mother.”

“Then love her.”

“What about everything else?”

“What everything else?”

“My future. My vocation. Where I belong. What will become of me.”

The elder shrugged.

“Shadows on tomorrow’s wall.”

The words stung.

“Those things matter.”

“Of course they matter. But they are not here.”

The elder touched the table between them.

“This is here.”

He touched his prayer rope.

“This is here.”

Then he placed his hand over his heart.

“Christ is here.”

The disciple’s eyes filled with tears.

“I am afraid that if I stop trying to hold everything together, there will be nothing left.”

The elder looked at him tenderly.

“There may be nothing left.”

The disciple stared at him.

“And then?”

“Then perhaps you will discover what cannot be taken away.”

Silence filled the room.

After a while the disciple whispered, “God?”

The elder shook his head gently.

“You are still trying to answer.”

For the first time the disciple laughed.

The elder laughed with him.

Then they became quiet again.

Night had fallen completely now.

The disciple could no longer see the trees through the window.

“Father?”

“Yes?”

“How will I know when my eyes have adjusted to the light?”

“You won’t.”

“Then how will I know that I am seeing truly?”

The elder thought for a moment.

“Perhaps when you no longer need everything to tell you who you are.”

The disciple remained still.

“And when the shadows return?”

“They will.”

“What should I do?”

“Do not fight them. Do not condemn those who still find comfort in them. Do not imagine that because you have glimpsed the fire you have seen the sun.”

The disciple nodded.

“And above all,” the elder continued, “never make the mistake of thinking that you are the one who escaped the cave while everyone else remained behind. Pride can make a shadow even out of light.”

The disciple smiled.

“So I know nothing.”

“Less than yesterday, perhaps.”

“And that is progress?”

The elder reached for his prayer rope.

“No.”

He closed his eyes.

“It is poverty.”

The disciple waited.

The elder began quietly:

“Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me.”

After a moment the disciple joined him.

There was nothing more to understand.

Nothing to decide.

Nothing to name.

The shadows were still there.

So was the darkness.

But somewhere beyond both, unseen and unpossessed, was the light.

And for the moment, it was enough simply to turn toward it.