The clock and light — no ordinary illuminators
Powerful and enduring symbols of how we think and live
Sixty years ago, I served as the rabbi of a congregation in Colorado.
Surprisingly, the small sanctuary had a large clock above the exit door. It directly faced the Eternal Light on the altar (Bema), as well as the Ark that contained scrolls of the Torah.
It occurred to me, after I left the congregation, that the clock and the light were powerful and enduring symbols of how we think and live.
The clock times us, harries us, goads us, makes demands of us. The light, on the other hand, comforts us, directs us, guides us, sustains us, uplifts us. The clock tells us when we must achieve success, victory, popularity. The light directs us to the depths of our being, helps us know ourselves, helps us live more deeply, love more keenly, dream more freely.
The clock warns “Get a move on, you’re going to miss the bus;” the light cautions “What’s the rush? Slow down, watch the sunset, listen to the birds.”
When a young couple comes into my study, before a marriage, there is one question I can be sure of, “Rabbi, how long will it take?” I respond, in order to put their minds at rest, that the ceremony will take about 20 minutes. They have calculated by the clock — parties, invitations, decorations, etc. Meanwhile I am thinking about a couple, who, in marriage will be facing some of life’s major challenges.
After Mahatma Ghandi was assassinated in 1948, the Indian Prime Minister Pandit Nehru told his people: “The light has gone out, I said and I was wrong. For the light that shone in this country was no ordinary light. The light that has illumined this country for these many years will illumine this country for many more years. A thousand years from now, that light will still be seen in this country and the world will see it and it will give solace to innumerable hearts.”
William Wordsworth’s (1770-1850) in a memorable sonnet, stresses the light above the clock: The World is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away a sordid boon! This sea that bares her bosom to the moon: The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; For this, for everything, we are out of tune; It moves us not. — GREAT GOD! I’d rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn The poet T.S. Eliot asks, “Where is the life we have lost in living?”
There is a vast difference between the expert knowledge of the botanist who knows all about flowers, and the rapturous joy which a person feels at the sight of a beautiful garden.
A physical scientist is capable of measuring the wavelengths of a symphony by Beethoven and making a perfect analysis of it. But listening to the triumphant chorus of faith of the “Ninth Symphony,” calls for a response, which comes from something deep within us.
A Rembrandt painting can be studied for its light and shades, its lines and spaces. But to confront it with the sense of something strange, elusive, and mysterious calls for that part of our nature which is in the realm of feeling.
In her helpful book “Twelve Steps to a Compassionate Life,” Karen Armstrong, an authority on the teaching of the world’s religions, asserts: “Religion is at its best when it helps us to ask questions and holds us in a state of wonder; and arguably at its worst when it tries to answer them authoritatively and dogmatically. We can never understand the transcendence we call God, Nirvana, Brahman or Dao; precisely because it is transcendent, it lies beyond the reach of the senses, and is therefore incapable of definitive proof.
Certainty about such matters, therefore, is misplaced and strident dogmatism that dismisses the views of others inappropriate. If we say that we know exactly what “God” is, we could well be talking about an idol, a deity we have created in our own image.”
On his deathbed, Johann W Goethe (17491832) the renowned German author of the dramatic poem “Faust” uttered these words, which might well serve us in our frenetic quest for life’s meaning: “Light, more light.”