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When, in due course, I told her that I had discovered Unitarianism, her interest quickened, the level of our discussions deepened and her questions became more searching. She was about to go on a Carmelite pilgrimage, to celebrate an important anniversary of the Order – perhaps its founding? – anyway she was going to Spain for a couple of weeks, to follow the footsteps of St Teresa of Avila and St John of the Cross. This meant a great deal to her and she hoped, she told me, that she might have a spiritual experience when she was there. But she couldn’t be sure – she knew she couldn’t count on it, and she was worried about how she would handle her disappointment if the hoped-for spiritual experience failed to materialize. We discussed this at length, and although I did my best I felt I hadn’t much advice to offer because, as we agreed, Unitarianism didn’t sound as if it went in much for spiritual experiences. My Protestant background might have made me an authority on garden flowers but as regards more spiritual matters my Unitarian religious identity seemed to be sadly lacking. Since then, I’ve often thought of that conversation. In its wake I came to the conclusion that it’s not so much the religion that is responsible for spiritual experiences as the person involved. I’m just not cut out for them. That’s why I feel that Unitarianism suits me so well – it’s rational and practical and based on the here and now – and so I don’t have to cope with the idea of visions or visitations or apocalypse or anything mystical or supernatural. But still . . . but still . . . do we Unitarians lack a spiritual dimension, and if so are we any the poorer for it? With this question in mind, and anxious to validate our denomination to myself, if not to others, I began to delve a little into my own past experience to see if I could come up with anything that could remotely be called a spiritual experience of any kind. I can’t honestly say that I did. I’m sure we have all experienced moments of a sudden rush of well-being, a feeling of inexplicable happiness, lasting perhaps for anything from a few seconds up to half a minute or so. I certainly have, and I could give you half a dozen examples without having to think, but I have read that these are the result of a flurry of activity in the brain when, for reasons that we don’t yet fully understand, the body releases more than the usual complement of endorphins or whatever chemical or hormone it is that makes us feel that all is right with the world. But desirable and enjoyable as these experiences are, I never felt that they were anything more than an extreme appreciation of the immediate circumstances of the moment – shared laughter with a friend, for example, or a walk in a particularly beautiful part of the countryside, or watching one’s children at the seaside. No, I’m looking for examples of experience at a deeper level – for moments when one is lifted above and beyond one’s real self to enter some timeless realm where the ordinary rules that govern physical existence no longer apply, where individual identity dissolves and suddenly becomes part of something infinitely greater – moments when one feels within reach of ultimate answers, able to see an opening into infinity and to realize with sudden blinding clarity – yes, this is what existence means, this is truth, this is the ultimate meaning of all things. And as soon as I began to get this clear in my mind I realized that yes, of course, I do experience such moments. But they don’t come to me in a church. They come in a concert hall, an art gallery, or in a theatre. And it’s the third of these that I’d like to talk about this morning. When I mention the theatre I should make one thing clear – I’m not talking about being on the stage…Don’t misunderstand me – I’m no actor. I’m a member of the audience. And, as a member of the audience, I have found that there have been instances when something electrifying happens between what’s taking place on the stage and what I experience in my seat. It doesn’t happen often and it doesn’t happen to order – it depends on an almost infinite combination of circumstances including one’s own physical state and mental alertness and also, of course, on dramatic build-up, a good play, the quality of the acting, voices, plot, dialogue, production, lighting – all those factors that combine to make a production what it is – but it doesn’t depend on great resources. A one-man or one-woman show can do the trick just as well as a lavish production with a big cast. During these moments, which are rare, unexpected, and intense, I come as close to a transcendental state as I think I’m ever likely to get. Organised religion has always known, of course, that religion and drama are but two sides of the same coin. This is why, centuries ago, the medieval churches took to the streets with their mystery plays and miracle plays. These travelling enactments of the great dramatic moments of the Christian story were efforts to embody the eternal struggle between good and evil, to clothe the gospel stories in human form, to place the human person within this context and to bring, in Aristotle’s phrase, the ‘pity and awe’ of the great religious situations and figures of the past within the comprehension, and thence the experience, of the general populace. Street theatre in this part of the world has long since diverged from those religious beginnings, although traces still linger in the religious festivals and parades in continental Europe to honour saints’ days or to display local relics or icons. Those medieval makers of mystery and miracle plays knew a thing or two, because the Biblical stories are perfect material for dramatization. You only have to read them to envisage them taking place on a stage. The action is hugely varied – sometimes on a cosmic scale with the forces of nature pitted against each other or against humankind, sometimes grandiose but on a human scale, involving the formation and destruction of kingdoms, and sometimes on a purely personal level, intimate and domestic. The characters are real people who appear vividly before us - arguing, discussing, confronting, triumphing, failing – the very stuff of life and the very stuff of theatre. Men and women are described against specific backgrounds – the action takes place in the temple or a house or beside a road or on a mountain or by the sea. Once the stage is set then props are indicated - there is a well or a tree in the centre of the little group of figures, or a bucket or a table, or certain items of clothing or of food or drink. Lighting is given its place too – the contrast between light and darkness is a feature of many Biblical incidents, and the spotlight is seen to focus on a central figure or to swing to a peripheral one as the crowd emerges from, or disappears back into, the shadows. We all relate to the dramatic portrayal on stage of characters and episodes such as these. However, from the point of view of sheer dramatic impact, it seems to me that it matters little whether the drama is medieval or modern, religious or secular, or whether it comes from our own western European tradition or from the Middle East or ancient Greece. Drama on stage whatever its origin deals in one way or another with the fabric of life such as we ourselves experience. It echoes our reality and thereby throws it into sharper focus. We relate to these situations intensely. We are these figures as they argue and group and regroup and deal with the issues that all humans have to deal with on one level or another as they live their lives. This is life. We, like these characters, have our exits and our entrances. Shakespeare hit the nail on the head. All the world is indeed a stage. But, this introduces the question – if all the world’s a stage, then where’s the audience? We may strut and fret our hour upon the stage, and in our time play many parts, but if there’s no one on the other side of the footlights to watch us and to respond, then the exercise becomes meaningless. A stage can only exist if there’s an audience.
I’ve been wondering about this for years, not just for the purposes of this address. When I was growing up, and indeed for many years afterwards, I used to ponder from time to time as to my role in life. It didn’t seem to be in any way apparent. I never knew what I wanted to be or do, and always envied those who did. Try as I might, I couldn’t find any pointers. I felt that I should make some contribution to the world in which I lived – indeed I wanted to - but I didn’t know how. I had no vocation, I wasn’t a performer or an artist or an administrator or an adventurer or a career person – the list goes on - and I knew instinctively that I lacked the drive, or indeed the wish, to become any of these things. Yet I was not at all comfortable with the feeling that I was a passenger. Life was giving me so much. It was wrong to give nothing back.
Jennifer Flegg |