In his long poem For the Time Being, W. H. Auden presents two possibilities: the dreary littleness of now; the wonder of the shepherds who “have seen the Child.”
This time on earth, this “noon,” as Auden calls it, does feel bad to me. Waiting is not, for most of us, a pleasant experience. Our fellow believers, our brothers and sisters in Christ, are given us, in part, to keep us from despair, to remind us of our hope. We need them.
But we’re not condemned to dreariness. Auden himself was not condemned to it. I wish I had some sense, in For the Time Being, of those periodic “breakings-through” I experience in my own life—those moments when I know the kingdom of heaven is close, so close I can almost touch it. Those moments, too, when I’m reassured, reproved, sent, given words, delivered from bitterness and trouble, given rest. When I’ve cried out to God and been answered.
Auden possessed a first-rate mind; he is, at his best, a great poet, one of those we love for their intelligence. His apprehension of the faith is accurate and, more often than not, profound. But I want to know that he took risks, prayed heart-in-mouth, knew something of the sacrifice and fearfulness and joy of obedience, that he knew our Lord to be alive now, alive to him, Wystan Hugh Auden.
Here, right now, the sorrow, for me, feels sharper than anything in Auden’s poem; the intercession for others, their intercession for me, more piercing; the trust I’m learning, more perilous and more real; the hope, real hope; the joy, real joy.
I do remember that our Lord says, “Do not judge.” I may well be wrong about Auden. If so, I’ll cheerfully bear my reproof.
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