The Way of Perfect Faith

I.

Dawn seeped, at first, graceful into the gorge, insinuating itself by a thousand soft, sparse runnels, before it broke; spilled terrific influx over rugged-faced cliffs, tumbling blocks of golden light down steep walls; -- until, at last, it swarmed in languid flames over the stained-glass windows of the church, just tucked beneath the jutting rock.

Kaspar had paused to behold its vernal opalescence, flickered quick over the eaves and doors, as on hilts and shields of polished bronze. But now he turned with some resolve and slipped into the ragged path which led away and down the wild cliff-side. Below, the town awaited, and bread, and somewhere almost soft to lay his bones. If only in the valley grass, he could find a little place to stretch out.

He knew this town was no place for beggars, intent on immitating Christ. The people were too proud to give the little he required, for they practiced hospitality in the extreme or not at all. If they could not receive a guest in all due ceremony they had sooner shut their doors upon his face; which they most frequently did. How could one be a pilgrim in such a place? Poor Kaspar needed only a roof above his head, to stay the rain, a small patch of straw on which to lay, and a few dry crusts of bread. The latter, with some luck, he might find to stuff his belly, but for the rest, he knew, such modesty was unthinkable. He would undoutedly be turned away. There, it was roast lamb and featherbeds or nothing; back into the cold with you.

Gradually, the rocks gave way to green slopes, and the slopes to a level expanse. The first to meet him was a tiny cemetary on the edge of town, bordered by a stout, uneven wall of stones. Again, the visions came unbidden. Souls, like dull-green shoots, sprung up from the cadavers planted there in rows. They wisped but did not linger, and wound upwards, past the sky, into the empyrean, where they bloomed; downy, radiant, million-petalled, -- and overhung the earth. Great, emergent emblems of overcoming, they separated from the terrestrial mist, to gently air themselves in wafts of heaven. Not a one was ingrown, inverted, tucked back into the underworld, but every soul rose at its own gentle rate.

Past the garden of dead stood the houses, pale and angular, but hardly anyone out of doors. Only a girl involved in some obvious altercation with a man (her father?), clenching up her fists which, yet, hung passive by her sides. He seemed to be in the act of approaching her with some hostile intent, but had stopped, suprised by her courage. She stood rigid, imperious, defiant, -- still a child, but lit up, somehow, with a strength which belied her tender years. In no uncertain terms, before his strained, bewildered expression, she exclaimed,

"No! You are wrong. I know who I am. I am honest and good. And you have never seen me."

Kaspar loved her at once, and wanted, if he could, to help her.

"What is this?" he asked, setting down his satchel and stick.

"Mind your business," the man replied, casting only a sidelong glance.

"God has placed you in my path," said Kaspar, somewhat politely, "so, it would seem our business is the same."

Now the man looked full upon him, his curiousity piqued by the strange and subtle words. But in a moment his gaze was back upon the girl. She had not wavered and, rather, seemed only to have solidified, more determined than ever to make her point. He understood it. A moment later, as if exhausted, he had turned and disappeared into the house. Her fists relaxed. Her whole being relaxed. She looked, for the first time, upon Kaspar, as he slung his bag over one shoulder and leaned upon his slender staff. She could see he posed no threat, but her temper had not entirely dissipated.

"You should not have involved yourself," she said. "I needed no help."

He only smiled and gave a scarcely perceptible nod.

"You're a beggar." Her eyes scanned him over as she relaxed a little more. "Do you need food?"

His smile widened, but he replied, "I dare not ask you. Your father's plainly upset and would not, I think, look kindly upon you showing me that kindness."

"It's fine," she said. "I have an apple here, in my coat."

He received it from her hand and bowed, as if a king had bestowed upon him some rare honor. The girl smiled wryly.

"You are strange," she said.

"I am Kaspar," he replied.

"Clara," she said.

"Very pleased to meet you."

"You are a religious man," she asked him.

"I am. And I'll say a prayer for you, in return for this kindness."

"Very well, " she said. "I will take you to John Bell, the blacksmith. He's a good man. Maybe the only one in town. He'll give you a bed, if you seek one, and a little bread for your journey."

"Then I will say two prayers for you," he smiled, "and another for Mr. Bell."

"If it please you. I am not a believer myself, but I have sympathy for those who are devout."

"That sympathy is your faith," he told her. "You believe as well as I."

She put a hand on her hip. "You do speak strange," she said.

"My religion is only a construct of symbols," he explained. "Like a church, built by the hands of men, to reflect a truth which has no visible form; or, rather, too many forms to countenance all at once."

"And what truth is that?"

"Why, love, of course. Fellowship, gentleness, charity, and the like."

"Then I am, indeed, a believer," she smiled, "for I do see these things, and I see them in your Christ."

"They are perfected in him," he told her, "and not difficult to see."

"I understand. Now let me take you to John Bell. He'll want to speak with you, I'm sure."

So they set off, and it was not long before they came to a little house, smaller than the others, and less encumbered with both ornament and artifice. John Bell himself emerged, as if expecting their approach. A plain and ruddy man, with soot upon his skin, he gave a broad smile and stuck out his hand, which Kaspar shook at once.

"You've brought me another one, Clara," he said.

"This one is peculiar," she told him, smilingly. "You'll have much to discuss."

"I'm Kaspar," said Kaspar.

"John Bell."

II.

It wasn't long before the two men were seated in John's home beside a crackling fire, deep in conversation. Though unadorned, the place was welcoming enough, for all the warmth shown by its tenant host. Just three icons hung on the walls; simple, unassuming representations of the Virgin, of Christ, and Saint Anthony of Egypt. John sat leaning forward, engrossed in listening, while Kaspar reclined.

"Do go on," said John, after a pause.

"What more shall I say?" Kaspar laughed good-naturedly, and sipped his steaming mug of nettle tea.

"Whatever grace inspires. Your words are more than I have heard in many years."

"Are many words a good thing?" asked Kaspar, with a provocative glint in his eye.

"If they are such as magnify the Lord, and kindle faith in a heart not gratified by greater silence."

"Very well, then. I was speaking of the inward life. The life of receptivity. God acts, and man endures. How shall I put it? There is an ignorance which is without faith and an ignorance which is guided and inspired by faith. But all true knowledge is of God, belongs to God, and lies hidden in God. The way of pure and perfect faith is a complete abandonment to the working of His holy will. One walks in darkness, but is illumined by faith, if only one places one's trust in the Lord. The path itself remains obscure, mysterious, but each successive step is already a homecoming; a triumph over fear and doubt. Let God direct your steps and fill you with peace always, though all around you swarm the cries of the afflicted and the damned. Place your hope in Him, and you shall discover that you have already arrived; the journey is destination enough."

"My friend," exclaimed John, with a smile as broad as the sun, "I know I have heard much of this before, and I feel, somehow, somewhere, that I have heard all of it before, yet it is always new and always so welcome to my ears. How can this be?"

"Such truths are eternal, and the depths of the soul into which they fall are infinite. How could we ever be filled? Rather, we are only reminded of our deepness, for such words do not sparkle and flare-out upon the surface of our being, but drop as far as we can hold them, and disappear into a great emptiness within. They are like torches cast into a bottomless abyss; they illuminate the walls as they descend, and what was blackness is, for an instant, clear as day, before to blackness all returns."

"Well put, sir. Then cast more light into my depths, that I may know them, if only as depths."

"The silence speaks clearer than I can. And nature has her eloquence, which man cannot approach. If we become deaf to these, a few words, or even a brief discourse, should suffice to recall their brilliance. But then one ought to rest, and listen again for what was lost."

"It's true. And I understand well, now, why you spoke so slowly, and paused frequently between each adoring sentiment. In those respites, I felt the substance of your words. What my mind could have snatched up in an instant, my soul took longer to digest."

Kaspar made no reply, but silence was a clearer sign of his assent than any sound could have been. He sipped quietly at his tea and took in the atmosphere, as if relishing every second. The subtle presence of God had come upon them. It was enough to let it be.

Still, a moment later, John could not contain his desire to question Kaspar more deeply as to the particulars of his faith. He seemed ashamed to break the silence, but it was soon plain to him that Kaspar did not resent in the slightest these expressions of intense curiosity.

"Some minutes ago, as I was preparing our tea, you spoke of Christ as of a symbol. I must admit, it struck me as odd, and a little frightening. You have every mark of a man of true and solid belief. But do you mean to say that Christ, as you see him, is not entirely real?"

Kaspar did not hurry to respond. He expected this, and had given his response to it many times in the past, only to be gravely misunderstood. Yet he felt that this man, John Bell, might be prepared to understand his meaning. He sipped slowly on the tea, savoring its taste, and paused some moments before he spoke.

"Christ is as real to me as this cup, and more so, for he will outlast this cup, being made of sterner stuff. And, yet, he is an idea. I do not say 'a mere idea', for, to my mind, there is nothing more... more solid (if I may use the word in a spiritual sense) than an idea, and there is no idea more profound to me than Christ. He is a symbol for something which transcends my ability to conceive it, and yet he is entirely himself. He is a vision, an apparition, as it were, in the mind of men, -- yet, there is, in him, a power to effect world-shaping events. The mind of man reaches to its very height, almost beyond itself, in order to take possession of this idea, and to be, in turn, possessed by it. God is, in fact, incarnate in this idea, and this idea, Christ, is incarnate in the flesh of mankind, whenever we speak or act upon its inspirations."

John seemed simultaneously puzzled and enlightened by this explanation.

"Do you mean to say that he did not really incarnate in the flesh, historically, as a man?"

"I mean only that such distinctions are as far beneath him as fact is beneath truth."

"There is something Platonic in your theology, then," said John, who had some acquaintance with the Greeks and their philosophies.

"Yes," said Kaspar. "Platonic, Gnostic, or whatever you desire to call it. My notion is that this is to read the spirit, and not the letter, of the Word. Christ is incarnate, but he is incarnate in us; as present here and now as he ever was anywhere."

"I think I understand. And though I choose to believe differently, I cannot fault you for your perceptions, which are beautiful in their own right, and of a highly spiritual type. For me, though, he was a man, flesh and blood, bound by time and space, and, yet, no less transcendant than you see him. He was everything you say, and more, -- or less."

"Sometimes I think I would like to have your manner of faith."

"It is simple, is it not? The faith of peasants, I know. Of children."

"Indeed, it is."

And they sat there, sipping tea, reflecting on things too miraculous for words. Between them danced a kind of breeze of brotherly regard. Each allowed the other to be himself, and was not threatened by the space between them, but rather excited by the mystery that space disclosed. Though their beliefs were different enough, they were still identical in what was most essential. Christ was Christ, however you saw him; a harbinger of love, acceptance, and uncommon light.