A Sunday Sermon for Easter Day…
Is life a tragedy or a comedy? The ancient question is worth revisiting when Easter falls early and Spring is still striving to establish herself; when the happiness of a prospective holiday is tinged by terrorist threats at the airport; when tens of millions want Donald Trump to be the most powerful man in the world.
By tragedy, I don’t mean “when the morning cries and you don’t know why”, to quote the eponymous song of the Bee Gees. Such sadness, after all, can at least be touched by a heartfelt lyric. No. Tragedy is meaninglessness beyond reach. It’s what Nietzsche felt about the death of God: the sun is unhinged, the world has grown cold, we’re adrift in empty space.
By a comedy, I don’t mean that life’s challenges can be lightened by a well placed laugh, though they can. Rather, it’s the archaic sense of comedy I’m after, as in Dante’s Divine Comedy. This is the hard won realisation that life’s darkness is actually the prelude to the dawn of life’s broader completion. Comedy is the fairytale with a happy ending, not out of wish fulfillment, but because the sinister middle passage has been endured and has precipitated an awakening.
Writers like Christopher Hamilton, who has just published A Philosophy of Tragedy (Reaktion), reject life as comedy. Who can affirm that after Dresden, Hiroshima, Auschwitz? They plunge deep into the “suffering, failure, confusion and homelessness” of the tragic experience of life, and argue that staring it unflinchingly in the face is infinitely better than the other tragedy towards which comedy would entice us: easing the load with faux-meaning.
The tragic view is probably the default credo of our times. Consumer faux-meaning tacitly acknowledges it: shop or drop. It’s between the lines of cheerful self-help books, paradoxically implied in their cascade of upbeat tips and consolations: keep trying, because trying is all there is. I think it’s there in the growing trend for humanist funerals, which – understandably but in my view mistakenly – aren’t called funerals but celebrations. It’s as if the parent or partner is remembered on an island of care, and for an hour those present turn their backs on surrounding oceans of presumed indifference. Nietzsche saw it coming. If reality at core is no more than our folly and sufferings, all that remains is the fragile will to live.
Comedy understands that folly and sufferings are facts of life, but senses they are not the bare facts. There is always, eventually more to be said, felt, understood. It argues that tragedy’s claim to be squaring up to reality is, in fact, two things. First, a projection of fear onto the cosmos that is then experienced as a void; it’s what happens when we’re overwhelmed. Second, a refusal to give up being the author of oneself when, in truth, we never were nor entirely will be.
So, it’s different from the Panglossian belief that all things turn out for the best, or that suffering has a meaning. It’s rather that suffering has a place, just not the whole place. It’s the intuition that the blackest moments are black but can still be touched by love; that despair whilst easily defeating manic optimism is not stronger than Malala’s courage or Mandela’s hope.
Put it like this. There is a deeper logic to reality than tragedy allows. I wonder if it’s illuminating to ask why you can’t say, “there’s a lack of cold,” when you can say, “there’s a lack of heat.” The point is that coldness is the removal of heat, but heat is not the removal of coldness. Heat is the reality. Coldness can only be defined in relation to heat.
So too with love and fear, or gift and possession, or life and death. Fear, possessiveness and death appear sovereign when it’s forgotten that they are really forms of existential forgetfulness. Fear is a lack of love’s connection. Possessiveness is a denial that life’s a gift. Death is a part of life in a way that life could never be a part of death.
Which is also to say, Happy Easter.