The Other.
There are nights that are so still
that I can hear the small owl calling
far off and a fox barking
miles away. It is then that I lie
in the lean hours awake listening
to the swell born somewhere in the Atlantic
rising and falling, rising and falling
wave on wave on the long shore
by the village that is without light
and companionless. And the thought comes
of that other being who is awake, too,
letting our prayers break on him,
not like this for a few hours,
but for days, years, for eternity.
that I can hear the small owl calling
far off and a fox barking
miles away. It is then that I lie
in the lean hours awake listening
to the swell born somewhere in the Atlantic
rising and falling, rising and falling
wave on wave on the long shore
by the village that is without light
and companionless. And the thought comes
of that other being who is awake, too,
letting our prayers break on him,
not like this for a few hours,
but for days, years, for eternity.
What happens when we pray? What happens to us when we pray? But Thomas explores a more unsettling question: What happens to God when we pray? If prayer is indeed relationship, what kind of relationship can it be? Who is this "Other" that we dare to trouble with our words and thoughts and desires and fears? In the stillness of the night there are the noises of the natural world, and hearing has the heightened sensitivity of solitude and the otherwise silent nightscape. Silent except for the two tone cry of the owl, the bird of prey hunting in the darkness, seeing but unseen, dangerously silent; and the bark of the fox, its yelp having the right frequency to carry from distance.
Thomas is probing a theological axiom of the impassibility and immutability of God. He is imagining what it must mean that human prayers come from a swell in the deep oceans of humanity in extremis, and they rise and fall, rise and fall, wave on wave, on the long shore of God, not for a few hours but for eternity. Written like that, in prosaic clauses Thomas's speculative theology is startling enough. But written in the cadences of this poem, those closing lines evoke that strangest of responses, our sympathy for God, who is awake in the night hours, receiving into the reality of who God is, endless waves of human longing, rising and falling, originating in those Atlantic depths of existence beyond human telling, where hope and despair, love and loss, comfort and terror become waves which break on the shoreline of God's eternity.
"There are nights that are so still…". Psalm 121 is a night Psalm, and has a similar image: "He who guards Israel will neither slumber nor sleep." But Thomas has taken that affirmative confident confession of faith to a different level of meaning. This "Other" is, like Thomas himself, unable to sleep; or perhaps unwilling, because letting "our prayers break on him". The poem finishes with a cyclic climax. God's willing enduring of wave upon wave of prayers is not for hours, or days, but for eternity. Love is eternally vigilant, eternally enduring, eternally willing to bear the prayers of a broken creation.
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