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The landscape of life in today’s world is, no doubt, misty. The horizon gleams gray and grim with uncertainty, due to the continuing crisis of the coronavirus and the ever-present cultural and political tensions of modern-day America. In the face of this undisputed uncertainty, the temptation to take matters into one’s own hands - the cultural drive toward autonomy, certitude, complete understanding and control - burns as brightly as ever. The current large-scale lack of comprehension highlights man’s age-old desire to know everything and to clench onto control and freedom.
In this climate of uncertainty, I stumbled upon an unexpected insight into the dichotomy between the desire for certainty and the power of trust - that age old tension between the intellect and the heart, reason and faith - in Madeleine L'Engle's Time Quintet. Though the first book in the series, A Wrinkle In Time, is the most popular, the second book, A Wind in the Door particularly presents L’Engle’s wisdom concerning this divide.
Though L’Engle’s science-fiction/fantasy series was written for children, it is surprisingly applicable and complex: for, as J.R.R Tolkien and C.S. Lewis both argued, the seemingly simple scope of the fairytale is a prime place to lay out the truth of morality and the reality of transcendent beauty and delight for children and adults alike. On my winter break from college, I found in some of those classic, fantastical children’s stories (such as The Secret Garden, Ursula K. LeGuin's Earthsea books, and L'Engle's books, etc) unforeseen lessons and insights that have since been swirling about in my mind, causing me to wonder and consider.
Through A Wind in the Door, L’Engle paints the proposition that trust conquers uncertainty. In her story, faith overcomes the failed rationalistic, individualistic desires and tendencies of modern culture.
The story begins with teenage Meg Murry and her theoretical-physicists parents attempting to diagnose a certain sickness in Charles Wallace, Meg’s little brother. His illness is essentially an infection in his mitochondria. It is a cellular sickness within him caused by a cosmic sickness outside of him. With the help of a cherubim and other angelic beings, Meg and her friend Calvin go inside Charles Wallace’s cells to tackle this cosmic evil.
The work begins in uncertainty. While the world is in crisis, Charles Wallace is also in crisis. For all their smarts, the Murry’s cannot figure out the riddle of Charles Wallace’s sickness or the world’s sickness. But in this uncertainty - in this failure of “science” - a faith in providence and a satisfaction in smallness shines out in L’Engle’s characters.
For instance, Meg listens in to a dinner conversation between her parents wherein Mr. Murry remarks that “With my intellect I see cause for nothing but pessimism and even despair. But I can’t settle for what my intellect tells me. That’s not all of it” (98). Intellect alone only leads to darkness. Trust in the larger beauty and order - faith - enlightens. For the intellect alone fails to note the following:
“There are still stars which move in ordered and beautiful rhythm. There are still people in this world who keep promises. Even little ones, like your cooking stew over your Bunsen burner. You may be in the middle of an experiment, but you still remember to feed your family. That’s enough to keep my heart optimistic, no matter how pessimistic my mind. And you and I have good enough minds to know how very limited and finite they really are. The naked intellect is an extraordinarily inaccurate instrument” (98).
Reason needs faith. The intellect needs the heart, as Mr. Murry notes.
After Meg and Calvin and the cherubim solve Charles Wallace’s sickness by (essentially) surrendering to Divine love and showing this Christ-like love to their enemies, Meg returns to her daily life. She is enabled to respond with trust when faced with unsolvable problems because she trusts in a larger power that can solve those problems. Meg has been taught by her angelic helper that all she needs to know is this: “all the galaxies, all the stars, all creatures, cherubic, human… all, all, are known by Name” (192). The fact of a Namer, a singular Knower, is enough for us to know. And the fact of his glory, his preeminence, though known by the intellect, can only be fully felt and understood by the heart.
Meg ends the book by proclaiming this truth herself to her other, more practical brother when he asks jokingly if she was out counting the stars, saying that “We don’t have to count them… they just need to be known by Name” (240).
This picture of release struck me. Our post-Enlightenment world pushes the ideal of human knowledge and wisdom past its proper place, but L’Engle presents a picture - a conviction - of our incapability. We do not know. We cannot know. But we are known.
Proper wisdom is found, thus, in trust.
L’Engle’s view of the universe and humanity does not shun science or the pursuit of knowledge altogether - the story is built around a family of scientists who wonder at the world and long for understanding. Rather, L’Engle’s worldview recognizes science and the intellect in conjunction with smallnes. Science and the intellect are in service of faith and Divine love.
This perspective is one we in America today need desperately. Science cannot save us. Our continual clenching to our individualistic, godless rationalism only chokes us. The relentless pursuit of certainty will only sicken us further.
I must remind myself continually that I cannot know and that I am known. I cannot be rescued by human knowledge. Especially in this crisis of the coronavirus and our current political climate, I must remember that the attempts of man cannot cure or comfort me - cannot cure or comfort the ills and injustices weighing on mankind at large.
We cannot rid the horizon of its gloominess and its mistiness. Nevertheless, the reality of the Sun stands. The promise and the providence of Light remains.
All quotations taken from:
L'Engle, Madeleine, A Wind in the Door. (1973: Square Fish. New York, NY).
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