by Mark Meynell
Douglas Adams has a unique place in literary history: he was the first to make science fiction funny. His breakout The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy started life as a BBC radio series in 1978 and it made his name. I remember borrowing a friend's set of the cassettes and almost wore out the tape. Adams remained consistently hilarious and provocative until his early death in 2001 at only 49.
A Big Hand Please
He went on to rewrite the scripts in novel form, which then inspired a further four novels to form A Trilogy in Five Parts. The second novel, The Restaurant at the End of the Universe, transports us by means of a 'time bubble' to the viewing platform at Milliways restaurant. There, diners can enjoy the finest cuisine in the cosmos (while being serenaded by the likes of the band Disaster Area, whose performances are so loud they must perform from an orbiting ship) and observe the future collapse of the entire universe. This happens on a nightly basis.
Now, Adams was a vocal atheist and religion was a regular target of his humour. In the book, Max Quordlepleen, the Milliways host, welcomes the various parties to the restaurant and he spots a party of twenty devotees of the Church of the Second Coming of the Great Prophet Zarquon. The spotlights turn to their table while Max goes on to say:
"There they are, sitting there, patiently. He said he'd come again, and he's kept you waiting a long time, so let's hope he's hurrying, fellas, because he's only got eight minutes left!"
They squirm; the multitudes guffaw. Then with faux-contrition, Max adds:
"'No, but seriously though, folks, seriously though, no offense meant. No, I know we shouldn't make fun of deeply held beliefs, so a big hand please for the Great Prophet Zarquon...' The audience clapped respectfully. '... wherever he's got to!' He blew a kiss to the stony-faced party and returned to the centre of the stage." (Restaurant at the End of the Universe, p81)
No prizes for guessing who that's aimed at. And after two millennia, who can blame him? What's the point of waiting? It's never going to happen now, surely? Which rather scuppers Advent, doesn't it, the season most characterized by waiting in the church year?
The Cosmic Joke
If there's one play to embody how much Western culture has been transformed over the twentieth century, a strong case can be made for Samuel Beckett's Waiting for Godot, which he first wrote in French 1948-9 and then in English for its London premiere in 1955. I've been thinking about it recently because it's enjoying a successful revival in the West End, with Ben Whishaw as Vladimir and Lucian Msamati as Estragon. It is such an ambiguous work: funny but cold, humane but despairing, intensely individualist but cosmic in significance. The two protagonists make resolutions but never move a muscle.
Of course, the play's running gag is the reason Vladimir and Estragon are on stage at all. They're waiting for the mystery man of play's title (incidentally, it's unlikely Beckett was representing God since he first wrote in French whose word for God is Dieu). They can't remember if they've met Godot and so have to ask. And they don't know why they must wait for him, but still, they wait. And then, when he fails to arrive, they agree to come back tomorrow. Later, they discuss hanging themselves. After all, the only object on stage is a dead tree (although it somehow gains a few leaves for the second act). But they don't have rope. So they agree to return tomorrow with rope.
Vladimir: We'll hang ourselves tomorrow. (Pause.) Unless Godot comes.
Estragon: And if he comes?
Vladimir: We'll be saved.
But moments later, the curtain falls with them motionless. And we know that Godot will never come. Which means...?
Out of the Gloom
So far, so gloomy.
I grant you that, so far, this is less than inspiring and certainly not standard Rabbit Room fare. But consider the Isaiah text that is so familiar at this time of year and so significant for its meaning:
The people walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of deep darkness a light has dawned. ... For to us a child is born... (Isaiah 9:2, 6)
Think of the context for these expectations: "darkness ... the land of deep darkness." But there will be a birth, a child unlike any other. It's easy to see why it's such a seasonal passage. But we skate too quickly over the darkness. Perhaps, this year of all years, when the world feels more turbulent than ever, we need to take care not to. We need to recognize the darkness for what it is.
In the northern hemisphere, Advent means winter: low temperatures, little sunlight, long nights. It is a time of gloom, of greyness, of darkness. And it seems interminable. So we must wait.
Waiting... It is no accident that life's darkest moments are often associated with the darkest hours. They are moments of confusion, lostness, despair even. And it's natural to wonder why it is like that. Must it be like that? As Bono cries out in Yahweh, "Always pain before a child is born... why the dark before the dawn?" Because sometimes, the dark feels like it will never end. We yearn for the light, like the night guards of Psalm 130:
"I wait for the Lord
more than watchmen wait for the morning,
more than watchmen wait for the morning."
Of course, nobody is going to bat an eyelid if someone longs for sunrise. We know it well enough. The sun always comes up.
But what if you're waiting for something that has never happened? Like when you suddenly start building a huge boat in the middle of a desert because you're convinced that one day everything will be several feet underwater? Noah's friends assumed he was a few fries short of a Happy Meal. And they scoffed. Who wouldn't?
What if you are determined to believe that because the Son entered time and space once, he will therefore do it again, but this time with glory on a global scale. What if you believe that this is as certain as the rising of the Sun? It sounds as ludicrous as the return of the Great Prophet Zarquon.
But that is what the darkness does. It makes the light seem inconceivable and impossible. It even distorts our sense of time, making it feel as if everything has slowed down, perhaps because we cannot get a sense of our space. But the Sun will Rise. And the Son will Come.
That is why I love the bridge to U2's "Yahweh":
Still waiting for the dawn The sun is coming up The sun is coming up on the ocean This love is like a drop in the ocean
Mark Meynell is a writer, pastor and teacher based in the UK and he's been involved with the Rabbit Room since 2017. He has been involved in cross-cultural training for the last 25 years and is passionate about integrating life, theology and the arts. He blogs at markmeynell.net.