A Memory of Magic

With my mask on and ear plugs in I am immersed in the same sense of womb-like isolation that I remember as a child: trudging up the gravel drive of an early winter morning, buckets of pig slop hanging heavy from my arms and slushing against either side of my Wellingtons, fur rimmed hood pulled over my head and zipped up completely, leaving me peering out of a warm tunnel at the darkened frosty path ahead. 

In this moment isolation has been in measure forced upon me by the strange laws of Covid on Aircraft. But I have taken ownership by adding ear plugs which completes the effect in a pleasing fashion. There are momentary and nonsensical dissonances where we the passengers remove our masks en masse to consume small packets of salty snacks and sip sparkling water. My ear plugs are likewise removed to communicate with the hostess. Then, having somehow avoided contamination during this brief period of insanity, I dive back in to the safety of my cocoon.

During one of these warm still periods, the plane gently descending over a night darkened and rain softened Seattle, I stare out at the miniature roads and houses, wondering once again at the myriad strangers represented by each light. Suddenly, from just over treetop height, a lonely junction between two roads drifts into view. Golden hooded traffic lights stand at the four corners, pillars surrounding a temple court. Dipping garlands of telephone wire enclose the space, glistening with mist. Street lights cast a hallowed glow over the scene; warm, yellow and familiar. Darkly emerald trees stand outside the crossroads, fading to black. I see the form of something archetypal stirring, but it passes before I have time to attempt a photograph. It remains clearly in my mind, where I know that a picture would have blurred and misrepresented what I saw so clearly.

Surely there is a magic when things meet: certain junctions of roads; meetings of waters, cloudy & clear; dialog between intelligences; wine & food pairings - or even the stark contrast of complimentary tastes or colors themselves. Saunas and cold plunges. The Incarnation. The wind whipping against a stationary figure high on a cliff edge. Candlelight in a darkened window. I use the word "magic" because I speak of things greater than the sum of their parts. There is a little light let in from somewhere quite other.

There are no doubt scientific rules that govern such experiences. I remember once hearing a worship leader explain that certain chord progressions led people into a desired emotive state. At the time I was offended: I thought at the time by the idea that the sacred could be engineered - as though sacred means "in defiance of natural laws". On closer inspection this explanation makes no sense whatsoever. While the word "supernatural" does suggest something that is above the laws we are normally governed by, in actual fact any such thing must necessarily be a fulfillment of these laws rather than the destroying of them.

I think perhaps what remains irksome in my memory is that a person wished to use this science to create an emotional state in others during a time of worship - when surely we should be most free from human manipulation? More than that: for this to be done to the congregation without their knowledge and free will. This in an important addition because we often deliberately go to music to have our emotions manipulated - anyone who goes to a concert would leave unsatisfied if they had not been moved during the performance. But in the case of worship there is the hope that "the anointing" just happens - a kind of magic, if you will. We don't like the idea of being manipulated - even though it stands to reason that we are being manipulated during most of our waking hours, and perhaps as a result during some of our sleeping hours also. Perhaps the best leaders of men are those who manipulate while being  unconscious of the fact that they do so? A cynic would say "while appearing unconscious".

The modern day wizards of Hollywood strive to reach this magic. Yet it is far less often attained than the existence of some kind of science behind the scenes would suggest. There are so many multi-million dollar flops. Bishop of Durham style: "all the right ingredients but nothing has risen"...  (reference: Gerald from "The Sacred Diary of Adrian Plass!) This is hard to understand. One has the idea that with enough money involved plus intention, anything is possible - but this is not apparently the case.

Once achieved, even the best of these moments is merely the whisper of something beyond; a hint of what must be the true magic. As though the wind stirred the trees and they almost spoke.