Today…
Today
aren't we feeling ourselves as 'sons of the same mother' rather than
'conspiring brothers'? Our nostalgias are sedentary, our security is
city-dwelling and our certainty gathered behind a line of defense.
Our topics are 'shells' rather than vast hostile spaces. Migration
frightens us. Maternal archetypes make us feel save.
Harmony
gathers us together, adventure divides us. We lost the taste to
celebrate the epics of the Father.
Our profound desire is dreaming of a return in the maternal womb.
Sedentary people inhabited by the phobia of the nomads, we spend our
time building protective enclosures and consolidating our
defences.
Our
tropisms draw us far from extremes towards the middle, towards
harmony more than towards disproportion. That 'man
passes man infinitely'
is incomprehensible to the multitude. We flee the prophets. To the
foolish adventure of spirit and heart we prefer the positive natural
obviousnesses. We seek our reasons to live and to hope in company of
scientists, administrators or ideologists.
The
rule makes us feel safe, the exception terrorizes us. Vis-a-vis
Abraham ready to sacrifice his son Isaac, Oedipus is
so much less worrying! And the God-Nature, the God-Necessity, and
even the God-Chance, are so much more reassuring than Yahwe of the
Bible.
For
our convenience and our utility we were monopolizing history. We thus
planned time. We structured its duration. We tamed the events. We
defused its provocations. We secured into continuity the urgency of
the ruptures and relegated towards insignificance the paschal
crossings.
In
our reign of symmetries it remains only little space for the
adventurers of hope.
Our reflexes are for withdrawals. The epics of walking towards the
Promised Land invests with a too long run and too remote a term to tempt
the middle-class availabilities. The Kingdom to come does not make
any more the weight in the balance of the immanent values. Parousia
is unceasingly exchanged against arrivals of more immediate
profitability. Eschatology opens too radically a too radical future
for not traumatizing the mothered children.
In
this continent of Utopia, the
invitations to tender go to the manufacturers of the best of worlds
and the insurers against all the risks. The building sites of the
Ideal City are covered with demagogic slogans which conjugate in the
present and the future the right for irresponsibility. 'One cares for
you' is spread out everywhere in large capital letters. Only some
furtive graffiti still say: 'You decide about your freedom'.
This
world has to find reasons which must suffice for its obviousnesses,
support its coherences and guarantee its lucidities, but to which it
is forbidden to doubt oneself and, most of all, to venture
elsewhere.
The
ideal wants to be a sanitized bubble where reigns the metaphysic
vacuum and from where religious concern and the thirst for the
extreme significances are driven out. A bubble where dead is
practically nonexistent. A bubble where the cries of suffering are
smothered. A bubble where chastity yields to hygiene and fecundity to
eugenism. A bubble which refuses the grace and the chances of
unforeseen events. A bubble where the initiated and and enlightened ones
eclipse prophets and saints. A bubble where the gnosis holds the place of
faith, progress that of hope and a vague humanitarianism of
charity…
Is there any space left, in our world, for the adventurers of
eschatology?
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