Don Pesci: Simone Weil’s faith amidst the world’s agonies

Simone Weil (1909-1943)

VERNON, Conn.

When you were very young, in college, you ran across some authors, almost by accident, who took your breath away, so lucid and creative were their minds. And you promised yourself – someday I will return to your table and feast again on your wisdom. Will it be as nourishing then. you wondered, as it is now?

Simone Weil (pronounced VEY), whom Albert Camus thought was the most courageous person among the writers of his day, some of them, including Camus, literary giants, was hauled into the Christian faith by the following George Herbert poem:

Love (III) 

Love bade me welcome. Yet my soul drew back

                              Guilty of dust and sin.

But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack

                             From my first entrance in,

Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning

                              If I lacked any thing. 

A guest, I answered, worthy to be here:

                             Love said, You shall be he.

I the unkind, ungrateful? Ah my dear,

                             I cannot look on thee.

Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,

                             Who made the eyes but I?

Truth Lord, but I have marred them: let my shame

                             Go where it doth deserve.

And know you not, says Love, who bore the blame?

                             My dear, then I will serve.

You must sit down, says Love, and taste my meat:

                             So I did sit and eat.

 Weil, whose parents were of Jewish background, was strongly tempted to join the Catholic Church but resisted, she wrote in letters to Father Jean-Marie Perrin, a member of the Dominican order, because she felt her place was outside formal structures. She could best serve from the outside, looking in.  And she loved what she saw.

Five years after her soul had been besieged by Christ, she knelt for the first time at the shrine in Assisi and persuaded herself at last to say the Pater Noster daily with such attention that she felt at each repetition Christ himself had “descended and took her.”

Her’s was a hard mind and brilliant, like diamonds. Her religious experiences did not – could not – separate her from the agonies of daily life. She was driven by the wild horses of her personality never to separate herself, in any fashion, from the misfortunes of others. For this reason, she refused for a time to leave Paris, then occupied by Nazis. She eventually joined Gustave Thibon, a lay theologian in charge of an agricultural colony in the south of France. Later, she would petition Charles De Gaulle to parachute her into Paris. He refused.

She worked in the vineyards with peasants until her health, always fragile, broke down.  At first Thibon mistrusted her motives. She had already attained a reputation in Paris as a radical intellectual, and here she was perversely “returning to the soil,” eating what peasants ate, sleeping as they slept, clothed in poverty, and giving lectures to them on the Upanishads.

In time, Thibon became closely attached to her – as did many others with whom over the years she had established close contact. It was to Thibon that she entrusted her journals and occasional jottings, which he decided to publish after her death, caused in part by her refusal to eat any more than French soldiers had at their disposal. She died in exile, in London, in 1943.

Fr. Perrin, the anvil upon which she hammered out her thoughts on Christ, was a great friend and confidant. In the introduction to Waiting on God, a invaluable collection of Weil’s letters and essays, Leslie Fielder writes, “One has the sense of Simone Weil as a woman to whom ‘sexual purity’ is as instinctive as breath; to whom indeed any kind of sentimental life is scarcely necessary. But a few lines in one of her absolutely frank and unguarded letters to Father Perrin reveal a terrible loneliness which only he was able to mitigate to some degree and vulnerability which only he knew how to spare: ‘I believe that, except for you, all human beings to whom I have ever given, through my friendship, the power to harm easily, have sometimes amused themselves by doing so, frequently or rarely, consciously or unconsciously, but all of them at one time or another.…’”

For Weil, who suffered from crippling migraines for a good portion of her life, suffering is not a nullity. Nor was it a nullity for Christ pinned to a cross: “…persevering in our love, we fall to the point where the soul cannot keep back the cry ‘My God, my God, why hast though forsaken me?’ If we remain at the point without ceasing to love, we end by touching something that is not affliction, not joy, something that is the central essence, necessary and pure, something not of the senses, common to joy and sorrow – the very love of God… Extreme affliction…is a nail whose point is applied at the very center of the soul, whose head is all necessity spreading throughout space and time… He whose soul remains ever turned towards God, though pierced with a nail, finds himself nailed to the center of the universe…at the intersection of creation and its Creator…at the intersection of the arms of the Cross.”

It is nearly impossible for the postmodern, materialistic mind to believe that such airy effusions are other than poetry, and dangerous poetry at that. But if postmodernism wishes to argue the point with Weil, its arguments will lack conviction; for Weil’s larger point is that the believing Christian is, in truth, a slave to the truth, a convict of Godly love. To attend is to love.

It may shock the shriveled, inattentive mind of postmodern academics that Herbert’s poem, which opened to Weil a window on the splendor of Christ the criminal, is not poetry either. It is the life-giving breath of God.

Don Pesci is a Vernon-based columnist.