On Being an Inkler, and the Dark

Way back in the sands of time (the 1930's-the late 40's, to be a bit more exact), an informal group of writers met weekly, either at the Eagle and Child pub in Oxford or in the rooms of C.S. Lewis, to read aloud unfinished works for mutual entertainment and criticism. The more prominent members of this group were Lewis (obviously), J.R.R. Tolkien, Owen Barfield, and Charles Williams, though any number of other people filtered in and out over the nearly 20 years the group met. This group called themselves the Inklings, and, while they were known for their good-humor, they also undertook a very serious task, which was to discuss the culture and form an appropriate response to it. This can be said to a greater or lesser extent of each of the members, but it is telling that at least three of them (Lewis, Tolkien, and Williams) came up with similar responses, born from their discussions and laughter over their weekly pint and pipe (notice the giant pitcher of beer next him at the end too).

In all three of these authors, we see the rejection of the desperate disconnection of the modern mindset, through the use of mythic or supernatural stories, in which the transcendent had a place. To be an Inkling was to seek an answer to the purported solitude of man in the cosmos, to seek to rehabilitate in the modern mind an openness to a world beyond the immediate senses, beyond the ken of science, which really functions as control. Simply put, it was to seek to restore the eyes to see.

The name "Inklings" was chosen for its double meaning. On the one hand, it can be seen as a tongue-in-cheek pun; these authors are spilling ink, producing little "inklings." On the other hand, it has the connotation of the beginnings of a thought, or of just beginning to apprehend something, or a vague idea about something.  This is the humility of the person standing before the immensity of life, just beginning to have an inkling of the presence of God, infusing it all with wonder. Even among those of us who see the connections (as the Inklings hoped to restore to us), it is still only an inkling of the intimacy of what's to come. To be an Inkling then means also being humble in the task of opening eyes: it is not done to shock or accuse, but to point at the heart-filling shape of the shoulder of God that looms.

But "inkling" in this second sense also carries a negative aspect: if we're only barely beginning to have an apprehension of something, that means that there is much, much more of it still veiled in shadow.
Think of it like this:

And this is the Dark, which is where I so often find myself in the spiritual life. I have no doubt about the immensity of the Father's love, just as I have no doubt about the rest of the moon, but I only see so little of it. The Dark can be a lonely place, but it can also be comfortable, like a child in the womb. Tolkien once wrote, "Not for me the Hound of Heaven, but the silent, never-ceasing appeal of Tabernacle, and the sense of starving hunger" (Letters, p. 340), and I think this is a very common experience, even among the most faithful of us (as Tolkien certainly was). What's interesting to note is that even for Thompson, the Hound was only really seen in retrospect, after years of struggle and suffering. But for most of us, I think Tolkien is nearer the mark. To paraphrase him, I have never known the pursuit of the Hound, but I have sat with Christ in the Dark and starved, and yet known this to be Christ's appeal of love to my own heart. And this is perhaps the most important directive for the spiritual life: do not give up. Do not interpret the Dark and the silence as abandonment, absence, or disinterest. See in it the inkling, the briefest fingertip of God reached to brush so lightly against your heart, and rejoice.