"In Tenebris II" and Hospital Chaplaincy
Part 1: Contradictory Perceptions of Reality
A few years ago, I encountered Thomas Hardy’s poem In Tenebris II, and it’s been gnawing at me since. Good art does that. It’s an encounter that, when genuine, cuts deep and lingers for a lifetime. Reflecting on the poem, I've seen how it resonates with the work of hospital chaplaincy, a calling that drew me into raw moments of terror, contemplation, and worry. These reflections are an attempt to connect Hardy’s profound insights with the realities of my role as a hospital chaplain. Perhaps it will be Hardy’s brilliant poem, my honest reflections, or something else that resonates with you. What follows is Part 1 of 8.
When the clouds’ swoln bosoms echo back the shouts of the many and strong
That things are all as they best may be, save a few to be right ere long,
And my eyes have not the vision in them to discern what to these is so clear,
The blot seems straightway in me alone; one better he were not here.
The stout upstanders say, All’s well with us: ruers have nought to rue!
And what the potent say so oft, can it fail to be somewhat true?
Breezily go they, breezily come; their dust smokes around their career,
Till I think I am one born out of due time, who has no calling here.
Their dawns bring lusty joys, it seems; their evenings all that is sweet;
Our times are blessed times, they cry: Life shapes it as is most meet,
And nothing is much the matter; there are many smiles to a tear;
Then what is the matter is I, I say. Why should such an one be here? …
Let him in whose ears the low-voiced Best is killed by the clash of the First,
Who holds that if way to the Better there be, it exacts a full look at the Worst,
Who feels that delight is a delicate growth cramped by crookedness, custom, and fear,
Get him up and be gone as one shaped awry; he disturbs the order here.
“That things are all as they best may be, save a few to be right ere long,
And my eyes have not the vision in them to discern what to these is so clear,”
Value lies in those who see beyond the common eye, those who cry out against the complacency of the majority. Everything, they say, is as it should be, but the solitary voice from the outskirts murmurs otherwise. This dissonance drew me to hospital chaplaincy, inviting me into raw moments of terror, contemplation, and worry. In these encounters, I address deeper, hidden struggles, often overlooked. I don’t see myself as Hardy's narrator, but I recognize that trait in me.
The playful rhyme scheme (abab) contrasts sharply with the somber tone, reflecting society’s hollow optimism. “Everything’s gonna be okay,” families chant, while patients often grasp the untruth in those words. On my last day as a hospice chaplain, I visited a fourteen-year-old girl who had suffered an anoxic brain injury at six months old. Her mother, burdened by guilt and shame, had become her sole caretaker for thirteen and a half years. The heartbreak was beyond words.
Now, the girl’s life was nearing its end. Neurologists and cardiologists confirmed her heart and brain were failing, and her mother had to face this harsh reality. How could she? I sat across from her, alongside a social worker. After the doctors left, I asked her to share her story, revealing the depth of her pain.
“What happened?” I asked.
“A bath,” and “a ringing telephone,” the mother shared. “I was only gone a few moments.”
I offered words I wasn’t sure were true: “You’ve done everything you can, and now she’s telling you it’s time to let go.”
It felt audacious, yet the mother agreed, saying, “I know” and “You’re right.”
Then nephrology intervened. A young physician, not long out of residency and visibly uncomfortable, said, “The lab results show her kidneys are a little better than last time.” The social worker and I exchanged glances as the mother’s brow furrowed. Her eyes widened. Despite the girl’s imminent death, her kidneys showed slight “improvement.”
I couldn’t blame the physician for staying within her medical discipline’s boundaries, but the disconnect was stark. There would be no hospice admission that day. That glimmer of hope was enough to delay the inevitable for the mother. How could I fault her? That was ten years ago. Perhaps my eyes lack the vision to discern either.