“So the price that must be paid by those who are privileged to live within a tradition is accepting a high degree of inherent tension.”
Ellen Davis, Critical Traditioning
We don’t like tension. Well, maybe I should just speak for myself. I don’t like tension. I like things to be clear. I like for someone else to give me the answer. I like my world to be in perfect harmony, and when it’s not, for there to always be an easy way out. And I don’t think I’m alone in this.
But there does seem to be one curious exception, one place where I prefer tension over harmony, where tension gives me a euphoric sense of satisfaction:
A little music lesson for those of you who aren’t familiar with the language, the tension that I so love in music is called “dissonance,” which is defined as “a simultaneous combination of tones conventionally accepted as being in a state of unrest and needing completion.” Looking at the sheet music for “Water Night” by Eric Whitacre, you can easily see where this dissonance is present. Generally, the notes are able to be easily stacked directly on top of each other. But in many instances of dissonance, the notes are too close together to fit in one line, so they stand slightly askew, two notes competing for the same space that’s just not big enough for the both of them. Dissonance in music is generally supposed to give you the desire for resolution. You hear the competing notes and you long to hear one fall or one rise to achieve some sense of harmony. But dissonance does something completely different for me. I want to hold on to it, I want the tension of it to continue into eternity. In Whitacre’s masterpiece, when I hear the words “And if you open your eyes…” a chill is sent through my whole body, my eyes close and tears begin to form. To me, it is the dissonance, not the resolution, that gives me a feeling of completion. The tension is the goal.
With such a love, even a longing, for tension in music, why do I seem to be so opposed to tension in relation to God? Why do I need clean, clear-cut answers? Why do I need everything to line up with my own sensibilities, allowing so little room for contradiction, questions, and uncertainty? The idea of “right” interpretation of Scripture has come up in all of my classes in these first few weeks of school, particularly in Hermeneutics. We seem to have so little tolerance for uncertainty. The possibility that someone’s interpretation that contradicts with our own might not be “wrong,” the possibility that multiple interpretations of one passage might be able to somehow coexist, puts us on edge. We hear the dissonance and we long for resolution. We cannot tolerate the tension.
But I’ve found myself asking, what if I could approach God and Scripture the same way I approach music? What if the many (many, many) difficult passages, instead of making me cringe, sent chills through my body and brought tears to my eyes closed in reverence? What if the tension of those passages, rather than the “resolution” of them through attempts to justify or disregard, gave me a sense of completion? What if tension was the goal?
This semester, I have come to even more deeply respect my Hermeneutics professor, Dwight Friesen. He seems to live in the tension of Scripture with such grace and openness. Certainly not disregarding his struggle, he is able to feel the tension that arises and still somehow follow the God of his faith. He allows the tension to enter the relationship without dismissing God or himself. Is the same possible for me? For you?
I’m curious. What happens to you when you come across a passage of Scripture that seems to contradict your view of God? What happens in your body? What thoughts come to mind? How do you attempt to resolve the tension? Do you think it’s possible, or even beneficial, to try to live in the tension?
Get ready for my first official, non-introductory post on my “new” blog. Prepare yourself for a topic that is both mind-blowing and profound:
Squirrels.
Yes, squirrels. I’ve been seeing them around a lot lately. I’m not sure if they are showing up in larger numbers these days, or if I’m just taking more notice of them. Either way, they have taken hold of my attention enough to deserve a short and mostly unimpressive blog post. After seeing another one of my furry friends walking down the sidewalk ahead of me this afternoon, I have come to (in my opinion) a remarkable conclusion:
I want to pet one.
I have grown up around squirrels my entire life and have never had that thought before, as well as I can recall. But I do. I want to pet one.
“In ancient times, bees were said to be vestiges from a golden age or the only animals to have survived unchanged from the Garden of Eden.”
– Bees by Candace Savage
The god Re wept and the tears
From his eyes fell on the ground
And turned into a honeybee.
The bee made [his honeycomb]
And busied himself
With the flowers and every plant;
And so wax was made
And also honey
Out of the tears of the God Re.
A Religious Text from Ancient Egypt
The story in my head goes something like this:
As God was walking in the Garden, he was suddenly overcome with a vision of the future suffering of his most beautiful creation, humankind. He saw their hatred for one another, the ways they would seek to kill and destroy each other. He saw their deep wounds, remnants from their shaky and chaotic beginnings, wounds given by other wounded souls. He saw the moments where they would be so overwhelmed with their suffering that they would curse the day they were born, that they would even curse God. Seeing all of this, seeing the tears of the crown of creation, God wept. God. wept. And as his tears hit the ground, they transformed into a million tiny buzzing creatures. God’s tears remain with humankind, buzzing in our ears reminding us of their presence, bringing life from one place to another, and creating the sweet, sticky, golden substance that reminds us of the goodness from which we were made, the goodness for which we were made. The bees testify to the presence of God.
Coming back from a recent backpacking trip, my heart was suddenly captured by a lake-side mountain. Most days, I keep my heart deeply hidden, attempting to protect it from the harm that seems so rampant as of late, protecting it especially from the God whose goodness has been called into question by the quantity of my own tears. But God called to me from that mountain, and I could not resist. He sang to me from that mountain these words:
“I saw God on a mountain
tearing at the sky.
I saw God on a mountain
with tears in his eyes.
He said, ‘Son, I used to know where I put things.
I used to know.
I could have shown you all the beauty in the world,
but now I need you to show me.’” — Panning for Gold, by Ben Sollee.
And I saw God there, standing on top of that mountain, holding his head in his hands, weeping. He looked at me, a knowing glance, a glance that penetrated my very soul. And I was suddenly struck with a thought, that God is a fellow sufferer. The things that bring tears to my eyes bring tears to his. For every tear I have shed, he has shed a thousand more. In that moment, I allowed God to embrace me, and I allowed the most desperate words I could ever speak leak from me, carried by the fresh tears tracing their familiar path down my cheeks: “I need you.”
It is these stories of bees and mountains, these moments of presence and mystical connection, that keep me tethered to my uncertain faith. It seems that right as I’m about to give up, to untie the old knot, God shows up, embraces me, and says, “Hold on, dear one.”
It’s been a while since I’ve written on here, and I’m hoping to change that. I want to begin writing again, chronicling my meandering faith journey, my thoughts on God, the Church, the seasons, the strange and wonderful world of therapy, and all of the (un)usual places where God seems to show up. I hope you will join me as I wander through this maze, trying to find my way out again, or possibly as I discover that finding the way out is not the goal, because this isn’t so much a maze as a labyrinth. Would you join me on this pilgrimage, as friends and fellow travelers?
Oh, how I hope you will.
For today, I will leave you with one of the (un)usual places that I have found God recently. This is one of the most beautiful pieces of music I have ever heard. I find myself both crying and laughing in response to the beauty of the God with whom I wrestle. I hope you can find God here as powerfully as I have.
(Note: Though I am generally opposed to the expectation that God be referenced using the male pronoun, God has been revealing himself to me lately as a male figure. So for this post, at least, I made the intentional decision of referring to him as a male. I also chose not to capitalize “he,” “him,” and “his,” in order to bring God down to earth a little bit. Offending is not my intention, so I apologize if anyone takes offense to either of those decisions. I’d love to talk to you about it, if it bothers you. Just let me know.)
