“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?
