I Do Not Understand
We are studying the Contemplative Tradition in Integrated Theology. The discussion of what it means to contemplate begins, and continues in a meandering flow of vague thoughts and confusing answers. None of us can come up with why we should do it, or even what why the writer of our reading thinks we should do it, other than the notion that it will "help us meet with God." This of course sparks more confusion about what it means to have met with God. How can we even know if we have? The questions are tossed out, and although attempts at answers are made, no one is making any progress. My pen stays still.
Vila and Reith contribute their own thoughts sparingly, allowing us to wrestle with our own frustration about the tradition's vagueness. (I don't know if professors expect us to call them by their proper titles in our thoughts, but I never do. It's too formal). After a while, Reith tells us, "We are going to do the Contemplative Tradition right now." He and Vila hand out copies of Psalm 22 along with laminated copies of an icon of Jesus' Crucifixion. "Make sure you take some paper and a pen to journal with," Reith calls out as we all leave to find quiet corners in the Honors' House.
Alone in an empty office, I sit sideways in a chair so that my stockinged feet are off the ground. I read Psalm 22. I try to focus on one line, without much success. No thoughts come. I take out the small icon and trace the lines and colors from the bottom to the top, letting my eyes absorb the details. Jesus is on the cross, situated between two mourning people, presumably Mary and John. Two angels are above the cross, covering their faces so that they cannot see Jesus' suffering. I stare at him. He stares back at me. His arms are outstretched, and I can see that the painter has gone to great lengths to show the blood gushing from where the nails have pierced His wrists. It is a gesture I have grown up seeing. It should be familiar, comforting, and good to see this picture. I ought to be thinking warm thoughts, but I don't.
Oddly enough, I start thinking about a science fiction novel, The Sparrow. I remember how I stayed up late with that book, laughing (sometimes guiltily) at the antics of Emilio Sandoz and his friends. I felt that I knew Emilio so well. There is a scene in the book when Emilio makes first contact with a group of aliens, and, in the midst of hearing their language for the first time, Emilio looks to the sky in joy, saying, "God! I was born for this!" Here is someone who falls into a deep and rapturous love of God and believes with his whole heart that his life is really meant for something. In the end, though, there is no more laughing or smiling for Emilio. He is left wounded, broken, and alone. God stops making sense, even though Emilio sacrifices everything for Him, even though he thought he did everything right.
I come out of my reverie still fingering the icon. It makes no sense to me. "What are you doing?" I want to say to God in the flesh. "Why are you doing this?" Years of Sunday school and teaching the Bible chronologically to little kids should have given me some kind of vocabulary for this moment. I should be the theology student of all theology students right now, able to articulate the how's, why's, and applications of Jesus' death. I should know this, I should be owning this Contemplative exercise. There should be words. Instead, there are none. All I do is sit there in that chair looking at Christ's bloody arms, wondering, "God, were you born a man for this?"
Thinking deeply about spiritual truths is something we are constantly encouraged to do by Reith and Vila. The truths in this icon are worth penetrating, I know it. I want so badly to be able to make it academic, to boil it down to some ideas and words. Hypostatic union would probably be a good starting place. I don't though. I go on sitting there, staring and tracing the lines on Jesus' straining face, feet and ribs until I finally come to my own conclusion. I write it down in large, dark letters in my journal:
Vila and Reith contribute their own thoughts sparingly, allowing us to wrestle with our own frustration about the tradition's vagueness. (I don't know if professors expect us to call them by their proper titles in our thoughts, but I never do. It's too formal). After a while, Reith tells us, "We are going to do the Contemplative Tradition right now." He and Vila hand out copies of Psalm 22 along with laminated copies of an icon of Jesus' Crucifixion. "Make sure you take some paper and a pen to journal with," Reith calls out as we all leave to find quiet corners in the Honors' House.
Alone in an empty office, I sit sideways in a chair so that my stockinged feet are off the ground. I read Psalm 22. I try to focus on one line, without much success. No thoughts come. I take out the small icon and trace the lines and colors from the bottom to the top, letting my eyes absorb the details. Jesus is on the cross, situated between two mourning people, presumably Mary and John. Two angels are above the cross, covering their faces so that they cannot see Jesus' suffering. I stare at him. He stares back at me. His arms are outstretched, and I can see that the painter has gone to great lengths to show the blood gushing from where the nails have pierced His wrists. It is a gesture I have grown up seeing. It should be familiar, comforting, and good to see this picture. I ought to be thinking warm thoughts, but I don't.
Oddly enough, I start thinking about a science fiction novel, The Sparrow. I remember how I stayed up late with that book, laughing (sometimes guiltily) at the antics of Emilio Sandoz and his friends. I felt that I knew Emilio so well. There is a scene in the book when Emilio makes first contact with a group of aliens, and, in the midst of hearing their language for the first time, Emilio looks to the sky in joy, saying, "God! I was born for this!" Here is someone who falls into a deep and rapturous love of God and believes with his whole heart that his life is really meant for something. In the end, though, there is no more laughing or smiling for Emilio. He is left wounded, broken, and alone. God stops making sense, even though Emilio sacrifices everything for Him, even though he thought he did everything right.
I come out of my reverie still fingering the icon. It makes no sense to me. "What are you doing?" I want to say to God in the flesh. "Why are you doing this?" Years of Sunday school and teaching the Bible chronologically to little kids should have given me some kind of vocabulary for this moment. I should be the theology student of all theology students right now, able to articulate the how's, why's, and applications of Jesus' death. I should know this, I should be owning this Contemplative exercise. There should be words. Instead, there are none. All I do is sit there in that chair looking at Christ's bloody arms, wondering, "God, were you born a man for this?"
Thinking deeply about spiritual truths is something we are constantly encouraged to do by Reith and Vila. The truths in this icon are worth penetrating, I know it. I want so badly to be able to make it academic, to boil it down to some ideas and words. Hypostatic union would probably be a good starting place. I don't though. I go on sitting there, staring and tracing the lines on Jesus' straining face, feet and ribs until I finally come to my own conclusion. I write it down in large, dark letters in my journal:
I DO NOT UNDERSTAND
I have grown up hearing about God. When I was fourteen, I began to fall in love with God the way Emilio does in The Sparrow. My journals are full of passionate responses to God's forgiveness, and seemingly endless notes from sermons I heard growing up on the mission field. Make no mistake: I love God and I know that He loves me...but I do not understand Him. If I did, His love and His forgiveness would make sense, maybe. This icon, with its expression of the divine sacrifice and love is incomprehensible to me. And it strikes me now that in many ways that is what the Contemplative Tradition is about: allowing myself to take in the weight of God's existence and seeing myself in relation to it.
As I leave Integrated Theology for the day, I remember back to the end of The Sparrow. Emilio is so broken, so hurt, and yet hopeful. He tells the story of a dream he had in which he walks down a road alone, saying "I don't understand but I can learn if you will teach me." That is my prayer, too.
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