from Gilead by Marilynne Robinson, one long prose letter from a devout father to his son, near the end of his life, haven't wanted the book to end
Time, like an ever-rolling stream,
Bears all its sons away;
They fly forgotten, as a dream
Dies at the opening day.
A thousand ages in Thy sight
Are like an evening gone . . .
No doubt that is true. Our dream of life will end as dreams do end, abruptly and completely, when the sun rises, when the light comes. And we will think, All that fear and all that grief were about nothing. But that cannot be true. I can’t believe we will forget our sorrows altogether. That would mean forgetting that we had lived, humanly speaking. Sorrow seems to me to be a great part of the substance of human life.
The significant things so often are invisible. Beneath circumstance our hearts move in directions, slowly, quickly, surely, unsurely, true. And we wonder, I wonder, how did my heart start going this way? What providence is there in this?
Last year, a weekend in New York, a small movement in the direction of faith went underneath a reunion of friends who hadn’t been together for a while—all squeezed into an eclectically clad trinket filled apartment. Warm. I was a guest, the future was—strange, quiet, frightening. My faith had unraveled to the point that nothing seemed to matter or make sense anymore, and words, words, well I was trying to muster them, unable to speak to the God who knew all things.
It was a rushing, unexpected breath of grace, of joy. Life really. In that room full of Christians, for the first time in a long time, I sat and drank. They loved each other, it was sure, and a fellow whom I had met at L’Abri in London two years prior just coincidently happened to be there. We didn’t talk much, he said one thing really that may have came from nowhere but so happened to be the thing that needed to be said. How he felt like back when he was wrestling with his faith, that God respected his space. Space. Mercy. It hovered over me in a crowded hallway.
Another fellow was there, tall, with bit of a swagger, wearing kindness on his pockets, and had a heart that was open in a way that kicked me excuseless. I was pummeled, pummeled to the floor, only to look up to remembering when I had believed that doing things mattered, that I had a calling, and that redemption was the thing. My anger felt like spit on a violin playing myself a victim; and the truth was—the truth was, I was afraid. Hoarding so many fears in my pockets that there was no room for faith, no room for a God that had broken into a broken world with His son.
Pain is a problem. The pain of numbers. The pain of colors that darken. It makes no sense. It is never ever convenient, never wanted, and certainly never pursued. It has a mind of its own, and it knows we won't fit it into our schedules. We prefer the distraction that numbs, and the whys that are paralyzing. That question, why, can get us to feel empathy that may go deep but not far. And dare I say this, there can come a time when the noble whys can turn sentimental, bitter, and lead only to more darkness and apathy. There is a time for mourning, for silence, and yes even the questions. I believe they are as necessary as Job, as Christ on the cross. However as comforting as it is to long for redemption, it cannot take place if we do not take part in this—suffering. I speak to myself.
I am horrible at accepting loss, at letting go, and it cripples me, cripples my ability to reach out to others, to be generous with the generosity that has been poured on me. Generous enough to imagine beauty rising out of pain. I am only one person, a whole lot of too much junk weighs me down, and yet, and yet, somehow if I would believe, God might pour himself out through me.
What I want to say about this year, is. I don’t know. I guess a little taste of providence pulled some broken strings together, a little bit of hope regained hold—and no amount of circumstances could have outweighed the burnt edges of my faith, how they needed to be healed.
The more I have tried to control the outcomes in my life, the more humorous has been the result. And this year, I was okay. Even while a dentist yanked out any wisdom I had left; while I watched my weight fall off with the milk going down the drain; while I felt the sun beat on me all the way down the east coast, while I sat silent next to my mother in her rocking chair, and while I loaded my friends’ underwear drawers into U-hauls and SUV’s.
Somehow—and I cannot explain this to anybody, not even myself, despite a full speed run into oblivion—I am still a Christian. A mess of a Christian, who sometimes hears the naggings of a nineteenth century prophet during a perfectly fine sermon, who is so dramatic and prone to pride that nothing but a thorough wallop will do, who knows what it is like to be foolish, and who knows the severe kindness of a God who will never ever leave. And these Christians, yes they sometimes pain me, but I am apparently one of them, and cannot be on my own, none of us can. Uprooting—it has been the way of things, and I am listening, waiting, yes afraid, and I don’t know why I am not going crazy except that mercy keeps finding its way under my feet.
Hesitation’s voice requires discernment and grace, distinguishing between wisdom’s call and fear’s great pull, perhaps too much of neither, or a little enough of both. I know what it is like to ignore the quiet whisper that says wait, burrowing my way through tunnels I am not ready for, coming out with scraped knees and the trouble I have dug. Too often I have been running away from something instead of running toward. Taking particularly drastic measures to escape grief, and its wild and boar-some call has turned out to be the damn grief itself. So sit with it already, it says, and you might actually get somewhere. God has done so much in Massachusetts, even when I have thrown my laces hard to escape it. Faith then, must lie somewhere ready, in action, slow, inaction, thought, soft, tuning in all the time to what God might be saying in the drift. He speaks. He wounds. He heals. Yes, He knows all things.
A weekend. A room. A voice. A year. A tremble in the direction of trust. A love that penetrates and wrecks all plans. Disappointment will always will be there, so long as we are living among other humans. What amazes me is the way our hearts keep on tripping and going when we dare to dance with each other’s clumsy feet. I dare say my dance is a little in between category. If the gospel isn’t comedy I don’t know what is.
