"Rublev's Trinity" |
The following is written in response to a particularly
evocative blog post by my professor, colleague, editor, and friend, Dr. Paul Louis Metzger, entitled “Jesus’ Open Posture
and ‘The Open Table.’” I think you’d enjoy it. It’s found here: http://www.patheos.com/blogs/uncommongodcommongood/2014/04/jesus-open-posture-and-the-open-table/
under a copy of 15th Century painter Andrei Rublev’s “Troika,” also
known as “Rublev’s Trinity.” I think you’d like that, too, so I’ve included it
as well.
Dear Dr. Metzger,
As you know, we all have our formative influences.
Andrei Rublev for you; Van Gogh, Escher, Dali, Rackham, and the darker among
their extended crew for me. Johnny Cash, and others with a decided edge on your
end; Frank Zappa, Harry Chapin, and—notably, in contemplation of your blog
post—Alice
Cooper on mine. As I read, I heard, “Is someone calling me? I hear my name!” That
is, I recognize myself in the examples you cite. And that, in part, has caused
me to delay responding. I apologize. Here are a few of my thoughts.
Sadly,
many do yield to the temptation to say, as you note: “Jesus’ posture may be
open, but not God’s.” We have built whole theological systems to explain
precisely this point. We are compelled to rationalize our fearful withdrawal
from among those whom God calls us to engage openly, because otherwise we are
left to obey scripture, instead.
Rackham, after Poe's "Masque of the Red Death" |
The
Apostle Paul is indisputably clear (I Corinthians 5:9-10)
on the necessity of our engagement with one another. Why must he state it so
strongly? Because our tendency to disengage
from those in the world needed to be, and still needs to be corrected
constantly, forcefully. Our tendency to merely pretend to engage within the
Church is in view as well, since one sure symptom of analgesia in the body of
Christ would be the self-congratulatory accommodation of incestuous
fornication.
And
I think I understand, too clearly, and far too personally, one of the reasons
why we withdraw, abandon, and betray the personhood of one another. We do fear
being misunderstood, but less so than we fear the potential of inadvertently understanding others. They
may be someone, something, or somehow other than I imagine. Since others’
answers might invalidate our stereotypical assumptions, we leave our questions
unasked. We leave others’ experiences, circumstances, beliefs, and persons undiscovered.
It
is not safer that way, but it is more
comfortably convenient. Consider our preprogrammed dialogue. “How are you?” “Fine,
and you?” Innocuous, except that it frequently passes for actual conversation.
And it does so, even among patients and families I serve as Hospice chaplain. I
have not yet screamed in response, “NO! We’re not all fine. We’re all dying;
in fact, one of us is dying damn quickly!”
But I have been close at times. And yet, I worry that one of the things that
prevents me from such brutal (and inappropriately vulgar) honesty is that I,
too, “hide (my) secrets and lock everything up in dark closets and shacks of
painful experiences and throw away the keys,” as you have noted.
"First resting place," indeed. |
Among
my dirty little secrets? I am dying, too. Just like the rest of us. But if we
don’t talk about it, we can pretend that maybe it won’t happen. Just as my
choice, not to ask others who they are, means that I can pretend they’re just
exactly who I imagine them to be.
If
I allow myself to understand any part of you, by openly engaging you rather
than politely dismissing you in a socially acceptable manner (“Have a nice
day!”), I risk several things. I risk the possibility that even my questions
will betray some part of me that you might then understand. I risk the shock to
my system of potentially learning that I am not entirely alone in each of my
fears, assumptions, prides, and pains. I risk the probability that if I open
myself to another human person, I will lose some of my vain hope that I can
hide any part of myself from the God who draws us all together.
But
perhaps worst of all, I know that in openly engaging others…I risk being
ostracized. Because to betray my fellows, the other denizens of denial, means
that I might carry with me an understanding of what they, and we, all share
together: an entirely unnatural mortality, and with it, an absolutely
indispensable dependence on the God who engages.
That
one God, eternally existing in three persons as He does, has no fear of
self-disclosure. So, as one created to bear His image and likeness, why do I?
It is not, as some would assume,
because of the brokenness of sin’s damage in the world and in me. It is, for
me, because of the petrifyingly paranoid paralysis that accompanies this
thought: If I actually seek to know and understand you, then I may
inadvertently allow you to know and understand me.
Yes, sometimes, it is a nightmare. But you are welcome. |
So,
can’t we just continue to pretend? “For a little while longer? Maybe an hour?”
Maybe only a few will recognize the voice of Alice Cooper’s little “Steven.”
Very few have ever heard the voice of my own memories of being little Billy.
But like all the rest of us, to whatever extent we are familiar with those nightmarishly
dark closeted places, “I hear a voice; it’s outside the door.”
And
it says, “It’s time to come home now.”
No comments:
Post a Comment