From the Mouth of George Michael

In Finally Comes the Poet, Walter Brueggemann describes three themes that “[witness] to the character of God,” which then correspond with three truths about human personhood.

God is (p. 111):
1. The God who resolves the residue of ache after reparations are made;
2. The God who speaks a word of fidelity and assurance, breaking the cycles of alienation and rage;
3. The god who commands, in whose obedience is new life;

A human person is (p. 112):
1. The creature who is finally and fully forgiven;
2. The one who is invited to communion beyond resistance;
3. The one who is summoned to obedience and life-giving listening;

As I look through the book, I realize that I heavily underlined the introduction, the second chapter, and the third chapter, but the first chapter (Numbness and Ache) remained conspicuously Spartan. While trying to identify why something failed to stand out is always sketchy business, I suspect that the inconsistency might indicate an unintentional lapse in my understanding.

I am thankful for a God who is faithful and comforting, and I gladly (if a bit stiffly) bow my knee to God as Lord, but could it be that I am uncomfortable with God as forgiver? I am acutely aware of my sins, in the great, guilt-ridden tradition of Protestant upbringing, and yet grace still seems so alien. I feel as if I were a Chinese peasant who had heard about the Great Wall and experienced its protection, and as such knew of its existence, but who, were he to ever walk its length and look down from its towers, would find his previous understanding much nearer to ignorance than truth. To extend the analogy, I wonder if he might even pass up this greater understanding for fear that he might also give flesh to the evils which the Wall protects against. That he might choose hearsay and uncritical faith over experience, lest his inquisition show the Wall inadequate and his faceless enemies all too real. Perhaps I shy away from examining my faith in God’s forgiveness for the fear that I might find my sins too horrible, and discover God’s forgiveness to be qualified, insufficient, or eclipsed by His justice.

Or maybe I choose to give more credence to the gravity of sin than the joy of forgiveness because I mistrust my own integrity. Externally, a forgiven sinner and an unrepentant sinner would look alike, without guilt or thought for past indiscretions. Perhaps I fear that even I might be deceived, and that it is better to feel chastened than burn in Hell. Because it doesn’t feel right. How can I offend God Himself, say a prayer (even a convicted, sincere prayer), and walk away unscathed? How can God’s justice coexist with His mercy? It is not a new question, and I have heard many explanations, but none of them seem sufficient.

Maybe I have found an edge. Maybe I have reached the end of … a … rope. Maybe, while dangling over the precipice, I have found a kernel of faith. For where reason fails, there must faith be. Right? Or is that too God-of-the-Gaps-ish? The entire tapestry of this post is woven together with the threads of fear. “There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear. For fear has to do with punishment, and whoever fears has not been perfected in love” (1 John 4:18). Crap. Once again, I find myself at Faith’s door, and I’m on the wrong side. And yet I’m still glad that I’ve gotten here by the path of reason and introspection rather than the recitation of religious platitudes. While I now look around and see myself surrounded with those who instinctually jumped straight the conclusion that they “just gotta have faith,” I think that there are things to be learned from the journey. And I’ll be damned if I ever take my theology from the mouth of George Michael.