le mystère

When I was in the eighth grade, I first heard an English teacher talk about themes. We constantly had to dissect books, poems, short stories to find what larger thing the author was talking about. My peers and I thought this was crazy; why not just take what was written literally?

Not surprisingly, I have since concluded that the English teachers are right and that themes exist, and not just in literary texts. In fact, I think I believe in themes in life even more strongly that I do in text. They come like different threads of one hue, woven with particular concentration through a part of the tapestry of our lives.

One such thread has come up with shocking frequency in my life this summer, and it is that of MYSTERY. Now, I like this word for the tingly feelings it stirs up in mind and body, the way it makes my ears perk up as if something interesting is going to happen. And yet when it comes to roost in my own life, I cringe and whine and in general, become incredibly uncomfortable.

The world we live in today is not conducive to mystery. Its definition may help me defend this point. A mystery is “something that is difficult or impossible to understand or explain” (thank you Oxford). In light of that, consider your daily activities. Personally, I read hundreds of updates on Facebook, find out how to cook such-and-such via the Internet. I dissect French grammar in order to make it make sense to my students. At least twice a month, I listen to a pastor do the same with some aspect of God about which they have great clarity. Few of us need to be persuaded that our era is over-saturated with information, and that we’re pretty dependent upon its easy access for our daily survival.

Granted, there is a certain embrace of mystery…at least of an interpretation of it. I’ve joined the world in its consumption of suspense stories recently, albeit through a classic, Dostoevsky’s the Brothers Karamazov. Others experience a manageable gulp of mystery through bestselling crime novels or TV shows like Law & Order or CSI (I, too, indulge in these from time to time). There’s a certain something about trying to solve a crime, following clues, enjoying the roller coaster of suspense, even a touch of the morbid. The best part is, these usually are packaged up nicely at the end when the true criminal is revealed, and our suspicions confirmed.

What happens to us, though, in the midst of real mystery, something that really can’t be figured out, a question without an answer? Two weeks ago, my dad and I found my grandpa on his way out the door to come over for family dinner, sitting on a step and leaned up against his walker, dead. Even though there’s a degree of comfort in the fact that he seems to have gone peacefully at the ripe age of 93, in those moments after the light goes out, the questions creep in. What is behind the veil? What can truly cause the spirit to be snipped away from the body like Peter Pan’s shadow? Where does it go? How do we cope with this time and time again a lifetime long? Let’s be honest here—religious beliefs, no matter how strong, only go so far in the face of death. We don’t know what happens, not with much clarity at all. There’s no absolute assurance that we will see our loved ones again, or even that they keep on living at all. There is no way to know on this side of life. No answer. Complete and utter mystery.

To be honest, this summer I’ve somehow slipped into viewing God this way, too. Not just who he is, but whether or not he is. “Doubt,” as this might be called, can be a torturous thing for me, given that I’ve built my life around what I believe about God. That, and the stigma I can feel in a system where a person’s degree of faith defines her worth. In the middle of this struggle, I approached my friend Linnea, an intelligent, creative pillar of my community who has herself been through times of intense, thoughtful questioning. As we often do, I hoped for a magic answer, an argument to convince me God exists, a way to make this easier. Not happening. Compassion I found in her, and understanding. This is no small thing, and paired with the very act of confessing doubt, acts as a balm to sooth the burning of the questions and the shame that accompanies it. Still, there was no cure to the mystery.

I can’t get my head around the questions—not even enough to ask them. Maybe my biggest question is why that’s the case. It’s infuriating.

Today I read through a chapter of the Brothers Karamazov called “the Grand Inquisitor.” In this chapter is a story of a Roman Catholic official, the Inquisitor, who meets Jesus face to face and tells him how he failed as the savior of the world. There are a lot of poignant, intellectual arguments (that pierce my heart, too). The whole time, the Christ looks at him meekly, and when he’s done ranting, Jesus says nothing, but kisses him full on the lips. The guy, if I remember correctly, is irate but touched nonetheless.

Oh man, O God, I hate this mystery! I hate the questions! I don’t know how to live them or how to live without them! But don’t let me grow bitter and hard—not against you, not against mankind. Keep me soft. Somehow let faith, hope, and love remain.