I dislike mysteries, at least theological ones. Saying something is a mystery has always seemed like an escape from logical consistency. Like most evangelicals of my generation, I see my faith mostly as a set of beliefs that can be rationally explained. I can recite four different orthodox theories of salvation, atonement, and eschatology. Like a good Berean, I am committed to testing everything against the Scriptures using sound exegetical principles. It is good to love God, but we need to know exactly who we are loving.
I like precise language about God. So, when someone says, “Trust God,” my response has been “For what?” I do not want to trust God for things He has never promised to do or give, lest my trust for God be blown out of the water. I trust that God will always be with me, but not that I will always sense his presence. I trust God to wring all the good He can from tragedy, but I do not trust Him to shield me from tragedy.
As a teacher, I have little patience for inspiring sermons of where we ought be spiritually. Such sermons are like describing a beautiful fishing hole but refusing to give directions to the spot. I like to know the five steps to spiritual maturity, the four keys to powerful prayer, the seven principles of prophetic ministry.
Despite my love for clarity and reason, I have been haunted by the second stanza of the hymn “Crown Him with Many Crowns”. Matthew Bridges wrote: “Crown Him the Lord of Love! Behold His hands and side/Rich wounds yet visible above, in beauty glorified/No angel in the sky can fully bear that sight/But downwards bends his wondering eyes, at mysteries so bright” I asked myself whether some mysteries might be not the abandonment of clarity, but the rather too much clarity, too much wonder, too much glory.
I felt the truth of this idea before I understood it. As is so often the case, Teckla led the way. We were walking home together after saying goodnight to the grand-kids, when she suddenly stopped. Turning her face toward me, she said, “I love you.” Her words were so tender and deliberate that I knew she was trying to say much more. I told her I loved her and then asked, “Do you know my name?” She squeezed my hand and said, “I don’t remember.”
And it was okay. I could have said, “How can you love me if you don’t know who I am!” If I quizzed her, I would have discovered she has no memory of most of our life together. In other words, she has no rational basis for loving me. Yet, the depth and power of her love was real. I could only “wonder at a mystery so bright.”
These days, I love Jesus this way. Even though I remember and can recite all that Jesus has done for me, I find myself simply loving Him. I have not kept accounts and decided God has dealt me a good hand. I have no words to explain how His love is shining through my son’s death and Teckla’s dementia; this is a mystery of light, a mystery of love. I trust Him.
