A fallen leaf floats about, blown by easy breezes like a miniature sailboat. The old bass snoozes under a sunken log. Plunk.
One acorn drops into the water and disturbs the glassy reflection. Oak
images dance and waver as ripples pass by, then return to calmed
stillness. The sailboat-leaves return to their courses.
The trees lean in to watch. They are impassive spectators of this capricious fluid domain.
Side by side, these mossy oaks hold their peace. Like old and bearded
watchmen, they stand poised in their grassy places and quietly gaze
into froggy waters. Patiently and powerfully, they bide their time,
deepening roots into a fixed and rocky earth. Wooden tendrils explore
the soil and stone below. The twisted and knotted trunks betray a
less-peaceful existence.
Certainly, this day feels lovely, but what of those seasons when the
moody waters rise? Rain and wind taunt the stream, and it responds like
a rallied warrior. Three, four, five feet of rushing surge and mud
scatter bass into hollows until the liquid tantrum passes. The once coy
stream transforms into an adversary, threatening to carry away the very
earth itself. Foundations are in jeopardy; the oaks seem to frown their
disapproval. Will they hold fast? Will they be carried away? Sunken
logs warn of past disasters.
Experts say that nature is in perfect harmony. Yet, the interaction
between soil and stream seems more like two warriors observing a
precarious suspension in hostilities. So much of nature is this way. So
much of life is lived in tension, like a wary standoff.
In Paul’s Epistle to the Romans, Chapter 1, he cites creation as an illustration of God’s divine nature. In spite of God’s invisibility,
we can see Him “through what has been made.” (Romans 1:20) By observing
our natural surroundings, we can discover aspects of God’s ways.
This doesn’t mean that nature is a barometer of God’s emotional state.
God is not prone to tantrums, as are men. It is the child’s place to
wonder aloud whether God is angry when, during the night, howling winds
and slapping rains assault a bedroom window. As we age, we learn that
storms are a natural consequence of our planet’s heating and cooling—a
symptom of climatic tension between hot and cold. To emotionalize
natural events is a mistake; this is not what Paul means. And believing
that weather is a measure of God’s emotional state would put us on a
par with the ancient Greeks, who invented mythical gods to explain
their world in human terms.
Rather, Paul is commenting on God’s deliberate use of tension. All of
nature exists in a state of suspense. Natural science calls this state
a dynamic equilibrium,
the condition of balance between continuing processes. Creation is
constantly feeling the effect of competing forces of deluge and
drought, indulgence and deprivation, beginnings and endings. I can
think of no exceptions to this rule.
Even our earth has two poles. Though we occupy a sphere, still it spins
on an axis. God saw fit to fashion “ends on a round planet.” And at
those ends, virtually no life can be sustained. Rather, it is in the
center of these polar extremes that life is found in abundance. This,
then, is our observation of God’s divine nature: that life is best
lived away from the poles, embracing the tension between seemingly
opposing forces. This is true for us as both natural and spiritual
beings. Jesus uncovers this mystery to a thirsty Samaritan woman:
But an hour is coming, and now is, when the true worshipers will
worship the Father in spirit and truth; for such people the Father
seeks to be His worshipers. God is spirit, and those who worship Him
must worship in spirit and truth. (John 4:23-24 NASB)
Our nature is to seek the poles and flee from tension. Living in
suspense is uncomfortable and risky, yet that is precisely where life
abounds. People prefer lives of predictability. We want our answers to
important questions to be legally binding upon God and nature, and when
those questions remain unanswered, or our expectations are outright
violated, we are left in confusion and doubt. In the course of our
lives, we learn shallow slogans and mottos like “The Lord works in
mysterious ways,” or “Life happens.” Our empty phrases uncover our
natural need to explain unpredictability in our daily lives. We are in
good company; even the disciples wrestled with the same questions (Luke
18:34).
We long to sink our roots deep into rules and formulas. Some of us
spend our lives searching out rules to answer the mysterious questions
of life. Praying for the miracle, we need
to see the breakthrough. Fixed and rooted, we become those mossy oaks
leaning in. We become watchers forming superficial answers. We are
saying, “This or that, but not both, please.”
Feeling stiff and wooden, we watch and lean in as observers. We strain
our eyes looking into the froggy waters of circumstances for clarity.
We ask God, “Why wasn’t I healed?” or “Why did this or that happen?”
When we find ourselves facing jeopardy, we stand like oaks, frowning
our disapproval. Will we hold fast? Will we be carried away?
Answers enable us to make sense of our world; seeking them is not
wrong. Yet, the answer may be different than we expect. Answers may
reveal the profound wisdom of tension, of polar extremes. Answers may
become simply and rather than or and we can learn to thrive in that place of paradox.
For some of us, our search for truth is really a search for a formula.
We are saying, “God, keep me in one world or the other. Give me land or water. Give me spirit or truth. Give me something I can count on.” Yet, seldom will God respond with an or answer. Instead, He offers the and option of Spirit and
truth. God intended for us to live and worship in tension, to live
between the poles. Truth may be deeper than we think. Our failures and
challenges need not wreck our faith; our roots can hold us fast, even
in the face of a tempest.
Worship does not come easily in times of jeopardy, yet that is our
challenge. Sometimes, foundations really do slip away; our ideas and
hopes fall prey to rising waters. In those times, we must bravely move
on, leaving old ideas behind like sunken logs. Those who thrive in the
seasons of life have learned the importance of and. They are able to find God in good times and in difficult times (Phil 4:12). They are able to celebrate in every circumstance in which they find themselves. They worship in Spirit and truth.
I am finding my place in tension. I still feel uncomfortable there, and
I find that God is not afraid of my discomfort. Rather, He is
interested in my growth and fruitfulness. He is invested in my success,
as I live between two poles. God is a Spirit, and like the oaks, we are
left the task of understanding His windy and watery ways. This is the
curriculum of the school of life. The Teacher and Author will see us
through the storms of life as we are rooted and grounded in
relationship, not formulas.
So—what are you learning? Are you pressing through discomfort? Can you feel yourself living in the and, or do you flee to the safety of the or?
Because, as you trust Him and grow in Christ, you will find yourself
more deeply rooted in faith, clutching the stones and burrows of God’s
goodness, discovering the wealth of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.
…that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith; and
that you, being rooted and grounded in love, may be able to comprehend
with all the saints what is the breadth and length and height and
depth, and to know the love of Christ which surpasses knowledge, that
you may be filled up to all the fullness of God. (Ephesians 3:17-19
NASB)
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