As I read the gospel lesson for Trinity Sunday, I am struck
by how unfinished things are when Jesus bids his disciples farewell. In the
middle of his goodbye speech, he says to them, “I still have many things to say
to you, but you cannot bear them now.” I bet the disciples reaction is a little
like my wife’s when I call her on the phone and say, “I have a surprise for
you, but I’m not going to tell you what it is.” Seven years of marriage have
taught me not to do that.
It’s hard to leave things unfinished. It’s hard for Jesus to
say goodbye before he’s done saying what he needs to say, and it’s hard for the
disciples to say goodbye before they’ve heard everything they need to hear. Yet
right at the heart of the Jesus-disciple, divine-human relationship that is the
Incarnation is the fact that things aren’t complete yet. And that’s where we
are, too. And it’s a hard place to be.
I once heard a speaker talk to a congregation about liminality—that
concept that conveys being on the threshold. In liminal places, we are neither
here nor there. We’re in the middle. We’re in transition. And that speaker
drove the point home that liminal places are hard to be—so hard that they can
tear us apart. The human reaction to those transitions is to race as quickly as
possible to one side of the threshold or the other—even if it means moving
backwards. We aren’t made to stay in between.
That concept reminds me of music. I grew up listening to
classical music. I went to a good number of concerts, and it didn’t take me
long to learn that I prefer baroque and classical music over romantic and
modern pieces. I like order. I like symmetry. I like the quickly resolved
pattern of dissonance and harmony that are indicative of composers like Bach
and Mozart. Well, I used to. I still like that music, but I’m learning to love
the gut-wrenching unresolved angst that fills modern music by composers like
Arvo Pärt.
Instead of holding that musical tension for three or four beats,
modern musicians sustain that dissonance for measure after measure—sometimes ending
a piece without any real resolution. That’s more like the life I know. It’s
painful, and takes a little more effort to enjoy, but it’s real.
Our religion isn’t neat and tidy. There isn’t some magic formula
to enlightenment. We aren’t whisked away from this confusing world to a place
of perfection without dwelling in that place of uncertainty for a while. Jesus
tells his disciples that there’s more to learn, but he can’t tell them
everything now. They have to wait. They have to let the Spirit guide them into
all truth. It’s a process. It takes time. It takes experience. That a religion
that reflects the truth of human experience. It’s a faith that offers real hope—not
just a panacea. We don’t get to the end of the journey in a flash. We have to make
our way there—sometimes trudgingly—or else the destination would seem false.
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