Be Still.

Today I was surprised by a life-giving conversation with a dear dear friend from high school. This friend has encouraged me in more ways than he will ever know. He has been patient and gracious. He has spoken life where I saw none. I am deeply thankful I can call him friend and brother. During our conversation, he shared something he had written. It beautifully articulates my heart in a much better way than I could have done. So now I will share it, I hope he won't mind too much:

Be still. My mind is in turmoil. Be still. A storm rages within me. Be still.

Every storm will pass, leaving change behind, the only reminder that it even came through.  The lie and look of the land will be different from what it was before. That is the nature of storms: waters flood and erode, winds beat and carry away. It is the way of nature, the way of life. Is that such a bad thing? Perhaps this is what Berry means when he says, “Practice resurrection.”

Where is my Savior to calm the storm? Perhaps sleeping in the haul of a ship, waiting for the opportune time to rise and quell the chaos before it overtakes me. Maybe, the landscape needs changing, and the storm is a tool necessary for the job. I envy that He sleeps so soundly amidst such turmoil.  

Philosophy is my storm. Some say I call it that because my personality disposes me to be affected by it in this way: to feel uneasy with all of its ponderings, questions, demolishings, rebuildings, and uncertainties.  That in part may be true. But over simplifying—as philosophy has taught me—is never the way to get at the truth of matters. My reactions to philosophy, also in part, stems from my nature to be charitable. I take individuals thoughts and ideas seriously, because I feel most individuals have something to say that is worth listening to and in turn learning from.

I want such a storm to have a purpose. If the landscape of my mind is going to be forever changed, at least I hope it is going to be changed for the better. A boy, with growing pains, can bear such a nuisance because of the promise of growth. But, pain, with no hopes of appeasement or clear purpose, is near insufferable.

It is these innumerable voices that cause my pain: the voices worth listening to. They pick apart something I once thought to be, so simply true. Now I come to see its never-ending complexity. There is no blame on my parents or family for they are simple folk. There is beauty to be had in such a way of living of which I know and love. But to be cast in to such complexity is like jumping into near frozen water, it steals your breath and shocks your heart.  You’re saying there is: inclusivism, debates about the metaphysical possibility of the incarnation and trinity? The central ideas of Christianity, even there, there is nuisance and uncertainty. Ah, such simplicity that I knew before must only have been a lie.  

They tell me: Ignore it. Don’t listen. Come back to simplicity. But, I cant. What I am learning and have learnt won’t let me. I am scared: of what it is making me, of disloyalty to my family, my community, and to my God. How different will the land be once the storm ceases?

I see such dogmatism in both the simple and the complex. The simple, look down on the complex for tampering with tradition and generality, they say “You’re overthinking it.” The complex, take the simple to be ignorant and uneducated, “Think for a moment and you will see there are a great deal of complexities right under your nose.”

Ignorance is bliss, and knowledge a burden. Now that I have knowledge, I wish for ignorance.

But perhaps, there can be a consolidation between the complex and the simple. Maybe the lands can be changed by the storm, and from the destruction there will rise a greater beauty and fecundity that was ever possible before. Until the storm ceases, I will wait for the voice of my Savior to cry out amidst the chaos, “ Peace be still.”