The Love of Mystery in the Presence of Unanswered Questions
Mystery. We avoid it, like that annoying cousin-in-law during the holidays, the one with the crazy eye, halitosis and a penchant for the awkward and irritating. It terrifies us because it’s, well, it’s just too mysterious for us. We can’t handle it, grip it, or get our arms around it to hug it. And so we let go of it and shun it, keeping it at a reasonably safe distance. Like a deep, impenetrable interstate fog we pull over at the rest area until things clear up, wondering when it will clear—or even if it ever will. Part of us likes mystery, I know, which is why Stephen King has sold somewhere in the neighborhood of 12 gazillion books in his career. But unlike Stephen King books, which solve themselves in 400 pages (or 1200 if he gets long-winded), life isn’t like a novel, and it can be a lot scarier than any King book (how many of you still fear clowns?).
We start asking questions from the time we are old enough to begin speaking. My son is the consummate question-asker. It can be trying at the very least and downright annoying when you’re tired and want some peace and quiet. The first question learned is nearly always, “Why?” Why did you do that, Daddy? Why is that person doing that? Why did Spongebob say that? We are born wanting to understand, to solve the unsolvable, to jump into the Magic Mystery Machine with Scooby and the gang and peel the mask off Old Man Jenkins. We discover that he isn’t a goulish demon after all, but the crabby, white-haired owner of the closed down amusement park. He’s not as scary as he seemed in the dark.
God is cloaked in mystery. The Voice that spoke into the void and created all that is; the Voice that told Abram to pack up and head out of town; the Voice that spoke from the bush that would not be consumed to the shepherd with the staff; the Voice who spoke to Israel from within the cloud and fire of Sinai: this God is nothing if not mysterious. He has to be, doesn’t He? If we could explain Him, solve Him, define Him, then He would cease to be God, or at least the all-powerful “version” that we know. He would be a lesser, weaker, dime-store-front-window deity who wouldn’t be able to change our socks, much less our lives (not that our God is in the business of changing socks but stay with me on the metaphor, will ya?).
Mystery is not the evil monster in the closet. When we begin to understand that mystery is a natural, beautiful part of our existence and our spiritual journey we can come to the place where we embrace and seek it out. It becomes one of the great joys in our life, to pursue the enigma that surrounds the Holy One of Creation.
Job wanted answers to the mystery. Job didn’t get answers to the mystery. Job was blessed in the midst of the mystery. What if we saw mystery as a blessing in and of itself? What if we were content to simply ask questions, whether the answers came or not? We know we are growing in our faith and knowledge of God when we are content with not knowing something about God, when we enter the Magic Mystery Machine and are simply content with driving around inside of it. Sometimes you unmask Old Man Jenkins, but we must become satisfied with entering into the mystery itself.
shalom, matt
part 1 of this series of posts can be found here.
Mystery. We avoid it, like that annoying cousin-in-law during the holidays, the one with the crazy eye, halitosis and a penchant for the awkward and irritating. It terrifies us because it’s, well, it’s just too mysterious for us. We can’t handle it, grip it, or get our arms around it to hug it. And so we let go of it and shun it, keeping it at a reasonably safe distance. Like a deep, impenetrable interstate fog we pull over at the rest area until things clear up, wondering when it will clear—or even if it ever will. Part of us likes mystery, I know, which is why Stephen King has sold somewhere in the neighborhood of 12 gazillion books in his career. But unlike Stephen King books, which solve themselves in 400 pages (or 1200 if he gets long-winded), life isn’t like a novel, and it can be a lot scarier than any King book (how many of you still fear clowns?). 
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