Gratefulness For the Light That Can’t Be Seen

Part one — “Do you believe in God?”

An interesting question that is often posed in my direction — yet one that I don’t actually find that interesting. 

Usually, it's a Christian asking out of pious apologetics with, let’s be honest, rather banal proofs they’ve inherited from the second great awakening and the scientific revolution’s catalyst towards modernism. 

Or it's an atheist with their hyper-rational challenges that seems more invested in the abstract intellectual victory that sound reasoning; you could say, religiously faithful to the cause. 

Or the postmodern concoction of neo-pagan, eastern, progressive Westerners testing the waters to gauge my perspective. 

Especially when the question comes from the Christian background, which I do claim, there is much historical myopia festering within their apparent inquisition and, alas, I’m not interested. 

The conversation is dull, the agendas plaguing the expectations of the questioner are annoying, and the feeling that I’m being examined to see if I align with their specific theological, philosophical, and, indeed, political views screams of a game that I don’t care to play. 

I do have an answer, however. 

An answer that has emerged over a decade of tedious exploration; an answer that may seem a bit ancient but is also modernly accessible. 

My influence by pre-modern Judaism and orthodox Christianity has led me to my current perspective. However, I would be lying if I failed to mention that ancient Greek philosophy (especially the Stoics), some Native American theology, and, even some dabbling in eastern religious perspectives (gasp!) have not been an influence, as well. I do not claim to represent any of the latter influences even though I have been intrigued by their insights. As I said, I identify as a Christian — though in the historic perspective (I’ve come to be disappointed with modern American Christianity). 

So I’d like to make my answer public — it’s easier to point someone to this writing than to have to explain my perspective every time I’m asked the question. 

Here is, yet, (not) another perspective on God and transcendence. 

(If you’d rather watch this as an audio story, you can do so here or scroll to the bottom of the article)

Part Two — A Different Kind of Searching

The search for what is transcendent may be a beautiful journey, but it must be understood as an incomprehensible task — even more indefinable than fully seeing the sun. 

The wisest traditions have always approached the concept of a divine with limitedness; that if we could see God, we would no longer be looking at God —  for our minds should not be able to confine such conclusions.

If a deity is truly a deity then it will not be contained to a form recognizable by mere humans. 

Whatever is divine is inextricably uncapturable.

And we ought to prefer it that way.

This is why the Jewish tradition says the name of the divine is unspeakable, because, quite literally, it is. To grasp the divine is not a task for which we are capable and is not a task that we ought to want to grasp with our limited minds — for then we would not be left with transcendence but, rather, finitude.

While this may be frustrating or even sound agnostic, there is beauty in such mystery and we ought to hope that transcendence lies beyond our comprehension, for then it is truly transcendent. Maybe it is quite possible that our job is not to understand the divine, to name and grasp whatever is behind the universe, but simply to be alive to its presence. 

To approach, whether through science or philosophy, but to be okay with not comprehending. 

To receive the breath and gift of life, but not to master such a generous source of being. 

To encounter, but not to contain. 

For whatever is behind this, whatever is the source, whatever composes the song called the universe is only of value if it transcends the scope of our limitations. Disconcerting as this may be, I think it is better to know that something like myself is not the origin of all things.

We may certainly search, but what is beyond us shall always be beyond us.

Interlude — A Poem on Transcendence & Gratitude

All of this rambling might be better summed up this way:

To be grateful is to be powerless;
it is acknowledging that life and breath and all that is
somehow exists way beyond 
just you.

It is opening yourself up to the reality that the world 
beautifully transcends the simple essence of your being.

Which is, in itself, a reason to be grateful.

Part Three — The Story That Defines My Cosmology

There is an ancient Jewish story of a powerful, Gentile ruler who, in search of divine wisdom, sought out the most esteemed rabbi of Israel to learn more about their deity.

After traveling many, many miles, the ruler’s trip concluded when he finally arrived at the simple abode of the rabbi. Upon entering the home, the ruler exclaimed in his dignitary tone, 

“I have traveled to every corner of the world, visited the temples of this vast land, and have seen the gods and goddesses of humankind, but I have yet to encounter your god. I have heard of this God of Israel and have sought you out that you might show me your god and my wisdom will be complete.”

Upon hearing the request, the rabbi sat silently, taking in the presence of this powerful dignitary.

He then stood, walked to the window, and replied, 

“If you would like to see our god, I will tell you how. In order to find this god and encounter this god’s presence, you must wait for midday and travel to the depths of the desert. If there are no clouds in the sky, turn your gaze directly towards the sun and stare into its rays. Then you will be able to see and understand our god, the God of Israel.”

The ruler immediately left the abode and made his way to the desert, for it was almost noon.

When he arrived at the most remote desert land he could imagine, the ruler prepared himself. 

He could feel the heat on his skin while the brightness of the sun pierced his mind.

Of all the deities he had visited, none had required such a strange task. 

The ruler scanned the skies. There was not one cloud present. He took off his outer garment in an effort to be sure that he would fully experience the encounter for which he had traveled so far.

When the sun was at its peak and the shadowless midday was upon him, the ruler shifted back his neck and lifted his eyes to stare directly into the sun.

But nothing happened.

After only a brief second, he could no longer continue the task. He had not seen anything and even felt almost blind after such a brief, impossible attempt. Disappointed and angry, he marched back to the rabbi to express his discontent for he thought he had been tricked.

“Rabbi! I did exactly as you said, following every instruction and I saw nothing. You fooled me. You have hidden your god and do not want me to experience this deity’s presence. I have returned from the desert with no findings and only a futile blindness in my eyes.”

The rabbi then stood and looked directly in the powerful ruler’s woozy eyes.

“You have spoken truly, but I have not fooled you — for you have only looked at the sun.

Yet what you claim to seek is even more powerful than this blazing star.

For the sun is but a slave to my God.”

Part Four — Do I Believe in God?

For the ruler, the deity he sought was not hidden, but, rather, profoundly uncontainable, beyond the sight of his limited eyes. 

If the sun can not be captured by our sight, how much more that which is the source of the sun?

Can you embrace awe? 

Can you acknowledge that something — a being, a source, a life, a ground, a vastness, an origin, a mind, a nature, a mystery that encapsulates the cosmos and yet is within our next breath — can you acknowledge that that is possible?

But can you also acknowledge that it is not our responsibility, nor should it be possible if such mystery exists, to capture this awe and transcendence?

For that, the light that can’t be seen, we ought not to be disappointed, but grateful.

Do I believe in God?

Yes.

Well, kind of. 

I believe in that which transcends our reductions — hence the word “transcendence.”

And I believe that it is not within my ability to grasp this transcendence with a certified name (which beckons an interesting language game — is “God” the squiggly lines that make letters that we agree makes a certain sound?) or a category or simplified description. In honor of the traditions I’ve inherited, I will not offer a totalistic definition, but only pictures that point to the very real transcendence that is resonating in the fabric of life. 

For God, to me, is like an ocean — one that I cannot see the ends of and yet one that holds the very essence of my life and all that seems to exist alongside of it. I swim in the vast waters that I’ll never fully contain.

I believe there is a reason that the God of Israel in the Hebrew Bible consistently says, “You can’t handle my fullness,” and yet still pierces the plane of existence, incarnating a revelation of presence that makes this existence real in the only way we can handle.

Not only is that good enough for me.

I think it is existentially better to leave it at that and is, certainly, more faithful to the religious traditions that those who ask this question with inquisitional intentions supposedly claim.

Maybe the only thing we need to comprehend is that what we are seeking is profoundly incomprehensible and, yet, is in our next breath catalyzing the very essence of our being, our meaning, and the trajectory of the world.

To be grateful is to be powerless;
it is acknowledging that life and breath and all that is
somehow exists way beyond 
just you.

It is opening yourself up to the reality that the world 
beautifully transcends the simple essence of your being.

Which is, in itself, a reason to be grateful.