Seeking Truth

"Keep the company of those who seek the truth - run from those who have found it."  - Vaclav Havel

As a person of faith, I hear the word "truth" kicked about not infrequently.  Depending on the context, it bears a range of meanings, which in turn carry their own baggage and freight the conversation to varying degrees.  Two perspectives on truth, in particular, have challenged me to think through my own understanding.  "Truth," as many postmoderns have it, is an archaic and manipulative power construct.  Truth, in the language of many Christians, is the foundational expression of reality, the absolute "what is."  Small wonder, then, that so many postmoderns abhor religion.  Or that Christians respond to postmodern claims of subjectivity with anger and fear.

Havel suggests, however, that truth is something much more grand than these [admittedly abbreviated and caricatured] polar perspectives.  To those who claim there is no such thing as truth, Havel issues an invitation:  "Seek truth!"  "Join up with others who seek it!"  To those who claim "There is truth, and this is it!" Havel cautions that truth is not something to be found.  It is not a solid construct, not a destination, not an endpoint.

Rather, truth becomes something vibrant and living.  It is something more elegant and intricate than we might imagine.  It is infinitely profound, inviting us to go ever deeper.  It is dark and painful, and never allows us to settle for long.  It calls us to know ourselves when we'd rather avert our eyes.  It summons us to know others when we'd prefer to dismiss them.  Truth sometimes screams to us in pain; in our confusion, truth might show itself elusive.  Yet Truth is also often revealed as hope; truth is found in beauty and friendship, in abundance and in love.  

Truth is simply not static - nor does it allow us the luxury of a passive response.  Truth strengthens but does not indulge.  Truth demands our attention, but never fully satisfies.  Truth will likely never make us comfortable.  Truth will challenge us and perhaps evade us and, when all is said and done, capture our hearts.  Hearts cannot deny or dominate, but they can follow. Relentlessly.

At this point, I believe, the dissonant perspectives on truth come as a gift.  A Christian perspective assures us that there is, in fact, "something big" out there.  Beyond us, beyond what we can see, there is something that calls us outside and beyond ourselves.  A postmodern view beckons us past any temptation to settle with an easy answer about that "something."  It reminds us that beyond any answer or meaning we might find, lies yet another.  And another.  

This, I think, is the quest to which Havel invites us:  the quest to live in constant pursuit of the truth, a truth we can know only in active response, truth revealed in the act of seeking.     

"/" Life

You've probably heard the phrase already/not yet, particularly as it refers to faith and the fulfillment of what we hope & trust for. It's a fairly routine way of describing this understanding: God is at work among us--but it's obvious to even a blind eye that God's work is far from complete.
I've come to realize recently how much I live in the "not yet" of this phrase. I have HUGE dreams and expectations for what God's kingdom must look like, and I'm inspired and exhilarated by these visions of wholeness. On the other hand, this visceral connection to the beauty and hope of these unrealized expectations creates in me a powerful sense of disconnect and pain--sometimes even panic. Our world is SO FAR from what God designed it to be! How can I sleep at night when there's this jagged tear down the fabric of reality between what is and what should be?!
On Sunday morning, I walked forward to participate in the Eucharist with the thought: "This, at least, is already." Jesus has already taken human form; his life, death & resurrection have already happened, and have already introduced us to God in a unique way. How grateful I was that, however briefly, I could rest in the already. Just as the cup came my way, however, the minister smiled apologetically and whispered, "Sorry. I've just run out. I'll be right back."
I knew there was more wine behind the altar, and I was pretty sure she wasn't taking off through the back door, so I knelt patiently and waited with confidence, knowing she'd be right back and we'd pick up where we'd left off.
Then the lightning bolt struck. Here, at the altar rail, I found myself in the midst of already & not yet. And I was calmly, patiently, and in full contentment, waiting. It hadn't crossed my mind to panic. Or to demand immediate fulfillment. The blood of Christ had already been offered, and would inevitably be given. I just needed to rest a bit on the cushions till it showed up.
A few moments later, I walked back down the aisle, tongue tingling from the sip of wine, eyes burning with threatening tears. As a hands-on learner, I know when I've been taught a lesson.
If only I could learn to rest in that "/", that place between already & not yet. The way I'm wired, there's no danger I'll ever settle in the already. But that doesn't mean I have to pitch my miserable tent in the "not yet". I have been given a vision of that middle ground, the space that honors what God has already done, as well as what God has promised to do. My place is to perch in between.

Paul Theroux wrote, in The Old Patagonian Express, "In a way, Guevara's fate was worse than Bolivar's. Guevara's collapse was complete; his intentions were forgotten, but his style was taken up by boutique owners. There is no faster way of destroying a man, or mocking his ideas, than making him fashionable. That Guevara succeeded in influencing dress-designers was part of his tragedy."
I think he's got a point: Che would undoubtedly react poorly to seeing his face on a handbag. Not to mention his response to the current political state of the western hemisphere.
This image, then--if Theroux is correct--kills two birds with one stone. Both Jesus and Che are reduced to images--brands--for our visual consumption. In one quick artistic edit, two revolutionaries are flattened and pacified.
But I'm not sure I'm willing to give the curmudgeon his way. Much as I'm enjoying Theroux's book, and inclined as I am to agree with him, I find this particular image powerful and evocative. Perhaps it's the combination of two characters so often juxtaposed--a sort of visual paradox. Maybe it's because I'm so subconsciously branded that I see Che and think, "Cool!" Or perhaps, it's a sort of visceral reminder that Jesus was about changing the way we see things and the way we live--in ways even more "out there" than Che.

(Image from the "Meek. Mild. As If. Campaign")