Can it be the case what I hope to be untrue about the world is what I write about? That I intimate my suspicions, my fears about the nature and quality of created life? Do I doubt that goodness can last or issue forth after such violence and tragedy that casts history's meaning into doubt? Do I believe that God will remedy and restore the infinite indiscretions and failures that characterize human existence?
Will God redeem it all? What will it mean for all to be redeemed? Is it conceivable? Have I given myself the time and attention required to trust this God who promises redemption, this God who holds together Shoah and Hiroshima, Gomorrah and Golgotha, together in himself, this God who creates all that is through himself and sustains all that is through himself? This God who is more intimate than any of my numerous appendages, more intimate than synapses firing in my brain, more intimate than a beloved's breath pressed against the bare skin of my neck? This God who is more distant than my sight of the neighboring galaxy, more distant than my awareness of the synapses firing in my brain? How can this God hold it together? Fully removed, fully involved. Privy to all things, subject to nothing.
God inhabits counter dictations, competing words who fashion alternative worlds: intimacy and removal, deep involvement and critical distance. Who's to say that God's not all of this, all of this and more? Who's to say and not say what God can and can not be? Certainly, it would seem there are boundaries, edges between the trustworthy and speculative, but these are edges who strain with the resonant notes of historical fluidity, the enduring notes of occasional porousness. Can we hold it together as we wait to see if God can hold it together? How long will we be waiting, or has God already answered and we've been too busy asking the questions, too busy speculating on our speculations while God's been busy speaking Swahili and teaching Kenyan street boys a resurrection song?
Don't miss out on what God's doing. Don't miss out because you've removed yourself, under the banner of critical reflection; this distance which you carry as a burden with you, this open wound, is meant to be healed, all this time, meant to be healed. Let God's doing, do his thing here.