Silence is . . . not
“You’re a theologian,” Uncle Albert was saying to Nils Sundstrøm. Nils held up his hand. It said, “Wait a minute.”
“You’re thinking of my brother,” Nils said.
“But you, too,” Uncle Albert said.
“Dishonorably retired.” Nils smiled, the smile we smile when something ought to be funny but it isn’t really - or it is funny but it oughtn’t to be.
“All the better,” Uncle Albert said. He was not to be deterred. And Nils shrugged. “Go ahead,” the shrug said. “Clearly, I’m not going to stop you.”
“Jesus Christ,” Nils said. “Which modern mystical moron said that?”
Uncle Albert looked at me. It was the three of us, back this past Friday morning at Corner Coffee. We were eating crullers. Nils and Uncle Albert were drinking coffee. I was drinking water because I’d had my cup of coffee for the morning and because Roz has been saying every day - every day - that I need to drink more water if I ever want to get straightened out.
“Thomas Keating,” I said. “I took a picture.” I showed it to Nils. He took my phone and handed it back.
“Ah,” he said. Then, “Jesus Christ,” he said again.
“And I am not taking the Lord’s name in vain,” Nils said a sip of coffee later.” “Jesus Christ,” he said a third time, “is the Word of God, God’s final language whatever the first. And - what does Father Keating say? - ‘every other is a poor substitute.’”
“‘Translation,’” I said.
“Whatever.” Nils stood up without pushing back from the table; the feet of his chair rasped against the floor. “I’ve got to get another cruller,” he said though he had half of the first left. “Anyone else?” I shook my head. “No,” Uncle Albert said.
Nils started toward the counter but then turned abruptly and walked out the door onto the street.
“His brother,* I like him a lot,” Uncle Albert said, “but he isn’t as much fun.”
I shook my head, but I didn't mean anything by it; it wasn't a judgment.
“The barista,” Uncle Albert said, “what's her name?”
“Carmen, I think.”
“She's wearing contacts,” Uncle Albert said. I didn't ask him how he knew.
I shook my head, but I didn't mean anything by it; it wasn't a judgment.
“The barista,” Uncle Albert said, “what's her name?”
“Carmen, I think.”
“She's wearing contacts,” Uncle Albert said. I didn't ask him how he knew.
Nils was gone almost ten minutes. “It’s idiocy,” he said while he was sitting down. “But it’s also heresy.”
“From the Lutheran point of view,” Uncle Albert said, as much question as response.
“From the Christian point of view,” Nils said. “From the Christian point of view,” he said again, “in the simplest terms possible, we’re looking at a God of creation who reveals himself in Jesus Christ. He is the revelation of God, not silence.
“I mean: What does silence reveal?” He held up an index finger: “Not a damn thing except . . . exactly what, in this case, Father Keating wants it to. Let him explain it to you.
“I mean, did he say ‘Silence is God’s first language, and everything else is a poor translation’ - did he say that, that one sentence, and then shut up forever?
“He did not, I’m pretty sure of it. This is one sentence in the middle of hundreds of other sentences, in the middle of thousands of paragraphs in the middle of scores of books - books and more books and then classes and lectures and retreats . . . all about what this silence means. ‘Sorry, friends. Jesus wasn’t it.’ He wasn’t it, he isn’t it, he can’t be it. He’s not enough, he’s not big enough, he’s not grand enough. And especially he’s too, too solid flesh; he’s too solid period. He’s too specific. God spoke in a rabbi without portfolio from a punk town in Galilee. Not enough. Not amorphous enough. Not aery enough, too blood and bones, maybe even too circumcised. Not a vapor that can expand to fill, or contracts to fit, the mystic’s soul. So: ‘Let me explain,’ he says. Let me explain.
“Then 32 or 132 books later he’s still explaining. And it’s not because the gas has gotten loose from the container and now can’t be contained. That might describe the Holy Spirit. It’s that the container keeps changing shape. Or, it keeps meeting new people with new needs, and . . . .” Nils stopped. He sighed. He dropped his head into his hands.
“Sorry,” he said.
“No,” Uncle Albert said. “Don’t be.”
06.11.18
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* meaning the marginally calmer - or seemingly calmer - Axel Sundstrøm. For more about Nils, the more labile, see here.
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