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On St. Augustine (2/3/07)
I love it when St. Augustine says:
Or should I
say, rather, that that I should not exist if I were not in you, from
whom are all things, through whom are all things, in whom are all
things? Yes, Lord, that is the truth, that is indeed the truth. To
what place can I invite you, then, since I am in you? Or where could
you come from, in order to come into me? To what place outside heaven
and earth could I travel, so that my God could come to me there, the
God who said, I fill heaven and earth? [...] What are you,
then, my God? What are you, I ask, but the Lord God? For who else is
lord except the Lord, or who is god if not our God? You are most high,
excellent, most powerful, omnipotent, supremely merciful and supremely
just, most hidden yet intimately present, infinitely beautiful and
infinitely strong, steadfast in all things, never new, never old,
renewing all things yet wearing down the proud though they know it
not; ever active, ever at rest, gathering while knowing no need,
supporting and filling and guarding, creating and nurturing and
perfecting, seeking although you lack nothing. You love without
frenzy, you are jealous yet secure, you regret without sadness, you
grow angry yet remain tranquil, you alter your works but never your
plan; you take back what you find although you never lost it; you are
never in need yet you rejoice in your gains, never avaricious yet you
demand profits. You allow us to pay you more than you demand, and so
you become our debtor, yet which of us possesses anything that does
not already belong to you? You owe us nothing, yet you pay your debts;
you write off our debts to you, yet you lose nothing thereby.
After saying all that, what have we said, my God, my life, my holy
sweetness? What does anyone who speaks of you really say? Yet woe
betide those who fail to speak, while the chatterboxes go on saying
nothing. (Confessions,
p.4-5; Book 1:2,2, and 4,4)
I love it because, had I not mentioned Augustine’s name or pointed you
where to find this passage in his Confessions, it could
easily be about the God or gods of any religious tradition. The God
here is never called anything but God, or Lord: not Yahweh, not Jesus,
not Allah, not Buddha, not Krishna. By only saying “God” and “Lord” it
could be a Hindu or a Jew or Buddhist or Muslim—not just a
Catholic—expressing this. And in the above are both the most basic
statements that can be made about God, but also the hallmarks of the
paradox of the Divine, and the limits of human speech and the human
mind:
God is everywhere, there is nowhere God is not; he is inside us and we
are inside him just as the world (the universe) is inside him, and God
is inside it. There is no place where God isn’t—and if we can’t find
him it’s only a mistaken apprehension on our part. If there is a lack
of meaning in our lives, or a void, it isn’t for God’s absence, as if
he forgot to fill that corner of our hearts or minds as well, but
simply our inability (maybe even our active desire) to deny he is
right there. To see God in all things is not easy, it isn’t a
throwaway observation that clears up all of existence for us so we no
longer have to think; in fact it’s the toughest thing, when we realize
what seeing God in all things really means. It isn’t cop-out
but a plunge into what can either be an awful abyss, or the greatest
clarity. It doesn't cancel out the possibility of suffering, but
allows us to to live with it decently.
God contains (or actually is, or exudes) every quality we
would wish to have as human beings; but being God, these qualities are
inexhaustible, and by radiating and embodying them nothing of God is
lost—it is not like any of us becoming tired, or even in need of a
shower, after work. While God rested on the seventh day there’s a
sense he didn’t need to, and can go on and on for eternity. God has
the power and omnipotence we wish to have; thanks to his patience God
has and gives the mercy and justice we wish we had and could spread
across the world; God has the beauty and strength we wish for
ourselves physically and spiritually; God is steadfast in every way,
both unchanging and loyal, constant and eternal in the most
metaphysical sense, and trustworthy is the most mundane.
But, being God, he exemplifies these qualities to the point of Godlike
paradox, where there are no contradictions in saying that God is
“never new” and “never old” at the same time, or “most hidden yet
intimately present” or “ever active, ever at rest.” This, I suppose,
is the comfort of God, the perfection of every quality humans wish to
have themselves—and then some, and unfailing. And with this is the
mystery of God’s love: perfect already, embodying everything,
being everything—still God seeks though he “lack[s] nothing.” In
a way, having everything, there is nothing for God to do but
give, and love, to guard and create and nurture, to perfect what he
has made and rejoice as perfection is neared.
We would consider a spouse or partner crazy who “grow[s] angry yet
remain[s] tranquil,” who is “jealous yet secure.” Tranquility and
security must be found when anger and jealousy are overcome; yet these
things make sense with God. The idea of an angry and jealous God seems
to be part of what drives people away from a number of churches (along
with the most cynical reading of the banking analogy Augustine uses
later, as if God were only a bill-collector), but if we accept the
paradox that God is “most hidden yet intimately present” and all the
rest, the paradox (well-known to Hindus) of the creator and destroyer
being the same must be accepted as well. The problem of living with
God’s will is the paramount one of all, of accepting the good and the
bad with equal heart, seeing it all as a narrative of divine will. (I
will write more on this later, but for now it’s enough to say that
this, above anything else, is the problem of faith.)
I’m not sure what Augustine means with “You allow us to pay you more
than you demand, and so you become our debtor”—I can’t see God
becoming indebted to us for anything, since, as Augustine says
immediately after, “which of us possesses anything that does not
already belong to you?” And he is even more clear right after that:
“You owe us nothing, yet you pay your debts; you write off our debts
to you, yet you lose nothing thereby.” This is the ultimate giving,
the ultimate love, the ultimate caring of God, the generosity of a
billionaire who loans us a million of it, doesn’t ask for it back, yet
somehow still has it. This is the paradox of the size and depth of
God’s love and giving: it is so vast it can swallow up any awful thing
we do, it can erase all pain and suffering and bring us immense peace,
but it takes nothing for God to do this, and takes nothing from him to
do it. The work is ours to accept it, and once we’ve done so it is
simply done. I could say it would be the equivalent of a bird brushing
briefly by a mountain and nudging a few particles off with its wings,
yet even these few particles—like walking on a beach and picking up
only two or three grains of sand—are too much. In a strange way, by
coming closer to God, nothing in God changes (nothing is added or
subtracted, nothing is taken from one part of God and placed into
another) so that it seems we’ve been there the entire time, and the
only thing that’s changed is our realization of it.
(And, saying this, the paradox of our time is seeing the validity of
other traditions in the vastness that God is--I mean actually
seeing validity, not merely "tolerating" them. I will write on this
more later as well, but more and more I'm confirmed in the thought,
after reading something like what Augustine writes on the salvation of
believers--or something the Buddha wrote, or something from the Old
Testament, or in an Upanishad--& always remarking Well, that's
good and fine, but what about the others?)
And while the above is only the best I can say right now, on a
Saturday afternoon, about a paragraph or two from Augustine as he
writes on God; and while saying this is necessary, while trying to put
these things in words is necessary, another paradox is when he says,
“What does anyone who speaks of you really say?” The paradox perhaps
easiest to understand here is when Augustine mentions the chatterboxes
who, obviously speaking, are really saying nothing. I hope this is
something.
***
The following exchange was originally in the comments sectuib to
this post, but I thought them so nice that I'll put them right at the
end here:
i.m. said...
what do you think the value of what God gives us is, if he has an
inexhaustible supply of what is given? aren't rare things more
precious?
Tim said...
I dunno what Auggie would say to that. But I'm
guessing the overwhelming-ness of God, & the comfort it brings, is
more about awe at something inexhaustible, whereas with regular human
beings we are happy with the rare--since it is so rare--& is so
precious because it doesn't come often. It's rare because we aren't
capable of the inexhaustible, so we cherish what we can get from
regular old mortals. But Auggie may accuse me of blathering here.
i.m. said...
hmm...so it's not that, when worshipping God, we
should value or somehow seek the individual qualities of his that we
would specifically interact with (e.g., mercy, love, comfort,
justice)?--but it's more that we should just be in awe that they are
in abundant supply, that he himself (in his never-newness and
never-oldness) is in abundant supply? i don't know what to say about
the first, as blind awe sounds too much like blind obedience--i want
to access God on a human level, which i've always been told (though
mostly by protestants) is possible. surely the second is marvellous--as
you noted, meditation on the all-ness of God is the foundation of
eastern and western religions alike--but is it enough for creatures
like us? it seems we were created with desire for the first, for
contact with God in terms that are comprehensible to humans, and yet
it so often eludes us.
granted, i have a very limited experience among these lofty concepts,
and will perhaps go through life counting the gift of deep human love
as my only human experience of God.
Tim said...
i'm not sure about this, but as far as i can
tell reading Auggie or other Catholics, there's a way they have to
specifically interact with the mercy, love, etc., of God, & the thing
that allows them to continually do so is because the experience for
them is so rich, since the mercy, love, etc., is literally boundless &
endless. not blind awe, but direct experience of the bottomlessness of
God, & the realization that you can depend on that love, mercy, &
comfort completely, & it will never stop giving. like the deep human
love you mention (!), when it's experienced & you give yourself
entirely to it (since that, too, if it is cared for, is bottomless),
that isn't blind anything, but a direct experience of it, a
recognition of what it is, & a jumping into it freely. that too is a
deeply personal experience of something that is so much larger than
yourself, & the same with God (i imagine!): it's an entirely personal
experience of something that is both deeply & excruciatingly personal,
& so huge it contains the universe. dunno if this makes sense!
i.m. said:
right, it makes perfect sense! the senses of
love and justice and mercy proceed from the sense of
bottomlessness. i'd not thought of it that way. that's perfect. it
prevents us from expecting things of God without contemplating him
first, without making the first step towards him. would you even term
them (the senses of love and justice and mercy) rewards? i
think i might. because the contemplation is such an incredible and
terrible surrender, just like the first inkling or experience of 'deep
human love' is also a surrender.
(it really recalls the old thing, too, of 'what have you got to lose
by believing in God?'--even if our society or environment demands we
keep hush about such belief, that belief really costs us so little, at
least in comparison with what other (past) societies or environments
exacted from believers. i suppose if we hear nothing from God, then
it's anguish and despair, but if we hear something, anything...)
thinking of it as a reward might also solve my original question of
the value of those things--those senses of love, comfort, justice, and
mercy are worth (literally, as i see it) every thing when
they are not merely a quality of God but an intimate response from
God to oneself as a unique human being, to one's surrender.
as usual, you shed light!
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