A short essay.
Every now and again, I fancy myself creative. A seemingly new thought occurs to me; or, for a moment I am convinced, due to a particularly striking revelation, that I have encountered truth for the first time. Moments such as these spur me to works of literary spontaneity---a four line poem shot with rich imagery; a carefully crafted paragraph in which the brilliance of months or years of meditation resides. It is upon these monuments that I am akin to hanging not just my hat, but my coat, my trousers, and when I’m feeling especially bright, my socks and shoes too.
If only the coat rack of my intellectual achievements held more sway than that of its dangerous habit of leaning against unsuspecting visitors. I confess that the way in which I know what I know to be what I know, is rooted in the self-indulgent act of collecting inspirations. That is, the point at which I am convinced (of anything really) is (sadly) when I can say with confidence, “By George I’ve got it!” followed by the devilish whisper, “And no one else has!”
Consider my latest hook: After several years of pondering the concept of “freedom,” especially as it relates to discipleship, I came to this rather remarkable conclusion: “What is .f.r.e.e.d.o.m. if it is not limit?” Misplaced punctuation and all, this is exactly how this “truth” appears in my mind. I am convinced that Christian freedom is experienced within the bounds of strict limits, and that it is the limits themselves that are to be explored rather than what’s outside them.
Striking, isn’t it? How does one grapple with such a paradox? If Christian freedom is indeed abiding by the traditions evolving from the message of a hung-up Messiah, then I am indebted not to my right to express worship in whatever way I see fit, but, to the responsibility of crafting my worship after the practices of the saints.
It’s easy to hoard such revelations (and even easier to consider them interesting) when kept within the chaos of a person’s mind. The act of stuffing one’s intellect deep within herself and calling it “brilliance,” is not as some have been led to believe, an act of the imagination. The imagination is only ever living when breathed out from a person’s mind into the eyes, ears, and lips of limits.
With all this talk of embracing “limits,” it’s high time I introduce you to some of the limits shaping this piece, and in particular my thoughts on Christian freedom. Don’t be fooled; I have not necessarily come to recognize these limits with ease and a willing heart. In calling me to give life to the chaos of my mind, they have both dressed in stench with the goal to offend and giggled in shameless enthusiasm.
1) The placement of punctuation in “What is .f.r.e.e.d.o.m. if it is not limit?”
I owe this pictorial conveyance of “freedom” within limits to E. E. Cummings (indeed a “saint” of literature) who once wondered if a grasshopper might best find his manner expressed within the limits of punctuation. See, “.gRrEaPsPhOs)” in E. E. Cummings’s “r-p-o-p-h-e-s-s-a-g-r” (Cummings, E.E., Selected Poems, 1994).
2) The concept of “limits” as freedom (and vice versa).
. . . it is impossible to be an artist and not care for laws or limits. Art is limitation; the essence of every picture is the frame. . . . You may, if you like, free a tiger from his bars; but do not free him from his stripes. . . . Do not go about as a demagogue, encouraging triangles to break out of the prison of their three sides. If a triangle breaks out of its three sides, its life comes to a lamentable end (Chesterton, G.K., Orthodoxy, 1995, 45-46).
To fancy one’s self creative, is to dabble for a while in the molds of yester days. Truth tellers sit not at the glutton’s table; lo, they kneel at the tales of old.
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