Mystery
Photo by Brocken Inaglory, Creative Commons
What Happens Next?
“Let me put your mind at ease: I’m never telling you everything.”
Spoken by any other voice than James Spader’s, these words would be utterly forgettable. In the hyperbolically dramatic elocution of Spader’s character on The Blacklist, however, they send chills of anticipation through the spines of the show’s faithful. The drama’s success, in fact, hinges on this point: The show’s writers are never telling us everything. We all want to know what happens next.
As I write this, waiting with eager longing for the premier of The Blacklist’s second season, countless questions draw me back in. Is Red the father of the protagonist, Lizzie? What happened during that fire in her childhood? Where is Red’s family? But for real, is Red Lizzie’s father? What is Red going to do with Berlin? Who is Berlin? Seriously, is Red her dad, or not? Where is Tom? Who is Tom? And I am not kidding, will someone please tell me whether Red is Lizzie’s father or not?
For those who have not seen the show, it is this slew of unanswered questions, combined with James Spader’s hauntingly playful demeanor, that keep us coming back for more. The mystery of it all gives us immeasurable delight. Much like the serious dramas Lost, The X-Files, and How I Met Your Mother, the producers are cashing in on our innate attraction to the mystery of the unknown future.
The Mystery of the Future
When we ask the same question about the future of this little movement we call “The Church,” however, the suspense does not delight us. What happens next? Will the United Methodist Church remain united? Will anyone in the world care about Christianity in fifty years? Will our local community survive? What will it all look like?
Far from being a tantalizing mystery, the unknown future tends to ignite paralyzing anxiety among those who care about these questions. In frenzied attempts to relieve our own anxiety, we may turn to pathological control, resentful bitterness, or resigned hopelessness.
Why do we turn away from this particular mystery of the future? After all, Christianity has been rife with mystery from its inception. Holy Communion is described as “this holy mystery.” In fact, the same Greek word, μυστήριον (musterion), has historically been translated both as “mystery” and “sacrament.” Mystery is not just a good thing – it is also sacramental!
In the United Methodist liturgy for the Eucharist, we proclaim together “the mystery of our faith” (Christ has died; Christ is risen; Christ will come again). The mystical tradition, across the ages, has reveled in the mystery of our experiences of union with God. Rudolf Otto called such experiences of the sacred (or “numinous“) the Mysterium Tremendum - the great and overpowering mystery of something wholly other.
Can we also appreciate the mystery of what the future might bring? Can we do so as individuals and as communities? Jesus once said something about lilies and birds and not worrying about tomorrow (Mt 6.25-27). Is there broader application to the future of the church here?
Or am I just looking for a way to rationalize inaction – grand talk about “mystery” as an excuse for being lazy today? I hope not. We need not throw caution to the wind and pretend like our actions today have no bearing on tomorrow. But if we embrace the mystery of what comes next, it may just free us from paralyzing anxiety to better participate in the building of an unknown future.
The apostle Paul wrote that “the creation waits with eager longing for the revealing of the children of God.” It is not anxious waiting he describes but hopeful and eager longing – like the anticipation of a new plot revelation. Hope, however, requires the unknown. If we knew the future, for what would we hope? As Paul continues, “Now hope that is seen is not hope. For who hopes for what is seen?” (Rom 8.19-25). So let us behave more like birds and lilies than anxious squirrels, as we work toward the future with the peace of an eager longing.
Because if you are anxiously looking for God to tell you everything, let me put your mind at ease: God is never telling you everything.
Gabe Horton is a student at Vanderbilt Divinity School and a pastoral intern at Belle Meade United Methodist Church in Nashville, TN. This article is reprinted with permission from UMC Lead.