I tend to think (along with many other Christians) in terms of questions and answers. I've been framing my current quest in that way - saying I have questions for God, I'm looking for answers. But today I was thinking to myself, it's not so drily intellectual. My questions don't even need words. I could lay out all the objects, the real tangible items, of my case: my body, the facts of my life, the real minutes that I have lived. And these courtroom exhibits would ask, "What were You thinking? Are You crazy?" And like the questions Job asked, these aren't really questions - they're accusations.
It annoys me when people talk as if the Christian life can be settled with propositional truth. I'm fed up with people saying to me that God is good and everything's going to work out, as if their words (which are definitely true, in an empty-shell kind of way) can put back together the pieces of a smashed soul.
So today in church, one of the phrases in the liturgy all of a sudden meant something. After communion, we thank God "for assuring us in these holy mysteries that we are living members of the Body of your Son, and heirs of your eternal kingdom."
The assurance comes not from cut-and-dried logic, but from "holy mysteries." The phrase meant something because I've experienced it. My healing is not coming from doctrine hammered over and over into my head. It's coming from "holy mysteries" like anointing oil and communion elements and statues and stained glass and tiny, gleaming candle flames and music and ancient creeds that my tongue delights to say, because in this tangible holiness my body, heart, and mind are meeting at some mysterious nexus, and my soul is being knit back together.