A few weeks before Advent started, I had the distinct pleasure–and displeasure–of reading emerging theologian Peter Rollins’ newest book, Insurrection. Insurrection was in many ways a prophetic encounter, as in the coming weeks all of my emotional and psychological doubts about God, Christ and the church would come flooding to the surface of my thoughts and would not be quelled no matter what structure I put in place to try and understand them. Rollins’ book calls for a deeply experiential kind of theology: a dangerous theology, because it calls for us to participate in the radical reality of the crucifixion in a way noone else but Luther has dared to do. It was not a message I understood or wanted to hear, until the weeks afterward brought home–for the first time in my life–real doubt as to the presence of God. This time was not just a felt absence, as most of us probably experience in “ordinary” dull moments of life. It was much deeper, an anxiety-producing “negation” as Tillich might have called it, a sense that God as a concept was meaningless and the church a squabbling group who was unified over nothing. It is not common in American Christianity, particularly the gung-ho evangelicalism with which I grew up, for those kinds of doubts to be voiced aloud. I admit that I felt comfortable sharing these doubts with almost no one; not only because of the seeming rarity of such feelings, but because for the first time in my life doubt was of an incredibly non-intellectual kind.

So what happened? I gradually came to understand, over the period of Advent culminating in and around Christmas Day, that such a doubt is part and parcel of the human condition. It was in reading books like Tillich’s The Courage to Be that I understood both my feelings of meaninglessness and despair and my unwillingness to either abandon the feelings or abandon the faith on which the feelings are based. I hesitate to call this experience mystical, or a dark night of the soul. Its brevity makes me wonder how important it truly was. Nevertheless, I think I have begun to understand the existential reality of faith, and the idea of “dying to oneself” in a much more visceral way than I otherwise would have. It’s a painful experience, and I can’t say I enjoyed it. But through the turmoil of doubt, the resurrection of the joy in theology seems all the more remarkable. It is comforting, too, to know that I have never been alone: though I have not devoted much time to them apart from daily Gospel readings, the Psalms set forth a similar idea of crises of faith, along with resurrection and deliverance, that ground my experience of divine absence in traditional Christian language.

All that is to say that spiritual formation is something I am only beginning to understand. In the same way that my present doubts were less intellectual, my renewed theological joy is less grounded purely in propositional logic. Every story must have its lows, and any theology that cannot also be a grand story is not worth much. Narrative, liturgy and existence are all tied into a knot for me: my existence as an individual is reinforced and transformed through the overarching theological narrative of Christianity proclaimed and enacted in liturgical prayer, worship and sacramental participation.

He goes down the mountain,
Leaving behind the thought of rock broken
Into shards of memory.

Below him is the road that winds
Into the unceasing circle
Of questions. This answer
Of flame is not one
That should be given.

For it means death from life
And fire from stone
And change from stillness.

And he wants only stillness.

I am supposed to lose what I do not have
To understand, and to be understood. But in the clear limbo Between lacking and blazing light where no such
Is, I cannot bridge the gap.

Growing up like a slender plant with no buds,
Never understanding the will to bloom outward,
Never understanding what it means to have a portion
Of sense ripped away. There is only a hole
That is not a hole. It is only a space
To be filled with words
That cannot make me lose something
I do not have.

Almighty God, you called out to Adam when he was lost and brought him into your presence. By the judgment of your Word Adam was made present and then cast from your presence.

Moses desired to see a vision of your glory; instead, you showed him your back.

Job asked the never-ending human question–”why”? He was given no answer.

Israel longed for a Messiah with hosts, a king who would crush the nations like pottery. Instead they were given a crucified king, killed by the very foreign powers he was expected to overthrow.

God, spare us from your presence. By the grace of your Spirit overcome within us the presumption that longs for you as you are. We cannot bare you as you are, only the fleeting light of your back or the mediation of flesh in Christ. In your absence, the old Adam dies daily as the new Adam grows. May we look upon your absence with as much pleasure as your presence.

Though both recordings of Lux Aeterna are performed with symphonias–small orchestral ensembles–the balance in each orchestra is somewhat different. This is especially evident in movements such as In Te, Domine Speravi (movement 2) in which there are prominent instrumental solos. In these cases, the Britain Symphonia tends to rest at a mezzo piano, allowing the solo (usually an oboe) to command the most attention. The Los Angeles Symphonia, by contrast, has the orchestra play at a louder volume, thus making the solos (and the interactions with the chorus) less easy to discern. This is especially evident in movements 1 and 5, where prominent motifs repeated by both symphonia and chorus are masked in the Salamunovich recording; this is, to a certain extent, due to the strongly present low strings. Since the Symphonia is not kept as distinct from the choir in Salamunovich’s interpretation, the Chorale shines on its unaccompanied movements. (The Miserere in In Te, Domine, Speravi is a masterful and heart-wrenching interpretation; likewise with O Nata Lux, which will be discussed further below.) Polyphony and the Britain Syphonia, though not as blended as the Los Angeles ensembles, interact well; it is very evident, particular in the Introitus, when the orchestra and choir are “playing off” one another.

Another striking difference in interpretation is the type of intonation. The Los Angeles Master Chorale is singing within the American choral tradition, it is dark, large, even florid at times. Polyphony sings in a more English style: straight tones with bright vowels and a very precise sense of movement among pitches. One can immediately tell the difference at the beginning of the Introitus. The Los Angeles chorale sings slowly, with a dark but somewhat breathy tone. Polyphony opens with a bright tone devoid of ornamentation; this gives the opening of their recording a chant-like quality, reminiscent of medieval music. Neither of these styles is effective for every movement in the piece. The minor, contemplative In Te, Domine Speravi is well-suited to the ethereal tones of the LA chorale, with Polyphony’s interpretation falling slightly flat in comparison. However, on the more upbeat sections–particularly at the beginning of Veni, Sancte Spiritus–Polyphony’s sense of precision and forward tone serves them well, especially on the unison passages in that movement.

The last and most crucial difference in interpretation concerns tempo. Salamunovich took the choir at a very slow tempo throughout. Even where an increase in speed might have been called for–such as the fourth movement or the Alleluia in Agnus Dei–the Los Angeles Chorale holds back. Polyphony interprets in precisely the opposite fashion: their tempo is notably faster (another factor contributing to the chant-like sound) even when a slower tempo might have been more prudent. This is notable in O Nata Lux: Polyphony takes the movement at approximately 3:40; the Los Angeles Chorale a full one minute and ten seconds faster. Conversely in Veni Sancte Spiritus, Polyphony sings at a brisk pace, with the 6/8 time signature exceptionally evident. The Los Angeles chorale takes the movement much slower, which causes the rhythms to become somewhat muddled. In both cases, one interpretation is superior in a musical sense: the O Nata Lux calls for a slower tempo in light of its lyrics and its structure, whereas the joyous fourth movement almost demands a fast pace.

The two recordings nearly resolve their differences in the last movement: Agnus Dei. This is the movement where both choirs displayed unrivaled confidence, poise and choral acumen. The tempos fall fairly close together; Polyphony’s intonation darkens; and the Los Angeles chorale breaks out of its shell at the last alleluia with immense fortissimo harmonies. Nevertheless, the differences in recordings remain. They demonstrate two nuanced, intelligent approaches to the music, and both succeed admirably at their goals. One will come away from each recording with slightly different attitudes. It speaks very highly of both choirs and their conductors that two such diametrically opposed ways of interpreting a piece can each produce a beautiful, top-notch sound; it speaks very highly of the composer that a work containing so many opposites can integrate them all into a single, unified whole that still retains its diversity.

Leaves are born like egg-shells
With scents of loam and passed time,
Wind is gone for moments–
Brings the blades of mountain-rims
Upon its current; it gives bones
The feeling of lightness like wings
Or leaves flying over rocks
To a bluff where silence rings.

And Jacob was left alone. And a man wrestled with him until the breaking of the day. When the man saw that he did not prevail against Jacob, he touched his hip socket, and Jacob’s hip was put out of joint as he wrestled with him. Then he said, “Let me go, for the day has broken.” But Jacob said, “I will not let you go unless you bless me.” And he said to him, “What is your name?” And he said, “Jacob.” Then he said, “Your name shall no longer be called Jacob, but Israel, for you have striven with God and with men, and have prevailed.” Then Jacob asked him, “Please tell me your name.” But he said, “Why is it that you ask my name?” And there he blessed him. So Jacob called the name of the place Peniel, saying, “For I have seen God face to face, and yet my life has been delivered.” The sun rose upon him as he passed Penuel, limping because of his hip.

- Genesis 28:24-31

So to keep me from becoming conceited because of the surpassing greatness of the revelations, a thorn was given me in the flesh, a messenger of Satan to harass me, to keep me from becoming conceited. Three times I pleaded with the Lord about this, that it should leave me. But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me. For the sake of Christ, then, I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and calamities. For when I am weak, then I am strong. – 2 Corinthians 12:7-10

Yet we know that a person is not justified by works of the law but through faith in Jesus Christ, so we also have believed in Christ Jesus, in order to be justified by faith in Christ and not by works of the law, because by works of the law no one will be justified. – Galatians 2:16b

‘Depart from me, you cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels. For I was hungry and you gave me no food, I was thirsty and you gave me no drink, I was a stranger and you did not welcome me, naked and you did not clothe me, sick and in prison and you did not visit me.’”

- Matthew 25041-43

Hermeneutics aside, these things seem to be irreconcilable. At least, they seem that way in the typical Reformational understanding of sola gracia and sola fide. Sometimes I just want to throw up my hands and ask God, “Which is it already?” I can’t ignore either of these points. And there comes a point where “living in the tension” isn’t exactly what I’d like to be doing. Forgive me, but I’d actually rather like to know if I will be spending eternity with God or apart from him.

- Douglas Wilson

Reaching out with invisible hands, declaring an impossibility. God is. God has. God knows.

God knows, metaphors can only do so much. But they are consumed in a spiraling Word whose direction is unclear.

Up and down, God’s hands spread the universe into a projection screen. The drama is in the gods’ battles, reflected in a diving arrow of light.

Into the light comes simile, two incongruities in a dance. The universe and God, on opposite poles of an untold story. Notes are written in the stars to give the world its name.

The world is named by starlight given flesh. Dust of long-dead ideas coagulates, breathes, is breathed on. Words come.

“God …?was

Metaphor takes on shape in eye, in tongue, in hammer and tongs. Simile arcs between ineffabilities like electric current. The world and the metaphor meet in the spiral-word that is the arrow that is the heavenly dust enfleshed in a moment of speech.

God is … not.

Not a metaphor.

God is … a word …