there is a question that has followed me like an apparition since childhood. the longer i live, the less i can shake it off. every now and then, i ponder its whispers. but today, it caught me by the heel and brought me face-forward to the ground, screaming:
what does it mean to be human?
iâve been unhinged by this question during the past two years. left and right, i am surrounded by people, both nonreligious and religious, who claim certitude over this life. during my early twenties, i asserted myself similarly. i was in over my head when it came to matters of living, of relating, of reasoning. i thought i was zealous in pursuit of truth. however the truth is, i was zealous in pursuit of control and power. i had a tight grip on my perception of reality and declared it a claim to truth.
when life slowly unraveled at its seams, i, too, was unraveled.
during the breakdown of a relationship this past winter, i thought the pain would swallow me up. my prayers were mostly silent, save for moments of sobbing. i was drowning in my inability to form any lucid meaning to the experience. words, my dependence on words and language, became brittle like sand slipping through even as i cup my hands so tightly. the grief was alinguistic, unutterable. words poured from my fingertips, my grasp, my lips, yet lost all meaning in my despair.Â
i wonder how many people misuse the words of Scripture to impress upon a message of control, to cage our suffering that is meant to briefly shut our eyes and reverberate through our bodies, for moments, to remind us of our frailty. a pain meant to be known intimately by our stiff, dry bones, aching for our tears and our acknowledgment, that we are human.
when the author of the gospel of John penned its opening lines, they wrote that the Word was God, the divine creator. they wrote that all things were made through the Word, that the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, infinitesimal humans. while the Word is revealed to us today through the tangible pages of our Bibles, this Word is not words nor is it contained by words. Godâs incarnate Word is Himself in the person of Jesus.Â
the Word is a being. the Word is breathing. the Word, uttered, is power. the Word is the mystery of God.
i donât believe we can confine the Word to the fragile, mental cardboard boxes of our reasoning. there is something about our existence that is beyond our capacity to utter and form coherent language. that is why we wail, we moan, we scream, we laugh, we hum, we sigh.Â
the Word is alinguistic, pre-linguistic, and post-linguistic. but let us not fall into a nihilism either, for the Word is also linguistic.Â
yes, this Word is also knowable, incarnate, tangible. that is why, when Jesusâ beloved friend Lazarus died, he wept. alongside his own utterance, he, the Word incarnate, could not utter a single word and instead, chose to enter into our suffering and our agony. the pain that demands to be felt was wholly felt by him too; a visceral, embodied pain. an emotional, physical asphyxiation. a crushing of insides. a muddy pool of tears. a steady surge of sweat and blood.
so in this inescapable, fleeting life of ours, this is our portion: that we wrestle fervently with what we are given through the words we are able to muster, however imperfect, imprecise, or illogical they come. and for the times we are unable to speak, we find grace.Â
âWe have all received from his fullness,
  yes, grace upon grace.â
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