by Mindy Misener
There is a difference between believing something to be true and being invaded by Truth, capital T. Believing in truth is like learning a beautiful dance, even being able to perform it well. Being invaded by Truth means you’ve forgotten that what you are doing is called dancing. Now each shift of your body is holy. You feel the blessing of space to move in. And you are sure that your movement blesses the space in return.
I’m writing all of this because just this morning I went from holding a truth in my head to living it with my whole self. I don’t need to tell you what this truth was. Better yet, it could have been any of the following: There is hope. Life is painful. We are loved. Darkness is not the enemy. Attention yields clarity. Everything connects. Everything passes away. Mercy is better than judgment.
I could go on, but you get the gist. You could even add your own examples. The thing is, I know I would agree with you on your list and then go on with my day, more or less unchanged. This is the default: to think that understanding a truth on an intellectual level is the same as really, really knowing it, deep in our bones.
It isn’t. Intellectual understanding isn’t bad, but it’s not the whole deal. It’s more of a stopgap—or better yet a signpost appearing out of the fog when there’s not much else to see.
I use the word “invaded” to describe the arrival of Truth because I want to emphasize that we cannot summon, demand, entice, or manufacture such encounters. We can’t even earn them! Infuriatingly, figures like the good-for-nothing Prodigal Son embraced by his father on the road home are just as likely, if not more likely, to encounter Truth as is the respectable man next door.
I didn’t deserve the peace Truth gave me today. Actually, I’m already sure this peace won’t last. I’ve never had Truth take up permanent residence in my soul. The journey is a cycle of forgetting and re-learning, not a steady march toward perfection. There are far more hours of muddle and muck than there are moments of glory.
This, though, is where faith comes in. See, I don’t need faith this morning. I don’t need a poem or sermon or song to see me through.
Tomorrow morning, though, will be different. Tomorrow morning I’ll have to hoist what faith I can muster and continue on again. Tomorrow morning I’ll need that poem or sermon or song to remind me of what doesn’t even need saying today.