Incompletion: Our Strangest Answer

I have a secret... doubt. Maybe, question, is better word for it. Very recently I have been actively questioning my faith. Not doubtfully disputing, but questioning. Here's a better way of putting it; i opened myself up to a set of questions that i knew would aggressively challenge my whole belief system. The words of a familiar artist echoing in my spirit.

"Wait just a minute You expect me to believe that all this misbehaving grew from one enchanted tree. And helpless to fight it we should all be satisfied with the magical explanation for why the living die."

At the heart of it, there's no denying that we are a people of fantastical beliefs. Wars have been fought in their name, men have been martyred in their wake, and every civilization for 10,000 years has lived in the tension of their miracles. Our logic is full of mysticism, and our reason is full of reckless passion. And these things don't sit well with us, do they? Not with me they don't. My brain has been divided into two hemispheres (so they tell me), and it's quite a bother some times. It's either a fantastic joke my Poetic Creator has played on me or a marvelous mistake that science never evolved to the point that both of these halves would work more peacefully together... have your pick. Regardless, I'm left to hash it out somehow, and so these questions burn.

And the frustrating thing isn't even so much the questions themselves as much as why we ask them. The questions are the same we all have had. What are we looking for though, evidence? Evidence is relative. I can prove to a man that sun revolves around the earth and not the other way around, and all he has to do is sit with me in my front yard for 12 hours to watch it pass. Instead, i take a more capable man's word for it. One who tells me he's been around the world and seen it himself, another who's machines answer the mystery for us... and I'm satisfied with those answers. So why am i not satisfied with the same man's answers to the bigger questions? Questions of life. Questions of what really happened. I decided tonight it's because we're not speaking the same language.

When asking poetic questions, math is obsolete.

Tonight i took a walk around 2 am. It was quiet and no one bothered me. I walked and listened to my music, and then i heard it. I felt it. The earth moved. Cried. A cry of frustration, of agony, of incompletion. And i realized why I'm so unsatisfied with the answers of man. They use equations that are incomplete, nearly there but they always leave something to be desired. They've been missing something from the moment we plucked it from the tree and the earth has groaned ever since. Tsunami's roll, the earths shell cracks and shakes, and beneath it all is this cry to made whole again because all creation knows this isn't how things were meant to be. It knows without asking and it knows because it doesn't ask. It knows and and doesn't waste time trying to explain it without all the pieces.

I feel the same incompletion, but in a different way. I feel it not because my Creator left any desire unquenched but because, until he comes back in fullness and restores things, i won't truly operate the way he meant for me to. That answer brings me peace... because i know that the same Creator orchestrated this entire night just so i could understand.