HOW GREAT THOU ART: TRANSCENDENCE AND IMMANENCE IN A TIME OF FEAR

Contemplating transcendent aspects of the divine creates a slow-burning fullness in my chest. It lacks the mystical sharpness of St. Teresa’s fiery sword, but when it happens, I feel my desperate hold on the material world loosening and catch glimmers of mysteries hiding within. I tried to transmit this wonder through a presentation at a retreat held by my church years ago. The place saved me at a dark moment, and I was eager to give back. I wanted my friends to experience the comfort of that warm fullness too. The grandeur. The invitation. The challenge.

We gathered in a monastery chapel and the guitarist began strumming the chords of “How Great Thou Art.” People relaxed into the soft familiar progressions. When he finished, I stepped into the silence with words which pulsed along with my heart:

Oh Lord, My God

When I, in awesome wonder

Consider all the worlds thy hands have made

I see the stars, I hear the roaring thunder

Thy power throughout the universe displayed

Then sings my soul, my savior God, to thee

How great thou art, how great thou art

Then sings my soul, my savior God to thee

How great thou art, how great thou art.

After speaking the lyrics, I invited the assembled to marvel with me at the glorious force which set molecules and galaxies into motion, and to enter the vastness of space existing between atoms and stars, joining our hearts to reach for their singing. I’d helped the church launch by developing a website and printed materials, leading women’s groups, and organizing neighborhood outreach efforts. Serving saved me as my marriage entered its death spiral, and church became home. I had no idea that I’d soon be kicked out.

It’s unclear how successful I was at carrying my friends into the depth of wonder I’d hoped to convey through that first verse of “How Great Thou Art.” Many were probably too tired or jaded to do more than hope there’d be snacks at the coffee break. But I did my best and then shifted to the second movement of the talk. This section focused on an intimate moment, when Jesus fed weary disciples breakfast on a cold, wet beach, moving our thoughts from transcendence to immanence.

Some might call this heresy, but for me, the apex of the Jesus story happened on that shore. I know Jesus’ resurrection is the central tenet of Christian creeds. Annual cycles of liturgy culminate in a week of passion and resurrection. My faith has morphed significantly since those moments in the chapel, but even at that time, arising from the dead didn’t seem like a challenge for a God who big-banged matter into being with simply a Word. Wasn’t reanimation of flesh trivial in comparison to creating universes? God personally feeding people on a beach though? Now that’s mind-blowing!

Let’s set the stage for the story. Jesus was crucified, the tomb is empty, and a group of disciples gather behind locked doors, afraid of religious leaders who want to silence Christ’s disruptive message. The city teems with people who’d gathered in Jerusalem for Passover, and Roman authorities are on high alert for rebellion. Jesus’ followers are persons of interest for speaking truth to power, and the disciples are concerned about being jailed, killed, or worse. The atmosphere is a toxic mix of money, politics, and religion. Their fear is warranted.

As they hide out, frightened and planless, Peter suggests they go back to what they know, so a group of them head to the Sea of Galilee, returning to being fishers of fish rather than men. Standing in that chapel talking about the stunning wonder of this event, I had no idea my priest would eventually ask me to stop attending his church because those gathered in the pews might be scandalized by the relationship I’d formed with a person who later became my beloved spouse. Their table simply couldn’t bear the weight of our LGBTQIA+ souls. In the years which followed, I grappled with things church and Bible taught about sexual identity and gender, and through that wrestling, my book-shaped rigidity softened, expanded, centering even more fully around the thrumming hum of love. But all that came later.

At the retreat I asked those gathered to close their eyes and imagine the scene; smelling the damp air, feeling the wood, rope, and waves. Imagining the exhaustion of fishing all night without catching anything. Being wet, hungry, and cold. Throwing the net one last time with a miraculous accumulation of fish as a result. Rushing to the shore where a fire burned, and fish and bread cooked. Hearing Jesus asking for fish from the net even though he could have produced basketsful of food, a wedding party’s supply of wine, or even called down manna from heaven.

But he didn’t.

Instead, Jesus made a fire and cooked, offering warmth and nourishment after a cold discouraging night.

I didn’t dare say what my heart felt then and still feels now: What use is resurrection without this scene? How cold a comfort is the concept of everlasting life compared to the warm embrace of a person on the shore, calling you in to a fire, food, and love?

“Come,” Jesus said. “Have breakfast.”

I wove the final words of my presentation to conclude the session, and congregants headed out in search of cookies. The tale of Jesus feeding his friends and exhorting them to feed others is the final story of the final chapter in John’s gospel. John’s was the last of the four to be written and is significantly different from the synoptics. This all seems important. Did the author convey different things in order to clarify something about Jesus? Or even correct it?

My presentation invited attendees to ponder the opening words of salvation history through the Genesis creation story proclaimed in a hymn, and then contrasted those words with John’s final tale in the final gospel about God’s walk on earth.

Transcendence and immanence.

The alpha and omega of the divine fingertip against our fingerprint.

I’m tired. Like, bone weary. You probably are too. The lack of love displayed by humanity rocks me. Storms, wars, and tragedies rage, and my soul is hungry for peace. Like Peter and the gathered disciples, I’m afraid of religious leaders who collude with an occupying political presence seeking to exert control, maintain power, and silence opposition. Power has exchanged truth about God for lies, pronouncing that gathering in protest or speaking the actual words and actions of Jesus is dangerous. I’ve struggled to spread the wondrous, universe-creating, massive force of personal love to those who desperately need it. I’m afraid of arrest for telling the transgender community God loves them, and for helping them love themselves and others. I dread the reality that there will be more funerals like the one we attended for a trans teenager who walked off a roof because she couldn’t take it anymore. The harsh rope of my net cuts into my fingers, adding to the force of grief because politics, power, and religious certainty just won’t stop killing Jesus in the name of God and country. Like Peter, my transgender spouse and I long for a faraway sea where we can live simply and safely while mourning the reality that the Christ will always be crucified.

I still resonate with the transcendent God in “How Great Thou Art,” and my soul leans toward that wonder, hoping to hum with the oneness tying all things together. But I’m hungry for immanence. Where is Jesus while I stand in my boat, shivering? Why can’t I smell the smoke of a freshly laid fire, the reassuring scent of bread baking, of fresh fish grilling? Where is that sense of being cared for and reassured?

I want that beach Jesus to show up for me today.

And for you.

And for the detained and deported.

And for the poor, the handicapped, the queer, the elderly, the ones who don’t comprehend English well but recognize fear when they see it in the faces of loved ones.

I want that beach Jesus to come now, and feed us all.

Warm us.

Reassure us.

Oh Lord, my God

when I, in awesome wonder,

consider all the worlds thy hands have made.

I sing the words, but where art Thou? Why won’t you come?

In this era of oppression, I peer into John’s story, seeking his intended message. Did Jesus soothe his own aching heart by collecting driftwood, stacking and arranging it, kneading flour and water, sprinkling salt, and then welcoming? Did he tell us to feed and comfort others because it will feed and comfort us?

Maybe the truest truth about God isn’t that they can overcome death, but that they choose to offer love. And maybe simple actions of caring are the bridge between transcendence and immanence. You and I, feeding and comforting a cold, discouraged Jesus.

How great thou art? How great art thou?