On Edge

[For the February 17, 2008 lectionary: Genesis 12:1-4a + Psalm 121 + Romans 4:1-5, 13-17 + John 3:1-17.]

ON EDGE by Larry Patten

Men with Blades.

Sound dangerous? Well, I suppose it is, in the way that a shortstop feels danger when he plants his feet near second base and watches a runner from first approach, now airborne, spikes in the shoes angled toward the shortstop’s vulnerable legs. Or dangerous like a basketball player leaping for a rebound, fighting a rival player for control of the ball, sharp elbows punching face and chest, as she inevitably plummets, intertwined with the other, toward a hardwood floor.

Recently I did something for the first time. I went to a professional hockey game. Men with blades. As with any sport, there was danger. Those blades on the skates were sharp. The hockey puck, bagel-sized and probably a lot harder than my thick skull, traveled at high speeds.

So, yes, dangerous. Controlled and chaotic. But, truth be told, I had no idea what was going on. I was there because my wife and I were invited to attend a fundraiser. The hockey team, bless their community outreach efforts, was sponsoring a local non-profit’s work.

Did I have fun? Not really. Except for those blades and that puck, I know nearly nothing about hockey. I get national pride goose bumps at reruns of the 1980 “miracle on ice” when the American Olympic hockey team beat the U.S.S.R. But that’s cultural knowledge. And some of you reading, since 1980 could be considered ancient history, might even wonder, “What’s a U.S.S.R.?” Do your own research.

I know baseball. In detail. How about that infield fly rule? Or a Texas leaguer? And also basketball. Want to discuss when a zone instead of man-to-man defense should be used? Or—so casually mentioned in the second paragraph above—what a rebound is?

Every sport has its history, language, and rules.

I’m sure a lot of people love hockey. But I was a kid who grew up in sun-kissed California. For me, ice was put in tea. Puck was a character in Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. What were those men with blades doing out there? I had no idea.

Once I went to a concert—Bach’s St. Matthew Passion—with a friend who was Jewish. Early on, she leaned over and whispered, as Bach’s brilliance filled the hall, “You know the story, don’t you?” She loved the music, but as a Jew, the Gospel of Matthew wasn’t high on her reading list. I was able, in return whispers, to explain a few basics. Knowledge can be a helpful addition to any experience.

And yet, even knowledge is inadequate.

For Christians, we have entered into Lent. One of the Biblical readings underscoring this season comes from John’s Gospel. Early in Jesus’ ministry, a well-heeled scholar named Nicodemus visits the Nazarene just before the Tonight Show starts. Leno’s monolog is a commercial break away.

Nicodemus is there, in the dark of the night, because he is flummoxed. His knowledge has failed him. He might know the history, language, and rules of his faith, but Jesus has said and done things that have put him on edge. He is a man with a blade in his heart.

Faith, growing and restless, should unsettle us. Knowledge will take us part of the way, but it will never be enough. The Muslim might explain Ramadan’s significance, but halfway through that sacred month, with each day devoted to a fast, to the absence of food, an empty stomach reveals more than mere religious definitions.

At the beginning of Christian Lent, I had ashes placed on my forehead. How strange. Can I explain Ash Wednesday to you? Probably. But also, probably not. I know ashes have long symbolized an outward sign of repentance. We are self-centered and the humbling ashes remind us that God desires us to be selfless. What will I choose? Will I remember I am forgiven? Will I live forgiving others? During the service, the priest read from Joel 2:13 about the Holy’s longing for the believer to “rend your hearts and not your clothing.” What? A call for the inward change, for a heart—my heart—to be open to hurt and healing?

Still it’s all odd. Every faith tradition—Latter Day Saints, Sikhs, Anabaptists and so on—remains odd with mere paper-bound words. Rend you heart, don’t just read the words on the paper.

I watched the hockey game. I didn’t know what was going on.

Most of what will get inside our skin, and might transform our soul, will never happen when we are spectators. Is basketball better than hockey? Or Christianity better than Buddhism? Will going to church or temple or mosque make me better? Wrong questions.

Where, like Nicodemus, will I cross a Holy threshold? I imagine he no longer wanted to be a spectator, but a participant. A blade in his heart, a longing for more, caused him to risk new and more questions. He knew he would never know enough.