What are the nuptials like when you don’t know what kind of god you’re marrying? Why go through with it? Only a naive or someone perpetually gullible would agree to it. It would be like a fairy tale written by an ancient German author: fantastic, terrible, deadly.
Wedding a god without realizing who we’re talking to may be striking a deal with a demon. Black veil. Serpentine bridesmaids. Out-of-tune soloist. Swooping vultures for groomsmen. There needs to be clarity. Hope. Otherwise, we end up crumbling bones, gobbled up by decisions we can’t take back.
There has to be a different approach to doing it, knowing what kind of god we’re marrying. Some wise way that poets and pop singers haven’t trod. No serpents in the bridal chamber. Some more profound work has to be done that others might call ugly. Simple trust in a god is not enough to navigate through the darkness. That’s how crossed fingers and pious smiles get incinerated.
This detail is why people are leaving the churches. People are losing faith. Running scared because they want a divorce. Pastors notice these sorts of things. Old church ladies talk. The giddy sheen of the honeymoon long long ago wore off. Christ’s invitation to join him for Supper is no longer a magnetic proposal. In some places rumors have spread that he’s dangerous, in others that he doesn’t come home anymore. He’s the king, too busy for romance. So much tangled strata of folklore and gossip stand between God and his bride. Maybe if she’d listened to the good news at the beginning, she’d hear him now. But now he’s a marginal, unusual figure to the churches. The audience doesn’t wait for the dinner bell; there is no steaming meat for them, and the bread and wine are stowed away for special occasions. The expectations of marital bliss are negotiable; it is best to be prepared for what’s coming; nothing extraordinary needs to happen at this point in the relationship. That’s just sensible thinking on the part of the bride.
Sensible thinking and chutzpah. But that’s why she doesn’t see God. Her bridegroom sits under a tree at the center of the oldest of old-growth forests. A place where she, if she listens for his call, can go and be deepened. This is the ancient story – answer the dinner bell, sit down with God to eat our fill, then go out and be deepened. We are not his audience; we are his queen, the bride of Christ, to have and be held at the table where we feast and in the wilderness where we follow.
That’s how he keeps the story rolling. A roving, booming voice that can be trusted. Our bridegroom rattles the cages and wakes us up with words and images, not ideas. That’s how he’s always done it. Is he dangerous, as some say? Yes! Does the relationship get ugly? Often. Does he ever miss a meal? Never. That’s how he conveys his forgiveness, life, and salvation to us.
When we listen to the messengers of grace, God’s preachers, we learn exactly what kind of god we’re marrying. He’s moving, unsettling, working to keep us in the bridal chamber so he can love us wildly, jealously, with the full attention of his heart.
This marriage is what gets us through rough squalls of doubt and scudding storm clouds of grief. He lets his love for us all hang out. No embarrassment. This is his persona. He doesn’t edit anything to spare our feelings, not weather patterns nor how he sews our bridal gown with threads from Eden. This marriage is how he draws out the deep keening of our hearts for wisdom, knowledge, and, one day, understanding the height, depth, and weight of his love for us and why he chose to wed us in the first place.
