Preface

4. The Question

I am sure I can't remember the exact words but that doesn't really matter. The power of the question remains. It was a logical question designed to expose a weakness. And a weakness it exposed but at the same moment revealed the powerful essence of the weakness.

I will stop writing in riddles, even though the riddle remains the point.

It was a Thursday evening in September 2003 when I and three other Christians met with four Muslims. The purpose of the meeting was to develop relations between the two religious groups and hopefully make a contribution to the multi religious/cultural nature of Australia. The Australian Government even approved of our attempt and made a financial contribution to the cost of the overall programme.

On this particular night the subject for discussion was monotheism—a subject dear to the heart of Islam and central to the Christians despite their division of the one God into three persons—Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Of course, the two points of view logically fly in the face of each other and consequently I found myself questioning logic as I approached the meeting and at the same time remembering the tenacity with which each religious tradition held its own view. And I might have been relishing the possibility of making my watertight case for Trinity. Admittedly Monotheism was not my favourite theological subject but I felt equal to the occasion and knew some Muslim concepts that supported a Trinitarian approach even if not substantiating it. I felt a certain intellectual thrill coming on and at the same time knew I was going to enjoy the act of meeting and being met.

Some members of the group I noted as I perused my list I had met before and in fact one of the Muslims had promised me a conversation on Rumi—a promise that I had not, at that stage, taken up.

The time had arrived and so I made my way to an address in Auburn. It was a Muslim home. We, the Christians, were greeted warmly but despite that there was the usual temerity of entering the unfamiliar. It was in no way excessive but it was there.

My eye naturally caught the framed Arabic script on the lounge room wall. Commitment to an agenda stopped my enquiry about its purpose and meaning but the memory of it is still strong and seeking explanation. My eyes were soon controlled by the extra lighting necessary for the videoing of the meeting. I had forgotten that this was to happen and wondered if the presence of a camera and a microphone would make the participants too self-conscious and so inhibit the dialogue. My fear was ill founded. Under the excellent and gentle leadership of our facilitator the agenda progressed in an atmosphere of warm acceptance. There was a genuine desire to understand the other as each wanted to be understood. Papers on the subject—monotheism—were read, summarised and responded to. The concentration had been intense on the part of all. Everyone was committed to the programme that had such an important potential. The predictable fatigue brought an enthusiastic response to the suggestion that we try some Turkish tea, which turned out to be nothing more than a regular British blend in Turkish glass cups. The joke was enjoyed by all of us as we acknowledged our unacknowledged sensitivity to culture. We were then able to be less sensitive and more natural in the progressive enjoyment of each other. Who cares whether the tea is Turkish, Indian or British? Or if the cups are glass or Royal Worcester as long as the tea is wet and hot and stimulates the brain cells for the next half hour.

As it turned out we discovered that Australian Christians are just as capable of spilling tea out of Turkish cups as they are out of Royal Worcester. The tea and the embarrassment were soon mopped up and the discussion proceeded with a little more vigour. After all, we were getting to know each other and how we use words—those of the sacred texts and those that describe our faith experiences.

The Muslim questions pressed for an understanding of the difference between Father, Son and Holy Spirit. The historical evolution of the doctrine of the Holy Spirit was explained and appreciated. It was becoming clear that the Christians were prepared to link the word God with Jesus. The nature of that linking was too specialised for a first meeting and so the image was fixed in the minds of non-Christians of a God limited by Jesus who suffered death by Crucifixion.

Everyone was too polite to use the word absurdity but it was on the tip of our minds if not on our tongues. But then in the thrill of the discussion and the growing familiarity and acceptance of each other the question moved from mind to tongue to ear.

I heard it in all its absurdity—a God who is supposed to be all powerful, the God who is the creator and sustainer of all, is also the God who is being executed by first century Roman justice combined with the insensitivity and weakness of humanity. How can the crucified Jesus be God?

The sincere and logical question became in my mind an affirmation. I had read the stories in the Gospel since childhood. I had both heard and preached sermons on the theme. I had celebrated Good Friday with all the liturgical passion and beauty that my tradition offers. I had listened to and sung the greatest of the music of Holy Week and Easter. I had reflected deeply and prayerfully on the Cross But only now in the question—sincere in its confusion from the mouth of my new friend, a Muslim, did I sense the absurdity with all its clarity. God on a cross. Yet that is the essence of the Christian faith.

Strangely I sat quiet while this revelation hovered over me and through me. Only now as I think about that moment do I wonder how I said nothing. What excuse do I give for not having jumped out of my seat like Archimedes from his bath and shouted, Look at your question. It embodies the essence of Christianity. Forget your monotheism or your trinitarianism. This is all that matters—a crucified God.

But I sat quiet, shocked at the force—intellectual and emotional—of the insight. And in a more sober moment I know of the stupidity of saying anything. If the absurdity does not do its work I can be sure that my attempt to explain the absurdity would not either. To explain an absurdity seems to be the ultimate absurdity.

And so I remained silent.

On further reflection I vaguely remember thinking that if I spoke at that moment it would have been ill mannered, side tracking the reason for the meeting into an imposed consideration of what the Catholics call the Pascal Mystery.

For whatever reason I remained quiet but knew in that moment that I had a clue as to why the cross is the third best known symbol in the contemporary world, being only surpassed by McDonald's arches and the Mercedes Benz circle. And I wondered why its absurdity had not made it the best known symbol, for it is a spectacular absurdity.

It is as if its absurdity is the source of its significance and its tantalizing appeal. The inappropriateness of holding together the two ideas—God and death, a God who dies—is beyond our comprehension. But not beyond our longing. That death, execution, was accepted by the Crucified for the well-being of the world and, almost incidentally, with a longing that the executioners might know forgiveness. Absurd—as we might say but it has an appeal which tantalizes us into adoration and awe. Or else into rejection.

And the other absurdity is that it was a Moslem question that compelled me as a Christian to this new affirmation. Rumi, of course, would not agree that it was absurd. I can hear him commenting that it was nothing more than the natural consequence of All is one. The fact is that I would not have had this insight if it had not been for a Moslem. And Moslem questions and Christian affirmations are all part of the whole. Rumi understood that. And now, so do I.

Grahame Ellis
October 2003