I once found it everywhere—
the tufts of a dandelion, that belt of Orion,
eerie shadows and earthy mole holes.
I found it without even tryin'.
Then, when exploration I’d outgrown, explanation I honed.
Mystery was judged, feared, despised.
Certainty was justified, loved, adored.
Everything categorized and defined in the modern mind.
Think on this: human reason resists the detached, distant feel that mystery conveys. But is mystery far away, per se? The shingles of a snowflake falling here on my chin puzzle me more than the staging of Stonehenge in south England. The intimate stillness at the Lord’s Table confounds me more than the tower of Babel. God dwelling within perplexes me more than his dripping dew on Gideon’s sheepskin.
The issue of nearness one might dismiss, if pride would cease and desist. But human reason also resists the unknowns that mystery contains. Is mystery NOT knowing, per se? Curiouser and curiouser are people who know me the most and still stay close. The relationship grows; divine love they show. Through them comes revelation. I'd been conditioned by conditional love, brokering affections to sustain relations. But, now…
When it spies out my faults, thoughts, and self-conscious naughts,
I let mystery seek me and find.
When it moves close, closer still,
I let it collide with my pride.
When mystery leaves profundity
and perplexity intact,
I surrender to wonder and,
like a child, interact.