Mystery of the Unspoken
The incarnation is the key, distinctive theme within Christianity. It is through this lens that we see God in our particular way. God becomes human. Does God therefore forget He is God? Traditional theology, theologies of confession, seems to suggest, through the motif of a multiplicity, a three-in-oneness, that God simply does not forget, but takes up anew a novel portion: creation. God becomes that which God created. Yet, this puzzle remains unsolved. How does the uncreated become perishable, the infinite become bounded by space and time? We may endeavor to concede that this is a mystery, and it is here where we begin to transform our confessions, words on a page perpetually inscribing our desires, into a darkened hush which falls from our lips.
Maybe through our forgetting of God, through our inability to speak of God, an inarticulation which does not allow God's name to be spoken into the created, maybe here God ceases to be. God can no longer be uttered in mystery; this silence is more than a void, however. Silently we are creating a space where God is not and where we can become. If God can no longer be uttered into our space of finite transcendence, do not our notions of humanity, what it means to be sub specie aeternitatis, simply perish? And in this perishing, are we not more and more becoming like God, a crucified deity in the form of a man?
K., the stubborn protagonist in Kafka's novel The Castle, is eternally summoned from the mystery known as the castle. Yet, what does K. find in his infinite wanderings under the watch of the castle and all her machinations? To his consternation, K. never resolves his mystery, neither the mystery of the castle nor of his summons (mainly, it seems, because he falls asleep.). And yet it is here where K. finds infinitely more treasures, though K. never admires them as such. K.'s love for Frieda, his work with Barnabas, his parochial tasks as a school janitor: all of these seemingly meaningless arrangements are what shape K. His life is simply meaningless without them.
Yet, none of this manifests without the (possible) error of the castle summons. It can be rightly questioned whether or not the castle exists. Yet, the call is answered by this surveyor, dejected immediately upon finding his work is delayed. Can we not say that our summons by the castle (God) are also fraught with mystery? And in this mystery (the hushed silence of the name of God), can we not also question whether or not the castle exists? This is certainly the case, yet do our lives then cease to have meaning? Certainly not!
Maybe there is another story in Kafka, a return to K. and the Castle, this time where K. ceases to find entrance in the Castle and recognizes it is all a farce. What would he find in this tragedy? Would the bonds that now tie K.'s life together cease to hold him together? Unfortunately, Kafka never wrote this story, unless of course Kafka is really writing our stories.