The Love of Letting Be

The world is changed by listeners.

And people are almost alarmed when they are actually listened to. “Being heard is so close to being loved,” wrote David Augsburger, “that for the average person, they are almost indistinguishable.”

I guess good listening begins with how we listen to God.

I guess good listening begins with how we listen to God. Smack dab at the beginning of Numbers 3, I recently found myself introduced to two characters of the Bible I knew nearly nothing about: Nadab and Abihu, the two priestly sons of Aaron. Perhaps you’ve never heard of them either—I’d be shocked to find that either character is a household name in even the most pious of Jewish or Christian homes. With their subtle anonymity they are given a brief introduction and a dreary conclusion. One verse is devoted to their demise:

“Nadab and Abihu … died before the LORD when they made an offering with unauthorized fire before him in the Desert of Sinai.” (Num. 3:4)

They were priests who died before the Lord. Leviticus offers a little more explanation, telling us what took place, but not much (Lev. 10:1-2). What became of both remains shrouded in a good deal of mystery. Of course, we could go into the normal historical, cultural, or even biblical contextual rigmarole to explain away why they died, but that would eventually let us readers off the hook. Why? Such incidents happen quite often in the Bible. That is, God does rather mysterious things like letting people fall dead in (even partially disobedient) service to him. There’s Uzzah, and Ananias and Saphirra, among others.

Explaining mysteries

As I think about the writings of the Bible from the perspective of a writer, I am left wondering why it is exactly that the literary genius behind the book didn’t pause, think, and add a clear footnote as to why Nadab and Abihu died.

God’s mysteries aren’t cleared up with explanatory citations all the time.

No explanation.

No rationale.

No footnote.

And, it should be said, such ambiguity comes with much of the mystery of the Almighty. God’s mysteries aren’t cleared up with explanatory citations all the time. Sometimes, the stories just don’t have explanation. Sometimes, it just is what it is; end of story. For a moment, I want to give a little attention to that little emotional reaction one might have to such a “hard saying” as it is often called.

Pay attention to your soul as you hear about such stories. Do you want to explain the story away?

I am learning that one of the greatest skills of the best preachers is that they refuse to iron out the “unironables” in the Bible.

I certainly do. But that lurking desire to explain mystery can lead to some rather comical explanations. For example, I read some time ago of a scientist named Immanuel Velikovsky who theorized that Nadab and Abihu had found some oil and put it in their censer. Unaware of what it was, they lit it on fire only to experience a massive explosion that was interpreted as fire from heaven.[1]

God is a mystery. And God’s mystery is a terrible beauty.

Wrinkled mysteries

People are no different. The human person is a complex, high-touch, nuanced being that is created in the image of God. As God is mysterious, so is God’s creation. At times, I stand before people hearing their stories and wondering why it is that they are. What makes them tick? Why do they continue to do the same silly, mysterious things over and over and over again?

We welcome embracing a God that fits, logically, culturally, and sensibly, into our own sensitivities. But, the minute God colors outside our lines, we bounce.

As a preacher, I am learning that one of the greatest skills of the best preachers is that they refuse to iron out the “unironables” in the Bible. They don’t seek to explain away the stories of Nadab and Abihu—they just let them be. I think that the same goes for the people in my life who have loved me with Christlike persistence. These are people who, like the best preachers, don’t themselves try and iron all of me out on their own.

When I was in my doctoral program, a New Testament Ph.D student told me something I’ve held on to. He said: “An oppressed Bible oppresses people.”

When we malign, quiet, or manipulate the holy words of the Bible, we can use it for whatever means we want. Frankly—and I want to stress this—I think the same stands for our relationships with other people. Oppressed people oppress people. At the very place we ourselves are not loved as we are, we will refuse to do the same for others.

On their turf

I often hear Christians, when facing biblical stories like Nadab and Abihu say things like “I couldn’t follow a God that could do that!” The core of such a sentiment toward God is the same as our sentiment toward others. We refuse to love God for who God is on God’s own terms. We welcome embracing a God that fits, logically, culturally, and sensibly, into our own sensitivities. But, the minute God colors outside our lines, we bounce.

We are guilty of this in our love toward others, too.

I think Jesus wants me to be that way—to have a pathology of irrational listening. Of sitting in the stories of others, and just letting them be what they are.

Jesus’ words were actually true: Love God with all your heart, soul, and strength … Love your neighbor as yourself. Our love of neighbor is a shadow of our love for God, and vice versa.

Just as a Christian is invited to love God on God’s terms, neighbor is invited to love neighbor on their turf.

Richard Baxter, a Puritan father, once wrote that if it fit into a spoon, it isn’t the ocean. His point? God can’t fit. Never has, never will. God’s mystery destroys the spoon. People are similar. Being a neighbor is not expecting others to “fit” into my rational spoon. It is entering into their world, jumping into their pool.

Two weeks ago, I had the chance to spend two hours with a very famous New Testament scholar—all to myself. I planned on spending the time asking this person question after question. But they would have none of it. For two hours, this worldwide-acknowledged, famous scholar spent time asking me questions about my family, my studies, and my ministry.

The professor entered into the mystery that was me!

I want to be that way. I think Jesus wants me to be that way—to have a pathology of irrational listening. Of sitting in the stories of others, and just letting them be what they are.

God is a mystery. Others are a mystery.

And it’s a mystery how we all think we’re the spoon.

1. Immanuel Velikovsky, Worlds in Collision (New York, NY: Doubleday & Company, 2009), 72-73.

Dr. A.J. Swoboda is a pastor, writer, and professor in Portland, Oregon. He is @mrajswoboda on Twitter.