Monitored by Ryan’s web presence last week was an interesting discussion on the concept of “duende.” In Portuguese, the word (pronounced DWEN-djee) denotes a goblin. I’m not aware that the general Portuguese or Brazilian culture has gone beyond children’s fairly tale references to Marquez’s description of it as “a demon, an inner blackness that craves an escape into the spiritual that is simply impossible.” Nevertheless, the word has been transmuted into a truly intriguing concept. I won’t pretend to be able to say anything about the occasion of the discussion- rock music is simply not one of my driving passions and I wouldn’t begin to know how to identify an emo band. However, I suspect that the term goes beyond rock music to the full gamut of artistic or even cultural expression. Essentially, duende recognizes the necessity of the impossible. It is the religious longing for hope, understanding, or purpose without necessarily buying into the encumbrance of a particular deity or any deity for that matter.
Aaron is right: with Jesus, our view should be light years away. And this not only from those who don’t recognize the religious longing in great art, but from those who recognize nothing more than this religious longing. If there is no Jesus, then our experiences will not find any significance beyond our feelings. All of which is probably not any new information for Christians, and, for the matter, not really the point in this discussion that interests me. What I do want to know is this: is it possible for a Christian artist to have the quality of duende? Duende, according to Marquez’s description, is a craving for the “simply impossible.” The problem is this- Christians, through no fault or effort of their own, have attained the impossible. The spiritual escape, which others so eloquently crave, is already ours; and not just an escape, but a day to day reality. It would seem then that redemption kills art.
Then again, such a conclusion is perhaps a bit hasty. There is no need to relegate Christian art to the picture frames and coffee mugs of your neighborhood Bible Bookstore. While the use of the term may be relatively recent, duende describes a quality that has always been the case. Those who have coined the term in this particular usage are not defining great artists; they are describing them. In many cases, they’re dead on. In other cases, they fail to recognize the objective hope of the Christian artist; however, they do recognize both the religious longing and, at times, the sadness that is found in such art.
Duende, it would seem, is not characterized by mere longing. Longing for something is rather commonplace. We long for things all the time that we may or may not get. As I hear it described, duende is found in the tension between an intense craving and the knowledge that this craving will never be satisfied. Where then is the tension for the believer? We know that, one day, our cravings will be satisfied. But there is no tension here and, consequently, no fertile ground for the artist. The tension, I believe, is found in the recognition that, despite the presence of an intense craving, there also exists a perfect and present satisfaction. The ability to express this tension constitutes the quality of duende just as much as anything that Marquez describes.
It is not so much the inner darkness craving an escape into the spiritual as it is the spiritual craving an escape from the inner darkness. Yet, duende does not have to describe a crisis of faith (although this can be the source of some very good artistic expression). Rather, it may be an affirmation of faith. How does Paul put it? “That I may know him and the fellowship of his sufferings.” It is not that Jesus suffers for us so that we can have a care free existence. Instead, we are crucified with him- and yet we live. Duende may be found in the expression of our union with Christ. It is the knowledge that Christ identifies with his people; that he too has been unable to sing the Lord’s song in a foreign land but has, instead, wept as he remembers Jerusalem.
I have been engaging in a personal exploration of a new concept and there isn’t much more I can say. As I have written this, three examples of duende in Christian art have come to mind. One is a painting: Rembrandt’s “Jeremiah Weeping over Jerusalem.” Another is Bach’s “St. Matthew Passion.” The text may be religious; however, I am not trying to suggest that Christian artists must produce explicitly Christian content. I had in mind the music, which stands on its own. The opening, especially, is incredible. The last is probably more familiar:
What wondrous love is this that caused the Lord of bliss
To bear the dreadful curse for my soul…
And when from death I’m free, I’ll sing and joyful be,
And through eternity I’ll sing on.
This is the pledge to all those whose transgressions his blood has forgiven,
“Peace, peace to him that is distant and also to him that is near.”
Gently he comforts my heart from its troubles and keeps it from fear;
Not as the peace of the world is the peace unto me he has given.
“There is no peace,” says my God, “to the wicked: His labors shall crumble.”
Terrible holiness stripping away all that pride had concealed.
He who repents in contrition and mourns for his sins shall be healed;
Comforts restored by the high and the lofty One unto the humble.
From the profane finds my soul a repose in the One who does love me;
Now before death, he protects me from that which would cause me to fall.
“Come unto me, I am meek and am lowly in heart,” is the call
Jesus has spoken in majesty far and unequaled above me.
There is a temple in which sits the Lord on a throne and before him
Seraphim, one to another, cry, “Holy!” in threefold refrain.
Loveliness vaster than thought, be it ever so deep, may contain;
Glorious beauty inciting his people in awe to adore him.
Once again, it took awhile for Peter to catch on and, before the other disciples could say a word, he was speaking. The next thing anyone knew, he was no longer in the boat with them but was, instead, traipsing across the Sea of Galilee. We’ve heard the rest of the story. Peter sees the wind and begins to sink. And right here we have our first moral lesson: Peter sank because he took his eyes off of Jesus. He didn’t have the faith that it took to maintain his focus. The chronology would seem to bear this out. Upon sinking, Peter calls out, “Lord, save me” (Mt. 14:30, ESV). Jesus does, but not without the comment, “O you of little faith, why did you doubt?” (Mt. 14:31). Peter’s failing seems obvious.
We now have only to apply the lesson to our own situation. In whatever life adversity we may find ourselves, we must always keep our eyes centered on Christ. Never, for a moment, become overwhelmed by the circumstances. Of course, there are those who are quick to come to Peter’s defense. He was, after all, the only disciple to actually get out of the boat. Whatever his faltering upon seeing the wind, he was a shining example of the kind of faith that it takes to risk all and follow Jesus.
It’s actually a shame that this mode of interpretation enjoys such current popularity. Granted, it is about faith and, what’s more, a faith whose object is Christ. Yet, a more laborious faith was never conceived. And what of a Christ who is reduced to all the potency of, and confused with, a positive thought? We need to retrace our steps into what the text actually says. From the subsequent comments of Jesus, we know that Peter’s seeing the wind and beginning to sink constituted a lack of faith. Or do we?
Allow me to suggest an alternative. Peter’s doubt was manifest the moment he uttered the words, “Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water” (Mt. 14:28). Faith and doubt are inseparable from the Word. Peter didn’t believe what Jesus had just said, which was, “Take heart; it is I. Do not be afraid” (Mt. 14:27). At first, it is difficult to see just what it is that Peter doubts. The translation obscures it for us. We must not assume that Jesus was merely saying, “Hey guys, it’s me.” Despite what they may have thought before Jesus began speaking, none of the disciples was worried that Peter was about to become the next victim of a mendacious ghost. Everyone knew fully well that it was Jesus. The doubt concerned the claim that Jesus had just made. Not, “It is I.” Rather, “I Am.”
Peter had known Jesus long enough to realize that he wouldn’t let him drown. There was perfect confidence in the man. However, when it came to the claim Jesus had just made, Peter wanted a sign. Jesus obliged him by opening his eyes to what was already there. Peter was a professional fisherman who well knew the temperament of the sea. Noticing the wind was not going to be all that disconcerting for him. No, it wasn’t just the wind that Peter found so suddenly terrifying. It was what the wind revealed.
Previous revelation, which, until now, Peter had disregarded, substantiated the message. When the LORD descended onto Mount Sinai to give the Law, “there were thunders and lightnings and a thick cloud… the whole mountain trembled greatly” (Ex. 19:16,18). Ezekiel begins an extended description of the glory of the LORD with the words, “As I looked, behold, a stormy wind came out of the north, and a great cloud, with brightness around it, and fire flashing forth continually...” (Ez. 1:4). Asaph, in even more descriptive language, clarifies the connection:
When the waters saw you, O God,
when the waters saw you, they were afraid;
indeed, the deep trembled.
The clouds poured out water;
the skies gave forth thunder;
your arrows flashed on every side.
The crash of your thunder was in the whirlwind;
your lightnings lighted up the world;
the earth trembled and shook.
Your way was through the sea,
your path through the great waters;
yet your footprints were unseen (Ps. 77:16-19).
He who had begun walking in unbelief was, in a moment, transported into a full vision of Divine Glory. Peter was standing in the direct path of, and, indeed, was being overwhelmed by, the Storm Theophany. And soon, just as he had once spoken to Job from the midst of the whirlwind, this same Lord would be speaking to another of his servants. The purpose would be the same: restoration born out of Covenant faithfulness. We cannot suppose that Jesus’ words were those of angry chastisement, even though Peter’s earlier statement of unbelief had to be addressed. When Peter saw the wind and began sinking, fear gave birth to faith and, crying out, “Lord, save me,” he embraced the object of his terror.
Matthew is not content to leave us with the story of a disciple’s personal encounter with God. He wants us to consider God’s redemptive encounter with his people. The evangelist is able to do this because he has noted Jesus in the role of another person of the Trinity. The Storm Theophany of the Old Testament is intricately woven together with other imagery; not only winds and waves, but fire and clouds. Consider the presence of the Lord among Israel in the pillar of fire by night or the cloud by day. Or, for that matter, watch the Shekinah Glory descending upon his dwelling place. All of the theophanies in this group depict the Holy Spirit.
But now the inspired author would have us focus on the person and work of the Son of God. He does this by means of an ingenious narrative twist- Peter is cast as the Christ figure and we are plunged along with him into the midst of a water ordeal. Old Testament types of baptism loom before us. We witness both the Flood and the Exodus crossing of the Red Sea. Christ takes on the sin of, and unites with, his people. He enters into the waters of judgment and is overcome by the divine wrath; but then, Resurrection. In images of the original creation, the Spirit of God, hovering over the face of the waters, reaches down and imparts new life.
Not a tame Jesus, one who caters to our every temporal need if only we can muster up the faith; neither Matthew nor the greater author of the text will abide such a presentation. Behold the God of the Storm, the Redeemer of his people, the Creator Spirit and, in the words of those disciples who remained in the boat, worship him saying, “Truly you are the Son of God” (Mt.14:33).
It happened like the inevitable obsolescence of a working chain whose least observed link had begun to crack. Assurance of faith had never been a problem. Such was, however, the product of living in a community given over to a thoroughly objectivist mindset, one which rested on a number of proofs demonstrable to any honest inquirer. That those outside our ranks did not agree with us was seen as evidence either of their lack of integrity or of their stupidity. The fool, after all, has said in his heart that there is no God. But then, I found that I was no longer in agreement with my peers. I saw that what should have been faith in God was often indistinguishable from faith in assumptions. And so began the process of my conversion.
Two items came to my attention: 1) I found myself unable to give any credence to empirical or rational foundations for the Christian faith. To do so, it seemed, reversed the proper order of things. The presence of a cosmos was not to be taken as incontrovertible evidence of a creator. Rather, prior faith in God led one to the conclusion that everything else is created. These evidences might serve as signs to point to the reasonableness of the faith; however, apart from that faith they could never serve as proofs for that faith. 2) The outsiders who are not convinced by such evidence are neither dishonest nor stupid. They simply do not have faith. Having come to this realization, I have often marvelled at the intelligence of the unsaved; an intelligence that has nothing to do with whether or not they are ultimately correct in their conclusions.
I do not agree with those who say, "Look around. I don't see how anyone can say that all of this just evolved." I, for one, do see how they can say it. Or take moral arguments, for instance. Dostoyevsky once wrote, "If there is no God, then all things are permissable." But this certainly does not mean that all those who do not believe in God actually behave accordingly. Many, in fact, have a well practiced sense of morality. Besides, the argument works both ways, "If there is a God, then all things are justified." Before dismissing this out of hand, consider the wars and other atrocities perpetrated in the name of religion. If one is going to start with observed things, then the argument for God is no more significant than a coin toss. Both options are valid.
The deciding factor is faith; however, such faith fails miserably as an argument and I should not have made it one. Not that I did so in any observable manner: the whole exchange took place in my own mind. From the perspective of the one who has no faith, faith seems like nothing more than an arbitrary decision on my part. God exists because I say so. The folly of such a claim is then demonstrated when my opponent makes an equally bold claim to the contrary. We both have 'faith' in our positions and the concept becomes meaningless.
As it happened, that day was no different than any other- I had not been threatened into renouncing my faith. If I had been, I might have been exposed, for earlier, I had come to the uneventful conclusion that I was an atheist. Everything I had ever believed about the supernatural was wrong. But, rather than eliciting any strong emotions, there was only the matter of fact acceptance of the facts. How could I feel bad about betraying a non-entity?
I made no conscious effort to change my mind back, but woke up one day in a state of faith with the realization of what I had just done. Nor could it have happened otherwise. I am reminded of what Wordsworth once wrote, "We murder to dissect." Overall, not much different than my own attempts to organize and defend doctrine with no more investment of my own soul than I would put into a science project. Despite my attempts to see it in this way, faith is not the exercise of my own will to believe. It is, rather, the unerring and unbreakable embrace of my divine Lover. A Lover who, in order to restore the sight of someone so blinded as to have no sense of having wandered, does not take his rightful place in judgment but, as a trustworthy friend, walks beside him.