Our Limited Language Fails Us Again

I think I’m so seduced by the writing life because, some days, she tricks me into believing I’m really going places, but most days, she puts her thumbs in her ears, twinkles her little fingers and sticks her tongue out at me like a game.

Most days, it’s a frustrating lesson on emptiness, but some days — when the same Mourning Dove offers its throat-rattling coo and you finally understand what it is he’s so sad about, when the pancake batter makes a face in the pan and mouths to you that you’re such a special girl — it’s those accidental, carrot-dangling days that tempt me. How could I ever explain that to someone? How could I ever find exactly the right combination of words to convince them of it? I’ll never be good enough to do so, I know, but there’s a lot of mystery in trying. 

In an interview about his newest book, Anthony Doerr dances around a similar thought: “Language is just this system all the time of failing; you’re *almost* expressing what you wanna express, but you can’t quite get there. And so, for me, writing itself has this humility built into it.” 

Ezra Pound says it another way: “The sum of human wisdom is not contained in any one language, and no single language is capable of expressing all forms and degrees of human comprehension.” 

Doesn’t grasping for God feel the same? A certain truth we can’t put our finger on. An elusive wisdom that disappoints us and anoints us. We’re bopped on the head with just enough doubt to be slightly disoriented if not continually intrigued. To be frank, it’s why I’ve been bored with the deconstruction conversation, with what it is and what it isn’t. All this talk of people falling off the ladder of their faith—some climbing back up, some throwing rocks from what they think is the top, some lighting the whole thing on fire. 

I get that American Christians want to belong to their rightest crowd, but are we really disassembling? Are we really leaving religion behind? Are we really rebuilding something brave and brand new? Are all these labels necessary or are we simply doing what every creature has ever done by trying to attach our limited language to an allure that infinitely escapes us? Are we just *almost* expressing what can’t quite be expressed? 

Isn’t the spiritual life both mean enough and kind enough to push us, pull us, and yank us about? Isn’t that just what it means to be longing?