Once, I was in Tübingen, Germany for no apparent reason. Maybe my friend Russ had studied there during his junior year abroad; maybe I met a girl on the bike tour who suggested I visit. She ended up living not too far away and we met for lunch at a biergarten.
Turns out, the city had been around awhile before I got there, officially appearing in the late 12th century, staking its claim to fame in 1477 with the founding of the Universität. And it felt like it, each downtown house exuding history like American houses exude bland conformity.
[If you look closely at the buildings below, you'll notice one window that doesn't match with the others in its row. Someone told me some long, convoluted story about it; now, apparently, the odd window is effectively part of the neighboring building, the wall having been broken down hundreds of years ago.]
The whole 2 days were a bit surreal and included me coming across an old friend to meet for drinks (thanks to Facebook), which seemed almost organized by the Universe for my bemusement.
But this post is about religion more than spirituality.
I was walking through the altstadt when I saw a guy standing on a ladder orating. The crowd before him was small, about a dozen people standing, looking either askance or engaged. I looked askance but sat down to unravel the mystery.
Even without understanding what they were saying, I knew what they were talking about. The zeal and passion came through and betrayed their intention; this was the German equivalent of the black preacher in Chicago who sets up shop on State street with his microphone urging sinners to repent.
But, like everything in Germany, this was more organized and effective.
I watched, amused and horrified as two women in their 30s or 40s sidled up to a younger woman who had been watching. A conversation ensued, which, I'm sure, started with "What do you think about what he's saying?"
Then, one speaker got down and another got up; I realized that most of the audience either had already spoken or were about to. Their presence, though, gave the impression of a movement, something the guy in Chicago lacks, who gives off the impression of pathetic solitude--and therefore insanity.
Eventually, I became the prey, and a man in his 40s sat down next to me and something to the effect of: "What do you think?" I explained I didn't understand much, that I spoke English, which then opened the door for him to proselytize me in English.
The conversation was surprisingly innocuous for several minutes, covering mostly background information with sprinkles of jesus-is-god stuff. Then, he launched into his story, one that I found intriguing and not so off-putting. On-putting? He apparently was in the U.S. of America when he was in his early 20s and was doing a bike ride across the country. There were moments that he thought he was going to die; there were nights where he had no place to stay; there was drama. And each time, he called out to God and got his problem solved.
[I didn't mention that I was having the same experience in Europe except that, for me, the Universe itself was coming to my aid--not some anthropomorphic Deity and His Son.]
Regardless of what he said, I appreciated *how* he said it. It wasn't the usual scare tactics; it was more about finding joy, finding happiness, through love. Sounds cliché now, but the way he spoke made it sound earnest.
Then, though, I realized something. I was American and his story was about finding Jesus in America. Coincidence? Possibly.
Then, though, I realized that I was wearing my shirt with a dozen bicycles all over it. His story tied together two things about me in order to connect. Could they have been fabrications? What if he has his born-again story that he contextualizes differently for each person? What is truth and should it matter in matters of faith?
I feel a little scuzzy about it, but I don't think it should really matter. In this case, I have faith in his motivations, so I'll allow for some distortions of reality.
There's truth and then there's Truth. And to approach Truth, you often need to discard truth. In fact, I would suggest that we need to; the truth typically obscures our notion of Truth. There's the who-what-where-when-how, and then there's the Why. The Why is what ties things together but is somewhat independent of more mundane issues.
If you're not convinced, I would say that all literature, theater, and poetry are just as dishonest. But it's dishonesty with a purpose, and the audience knows it's being lied to.
In music, we have the luxury of approaching Truth without messing around with reality.
And then there's Quality...
