Notes From The Tilt-A-Whirl: Wide-Eyed Wonder in God's Spoken World

by N.D. Wilson

I was born into the Carnival. I’ve done all my living, sleeping, playing, growing, and throwing up at the Carnival. When I die, I won’t escape it—not that I’d want to. Death is that black stripe above my head on the measuring board. When I’ve reached it, well, then I can go on the gnarly rides.

I was born into the Carnival. I’ve done all my living, sleeping, playing, growing, and throwing up at the Carnival. When I die, I won’t escape it—not that I’d want to. Death is that black stripe above my head on the measuring board. When I’ve reached it, well, then I can go on the gnarly rides.

First, every culture has felt the overwhelming pressure of existence itself and the need to explain it. There’s a sort of nervousness apparent in the myths of every people group, as if maybe we’re not supposed to be here and we all have to rehearse our story before the authorities come.

First, every culture has felt the overwhelming pressure of existence itself and the need to explain it. There’s a sort of nervousness apparent in the myths of every people group, as if maybe we’re not supposed to be here and we all have to rehearse our story before the authorities come.

But God never seems capable of moderation or of understanding the basic concepts behind supply and demand. He constantly devalues His own products.

Marx called religion an opiate, and all too often it is. But philosophy is an anesthetic, a shot to keep the wonder away.

Marx called religion an opiate, and all too often it is. But philosophy is an anesthetic, a shot to keep the wonder away.

Medieval alchemists had a tangible goal, and when they all died of lead poisoning, posterity could see that they had failed. Contemporary philosophers work to avoid tangible goals and wallow in the sauna of thought.

Medieval alchemists had a tangible goal, and when they all died of lead poisoning, posterity could see that they had failed. Contemporary philosophers work to avoid tangible goals and wallow in the sauna of thought.

We cannot boost logic to the level of a transcendent arbiter here. It cannot whisper the answer in our ear. Any knowledge at this level, at this fundamental question of origins and ultimate metaphysics, must come through something else. Welcome to the world of faith.

Looking out through the lens of true ex nihilo creation—at a spoken world—everything becomes an artistic touch. Every crack in the plaster, every bathroom-dwelling spider, looks out at me like a stage prop, an author’s added texture, a fellow character living at this time, inhabiting the same paragraph that I do. There are Christians in the world who bemoan the absence of God’s speech, who cry out for personal communication with God Himself. They want cues for their lines. They want explanations and specific directions from the Artist. And God, as far as they can tell, is ignoring them. They feel neglected—because they weren’t cast as Moses or Elijah or Enoch or Gideon. Tell me what you want me to do, God. Speak to me (in English, please) and tell me if I should take this job in Des Moines or stay closer to my mother. Then, because their part in this story does not include cosmic voice-overs in English, they enter into an existential crisis. They begin to “doubt.”

But why would any Christian claim that God has stopped talking? Did He speak the world into existence? Does matter exist apart from Him? Is it still here? Are you still here? Then He is still speaking.

But why would any Christian claim that God has stopped talking? Did He speak the world into existence? Does matter exist apart from Him? Is it still here? Are you still here? Then He is still speaking.

To exist in this poem is a greater gift than any finite creature can imagine. To be so insignificant and yet still be given a speaking part, to be given scenes that are my own, and my own only, scenes where the audience is limited to the Author Himself (scenes that I often flub), to have been here with my frozen nose, to have been crafted with at least as much care as a snowflake (though I’m harder to melt), and to hear and feel and see and taste and smell the heavy poetry of God, that is enough.

To exist in this poem is a greater gift than any finite creature can imagine. To be so insignificant and yet still be given a speaking part, to be given scenes that are my own, and my own only, scenes where the audience is limited to the Author Himself (scenes that I often flub), to have been here with my frozen nose, to have been crafted with at least as much care as a snowflake (though I’m harder to melt), and to hear and feel and see and taste and smell the heavy poetry of God, that is enough.

You basically have no chance of being here and you should quit trying already. Getting your hopes up will only make it hurt more when you don’t happen.

Tree, I say, and you know what I mean. You see one in your mind, or glance out your window and remember the much-needed pruning. Tree, God says, and there is one. But He doesn’t say the word tree; He says the tree itself.

Tree, I say, and you know what I mean. You see one in your mind, or glance out your window and remember the much-needed pruning. Tree, God says, and there is one. But He doesn’t say the word tree; He says the tree itself.

Denying God’s power might quiet the nerves of some, but I truly cannot begin to understand why. When the roller coaster inverts me, twists me, and sends me into a tight spiral, I do not struggle philosophically or religiously with the idea of someone being in control or of engineers having been involved or of all of this being in some way intentional. As I quease and scream, do not stroke my cheek and try to reassure me by pointing to a panicking carnie as he wiggles powerless controls. Don’t start holding my hand, telling me about the engineers’ good intentions, but the impossibility of them actually knowing what the ride was going to do or where it would end when they’d created it. In those stories, vomiting is my only option. And preferably on you.

Denying God’s power might quiet the nerves of some, but I truly cannot begin to understand why. When the roller coaster inverts me, twists me, and sends me into a tight spiral, I do not struggle philosophically or religiously with the idea of someone being in control or of engineers having been involved or of all of this being in some way intentional. As I quease and scream, do not stroke my cheek and try to reassure me by pointing to a panicking carnie as he wiggles powerless controls. Don’t start holding my hand, telling me about the engineers’ good intentions, but the impossibility of them actually knowing what the ride was going to do or where it would end when they’d created it. In those stories, vomiting is my only option. And preferably on you.

But faith brings with it the only possibility of peace and joy in this world—the only possibility of laughter on this mad, mad ride. Denying God’s power is a theological attempt to reduce whatever sentence Man might choose to impose against Him, to cut down on Man’s cosmic bitterness when the story goes dark. But if an all-powerful God is somehow made evil because He has given me pain, an impotent God is tainted in the same way. If killing me makes an omnipotent God guilty of homicide, the best a partially potent God will get off with is negligent manslaughter.

Of course, the nonexistence of God is nothing more than a nonsense option. The categories of good and evil themselves require some sort of transcendent standard.

Of course, the nonexistence of God is nothing more than a nonsense option. The categories of good and evil themselves require some sort of transcendent standard.

Are you saying your culture is superior, that it is somehow right while mine is wrong? You’re being a racist, but luckily you’re still small, and even racists taste good in casserole.

True atheism is nonsense. If there is such a thing as beautiful, such a thing as good, or even such a thing as bad, then there is a transcendent standard that determines which is which.

True atheism is nonsense. If there is such a thing as beautiful, such a thing as good, or even such a thing as bad, then there is a transcendent standard that determines which is which. An atheist can say that society prefers mothers to murderers, but he cannot say that this is as it should be. Tell us what is, by all means. But without God, you cannot tell us what ought to be.

I see a world where color exists, and in enormous generosity we were given eyes to see it.

I see a stage, a world where every scene is crafted. Where men act out their lives within a tapestry, where meaning and beauty exist, where right and wrong are more than imagined constructs. There is evil. There is darkness. There is the Winter of tragedy, every life ending, churned back in the soil. But the tragedy leads to Spring. The story does not end in frozen death. The fields are sown in grief. The harvest will be reaped in joy. I see a Master’s painting. I listen to a Master’s prose. When darkness falls on me, when I stand on my corner of the stage and hear my cue, when I know my final scene has come and I must exit, I will go into the ground like corn, waiting for the Son. I see my world.

my made-up children’s world licks your real world silly. Depart from me. Go drown in your seething accident. Puddleglum and I are staying here.

what’s the goal? What is the world for? If we knew that, then we might get somewhere.

What is the world? What is it for? It is art. It is the best of all possible art, a finite picture of the infinite. Assess it like prose, like poetry, like architecture, sculpture, painting, dance, delta blues, opera, tragedy, comedy, romance, epic. Assess it like you would a Fabergé egg, like a gunfight, like a musical, like a snowflake, like a death, a birth, a triumph, a love story, a tornado, a smile, a heartbreak, a sweater, a hunger pain, a desire, a fulfillment, a desert, a dessert, an ocean, a leap, a quest, a fall, a climb, a tree, a waterfall, a song, a race, a frog, a play, a song, a marriage, a consummation, a thirst quenched. Assess it like that. And when you’re done, find an ant and have him assess the cathedrals of Europe.

What is the world? What is it for? It is art. It is the best of all possible art, a finite picture of the infinite. Assess it like prose, like poetry, like architecture, sculpture, painting, dance, delta blues, opera, tragedy, comedy, romance, epic. Assess it like you would a Fabergé egg, like a gunfight, like a musical, like a snowflake, like a death, a birth, a triumph, a love story, a tornado, a smile, a heartbreak, a sweater, a hunger pain, a desire, a fulfillment, a desert, a dessert, an ocean, a leap, a quest, a fall, a climb, a tree, a waterfall, a song, a race, a frog, a play, a song, a marriage, a consummation, a thirst quenched. Assess it like that. And when you’re done, find an ant and have him assess the cathedrals of Europe.

Would Pride and Prejudice be improved by throwing away every page prior to the resolution, by erasing every character flaw, every misunderstanding and dispute?

It is easy to forget that the trees are busily carving up the air with sunlight and factory-producing the new year’s leaves more efficiently than Germans. Yawn. Again. It is easy to be numb to the world’s marvels when you’ve missed lunch and the light is still red. Faith quavers under such trials. Who cares for the cosmos? Who has time or energy to ponder the tides or the multitude of narratives in the world? My blood sugar is low. My stomach is empty. My kingdom for some peanut butter.

The point is simply that the problem of evil leaves logic at home and goes out alone without a chaperone. The existence of evil in Hamlet in no way implies that Shakespeare lacked control of his art, or that he was evil. The implication that Shakespeare didn’t exist is even more outlandish.

Tragedy isn’t an easy thing to kill. It takes more than a turtle. Tragedy must be destroyed by someone willing to be swallowed by it, willing to be broken, torn out of the flesh, but able to return to it.

Tragedy isn’t an easy thing to kill. It takes more than a turtle. Tragedy must be destroyed by someone willing to be swallowed by it, willing to be broken, torn out of the flesh, but able to return to it.

How many thousands of tons of krill did the whales and seals and fish knock back today, and why are they worth less to the environmentally conscious than the whales? Is size the same thing as value?

“Do you see this man?” He said to my son. “He is your father. Do not believe a word he says.”

While in grad school I met a man, scrawny, with a patchy beard, prime to be philosophical. He smirked at my Christianity and spouted lines from the angry German who died gibbering. We stood in a soulless academic hallway and looked at each other. I’m afraid I didn’t listen carefully. I was watching him eat while he talked, munching fries. I could see a burger box still tucked into the bag. “What is rightness?” I asked. I’d interrupted a train of thought. He chewed and raised his eyebrows. “Whatever comes from strength. Evil comes from weakness.” “Give me the fries,” I said quietly. “What?” I straightened up and stepped toward him. I had at least six inches on him, and more than fifty pounds. “Give me the damn fries. The burger too.” I was ready to hit him, to throw him against the wall. Panic bubbled in his eyes, but I couldn’t follow through. Laughing, I stepped back. He stayed long enough to blaspheme, and then he moved down the hall. His fries went with him. I wish all Nietzsche’s disciples were as small.

While in grad school I met a man, scrawny, with a patchy beard, prime to be philosophical. He smirked at my Christianity and spouted lines from the angry German who died gibbering. We stood in a soulless academic hallway and looked at each other. I’m afraid I didn’t listen carefully. I was watching him eat while he talked, munching fries. I could see a burger box still tucked into the bag. “What is rightness?” I asked. I’d interrupted a train of thought. He chewed and raised his eyebrows. “Whatever comes from strength. Evil comes from weakness.” “Give me the fries,” I said quietly. “What?” I straightened up and stepped toward him. I had at least six inches on him, and more than fifty pounds. “Give me the damn fries. The burger too.” I was ready to hit him, to throw him against the wall. Panic bubbled in his eyes, but I couldn’t follow through. Laughing, I stepped back. He stayed long enough to blaspheme, and then he moved down the hall. His fries went with him. I wish all Nietzsche’s disciples were as small.

The world is seen in many different ways, but those who see Chaos as their father are the most confusing to me.

The world is seen in many different ways, but those who see Chaos as their father are the most confusing to me.

Is it strange that an impersonal accident should start talking about itself, that shards of matter rocketing through space/time would start making burbling noises and pretend that they’re communicating with other shards, and that their burbling truthfully explained the accident? Is it strange to you that an accident would invent baseball and walruses and Englishmen?

Is it strange that an impersonal accident should start talking about itself, that shards of matter rocketing through space/time would start making burbling noises and pretend that they’re communicating with other shards, and that their burbling truthfully explained the accident? Is it strange to you that an accident would invent baseball and walruses and Englishmen?

From C. S. Lewis’s “Evolutionary Hymn”: Lead us, Evolution, lead us Up the future’s endless stair; Chop us, change us, prod us, weed us. For stagnation is despair: Groping, guessing, yet progressing, Lead us nobody knows where.

St. Augustine: Love God and do as you please. If you love Him, then you love holiness. What you please shouldn’t present a problem.

St. Augustine: Love God and do as you please. If you love Him, then you love holiness. What you please shouldn’t present a problem.

When I lie on the ground, face down in the carpet, penitent with thankfulness for a life undeserved, for beauty and happiness unmerited, grateful for the stars and the starlings, for the grass and the leaves and the bound-up bales of love I’ve been given, I know what is coming. I can hear the voice of their mother egging them on. Bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh. Daughters on my back, kisses and laughter in my ears. A son’s hands on my ankles, straining for the day when he can flip me easily. A smaller son, with few words to his tongue, grinding his young skull into mine, twisting and worming beneath my face. He needs no words. He looks up into my eyes, smiles, and slaps my cheek, picking a fight, waiting for his neck to be eaten. Waiting for laughter.

When I lie on the ground, face down in the carpet, penitent with thankfulness for a life undeserved, for beauty and happiness unmerited, grateful for the stars and the starlings, for the grass and the leaves and the bound-up bales of love I’ve been given, I know what is coming. I can hear the voice of their mother egging them on. Bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh. Daughters on my back, kisses and laughter in my ears. A son’s hands on my ankles, straining for the day when he can flip me easily. A smaller son, with few words to his tongue, grinding his young skull into mine, twisting and worming beneath my face. He needs no words. He looks up into my eyes, smiles, and slaps my cheek, picking a fight, waiting for his neck to be eaten. Waiting for laughter.