The Sanity of Absurdity

The Book of Genesis: Abraham and Isaac

‘Then God said, “Take your son, your only son, whom you love—Isaac—and go to the region of Moriah.  Sacrifice him there as a burnt offering on a mountain I will show you.”’

I once hitchhiked from Edinburgh to London with my (now) wife.  We were sitting in a tiny pub the night before, with another pair of spiritual wanderers, and decided to race to London.  I cannot remember what prompted such an absurd mission.  But it happened.  Each pair set off from the pub, had a few hours’ sleep, and set sail for London.  The race element became fairly superfluous pretty quickly, as we just wanted to reach London before nightfall, in an age when folk tend not to pick up scruffy looking hitchhikers (in the United Kingdom, at least).  It was completely absurd, come to think of it.  I think the other couple didn’t quite make it to London that night, and may have even camped in a graveyard just outside the M25.  I can’t remember.  I could message my friend to confirm what happened to them.  But I quite like the mystery, and it is their story to tell.

We found a good flow, or wind, or whatever we were using, and managed to reach a truckers’ lay-by on the outskirts of Edinburgh fairly quickly with one generous hitch.  There, we found a man who looked like Rod Stewart who was heading to London via a timber yard in Carlisle.  Amazing!  And we very quickly realised that the reason he looked like Rod Stewart was because he loved Rod Stewart.  Not so amazing. 

But he also enjoyed smoking.  So, I re-took-up smoking for the journey, in order that ‘Rod’ didn’t feel bad about the amount of smoke he was puffing in our faces.  I am always looking for such acts of self-sacrifice.  Particularly, sacrificial actions involving smoke, fire, and free rides.  Anyway, I also managed to realise a childhood dream, by taking naps in his very cosy sleeping-nook above the driving cabin.  The hardest part was waiting in the timber yard for three hours for all the timber to be loaded on his massive ‘wagon’, as he called it.  We weren’t allowed to leave the truck, as he didn’t want to introduce us to his trucker friends, which was totally understandable, as we looked a lot like woodland pixies, who weren’t apparently allowed in timber yards.  Long journey short, we arrived at the edge of Epping Forest, late at night!  Very scary.  We dashed through the dark-wood to find another lay-by (thank God for doggers!) and got a lift into London. 

Strangely, we then decided to get a bus to the All England Lawn Tennis & Croquet Club at Wimbledon, as the famous Grand Slam tournament was in full swing.  And we slept in the queue, in prime position for Centre Court tickets, but remembered we don’t actually have any money and much prefer watching it on TV anyway!  We’re both massive Sue Barker fans (and TV fans).  In fact, one of the reasons my wife fancied me was because I have the same facial structure as Sue (underneath the beard, that is).  Whereas my physical attraction to my wife is chiefly rooted in the fact that she looks like Crispian Mills from Kula Shaker.  Anyway, the enthusiastic studenty-stewards couldn’t believe it when we abandoned our prize position in the morning.  ‘We just came for the queue experience,’ we yawned.  They were baffled.  The Americans loved it.  Oh my God, that is sooooooooooooo British!  And with that, we were happy to go back to my parents’ house for some British Broadcasting Corporation.

Now, this completely absurd pilgrimage wasn’t just a lot of fun.  It was profoundly instrumental in disrupting and disturbing my world, as I ended up having to introduce my (now) wife to people and places (and situations and scenarios) that I would have otherwise massively tried to avoid.  In fact, had I rationally thought all this through, and had had more sleep, I would have been way more controlling and careful.  I wouldn’t have let things unfold as they did.  But I am so grateful they did, in the grand scheme of things.  Otherwise, I’m not sure we would have ever got together.  And I would have missed out on the best adventure and blessing of my life.

So, I personally can’t deny the wisdom, necessity, and weird-science, of absurdity.  And there is nothing more absurd than The Story of Abraham and Isaac.  Indeed, Soren Kierkegaard argues in Fear and Trembling (his philosophical reflection on the near-sacrifice of Abraham’s blessed and beloved son) that ‘the absurd is the essential condition of faith.’ 

Fear not, tremble not, this is not the place to explore Kierkegaard's brilliant argument that faith is an absurd assertion of yourself as more important than universal ethics, despite the fact that everything we know indicates that we are not.  But I think there is some highly practical wisdom in the essential absurdity of The Story of Abraham and Isaac, whether we subscribe to a particular religion, spirituality, or cult.  It seems to me, that we all have to dabble in the absurd arts of faith.  As Kierkegaard observes in Fear and Trembling:

“If anyone on the verge of action should judge himself according to the outcome, he would never begin.”

Indeed, just to get through the day, we have to take little steps, nudges, and leaps of faith; which might explain why it is getting increasingly difficult for the Modern Rational Person to leave the house, explore a physical relationship, travel, get to school, start a foolish passion project, join a community group, talk to strangers, ask for directions, pray, be vulnerable, go on a pilgrimage, and so on.  There are just too many unknowns.  Not enough facts.  And we are no longer people of faith:  we are the refined folk of facts.  ‘And the facts don’t lie.’  ‘Give me facts.’ 

And, of course, there is a logic to our faith in facts.  ‘Looking at the facts’ can be very useful.  But the truth is, the facts cannot tell us what to do; what is right; where to go; how to live; what is beautiful; what is meaningful; what is the point; what is true.  The facts cannot feed our deepest needs, dreams and desires.  Facts are not wisdom.  And absurdity is not foolishness.  It is absurdity that makes sense, especially when we accept the reality that there are highly significant, uncertain, chaotic, and uncontrollable aspects to life.

I think I need more absurdity in my life.  When I reflect on the various absurd rolls-of-the-dice (like the hitchhike to London) - those times I dared to abandon the facts, the ethics, and the rationality - I can see the blessings, the insights, and the opportunities they brought.  Indeed, in those days I would often play Bible roulette (which is basically Tarot for Christians:  open the Bible at a random page and blindly point your finger at a verse or passage, and trust that the words will guide you).  These sorts of games have been ritualised in various religious traditions and spiritual practices.  For example, during the Nam Karan (the naming ceremony of Sikh infants), the Granthi (the woman or man who leads the prayers, hymns and chants) turns to a random page of the Guru Granth Sahib (the holy text and final Guru for Sikhs) to determine what letter the child’s name should begin with.  The parents, family, and wider congregation come up with a name (and they might even see how the baby responds) before the Granthi formerly announces the name.  I absolutely love this for so many reasons.  But particularly because it frames the beginning of life in a context of trust, mystery, and adventure.  The ritual acknowledges that we are not in complete control; we are not God; the baby is not our possession; that chance, luck and fortune are at play; that life is full of surprises; and that we can’t be blessed by such surprises if we merely follow the facts, data, and algorithms.  Indeed, I am starting to believe, more and more, that if we don’t embrace the absurd, our lives and worlds will become incredibly small, sanitised, and dangerously rigid.  And therefore, riddled with anxiety, shame, and irritability.

So, I went to York Minster last Sunday, for Evensong, seeking out some absurdity.  And absurdity I did find.  Absurdity galore, in fact:  the architecture; the readings; the songs; the very difficult hymn we were meant to sing (that even my wife who reads music struggled to follow, such was the state of its disorientating tune); the bowing; the incense; the creed; the stained-glass-windows; the gargoyles; the robes; the echoes; the clergy… 

And viewed through a hyper-rational lens of facts and figures, it could be seen as totally-irrelevant; a virus to reason; a crutch for the lonely; a relic of the past; a bit of tourism; a large part of fundraising; traditionalism; tribalism; conservationism; and so on.  But my Soul loved it.  My soul did Magnify the Lord, as the choir sung at one point.  My soul enjoyed dancing around the discombobulating, delightful, and decadent sounds, smells, and sights.

I tuned in and out of the liturgy, letting it all wash over me like a long, leisurely, symbolic bathtime, listening to the rhymes and rhythms of the various baffling bits-and-bobs that ensued.  And one such bit (or was it a bob!) popped out rather strongly.  It was during the New Testament reading.  We were late, so we sadly missed the Ye Olde Testament passage (which was a shame, because that is usually my favourite bob, or is it a bit).  Anyway, it was The Birth of John the Baptist Foretold, when John’s father Zechariah is visited by the Angel Gabriel in the temple.  A momentous moment that was ultimately determined by a ritualistic form of lottery.  This line stood-out to me:

“Once when Zechariah’s division was on duty and he was serving as priest before God, he was chosen by lot, according to the custom of the priesthood, to go into the temple of the Lord and burn incense.”

The exact process by which lots were cast in ancient Israel is not always clear; there were probably several different methods. One way was by using different coloured or marked stones, producing binary outcomes:  yes or no, good or bad, selected or rejected.  But basically, it is a form of flipping a coin.

Totally absurd.  Although, perhaps, beautifully wise.  Because, I think, the flipping of the coin can reveal things.  It can show us what we actually want, just at the moment before we let the coin flip, rip and spin in the air.  It can expose our deepest values, hopes and fears.  It can open us up to new insights, pathways, and possibilities.  It can lead us to the encounter with our own inner Angels:  those unruly guides that don’t conform to the ethics, economics, and expectations of the world.

But it’s a gamble.  Like Abraham, we won’t know until we’ve gambled on an unknown future.  I am painfully aware of how often I have gambled on knowns:  i.e. things not working out.  And, of course, I am proven right all the time.  I rationalise that that there is no point in doing x, or building y, as it is probably a fool’s errand.  So, I hedge my bets.  Or I cling to what I feel I can control, and never risk finding-out what lies beyond the leaps of faith.  I don’t gamble on the blessing.  I bet on the failure.  And when I bet on failure, I always win, which is to say:  I fail.

Commitment can be an absurd form of faith.  Never giving up on our dreams (even when you’re a-too-old-too-late bearded wanderer) is possibly an act of absurdity.  Always getting up, yet again, after another disappointment, betrayal, or rejection, is an act of heroic absurdity.   It’s certainly a risk.  It might even be morally wrong.  But it seems to me, that the only way to find out is to take that leap of faith up the perilous slopes of the mountains-we-are-called-to-climb.  We can’t figure it all out and then make our move.  It’s the other way round.  As Kierkegaard writes in one of his journals:

“Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.”

But, perhaps, when we get to the top of our sacrificial-mountains-and-molehills, and take a long, loving look (and laugh) backwards at the various leaps of faith that littered our ascent (regardless of the outcome), we will discover, like Abraham, the blessing of being absurd - which might just mean… we have some good old stories to tell.