Paradox is unsettling. Having pieces of truth scattered across the table without knowing where they fit in the puzzle can be threatening. It is doubly threatening, of course, when others tell us all the pieces should fit smoothly (and that their puzzles have been assembled for years)!

Paradox is also draining. Paradoxes demand that we wrestle, not shake hands. The struggle is intellectually, emotionally, and often spiritually taxing. In our pragmatic world ill at ease with philosophical issues, a common question is, "why bother?"

Yet who can deny that life is filled with paradox? Our earthly journeys resemble the switchbacks climbing Pike's Peak far more than an interstate across Death Valley. We are a paradox to ourselves. Carl Sandburg captures the human condition: "There is an eagle in me that wants to soar, and there is a hippopotamus in me that wants to wallow in the mud."

Paradoxes express the mysterious, undefinable qualities of faith and life that defy logic. Like unusual stones found in the bottom of a prospector's pan, we keep coming back to them, rolling them over in our palms, pondering their secrets. Oliver Wendell Holmes wrote: "The great minds are those with a wide-span, that couple truths related to, but far removed from, each other. Logicians carry the surveyor's chains over the track of which these are the true explorers."

Exploring Paradox

Paradox is the wild territory within which preachers live and work. We see unseen things. We conquer by yielding. We find rest under a yoke. We reign by serving. We are made great by becoming small. We are exalted when we are humble. We become wise by being fools for Christ's sake. We are made free by becoming bondservants. We gain strength when we are weak. We triumph through defeat. We find victory by glorying in our infirmities. We live by dying.

With the passage of time, most preachers clear land and build a homestead in this forbidding wilderness. Days are consumed with survival chores: chopping wood, drawing water, getting together next Sunday's sermon. Paths to the creek and woodpile become well worn from daily use. Gradually the preacher ceases to throw on a pack and set off to explore unknown regions. One-time companions and fellow adventurers on these treks into the wilderness (theologians once read in seminary) become "references." Their books become travel guides, spiritual Fodor's or Michelins, from which the preacher occasionally lifts a juicy travelogue of a place he or she has not visited firsthand.

Rather than explorers, many preachers today instead find themselves as vendors in a spiritual street market clogged with competitors hawking their wares. People pause for a moment before strolling on to the next booth. "How to ..." titles go especially well in this marketplace atmosphere. Preachers must hit felt needs quickly. People are looking for answers to make a difference in their lives ... yesterday. So preachers must cut to the chase, get down to basics and offer "spiritual principles" and "practical handles" which plug directly into people's pragmatic expectations.