I had planned to write something else next, but I was struck by a thought this morning and wanted to take this opportunity to meditate on it. And since decisions of sequence are currently arbitrary, I don’t feel bad in the least.

The spark happened on social media as one friend commented on another friend’s post. (If you’re ever wondering what social media is good for, this surely belongs on your list.) This commenter spoke in praise of mystery over and against claims of knowledge, and spoke as one trying to swing the pendulum back from the extreme in which we often find ourselves. I don’t wish to recap his comments or put words in his mouth. Today’s post is not a reply as such, but a reflection on mystery itself.

Let me also say that I have no desire to correct someone of such a mindset. We do need reminders of the goodness of mystery in our devotion. And if his or her relationship with God thrives on this, I say “praise God.”

It seems to me that mystery can be thought of in at least two different ways: one as an acknowledgement of our limitations, and the other as the only mode of approaching God. The former is necessary for orthodoxy. Anyone who has faith in Christ will sooner or later have to admit his limitations—that he is not God, that he cannot know everything, and what is unknown is no less true. I don’t wish to make this a strict test of faith or acceptance, but I can’t imagine someone lacking these views could have a healthy relationship with God and men. To be a disciple requires submission, not just of the will but of the mind.

The latter is traditionally known as the “via negativa” or the way of negation. It embraces denial as the path to true wisdom. On this view, I cannot say what it means that “God is light” except to know for sure that He is not darkness. The true knowledge of the statement is beyond me; I can only hope to know the truths of its negation.

There is a long tradition of this view in Christianity, and I don’t wish to condemn it, but I would not commend it to anyone. It seems to readily falter when one asks what, precisely, one is negating. How can I affirm “not darkness” unless I know what darkness is? What am I negating?

There is no doubt an answer to my questions out there somewhere, but I have not found it worth seeking out. I am untroubled by claims to knowledge, and this for two simple reasons: one, they appear to be unavoidable, and two, they are endorsed in Scripture. Knowledge is not a Western invention; it is an aspect of humanity that crosses cultures. We may define it in slightly different ways or give it greater or lesser honor, but it cannot be denied. Experience (and the testimony of others) indicate that knowledge is something we have to live with. But when God Himself commands us to know, to understand, to obey—well, it would seem this is not only normal for humanity, but normal for discipleship. If I want to submit to God, part of my devotion is to know that which He wants me to know.

But here I am talking at length about knowledge. Isn’t the post about mystery? Yes. And if my first point is that mystery as an acknowledgement of our limitations in the face of God is necessary for discipleship, my second is this: mystery and knowledge need each other. To embrace only mystery is to go too far; to embrace only knowledge is fraught with many of its own dangers. But mystery has value precisely because knowledge has value. Only in knowing what I know and the limits of what I know can I truly appreciate the mystery of what I don’t know. Only in embracing mystery can I affirm my frailty, God’s transcendence, and the sheer beauty of a God that would disclose knowledge of Himself to us. Mystery is to be valued because knowledge is valued.

Now, third: even as we affirm and embrace both, we must take care not to adore either for their own sake. This is a danger I think both “camps” fall into—that is, the people who wish to adore the mystery, and those who adore knowledge by wishing to seek out, share, and refine it. All praise belongs to God. All adoration is His. The mystery we adore is not mystery itself but God in His “beyondness.” We adore the mysterious God. We adore God where knowledge fails, where reason breaks down, and where our souls are met with silence.

Just the same, those who pursue knowledge must take care not to pursue “knowingness.” We must not in adoring wisdom find ourselves merely adoring our cleverness. If anything in knowledge is to be adored, it is God we adore—God as He has revealed Himself. We adore a God who draws near. A God who speaks our language. A God who knows us. We adore God’s words because we adore Him. We adore wisdom because it is His wisdom. Whether in speech or stillness, absence or presence, clarity or confusion, God is to be adored.

I have wrung my hands for a season, fretting over whether I could know anything and what that meant for following God. I am done with this. Knowledge is good. Mystery is good. Where God has spoken, we adore by listening, by reflecting, and by passing it on. Where God has not spoken, we carefully consider what, if anything, can be said. Where nothing can be said, we adore God in our silence and by our silence. And whether in speech or in silence, we marvel. Because God is always partly disclosed and partly hidden, and so our praise is always partly in understanding and partly in accepting the mysteries. Mystery does not undermine knowledge, nor knowledge mystery. But God is all in all, worthy of the highest praise. We submit to Him on His terms, and they turn out to involve both knowledge and mystery. To embrace Him is to accept both.