Читать книгу Triptych - April Vinding - Страница 6

Triptych always sounded like something to stumble over, edges to catch the nails on your toes and the jab of a turned ankle on the brink. A cozy, disturbing similarity to ‘cryptic.’ But the shape itself is not a secret.

‘Trinity’ says this faith is full of threes. A number with both points and curves—where each always seems to look like the other until, open, you find yourself hanging from a sheet metal angle stuck under your ribs or, armed, you’re whirled open by a satin curve, spun on your seat, looking right back where you came from.

‘Triad’ says this faith is bound. If two heavenly bodies, one pull to the core. If two coals on the earth, one flash in the sky. Burn oak, it will amber; burn ether, there’s azure. There’s no way to keep the fuel from coloring the flame. So I’ve looked at the fuel, and chosen. Looked at the flame to choose.

‘Triune’ says competition is not the problem. Instead, it’s the clutter—all that collects inside the angles.

The shape of this faith is a triptych all its own: maybe a reflection of what should be worshiped, maybe an object of art all by itself. But even if this structure is a picture of the divine, it’s painted on wood with squeaky hinges. Some days, it seems ridiculous there need to be lines etched on to show where the figures are looking. Other days, those scratches are the only guides I have to God. But what the shape means is I can’t really call my faith a journey—this is not a pilgrimage down a narrow road. Because of this divine shape, faith is a container that holds a match: a puzzle, a flame, a fight.

When I wonder about the struggle—to fit a shape, a name, an expectation—I wonder if my struggle will end up being my proof. Because struggle needs a preposition: with. I’ve been angry with God, crushed, lovesick, offended, but it’s always been something. Faith has been a puzzle about, a flame for, a fight to.

I don’t know what follows the prepositions. But I do notice the three: the article that makes singular, the noun that makes tangible, the preposition that makes motion. Phrases with both points and curves. I’ve found myself hanging from sheet metal angles, and now, full of scars, I’m whirled open by a satin curve, looking back where I came from.

As I look back, I see more than I saw the first time through. The edges of this altarpiece are neither right nor varnished, but I can see the interfolding, overlapping leaves. More lines than I’d like point to me than to God. And I don’t know yet if what’s burnished shows only my hands worrying the holy. What I do know is this: this puzzle, this flame, this fight makes a shape with counterpoint. As much as others might say (and I would say myself) parts are far from worship, this faith has been an instrument of something: a shape with just enough tension to hold me in.