“In the beginning God created…”
Creation was covered in the last inversion with creation “out of nothing,” but there is more to be said about the verb “create” and how God creates. At this point, I will venture beyond the first verse of Genesis 1 (finally!). Here are the first three verses of Genesis, which are worth committing to memory:
In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth. The earth was without form and void, and darkness was over the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God was hovering over the face of the waters. And God said, “Let there be light,” and there was light.
The first thing to notice about this beginning, this creation, is that there is no battle or struggle. The maker here has no writer’s block, no hand-cramping. He’s not in a rush to complete the project. The painter doesn’t run out of paint. He isn’t interrupted by deliveries or doorbells or drop-ins. Neither is there any negotiation nor argument. No supply chain issues disrupt the critical path of keeping this building project on schedule.
The flow of creation is gentle, as God simply states, “Let there be light.” No laser show or fireworks are needed. No soundtrack. No music video.
God creates in peace.
Most of all, we should notice that God is not attacked or killed or overthrown in any way.
Why is that important?
This inversion of a creation story flips the Greek, Sumerian, and other creation stories, which contain a battle, a struggle, or a war in which the victorious god “wins.” There is no struggle in Genesis. There is not even a competition of any kind. This is unlike the Sumerian, Norse, Greek, Minyong, Cherokee, and just about every other creation story. In other words, Genesis is about simple beauty, not struggle. Creation is an unfolding, not a mash-up. Consider the difference between humans constructing a building with metal, wood, cranes, and hard hats, versus a seed in soil receiving rain and growing into a flower. Jesus spoke of this when he compared Solomon’s man-made opulence against a simple flower: “Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they neither toil nor spin, yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not clothed like one of these.” All that we can make pales to one of God’s wild lilies.
In the gentle act of creation, God merely speaks. “Let there be light” makes all other creation stories violent and slightly ridiculous. The false gods seem to be trying too hard. Against the beauty of “Let there be light,” the Sumerian story of Marduk’s conquering of the primordial god reads like a cheesy TV drama, such as Game of Thrones or Succession.
This is the inversion: a “succession myth” is built into nearly every pagan creation story, where the primordial god or gods fight, and the first gods are overthrown. These other creation myths tell of a victory that never happened. Genesis declares that there was no fight whatsoever. There wasn’t even an argument or a dirty look. That’s because there is only one God, the God Most High, the Author, the Creator, the Artist. Once again, Genesis calmly calls all other mythologies absurd - because they are. They may entertain us, but so does a gladiator fight, which doesn’t make it right.
James Joyce, who rejected the very God who gave him his great talent to write, knew much about the creation of literary works. In The Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, Joyce wrote about a version of God that seems quite right and quite wrong at the same time:
“The artist, like the God of the creation, remains within or behind or beyond or above his handiwork, invisible, refined out of existence, indifferent, paring his fingernails.”
There is something wonderful about this quote and something false. The God who creates in Genesis does indeed remain within/behind/beyond/above his creation. Unlike human artists, he does not struggle in the act of creation, as it is a labor of love. When he completes the creation, he rests, like Joyce’s image of the creator. I like the image of God seated in heaven “paring his fingernails,” even though he would not need to do so. Joyce is correct about God’s presence and about his resting, but he makes an error in the middle where he says that God is “refined out of existence” and “indifferent.” In other words, Joyce’s character is like Thomas Jefferson’s view of God. He envisions God in the Deist view, like a clockmaker, who creates the heavens and earth and then moves on, not caring at all what happens to it.
The God who creates in Genesis is not like that. He is not like the pagan gods who lust for power, nor is he like the Joyce version who creates and then drifts off distantly. This is indeed a central inversion to understanding the God of the Bible, in that when he speaks to create, he brings all things into being, and actively sustains the creation. While he could be “paring his fingernails” at rest, he is never indifferent or distant. He is an all-powerful creator who is also a loving Father, without being an overbearing one. Free will is granted to all, and free will often feels like a cross but is most assuredly a gift for those who read the Gospels to the end. In addition, the constraints of time and space, which seem a burden, are the teaching tools God uses to tame us after the Fall. The succession myths and science theories that throw out God only hurt us. God is fine whether we love him or ignore him. But when we do not conform our will to God’s will, it is we who struggle, not God.
In the Sumerian and Greek myths, the gods are paranoid about who will take their power. Even Zeus is sneaking around so Hera doesn’t catch him. But the God of Genesis has no threats, no challengers, no contenders, no scolds, because God is like Joyce’s all-powerful creator who is within/above/behind/beyond his creation. But he is not like Joyce’s “meh” version of God who could care less about his work. This is the difference between human works of art versus human life - as in children.
This is an important lesson for all those who dislike children but see their own lives as a work of art. The ultimate work of art is the generation of new life, and dying to self in favor of living to serve that life.
To write a story is to create, but it is not new life. When I was young, I was obsessed with writing and publishing a novel. I succeeded. It sold about 4,000 copies. That was nice. But that creation now sits on a shelf and only comes to life if I open it, and I rarely do. Then I had children and realized that writing a novel is a dead letter compared to the work of a family. In other words, to see God as merely the writer of a story is to misunderstand the living and the dead. And James Joyce, who wrote a famous short story about “The Dead” was himself flatlined because he thought “to create” meant only writing, painting, and art alone. The greatest act of creation is life, and not just static art, but life that respirates and moves and sings and suffers. In other words, the greatest work of art respirates - it breathes - and creation comes through relationships we have with the living God and with one another. In particular, the total gift of self means handing over your whole life to God. In marriage that means being open to creating new life and serving others instead of the self. The Church is said to be the Bride of Christ, and he emptied himself to bring new life to all its members. God does the same through all creation, as life springs from his word.
God calls us to life by speaking, not struggling. Jesus brought life to all the world starting with a small group of friends. They changed from ways of this world into saints by giving away their time and space to others, forgetting the struggle. With Jesus at the center, this shedding of struggle became possible. The only struggle in Jesus’ earthly ministry happened when competition against God’s will tried to insert itself: the Pharisees wanted control through rules, the Romans used brutal violence, James and John lobbied for top status in the kingdom, Peter was rebuked harshly when he tried to stop the path to the cross.
Whenever anyone wants to make a name for himself, a struggle begins. This is a spiritual law, it seems, from the Tower of Babel to Pontius Pilate and Simon Magus. The opposite of serving is gaining a name for oneself, and those who gain fame by doing God’s will tend to get new names, not from themselves but from God. Abram becomes Abraham, Jacob becomes Israel, and Simon becomes Peter. With their new name comes a mission of servitude, and status only comes with their dying to self.
When Jesus says, “From the days of John the Baptist until now the kingdom of heaven has suffered violence, and the violent take it by force,” he is talking about the status-seekers and the power-hungry who rule this world. To serve is to take the lowest seat, not the highest, and we should consider this whenever we admire celebrities, the wealthy, or the proud. When the guards strike Jesus, he opens not his mouth. Not once does Jesus attempt to make a name for himself. He repeatedly tells others not to announce what he has done. Healing in private he seeks no fame. This is exactly how God creates: in peace, in quiet. “Let there be light” makes no sound, it just happens. Thus, when the proud loudly mock God or take his name in vain, God allows them, for he has already won, and he just hopes his persecutors eventually stop trying to make a name for themselves and come to rest in his infinite peace. Surely when he watches us struggle, it must look foolish, since he wants us to partake in his divine nature, which does not struggle.
The creation of life that God gives to the universe and each human body and soul composite is an act of love. Mothers and fathers can know this to a depth that can never be understood by the childless. Dog owners often think they understand what parenthood means, but they do not, and they sound silly when they attempt to conflate dog ownership with actual parenthood. Artists will often talk of their work as like that of a mother’s love for a child. But they are ignorant of the depth of the Father’s love for his children, or a mother’s love for her child. The images of the Holy Family endure because that is the greatest work of art - a living family. We have a living family both earthly and spiritual. For we not only have an imperfect earthly father, we have the perfect heavenly Father who created our earthly father. Better still, we have our imperfect earthly mother, and our spiritual Mother of God, Mary, who Jesus stated from the cross for all people, “There is your Mother.” The God who created all is not an absentee deadbeat dad, he is near. Nor is he angry and controlling, he is simply calling us to listen and be listened to. In other words, there is no struggle in this relationship except for what we introduce to it. We bring the struggle. Because we chafe against our containment in time and space, we want to escape it and control it. Struggle ensues exactly when we deny God’s will and try to make our own will the authority and power. This is a fool’s game, but since the expulsion from the Garden we never tire of playing it until the invasion of grace enters our lives. When Jesus steps into our boat, as he did with Peter and Andrew, the struggle can end, if we let it.
The creator of a work of art struggles and can love his book, painting, song, or statue that they “bring to life.” But it can never be alive like a child. A book or painting cannot bind you in flesh and bone like another person that was generated by yourself and another person. And here is where the Trinity can first be discussed (but not too much yet), because when God the Father creates, the Spirit hovers over the waters. To create is the act of love, and that which is created and living will be loved by the creator.
I can be indifferent to a story that I wrote, or to a woodworking project that I complete, even if I am pleased with the result. But I cannot be indifferent to a child that is alive who came from husband and wife. This is why many parents seem somewhat insane: they love so deeply. They love so deeply that they err in strange ways. This is why the saying, “You’re only as happy as your most unhappy child” hits the nail on the head for many mothers and fathers. The living creation that is generated by parents, from their shared bodies, can never be separated in a child. Genesis and Jesus both repeat: “…and the two shall become one flesh; so they are no longer two, but one flesh.” In the same way, God loves us. The Trinity is a loving family of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. This is the peak of love, at a greater depth, with rightly ordered balance. God does not try to control us, but allows us to err, with the hope that we will recognize the way back home. And since we are all children of God, can’t we imagine how he feels when we ignore him? (We can’t fully, but we can get an idea.)
This is why the other creation stories feel like entertainment rather than truth. They are accounts of struggle, whereas the true God never struggles. To read the “struggle stories” of creation in the ancient world is to see what they valued, which was power. We do the same today. In poker, the big bank takes the little bank. In geopolitics, big armies and big navies control the shipping lanes. In the office, the loudest voice drives the agenda. The proud and violent “win” here, and for it, we all lose. Disorder comes from struggle and squabbling over scraps from a zero-sum game that doesn’t need to be played. None of the power games we play come from God, but rather from our disordered will. What we consider creation is often destruction. Fortunately, Jesus shows us God: he is a humble servant, a loving creator, a living act of love who takes the last seat at the table. Real power is to be at rest amid the storm, like when Jesus slept in the boat that was about to capsize. The seas and the wind obey him. So should we.
In America, “wealth creation” is worshipped, and the creation of wealth is an endless struggle. Yet if Jesus returned tomorrow, he would not come forth saying, “We must get the economy back on track.” The only economy of concern to God is the economy of salvation for our souls. That is the plan, and to carry out that plan we must stop struggling.
But we celebrate struggle. Everything seems to be built around it today. We seek it out. Activists calling for permanent revolution crave a struggle. Sports is an endless invented struggle of those rising and falling. Cities and nations clamor for influence. We think we love struggle, but we loathe it because it is a trap. It is a container that we crawl inside, pull the lid down over ourselves, and suffocate under. We hate this competition and we want to rest, but for most of us, the draw of struggle pulls us into our own bad creation stories. Glory days and power plays are what gets remembered, not the quiet servant, the mother who made all the meals.
What we should do is notice who is not struggling. God is not struggling. He is seated. After creation he is seated, not struggling, but also he is not indifferent. When people come to know the living God, who created all things, a sense of active participation in that peace comes to them, which is why St. Augustine’s memorable line rings forever true throughout the centuries: “You have made us for yourself, O Lord, and our hearts are restless until they rest in you.”
In case you ever wonder why people like to kneel and pray in adoration chapels, or in the pews, it is because they are talking to the one that gives life, meaning, and rest. Once you come to see that the only place without struggle is at the center, at the source, from whom all things are generated, then the attraction of the struggle in this world makes little sense. Aside from needing our daily bread, the struggles of our world have come from sin. To sin is to struggle. Once again, Jesus said, “Consider the lilies of the field who neither toil nor spin.” We have rational souls, yet we should look to the lily, or the ant, for models of living in our bodies, and for our spiritual example we must look to God - the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit - for how not to struggle but to find peace.
How is it that God does not struggle? He is without pride or fear. Only we who have fallen know pride, vanity, and sensuality, and that is the source of all struggle. Sin is the absence of God. When we sin we reject God in favor of our pride, vanity, or sensuality. In choosing to sin, we choose disorder and struggle. But we do not harm God when we turn away. There is nothing that can harm God or overtake him. He does not force us to love him, but he invites us to do so.
God is not “containable.” The great error is thinking that he can be contained, tricked, or boxed in.
God is uncontained.
His creation is an unending relationship and conversation. He creates with a living, breathing, moving, open heart toward us all. He is uncontained because he’s not in competition with anything, including us.
When I was in high school, I was putting dishes away one day in cupboards and drawers, and it dawned on me that everything had a container. Forks go into a drawer, but within the drawer, there is an organizer. Within the drawer container, was another container for holding the forks. I began to look around and saw that everything I did was moving things from one container to another. The world seemed to one big Containment Management System, as I would wake up in the house container, go to the shower container (containing the water) and eat breakfast moving many containers to and fro, and then get in the car container to go to school, then go into the school container, in the classroom container, and with my backpack container, I would open up my books which contained words.
In this theory of containment, I realized that if I go very close with a microscope, there are smaller and smaller containers, from cells to molecules to atoms to protons. And all of these contain smaller things. Likewise, if I back up from my containers and look up, there are more containers, like the earth, the solar system, the galaxy, and the universe. So as far as my finite mind could understand, the largest container was the universe, and beyond that wall, our material selves could not go.
But then there were containers for immaterial things as well, like ideas, as we categorize things as Platonic forms or mathematical constants or schools of thought. There were numbers that had rules of containment from Euclid to Einstein. There were stories that had beginnings and endings, like virtual bookends. Even our imagination is contained by time and space. This fed into a period when I discounted all spiritual things, where anything immaterial was not real, like feelings or opinions. Only scientific evidence made for knowledge. Right around that time, I became very depressed as well, as I had rejected God’s existence. But I did have one realization at that time when I was looking at forks and drawers and atoms and planets. A question came to me:
What would it mean to be uncontained?
I felt as if this was like Zen koan, a question like “What is the sound of one hand clapping?” To be uncontained was to be free, completely elevated outside of time and space. And who could be like that? Who could always be in that place of no struggle?
I know who it is.
Whenever I thought of what that must feel like to be truly uncontained, without the aid of mood-altering things, I recalled a day when I was working on a farm one summer, leaning on a gate at the end of the day after making silage, watching the cattle toss the fresh, green food up in the air and onto their backs, almost joyfully, as the sun set in the big orange horizon beyond the silo silhouette. It was one of those moments where the body was tired but fulfilled and I knew that dinner would be good because I’d worked for my daily bread, and the music of the spheres, and the harmony of nature, all seemed to be flowing in concert, and I’ve never seen anything so true, good, and beautiful in my whole life. That day I felt uncontained basking in the beauty of creation.
I had other moments like this, such as when my children were born, where the impossible occurred. There have been quite a few times like when I would be out on a long bike ride at dusk and stop for a drink of water near a cornfield, or when I would look at the stars on the hood of my car in high school with my friends, or when I hold my wife’s hand, or when I listen to certain songs, or when I look at certain Caravaggio paintings like “The Conversion of St. Paul.”
To be uncontained is impossible for me. I can not stay there. But I can be there from time to time. Like Mary Magdalene at the tomb, I can witness the glory, but cannot hold fast to it while I’m in this world. In these moments, I realized something that seemed profound (at the time):
God is that which is uncontained.
God is the only thing that is uncontainable.
This is why God does not struggle. This is why he rests. Can we ever be uncontained? The answer is yes. We can partake of the divine nature. What the Eucharist means in the life of a Catholic is just this. For those who believe, receiving Communion is just what it means: we commune with God. We partake in the divine nature. In other words, we partake in the uncontained wonder and awe of the creator of the universe. Critical to the understanding of the Eucharist is that we are not God, but we are made in the image of God, and our life is entirely about moving back into his uncontainability. The key is to remember that I am not God - I am contained, but by partaking in his nature, I can be more like him, and in heaven I will be fully with him again, for we came from the uncontained and can return there - and someday we will return if we remain in his grace, for “by your endurance, you will gain your soul.”
But like every original thought I’ve had, I found out later that my idea of uncontainment was not original at all. In St. Augustine’s Confessions, Book 1, Chapter 3, the heading is: “Everywhere God wholly fills all things, but neither heaven nor earth contains Him.”
Those who understand what the Catholic Church teaches have known about this notion of uncontainment for millennia. Sometimes I see Church Fathers use the term uncircumscribed, which is like saying uncontained. But most importantly for this inversion, this is why the God of the Bible is different from all the other gods. All of the gods of myth are within time and space. Even if they are in the heavens, they struggle. God does not struggle, he creates, even though he did not have to create. He chose to do so out of love, and it is only we, the fallen, who choose struggle. Because our pride, vanity, and sensuality fool us we believe that struggling against each other will gain us a higher place, but when we struggle we dig our graves. In making a name for ourselves, we will be forgotten by God on the last day. In struggling, we lose our peace and rest, because it takes our focus off of what is most good, what is the highest good, which is God, the uncontained creator who does not struggle, ever. Like the loving father in the parable of the Prodigal Son who runs out to meet his wayward son upon his return, he calls to us, he runs out to meet us, and when we return he fills us with a wealth beyond human understanding. And that is why we are here in this world as we are: we are not kicked out of the Garden as a punishment, we are kicked out for our own good, so that we may come to know God and return to him of our own free will. He invites us but never forces our hand. He calls, never coerces. He is beyond all things and sustains all things, which is why we cannot run from God.
All that we create that is not living becomes rusted, corroded, and overtaken by time and nature. Every ancient temple and city dedicated to the false gods has turned to dust, just as every skyscraper, stadium, and data center today will turn to dust. Every mascot and corporate logo will be as powerless and meaningless as the eagle of Rome or the oracle at Delphi. We are passing by on our way to an eternity in one of two places. Like a bird flying by a window, our time is brief, our stay here is short, and all that we create will fade, no matter how we struggle to maintain a sense of security. The pages in books we write will turn yellow, the machines will fall into disrepair and sit like rocks. But the life we create can create more life, as the generations continue.
This is why a child who plays a video game is disengaged, while a child who catches a fish is full of wonder. One is playing in the world that God created, and the other is playing in an artificial world that a programmer created. Likewise, this is why a reader of Joyce may experience something like transcendence, but a reader of the Bible (and especially the Gospels) experiences something alive. Joyce could write a book, but his book cannot generate life. But those who approach the Bible as the written word of the uncontained God who created all things and does not struggle will find life. Yes, it is a strange book that can bring a robotic modern person back to life. Interestingly, Joyce’s most famous short story was called “The Dead” which referred to Jesus’ saying, “Let the dead bury the dead.” This was a reference to spiritual death. When Jesus said that he is the vine, the bread of life, and the living water, he was telling us to plug into God. He was notifying us that struggling and floundering only happen when you desire something more than God. You will forever be searching and struggling until you come to realize that there is only one path to the end of struggle, and that is the path back home to God.
Jesus reminds us: “In this world, you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” He has created the world, overcome it, and rests, waiting for us to recognize his ever-present voice. When we find him, in those moments, we will want to stay there and never leave. In the Eucharist at Holy Mass we can partake in the uncontained. Jesus is there - truly present under the appearance of the bread and the wine. Again, Mary Magdalene at the tomb wants to stay with the risen Lord forever, but she cannot. She has to move forward, and moving forward she is full of life, she is changed. Her sadness is swept away upon seeing the risen Jesus. How can that be? Because she is no longer struggling, and her sorrow turns to joy.
She said to them, “They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him.” When she had said this, she turned around and saw Jesus standing there, but she did not know that it was Jesus. Jesus said to her, “Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you looking for?” Supposing him to be the gardener, she said to him, “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him away.” Jesus said to her, “Mary!” She turned and said to him in Hebrew, “Rabbouni!” (which means Teacher). Jesus said to her, “Do not hold on to me, because I have not yet ascended to the Father. But go to my brothers and say to them, ‘I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.’” Mary Magdalene went and announced to the disciples, “I have seen the Lord”; and she told them that he had said these things to her. (John 20:11-18)
And then, once we meet him, after he surprises us, we know beyond our worldly containers what is true, good, and beautiful. He invites us into that peaceful present. Then our pain and sorrow become strangely redemptive. Coming to know how he does not struggle, we can do likewise. We can go to the chapel in the heart even when a church is nowhere near. As St. Paul said, we can pray constantly, and thus be with the one that is forever uncontained by time and space while we work and live here - for the kingdom of God is among us - in relationships, not in art or status or stuff. Once we recognize our relationship to God, we know the Father, and we know our mother Mary, and we become connected to the angels and saints - including Mary Magdalene, who will pray with you if you but ask for her intercession. Then like God, we do not have to struggle. For God alone is uncontained. And God alone satisfies.
Further reading:
Creation in Genesis 1:1-2:3 and the Ancient Near East: Order out of Disorder after Chaoskampf - “The background of the Genesis creation story has nothing to do with the so-called Chaoskampf'myth of the Mesopotamian type, as preserved in the Babylonian "creation" myth Enuma Elish. In Gen 1, there is no hint of struggle or battle between God and this tehom—water.”
Chaoskampf - Good overview of myth systems that assume a struggle, but the article misses the inversion of Genesis entirely. God does not struggle. He just creates. He orders. There is no rival. Even Leviathan is God’s plaything or pet (Psalm 104). The ancient dragon, the devil, is cast down to earth like a swatted fly falling to the floor (Revelation 12:9). He was never a threat to God, never a contender, rather just a rebel and nuisance to the good of creation, as he still is for us today.
