We noted previously that a key theme of Creation Story One is creation by separation or division. The writers are keen to make necessary distinctions and story serves this purpose. The first implicit distinction is between God and Creation. We might express this now as the difference between infinite being and contingent being. That’s massive. Technically, beyond comparison. As contingent beings we really have no idea what infinite reality is like.
Why’s this important for story? Well, it means the first truth of our existence is mystery. What cannot be stated always holds greater power than what can. In classical terms, wisdom consists in knowing you know nothing. Mystery, in this sense, isn’t merely a rule for Agatha Christie stories but for all stories. If sales are a guide to getting it right, it’s Bible (gold), Shakespeare (silver), and Christie (bronze)! Properly defined, then, story is a journey through mystery towards some tentative revelation. That unveiling sharpens rather than removes the mystery itself. A deeper appreciation of mystery leads to awe, reverence for beauty and appropriate humility. This is why good stories don’t preach. They don’t need to.
We also explored the first explicit distinction between the heavens and the earth, or, spiritual and physical reality and how this indelibly shapes Christian story writing. The writers of Creation One are showing us that stories are made out of contradistinctions: every word, one to another; every connecting yet contrasting sentence; distinct paragraphs that unfold chapter by uniquely numbered chapter, page after each sequential page. Proposition, collision, resolution. There’s a structure. You can play around with it but only because it’s still there, floating in the background.
In verse two, we encounter another crucial contrast: formless void and Spirit.
Now the earth was a formless void, there was darkness over the deep, and God’s spirit hovered over the water.
How’s that for a follow up sentence? So, God didn’t initially create the universe in its present form but rather as an undifferentiated blob. Or, as I like to think of it - a first draft. Space is left for evolution or editorial: God, this is a good start showing great promise but it’s going to need a lot more work if you ever expect your universe to reach a receptive audience.
Although ancient stories, there’s an uncanny correspondence with the findings of modern science. Bible scholars inform us that, for the original writers, this formless void represents the forces of chaos. Thus, the Spirit is contrasting order. In context, the writers are presenting an image of God’s majesty. He effortlessly imposes shape and form without struggle or opposition. It’s a corrective to the competing creation narratives of Mesopotamia which portray gods that are born and die in divine conflicts and where the world is made from the carcass of a slain deity.
Two powerful insights flow from this. Firstly, God creates something pristine and unsullied. Secondly, Creation is from the outset in a state of emergence. In other words, perfectibility is realised over time. For the Christian writer or, indeed, any creative person, this is deeply consoling…
Don’t get discouraged because there’s a lot of mechanical work to writing. There is, and you can’t get out of it. I rewrote the first part of A Farewell to Arms at least fifty times. You’ve got to work it over. The first draft of anything is shit.1
Order can come from chaos. Something crystalline can evolve out of the murky darkness. It’s important for us to see there’s no struggle for God because the final written form (ideally publishable) reflects His perfection. Equally, it’s important for us to see that we must strive over and over, edit after edit, because we are part of the universal journey into perfect form. Yes, the first draft might feel like nothing, but, as they say, without it there will never be a final one!
The story writing process, like life itself, is precisely this episodic struggle. It’s that featureless block of marble transforming under the hands of Master Bernini. Of necessity, it’s a painful chipping away in order to produce a purity of word and destiny of telling.
Out of the slimy mud of words, out of the sleet and hail of verbal imprecisions,
Approximate thoughts and feelings, words that have taken the place of thoughts and feelings,
There spring the perfect order of speech, and the beauty of incantation.2
This is the calling - to contend with our formless voids; the forces of chaos within. There’s a primordial antagonism hidden inside them. It holds sway over us. Bringing form and coherence to the story of our lives and art is within our powers, but only with God’s spirit sweeping through the darkness. The soaring Spirit is the wellspring and archetype of all inspiration, the One who infuses our words with grace. All that’s required is to look up above the briny swell.
Header photo: Émile Séguin, Unsplash
Arnold Samuelson, With Hemingway: A Year in Key West and Cuba, Random House, New York, 1984, p 11. Cf. https://quoteinvestigator.com/2015/09/20/draft/