Constraint and Freedom

At the risk of falling prey to a temptation Mark highlighted last week, of talking about something rather than doing it, I want to offer a quotation I ran across recently. It's from James Kiefer, who has written a series of biographical meditations on those commemorated in the liturgical calendar. This is from his piece on the martyr Thomas Becket.

The chief moral that I draw from Thomas's life and death is that when a man seeks to serve God, God graciously accepts that service, even if the man is quite wrong about what it is that God expects of him.

And then there's this one, attributed to Marissa Mayer, Google's Vice President for User Experience:

When people think about creativity, they think about artistic work—unbridled, unguided effort that leads to beautiful effect. But if you look deeper, you'll find that some of the most inspiring art forms, such as haikus, sonatas, and religious paintings, are fraught with constraints. They are beautiful because creativity triumphed over the 'rules.' Constraints shape and focus problems and provide clear challenges to overcome. Creativity thrives best when constrained.

So, what do they have to do with each other? Well, here's one more:

Every branch in me that does not bear fruit he takes away, and every branch that does bear fruit he prunes, that it may bear more fruit. (John 15:2)

The quote from Mayer hints at what may be a fundamental principle about the way God made the world and our brains. Too much freedom is counterproductive. Freedom can even be paralyzing. Writers often talk about the terror of the blank sheet of paper, the flashing cursor at the top of an empty screen. Constraint helps us focus, sparking movement, thought, reflection, action—breaking through our concern with ourselves to help us look outward toward what needs doing. Constraint is, paradoxically, the way to growth.

Rose bushes (as I am learning from sad experience) are naturally more likely to grow branches and leaves than flowers. Grape vines left unconstrained are likely to produce leaves rather than fruit. Neither plant will live up to its intended purpose unless and until it is pruned, sometimes quite vigorously.

God's purpose for us, Jesus says, is to produce fruit. Fruit is destined to be separated from the branch on which it grows, to refresh someone else, to spread its seed. Branches covered only with dense, lush foliage—branches that use the life of the Vine just to hang out—miss the point, and the consequences can be dire.

Thus the constraints we take on during Lent—like those limitations that God graciously throws in our path during the rest of the year—can become an uncomfortable opportunity to allow for growth and, more importantly, fruit. Love in action. Lives lived for God and others.

And Becket? The reasons for his martyrdom are still obscure to me—it sounds too much like power politics. In a sense he serves as a reminder that life is complicated, that the path of faithfulness is not always clear to either ourselves or onlookers. But his life and death have sparked faith (and courage and creativity) in thousands of believers over the years—not least in Chaucer, whose Canterbury Tales is organized around a pilgrimage to Becket's tomb.

Kiefer's comment reminds me of the grace of God. Even though life is complicated, I need never let my freedom paralyze me into inaction. If I act in obedience to what I do know, God's grace will transform my efforts, however misguided, into something that will touch people in ways my constrained imagination could never have conceived.

Of course, I still would rather just grow leaves. I'm good at leaves. Jesus, help me want to open myself to pruning rather than just wait for it to come.