Philosophy and Chess

I suck at the game of chess.

It’s not for a lack of study, mind you. I’ve read about a dozen books on the topic; some comprehensive overviews, some focusing on strategy, or tactics, or openings, or whatever. I know how to fianchetto a bishop. I’m familiar with the concepts of material, time, and position. I’m fluent in a few different types of Chess notation.
I know the point value attributed to each piece, and I know to develop the lower point values first. After all, “Pawns are the soul of chess.”

I also know the adage, “To learn, play.”

But of course, if I play, I might lose, and if I lose, I’ll feel foolish for all those hours I spent studying the game instead of simply letting the computer—or local chess club—kick my butt. A friend of mine—who just recently learned that a Knight is worth three points—follows this latter tack and his experience on the board really shows.

I don’t play him much anymore.

Instead, I run back to my safe little chess opening puzzle book and try to learn what not to do in an actual game.

But chess is not a theory to be studied. Instead, it’s a game to be experienced. Only by spending time at the board can one learn the intricacies of the pieces. Only by losing can one hope to win the simple pleasure of knowing, not knowing about, but knowing the game. To learn about knight forks, get caught in a few. To learn the power of pawns, challenge them.

To learn, play.

With this in mind, I’ve met a number of philosophers and theologians who treat God the same way I treat chess. They’re much better read on the subject than me, having absorbed books by monks, and rabbis, and seminary teachers. They know the difference between Calvinism and… and… whatever theology is the opposite of Calvinism. Compared to them, I’m sure I sound like a backwater hick.

Except, that I’ve spent time at the chessboard of God. And at that board I’ve lost opinions, unfounded beliefs, sugar-coated doctrines, and a part of my soul that I came to learn wasn’t really mine in the first place. I still come away licking my wounds more often than not. But like a chess player who exchanges bad habits for good ones—inexperience for wisdom—I don’t miss what I lose, especially when compared with what I gain.

The Bible makes it very clear that following Jesus comes at a cost, so I don’t blame the theologians for hiding from the Lion of Judah in their non-threatening books. But to do so is like studying art without ever attempting a doodle, or learning to sail from the comforts of one’s couch.

Or learning to play chess without facing an opponent.

I know a lot about chess.

And yet, I suck at the game.

I love it at a safe distance, denying myself the adventure of its company.

And that is my greatest loss.