In 1992, I entered a graduate program in Communication Theory with confidence that my profound “insights” would be treasured by all within the sound of my golden voice. Two years later, I stumbled across the stage to receive my diploma, wondering how I even got into graduate school let alone got a Master’s Degree. The number one thing I learned in graduate school is how little I know. Day after day, paper after paper, presentation after presentation, I grew ever more aware of my own deficiencies.

Over the last ten years, I’ve tried to hold this lesson close to my heart. No matter how much I read, no matter how I speak, no matter how much (or how little) I write, I still know next to nothing. In the mystery of this grand creation, I am truly overwhelmed in wonder.

Lately, I’ve been learning a new thing: how much other people do know. Regardless of how much or how little they have read or been trained, I am surrounded by people of stunning brilliance. When I can shut my mouth long enough to listen and really face the people around me, I am always amazed.

I have come to agree with G.K. Chesterton who warned against the dangers of elitism. He once suggested that “The purpose of compulsory education is to deprive the common man of his common sense.” Chesterton staunchly defended the wisdom of common sense and the common person. But he did not pit the uneducated agains the educated either.

Chesterton says: “The common mind means the mind of all the artists and heroes; or else it would not be common. Plato had the common mind; Dante had the common mind. Commonness means the quality common to the saint and the sinner, to the philosopher and the fool; and it was this that Dickens grasped and developed. In everybody there is a certain thing that loves babies, that fears death, that likes sunlight: that thing enjoys Dickens. And everybody does not mean uneducated crowds; everybody means everybody.”

While I may dislike the sentiment expressed on the bumper stick on the car in front of me, I must be careful not assume that the driver has nothing to teach me. All through the Bible, God often uses the enemies of Israel to reveal His wisdom. The next time I determine another person should be ignored because they have the wrong opinion, or because they are not educated enough, or because they are educated too much, I might instead pause, and turn, and face them in the moment.

I still may disagree but I will have paused and turned and faced a person created in the image of God, and this is a treasure and a wonder that I should never take for granted.

Spent some time meditating on Psalm 130. The psalmist begins in utter despair, drowning in the chaotic waters of Sheol. He cries out in anguish and prays that God won’t count his sins against him. Then he speaks of waiting upon the Lord. Several times he repeats the phrase that he will wait for the Lord. As I read it, I thought this word “wait” resonates deep in me. So much of my life has been about waiting. About feeling sidelined. Forgotten by God. Wondering if He really has abandoned me. Or if I really have been following Him or simply wandering about in confusion.

I don’t know the whole intent of the psalmist but I do believe he uses a particular struggle and cry for God’s deliverance to connect him with an even deeper longing: an intense, anguished hunger for a redemption he knows only God can accomplish. Now this longing reaches beyond a particular situation to whole nation. He commends all of Israel to wait for the redemption of the Lord. And in all of Israel, we see the cry and longing of all creation. Thus Paul can say that all creation groans for the revealing of the sons of God.

In my own frustrations, in my own pains, in my own struggles, I realize that I can find a way to connect with the struggle and longing of all creation. And in that longing to cry as Jesus taught us to pray: “…Thy kingdom come, the will be done…”

If I had my druthers, I’d be spending the week in Canada at the Toronto Film Festival. Some interesting films and directors including the great Wim Wenders. NPR profiled several films on Morning Edition. Many of the films focus on post 9/11 America. And surprising they’re not all rapid US haters. Looks like there will be some though-provoking presentations.

Last weekend, Kelly and I watched Joe Gould’s Secret. The film bares witness to a unique relationship between Joe Mitchell, a writer for the New Yorker and Joe Gould, a homeless, eccentric intellectual. Gould can be funny, fascinating, irritating, and even overpowering. He’s a needy person who makes many people feel obligated to help him. As we watched, we realized that we have known several Joe Gould’s in our life: needy people who pull everyone around them into the vortex of their problems.

How should I respond? I’m not always sure. So many times I’ve felt helpless in the face of their struggles. And yet, maybe I’m not supposed to solve anything at all but to simply witness the mystery and glory.

Joe Gould reminds me of the wonder revealed in each person. He also reminds me of my own eccentricities. Like Luther, I realize my own hopeless condition, my own depravity. My only hope is the mercy and grace of God. Realizing my own desperate need reminds me to show mercy and grace to the Joe Gould’s of this world. And to bask in the wonder that surrounds me.

PBS is running a documentary on what has come to be known as the “Black Woodstock.” Fascinating. I was eight years old when this was filmed (1972). This film captures a vanished era. ALong the way, we experience the bittersweet paradoxes of hope and sadness, beauty and corruption ever present in the human condition. There is something about watching films and documentaries from this era, that fills me with a sense of longing. So many people were dreaming and hoping for a better world. I realize there were just as many problems then as now, but it stirs a longing deep in me, deeper than an era–rooted in Eden and looking toward the New Jerusalem.

We are exiles in the far end of solitude, living as listeners
With hearts attending to skies we cannot understand:
Waiting upon the first Drums of Christ the Conqueror,
Planted like Sentinels upon the world’s frontier.
Thomas Merton

In the poetry and prayers from Celtic Christians, I’ve noticed two ideas that are often held in tension: the importance of place and the importance of exile or journey. Thus the same people could affirm on the one hand “the place you are standing is holy,” and on the other hand proclaim “we are searching for our place of resurrection.”

This tension appears on the film Nostalgia by Andrei Tarkovsky. A Russian poet wanders the countryside of Italy in search of inspiration. He is an exile longing for his homeland. Of course, the viewer is left wondering if is his homeland simply Russian soil or the place of his eternal longing.

This is the yearning of the human soul to come home. Our particular places give us stability and comfort and yet in our heart of hearts, we know there is a place more sure, more stable than “the shifting sands of Rome.”

We sense this because each of us, in our journey has stumbled across “thin places.” The Celts suggest that there are places where heaven and earth seem to collide and the eternal wall of separation seems to vanish. These transcendent encounters remind us that there is more to life than simply the material realm we can see, feel, smell, hear and touch.

Our forefathers of faith Abraham, Isaac and Jacob all stumble upon “thin places.” They each have encounters when the Creator penetrates the moment with a Voice from above. They respond to the call and journey forward in search of a city not made by hands.

Edward Sellner has suggested that these “thin places” actual remove the wall between the past, present and future. For a brief moment, our particular time and space is eclipsed by an awareness of relatedness that extends far past anything we could have imagined.

The Hebrew prophets sometimes captured this overlapping of past, present and future when they declare the works of God. Addressing the present moment, they may look forward to a perfected future by alluding to a glorious past. Edenic visions look forward to the summation of all things in Christ.

Bishop Seraphim Sigrist speaks of encountering a “thin place” in Semhoz at the home of the martyr Alexander Men. He wonders if a place rich in history makes it seem “thin.” But then he suggests the radical possibility that we create thin places. He says,

Bishop Sigrist continues by connecting the deep mystery of Christian community with the mystery of thin places. Thus the Lord would say “for where two or three are gathered in my name there I am in the midst of them.”

In the mystery of His love and grace, God calls us forth into community, into a people, into a body. He forms us in relation with other people and together we become a family. Into this family of faith, he gives gifts. More gifts than we could ever contain in a list.

(G)ifts of son, and of joy and of a particular smile…the gift of courage and the gift of peace. The gift of vision of the unseen and the vision of what should be…the gift of tears and the gift of laughter. Fire and ecstasy are a gift and so is radiant calm. Tongues are a gift and so too is the language of science and analysis. The gifts of healing by prayer, the gifts of a faithful doctor.

The list is unlimited in variety and expression. Each gift is a treasure for the family—not for the individual to wrap up and hide away for themselves. He continues:

A gift is not something that we have on our own. Considered in ourselves we are all on the contrary limited and broken and fill of impossible contradictions even within ourselves—not to speak of with others. We have no wholeness individually or together, but we have the possibility to receive as a gift that which we could in no way establish in ourselves.

God who is rich in mercy, calls us forth to his family. And in this family, we who are wounded and hungry and hurt become a precious gift poured out on behalf of others. To think we might ever mature as Christians in isolation from one another is absurd. (This is a paradox for another day—we are called to solitude and community not isolation and groupthink).

In the body of Christ’s love, we give and receive, we rest and act, we love and are loved. It is in this family, this place of going and coming, this “thin place,” we step through the veil of time and space and enter the great feast of love centered in the Father, Son and Holy Spirit—extending through the communion of Saints and ultimately shining into all of God’s great creation.

“The man on the moon
Said the earth was blue
But you don’t have to leave
To know that’s true.”

The Speed of Light, Julie Miller

I’ve been to planet earth, and I agree: the earth is blue. Beneath our carefree chatter, beneath our hand made monuments, beneath our tired, aching feet, the ground trembles with an ancient groan deeper than the deepest cave. If we pause long enough to listen, we will feel it shaking in the chasm of our soul. G.K. Chesterton once said, “He is a [sane] man who can have tragedy in his heart and comedy in his head.”

We may shout and sing and dance so loud that we can barely feel it, but the blue earth is still there. Trembling, groaning, longing. I guess that is why so much of our music is blues. Music is rhythm in time and this rhythm might just be the pulsing heart of the earth longing for redemption. Whether it’s country ballads, cool Jazz licks, old time Gospel, or classic Delta Blues, the angst is still there.

Somehow listening to blues soothes me. From the fierce intensity of Son House to the gruff yet poignant wailing of Blind Willie Johnson, the to grieving voice of Skip James, I find like spirits longing, aching for redemption. Someone said the blues is all about sex. And I would agree that many songs deal with broken relationships, but that is surface.

Beneath the surface of subjects from lost loves to dying wives to abandoned children, the blues gives voice to a pain that is deeper and older than we realize. The psalmist fully acknowledges this pain. Heman exclaims, “My soul is full of troubles and my life draws near to the grave” (Psalms 88:3). After pouring his soul out to God in prayer, he completes this lament, “Loved one and friend, You have put far from me, and my acquaintances into darkness” (Psalms 88:18). The psalm ends without resolve as the psalmist stumbles away into the shadows.

From the tragic death of Abel to the bitter stoning of Stephen, the Bible is full of heartache and loss and desperate people in desperate situations. Suffering is never denied or ignored. I fear sometimes that our modern spirituality looks to God as an escape from suffering. Unfortunately this is a fundamental denial of who we are and where we are at.

We are on the blue planet. And all creation is groaning. Beneath that desperate cry of creation is another cry—the cry of the people of God, longing for redemption. Yet we do not know how to cry. So we sing the blues. Often we don’t even realize why we are singing the blues or why we are groaning within the recesses of our soul. Beneath the cry of creation, beneath the cry of the human soul, there is another cry—a groaning that cannot be uttered in human words—it is the cry of God. This cry, this groaning, this shuddering silence reaches all the way to Eden and the broken relationship between man and God.

This cry is a prayer for redemption. From the ancient echoes of Eden to the kingdom come, this Spirit-filled cry brings the fallen world into restoration with a Love than cannot be thwarted. And this Love really does make the world go round.

As Julie Miller sings in the Speed of Light:

Kelly and I just watched one of the most inspirational moments I’ve ever seen in sports. You probably already know, but Paul Hamm was favored to win a gold. Then he made a major mistake landing and was considered virtually out of the running for any medal. He maintained his composure and aced every other event, winning the all around gold for the first time in US Olympic history. Wow!

MSNBC says:

In one of the most amazing comebacks in Olympic history, Hamm performed the
two most spectacular routines of his career Wednesday to win the gold medal by
the closest margin ever in the event.

The National Storytelling Festival will be in Jonesborough, Oct 1-3.

Beeson Divinity School has a cool festival, ChristFest 2004, on Ministry and the Arts coming Oct 18-20. Three great speakers: Eugene Peterson, Calvin Miller, and Frederica Mathewes-Green.

The annual Auburn Avenue Pastor’s Conference will host NT Wright and Richard Gaffin. Theyll be talking about the “New Perspective on Paul.” In case you haven’t heard, this is a hotly debated topic in Reformed Circles.

Years ago I stepped into graduate school and stumbled into the library. Walking up and down the long aisles of books overwhelmed me. Sadly I realized that I would never have time to read all these books–at least on this earth. Unfortunately, then as now I enjoy ruminating far too much to rush through any book and would rather sip thoughts from one chapter over and over than finish reading the other chapters. Alas, I always feel behind in reading.

This week a few books have given me time to pause and reflect. Thomas Oden has provided some encouraging discussion in his book, The Rebirth of Orthodoxy. Even though I just mentioned ruminating over the text, this is really not that kind of book. But is does provide an interesting analysis of the resurgence of the Church Fathers and orthodox (little o) Christian teaching among Evangelicals, Roman Catholics, Eastern Orthodox and even mainline denominations.

When it comes to ruminating, one of my favorite writers is Hans Urs Von Balthasar. Combining profound theological insight with a gift for writing, he achieves the rare feat of beautiful theology. Von Balthasar’s insights continaully challenge and inspire me to worship the Lord. The Grain of Wheat provides a glimpse into his amazing style through a series of aphorisms on various topics.

Here is a sampling:
“God wants for himself at the same time, everything and nothing. Everything, because he does not give his honor to anyone else; nothing, because he already has everything, and, lover that he is, he wants nothing for himself. This is why he demands that we seek him in all things and that nevertheless the whole tide of our thanksgiving to him be diverted through the world. Thus, the indissoluable unity of contemplation and action has its foundation in God himself.”

Earlier in the summer, Aelred of Rivaulx confronted me with the nature of true Spiritual Friendship. This little treasure provided a wealth of ideas for our upcoming “Friendship Retreat “in October. Now I am readng The Mirror of Charity–a book which Aelred resisted writing but finally submitted to St. Bernard’s command. One quote should capture the simple beauty of this classic: “What are you doing, O human soul, what are you doing? Why are you seized by so many? Whatever you seek in the many exists in the one.”

That last quote is worth long ruminations: “Whatever you seek in the many exists in the one.” There is a longing in the human soul that can only be satisfied by the endless life and love of God. On this earth, we will never find complete satisfaction because we are not in resting place of perfect love.

So we strive to find life in transient things that have no power to give life but can only point us to the Life. We expect friendships, lovers, jobs, accomplishments, nature and a host of other things to satisfy us. In the vast and wonderful world of particular things and particular people, we enjoy an endless variety of gifts from our Father in Heaven. But the many cannot provide what only emanates from the one. Life and life abundantly is found only in the love of God revealed by the Son through the power of the Holy Spirit.

Update: Read a Von Balthasar quote that fits perfect with the above thought: “God is so wide that, within his spaciousness, even the longing for unfulfillable longing can soar freely.”