At my momentous age, I often look back at where I have come, and compare it to where I am now.
I see pictures of myself at fifteen or twenty or thirty and realize that person isn't me. I was intense back then, and passionate about ideas. Though I miss that persons' youth and enthusiasm, to tell you the truth I'm glad the whippersnapper is gone. If I met that young man now, and he me, I 'm not sure we would get along that well.
One difference between me and him is in our attitude to ideology and theology. I cared a lot more about it then. I used to enjoy debating the difference between presuppositionalism and evidentiary apologetics, supra and infralapsarianism, or the six day versus the framework approach to Genesis. Now, when my younger friends talk about them, I yawn.
I used to find reasons for caring about minor differences of faith. I saw dominos tumbling everywhere--if you believe this it leads to that, if you believe that it saps your interest in this, etc. etc. I used to think this made me a scholar and a deep thinker. Now, I realize my folly. The gates of heaven do not require high SAT scores, neither do I possess the intellectual arrogance I once had. I now know that I don't know much,and never did know much. The longer I live, the lower my taste for nonessentials. I am almost, but not quite, back to the "Jesus Loves Me" level of theology. Someday I hope to get there again.
Let me tell you what excites me now.
One night, my five year old granddaughter Chloe was sleeping at our house. We put her in our big bed but she couldn't sleep. After about the fifteenth "Grandpa!" of the evening, having given her water, fish crackers and comforting kisses, I decided my best approach was to lay down with her until she got sleepy. Whenever you get with a five-year-old, let them talk--you won't regret it. She talked about kindergarten, her toys, cartoons, garden spiders, her jewelry box--all kinds of things. Trying to remember what she says is like trying to put spider webs in your pocket, but some things stick. What I remember most from her monologue were the fireflies. You can't catch fireflies too hard, she says, you have to cup your hands just so. Fireflies' morning is our night, and they go to bed in the morning. Through the night they chase each other with "soccerberries" which they get from the chinaberry bush outside her apartment. I'll never forget the image of fireflies playing soccer through the night.
What moves me to worship and praise God today? I think it has less to do with systematic theology and more to do with fireflies.
One night, my five year old granddaughter Chloe was sleeping at our house. We put her in our big bed but she couldn't sleep. After about the fifteenth "Grandpa!" of the evening, having given her water, fish crackers and comforting kisses, I decided my best approach was to lay down with her until she got sleepy. Whenever you get with a five-year-old, let them talk--you won't regret it. She talked about kindergarten, her toys, cartoons, garden spiders, her jewelry box--all kinds of things. Trying to remember what she says is like trying to put spider webs in your pocket, but some things stick. What I remember most from her monologue were the fireflies. You can't catch fireflies too hard, she says, you have to cup your hands just so. Fireflies' morning is our night, and they go to bed in the morning. Through the night they chase each other with "soccerberries" which they get from the chinaberry bush outside her apartment. I'll never forget the image of fireflies playing soccer through the night.
What moves me to worship and praise God today? I think it has less to do with systematic theology and more to do with fireflies.
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