Words are to me like air to the dying, like rich earth to the worm. So I read, voraciously, night table stacked up high in volumes I sometimes finish. I'm learning to write in the dawn and read myself to sleep; the final sip before drifting off reminding me of the Great Love that greets me with fresh grace every morning.
My shelves are rich with names; Milton's Paradise Lost, Tolkien & Lewis, Bunyan and now Rob Bell and George Barna battle for space on my desk. Both Beveres line up with Jan Karon who I escape to when life squeezes too tight. Phillip Yancey's on the edge of my tub and Tony Campolo greets me cheerfully in the proverbial library. Phil Callaway's there too for when I need to laugh loud at life and our family. Charles Spurgeon awaits on the low shelf by the rocking chair in the study. And Anne Voskamp is in my inbox with Holy Experience.
Sounds impressive yes?
I've only read some of it. I want to read all of it.
As I read the questions grow.
Debaters whisper and rage, fools and sages flaunt their wares for the price of a bent ear and the influence wielded.
And if anyone knows me I can be faulted with strong opinions too.
Is this age any different than when Greek philosophers persuaded the times. Or when Roman debauchery reached past the limits of sanity and all thought was considered relatively acceptable. Relativity is not a new invention, just a renaming of something old and discontented.
Through all this fog of human debate I reach. I long to push back the clouds of my own understanding and reach into heaven, pulling down the Almighty so I can look Him in the face...and the heart.
So let's read all the books but not forget the One book. Let's stay in the dialogue and find understanding. I think that the conclusion of the matter may be different than expected.