It is graduation season. Our youngest son got his degree from North Park University in Chicago on Saturday and we enjoyed the ceremony. Our immediate celebration was postponed because we had a limited number of tickets to the ceremony and had to deal with car problems, but the family is gathering next weekend to raise our glasses, catch up with each other, laugh, feast, and mark a milestone.
Congratulations to all of you who are rejoicing together over similar achievements this spring.
I’ve been reading some of the most thoughtful, inspiring theology from the pen of Peter Rollins. As usual, I am a bit late to the party when it comes to Rollins’s work, but I am finding his 2006 book, How (Not) to Speak of God, jaw-droppingly good. Before I finish it and attempt a review, here is a passage for you to chew on.
Hence revelation ought not to be thought of either as that which makes God known or as that which leaves God unknown, but rather as the overpowering light that renders God known as unknown. This is not dissimilar to a baby being held by her mother — the baby does not understand the mother but rather experiences being known by the mother. In contrast, revelation is often treated as if it can be deciphered into a dogmatic system rather than embraced as the site where the impenetrable secret of God transforms us. In the former, revelation is rendered into an eloquent doctrine, while in the latter, revelation is that which transforms. We are like an infant in the arms of God, unable to grasp but being transformed by the grasp. Revelation can thus be described as bringing to light the secret of God in such a way that it remains secret. God is thus the secret who remains concealed in the sharing. We can thus not speak of a hidden side of God and a manifest side, for we must acknowledge that the manifest side of God is also hidden.
After writing about God’s providential care for us yesterday, another aspect of the situation became clear to me last night. If we had not been trapped in traffic, crawling along for an hour on I-65 in central Indiana, it’s possible that the air conditioner part that failed might not have burned out until we had made it to Chicago. Then we would have been stuck in the city rather than in the place where we were cared for so well by a friend.
The threads of Providence that bring to pass the events in the world are wondrously woven together.













