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Our new series, Hands: Heart and Soul Made Flesh, debuted last week, and will continue next week, God willing. Today’s essay just seemed important. Enjoy!
In the primordial days of our world, before the development of computers, librarians—you might say—were the equivalent of our PC’s motherboards and the shelves of books in their libraries were the equivalent of our data-laden hard drives. And, when a situation developed and a difficult question stumped our local librarian, she might call upon her peers in other townships—near and far—for their counsel. And thus was born the human prototype of the internet.
I know, I know, it’s difficult to fathom that even a relatively young man as myself—meaning I have relatives younger than myself—has, on occasion, sought out members of the Ancient Order of the Librarian to solve the mysteries of the cosmos.
Or if not the mysteries of the cosmos, at least to discover the identity of the second baseman for the 1934 St. Louis Cardinals (Frankie Frische). Or, to figure just how many grains of sand there are in the world (an estimated 7.5 followed by twenty-one zeros); and, for that matter, whether there are more grains of sand in the Earth or stars in the universe (the stars win); or, to find the name of the haughty grammarian who arbitrarily formed into law the principle, “I before E, except after C.” (Of the latter, I’m thinking it’s the same person who declared with a snit that the word colonel must be spelled with an additional L instead of an R.)
Back in the days of the librarian—BC, before computers—when an observation sparked curiosity, we would but for a moment weigh the worth of bringing a question to our local librarians. We’d typically consider the return on our investment of time and energy, the potential risk of embarrassment or other vulnerability, the threat of being told, “Look it up for yourself,” and the very idea of, “What’s in it for me?” But, just a moment later we’d peruse TV Guide, with the most pressing question on our minds, “Wonder what’s on the tube tonight.”
Now, I’m not certain that being in a position to answer the great lot of our questions has served us particularly well. Today, it would seem people are more resistant than ever to the unknowable. After all, they’ve grown up to have the confidence that everything is in fact, knowable by the five senses. Consequently, if they can’t Google an answer, they tend to be of a mind to dismiss the question—and the questioner—as irrelevant, unimportant, or fallacious.
And, of all the potential risks they incur, they might very well look past…
the wonder of God,
of creation, and
redemption.
Inquiries:
How much does your need to know, in reality, mask, one, a need to control and a failure to trust?
Create a habit of not having to have all the answers. When a question comes to mind, write it down in a dedicated journal. Promise it that you will one day return to give it its due attention. Leave it fallow for now. Resist answering it. But return to those questions—perhaps on a cold wintry day best spent inside under a blanket with a cup of tea—and contemplate the meaning of those questions and what they might have in common.
Perhaps invite a few people to lunch outside of your comfort circle: a pastor, a creative, a philanthropist, or any other whose vocation just doesn’t make sense to you. Open your journal and have conversation. Notice how the actual answers take a back seat to the conversation and fellowship.
You might just find that your observation and subsequent question, once open to the light of contemplation and discussion, has sparked curiosity; and curiosity has led to an aha!; and an aha! has led to deeper understanding… not only of the observation and question, but of the entire process of exploring, of learning, of knowing—or not knowing, but continuing the curiosity and the questions.
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