The River

When I write, whether spontaneously or intentionally, I am keenly aware that I am stepping into a River that is already running. I am not the source nor, as insignificant as I feel in the power of its movement, am I irrelevant. As the River carries me toward the Ocean of Relentless Affection, I am also cognizant that I have no map, nor through what terrain I will travel, or at what speeds. The wonder of not knowing where one is going is that one is never lost. Trust is never lost. Each bend and turn will change perspective, is new, and the journey, though sometimes strenuous, is laden with expectancy. Creeks and tributaries join the River adding their power and life and connecting to mine. These are songs, experiences, relationships, art in a myriad of forms, conversations, books, and many other gifts given along the way. George MacDonald is one of these for me...and I am deeply grateful for his company. Because he was sick, because he was assailed, because he saw the danger of a rising tide of a denial of the Gospel wrapped in theological certainty, because he was committed to relationship rather than structure, doctrine and behavioral moralism, because he loved the child in all of us, he wrote. For love and fury, he explored depths in God that few have risked, and I, for one among many, am thankful. 

NB: We'll be running a series of posts in the near future on Paul Young's newest book, Lies We Believe about God. Over the past year, I've tremendously enjoyed reading Young's novels The Shack, Eve, and Cross Roads, and recommend them to one and all.