Soaring Along

The caterpillars whose gossamer entangled us some weeks ago seem to have become large yellow butterflies, not unlike monarch butterflies, perhaps a variation thereof. They are seen early in the morning in the Fairmount park, usually in couples. There is great joy along the Wissahickon, in the shade of the tulip trees and beeches, below the soaring span of a better age’s bridges.

Early in the morning, about 4AM nowadays, the birds get going. When the traffic is still and the huge setting moon almost on the horizon the waking birds make the world seem to ring with song. The fire alarm flashed and sounded, scaring us awake at 4AM recently. Circling the building, I found out about the moon, the morning, and the birds. Happy mistake.

Summer has come with a bang to Philadelphia. We had enormously hot weather that is now gradually dwindling to something decidedly more pleasant. As in winter when you get a sudden deep cold, what comes afterward is decidedly milder than the long steady descent by increments would be.

Summer projects accomplished: vacation and NT preliminary examination (apologies for the erroneous post on the New Perspective). Quite a bit of concerted attention on the text of 1 John and several books of issues. The chair of the NT dept. assured me there was nothing against being a dispensationalist here (which is fine with me either way), but the reading decidedly tended otherwise. Ridderbos on the Kingdom, Thompson on Acts, Bauckham on Revelation. Reading outside of one’s specialization brings ambivalence; on the one hand is not what one is intent on, on the other it broadens.

We’ll see how the OT preliminary tends. I know the AP preliminary is going to tend pretty strong toward presuppositionalism. Every day said approach grows in my eyes more preposterous. I gather ammunition. I brood and conn and devise. I have observations to make . . . eventually.

John Wain on Samuel Johnson provides welcome relief from evangelical prose. He is not the greatest, but he is considerably better than anything going in academic circles. He can make a collection of words do more than plod, and he has a decided attitude. I love the first sentence of his Note on Sources: There is no research in this book.

Reflecting on what Wain writes, I think to myself I ought to exert myself in literary directions while I have the chance. The summer has its business, not least of which is German, but not unrelieved, unmitigated German. There is ground to cover on many fronts.

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