Beautiful in the morning some days ago was the sight of a sprinkler. I was winding through adjacent golf courses from home to the wider world and was called again out of the world. The green lawn, the golden sunlight, the foam-white arc from which there fell like a living veil a curtain of mist. It made visible in the morning a line beyond which was a country closer to the sun.
Today the Wissahickon washes though like the strong brown gods running through the tropics. We had it densely overcast and humid today. It was after the morning rain in the time between rains, that waiting time more common in other climes of rain upon rain. In ranks along the vanishing, misty gorge, along the path and overhanging the lowering rock the humid vegetation dripped. The trees stretched up toward the brooding gray and faded into that still otherwhere. The sense of tropical, uninterrupted summer came with the smell of mold, the sight of plush moss and wet wood rotting. In that morning moment there was the hurrying away of water along with the calling of birds from ambivalent surrounding distances, coming from everywhere and nowhere. The river washed and gurgled through a world emulous of eternity, rushed along when everything else was motionless and seemed steadily becoming more and more itself.
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As a random summer question, how much theology do you need to know to be president of a Southern Baptist seminary? Not as much as the faculty, I would guess.
Maybe Dr. Mohler should ask his theology faculty . . . Oh, wait . . .
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I am pleased that even though I got a welcome from Mohler to the seminary, I did not take him up on it. What providence! It has to be a curious time for the history faculty there.