What is there to discuss? Shall we debate the virtues of an open mind or trace the evolution of God? Shall we distance ourselves from the fundamental presumptions? Maybe a reformed refinement is more to our taste? Or shall we simply chat about Michelangelo?
Forgive me, but I am tired of Icarus and his wax-winged theologies, weary of chewing our enlightened cud. Nothing personal. I just have little room left for rumination these days. My recycling bin is full; my cup runneth over.
For good or for ill, you cannot persuade me. Your disputation is mere self-talk, though your earnestness is both touching and, at times, amusing. Yet, to be frank, even its entertainment value has grown thin.
You see, I too am a rhetorician, but one who has come to recognize and accept— if belatedly—the exquisite sophistry of his convictions. What is more, I have developed a genuine appreciation for these airy constructions. Sincerity is one vital perspective short. My own choir has long since heard enough from me. I don’t mind at all; it is a kind of freedom not to freight these word balloons with leaden meanings. Grounded arguments mean too much ballast. Why not risk the heavens unguarded? Why not streak across the sky naked as a jaybird?
But it’s a long task to dismantle the new Jerusalem, that plagiarized pile of bricks reconfigured in every age to approximate discovery and progress. Besides, in spite of my bravado, I’m not sure I can live without shelter, no matter what it’s made of. Unbelief keeps eluding me. Words keep insisting on themselves.