This moment, this exact point in the great and infinite span of time, is a pivot. One the one side is where I've been recently, what I've been up to, what I've seen and experienced. On the other side is where I'm going, what I'll soon be seeing. And right smack on top is where I am right now. (I think you can reasonably guess what I'm doing.)
(But let's not get too philosophical. I mean, every unit of time is such a pivot-point: each minute is "the present." This is on my mind because, on either side of writing this, in the past and the future, I'm writing a history essay. In history you deal with pivots almost exclusively, which you might say is the great insufficiency of history in understanding the past. After all, if all we ever study is when things change, we miss the times when things aren't changing. Then again, if time never stops and nothing is truly frozen -- not even ice, if you can believe the chemists about "energy" -- then I guess you can say everything is made up of pivots, of changes, of shifts, and so we really can't help but focus on them.)
In any case, where I am is in the lower chamber of the great architectural and intellectual hub of Oxford, the Radcliffe Camera (or, in Oxspeak, the Radcam). I'd show it to you, but photography is strictly verboten in here. (And please keep all hands and feet inside the car at all times. In case of loss of cabin pressure, oxygen masks will float gracefully into your laps as you plummet not-so-gracefully into Earth's.) Suffice it to say, it's got a remarkable grotto-like feel. Built into the corners of the dimly lit set of stone "bays" that surround a central dome are dark wooden shelves filled with books of all sorts of boring blues and maroons. It's the heavy, cavernous coolness of the place that keeps bringing me back. There's no clock in here either, which seems to leave me forgetting that spending an entire day writing about 15th-century books is not the most exhilarating use of the sunshine.
Ah, but where I've been is a great deal more interesting. Friday night I was able to squeeze into a packed Oxford Town Hall, pictured to the left, to hear Tim Keller (senior pastor of
Redeemer Presbyterian Church in Manhattan). He's without a doubt the ablest, humblest defender of the faith I've ever encountered -- well, see, I never actually
met C. S. Lewis. His book
The Reason for God (the foundation of his talk in Oxford) isn't just a bestseller and a thrill to read; it's a firmly grounded, deeply stirring challenge to skeptics. What Tim Keller manages to do with so much finesse and wit and spiritual wisdom is to turn the apologetic defense of Christianity as a worldview and faith into a keenly reasoned offensive against disbelief. He concludes that in fact there's far more of the unfounded faith decried by the unbelieving to be found on the skeptic's side of Christ than on the believer's. Wow. Anyway, Keller's talk was a spectacle, and to see so many intelligent people in the audience thinking deeply about his challenge was not just a testament to Keller as a thinker, but to the undeniable presence of the Spirit in his work.
Ah, but what will I be doing, where will I be going? Tonight there's a performance of Olivier Messaien's "Quartet for the End of Time" in college, and I'm promised it's worth hearing. It was written while Messaien was imprisoned in a Nazi concentration camp, and first performed in that camp by a group of prisoners. It's in parts that are based on the various sections of Revelation. It should be very interesting (and live classical music is, in my experience, always worth the time).
Then, once my work is finished
Friday Thursday afternoon -- in just three stress-filled days! -- I am finally free. Off to Edinburgh, then to Paris, then home to America for a full month. Just a little more huffing and puffing till I reach the peak.
I shouldn't say I prefer one to the other. Each has its charms, its beauty. I do feel a bit more comfortable in Scotland, and England for that matter, but I think it's a matter of Anglophone familiarity more than anything else. There's security in knowing that you have the words to express yourself no matter what the situation. Especially when you're me, and words are currency, breath, blood. It's a strange kind of dull pain when I can't convey my true thoughts or feelings because my (now) very limited French vocabulary won't allow me to speak except in generalities. It's like losing your chisel after the first few blows to the marble. Or trying to paint the intricate night sky with your knee.
