Marx called religion an opiate, and all too often it is. But philosophy is an anesthetic, a shot to keep the wonder away.
Tomorrow, according to the weather prophet, these clouds will crystallize and turn into six-pointed haiku, haiku like you’ve never seen, each subtly different, each capturing a different mood, a different beauty. Each priceless, a divine word. If I were infinite, I could read and love each one. I could remember the dance of each flake since the world was born. But I’m not infinite. And so I keep a shovel for when the haiku falls, a bag of salt to fend off the whispering storm.
But why would any Christian claim that God has stopped talking? Did He speak the world into existence? Does matter exist apart from Him? Is it still here? Are you still here? Then He is still speaking.
Tree, I say, and you know what I mean. You see one in your mind, or glance out your window and remember the much-needed pruning. Tree, God says, and there is one. But He doesn’t say the word tree; He says the tree itself. He needs no shortcut. He’s not merely calling one into existence, though His voice creates. His voice is its existence. That thing in your yard, that mangy apple or towering spruce, that thing is not the referent of His word. It is His word and its referent. If He were to stop talking, it wouldn’t be there.