I’m tired. Students are tired. I love learning and teaching, the invigorating plunge into big questions, deep thoughts, and engaging conversation. But do that for three months straight, and it’s exhausting.
So when I happened on Psalm 131 the other day, it hit me in a new way.
1 My heart is not proud, Lord,
my eyes are not haughty;
I do not concern myself with great matters
or things too wonderful for me.
2 But I have calmed and quieted myself,
I am like a weaned child with its mother;
like a weaned child I am content.
3 Israel, put your hope in the Lord
both now and forevermore.
This psalm ministered to my soul because it reminded me that, at the end of wrestling with “great matters” and “things too wonderful for me,” I can rest. The mental and spiritual exhaustion of tackling hard questions of biblical interpretation, the philosophical implications of our secular age, and the church’s call to embrace, display, and proclaim God’s kingdom are all important—and overwhelming.
At the end of the semester, Christian college students and professors alike can rest in the presence of God, as a child rests in their mother’s arms. We don’t need to fix the church, fix the world, solve all the problems, answer all the questions. We can rest because we have hope, a hope that is not rooted in our ability or strength but in the Lord.
I sometimes tell my philosophy students that the end goal of philosophy is worship. Perhaps it’s also true that the end goal of all our learning is sleep, resting peacefully and hopefully in the One who mothers and comforts us with the promise of his unfailing presence and love.
So when I happened on Psalm 131 the other day, it hit me in a new way.
1 My heart is not proud, Lord,
my eyes are not haughty;
I do not concern myself with great matters
or things too wonderful for me.
2 But I have calmed and quieted myself,
I am like a weaned child with its mother;
like a weaned child I am content.
3 Israel, put your hope in the Lord
both now and forevermore.
This psalm ministered to my soul because it reminded me that, at the end of wrestling with “great matters” and “things too wonderful for me,” I can rest. The mental and spiritual exhaustion of tackling hard questions of biblical interpretation, the philosophical implications of our secular age, and the church’s call to embrace, display, and proclaim God’s kingdom are all important—and overwhelming.
At the end of the semester, Christian college students and professors alike can rest in the presence of God, as a child rests in their mother’s arms. We don’t need to fix the church, fix the world, solve all the problems, answer all the questions. We can rest because we have hope, a hope that is not rooted in our ability or strength but in the Lord.
I sometimes tell my philosophy students that the end goal of philosophy is worship. Perhaps it’s also true that the end goal of all our learning is sleep, resting peacefully and hopefully in the One who mothers and comforts us with the promise of his unfailing presence and love.
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