A Little Too Slow And A Little Too Late


I just found this conversation from 2011, and I’m thinking about adding my contribution, a little too late. In the meantime, I’d love to know what you think. This might be about an hour’s reading, and I may have missed some of the posts, but I think I’ve got most of it.

1. Phil Johnson strikes

2. Toby Sumpter intercepts

3. Doug Wilson jumps on

4. Phil calls foul

5. Doug goes for the end-zone

6. Doug (thinks he) scores

7. Toby pops the champagne

Please comment below– where do you stand? What issues need to be addressed? How should they be addressed?

[UPDATE: I just found a conversation between Mark Driscoll and Doug Wilson on spiritual gifts, occurring about a month after the above conversation. It’s about half an hour, and well worth watching.]


More Wilson

Here’s another poem from Doug Wilson, published in his book of poetry, Untune The Sky. This one is called “Below.”

Eternity and time confound
The buckling minds of mortal men,
Who rail at God as though he were
A lesser god, or one of them.
They hate discriminating love,
And drag it into human courts
To try to crucify the cross.
“Will you try Me?” our Lord retorts.
Though pearls may fall beneath the swine
They do not therefore cease to be,
And trampling won’t deface a shine
Decreed before eternity.
So hold your peace, rebellious pot,
The Lord is God- and you are not.

I love Wilson’s poetic insight into our day.


Rocks In The Drive

I apologize for the recent dearth- I’ve been lazy. Anyway, it’s near the end of National Poetry month, so here’s one of my favorites by Doug Wilson, Rocks In The Drive.

When strings are pulled taut, the cello is tuned,
The wood holds the wine that is seasoned and old.
Dark music poured out and emptied the cask,
And rolled in my goblet, rich, tawny and told
How holiness tastes, how righteousness laughs.

You shall be as God, the great dragon had said,
Philosophers argue their shapes in the fire
And each to his shadow tenaciously clings;
They miss that our great father Abram aspired
To a city of solids, celestial marble.

But our earthly solids are fleeting, like faerie,
Far closer to ether than what we conceive.
Our granite is balsa, our oceans are floating,
Our atoms are rootless, and we, not believing,
We miss that this world speaks a fortiori.

Stop thinking that heaven means standing on clouds.

Why falter when told that our God remains good?
Why think the Almighty exhausted in sadness
His strength on the Alps or the plains of Dakota?
Will He not speak solid and substantive gladness
And bid all His people emerge from the shadows?

The carpets of heaven are thicker than moss.
With paint on the walls that is glossy to stay.
Hard wood for the tables is grown on the hillsides,
And rocks in the drive are all sapphire gray.
The breezes move curtains that are facing the sea.