I’ve started a new bookshelf above my desk. As I’ve been going through my library, I’ve been extracting the books given to me as gifts by their authors and setting them aside. Almost all these books are by friends and colleagues. These gifts were given for a range of reasons and often marked the nature of relationships—shared study and shared seasons of life. One section of the bookshelf holds pride of place as it contains a signed copy of almost every book written by Michael Ramsey, including a first edition of The Gospel and the Catholic Church.
As I look at the totality of the shelf, I am amazed at the diversity of authors. Roman Catholics, Methodists, Lutherans, Orthodox, Anglicans, Jews, Evangelicals, Anglo-Catholics, Reformed, Liberals and Conservatives—they were (and are) all teachers and friends. They have enriched me and, at times, challenged me—as they should. Each brings a different memory. Close at hand is Getting Into the Theology of Concord by Robert Preus—a Lutheran Church–Missouri Synod theologian and professor at Concordia Theological Seminary—which he signed, tongue in cheek, under the inscription, “To the outsider.”
Then there is my copy of Kalistos Ware’s The Orthodox Way, which Ware gave me after a lecture at the Fellowship of St. Sergius and St. Alban in London. Fr. John Meyendorff was kind to give me a copy of his Byzantine Theology. during a visit I enjoyed to St. Vladimir’s in New YorkThose Orthodox authors were never simply writing about the past; they were conveying a living tradition, speaking with voices that still echo through liturgy, icon, and chant.
Anglicans are well-represented. A visit from Hugh Wybrew, former dean of St. George’s Cathedral in Jerusalem, is commemorated in the gift of a book on Orthodox liturgy, as are the several times Robert Webber was a guest in our home and would leave signed books under his pillow to be discovered after he had departed. Stephen Sykes, James D.G. Dunn, Gerald Bonner, C.F.D. Moule, O.C. Edwards, and even Enoch Powell are all there, with each book recalling a time or place, a lecture hall or a quiet conversation over coffee. Two books of sermons by my old rector, John G.B. Andrew—both with hilarious inscriptions—sit alongside a volume by my Jewish friend Norman Cantor, who rushed down from New York University to give me a copy of his new book before I left for the United Kingdom many years ago.
There is a particular grace in being challenged by friends. It is the sort of challenge that does not come with malice, but with the implicit trust that the bond of friendship can bear the weight of disagreement. It is a challenge rooted not in the desire to win an argument, but in the hope that truth might be more fully seen when two minds wrestle with it together.
Now, does this mean that I agree with everything in the books that these men and women have written? Most certainly not. There is much that I would dispute, and on occasion, the gift of a book has been followed by extensive questions and discussions, either in person or by letter. Those questions and discussions, however, have always been tempered with respect for the writer and the desire to learn. Note that I say “the desire to learn,” for this does not mean that I will ultimately agree with what has been written, but I hope to learn of the process, research, and thought that led to the conclusions.
Learning and growth do not take place in an echo chamber of given certainties. When we lower discussion and debate to a zero-sum game, not only are there no “winners,” but, even worse, no one really learns. Indeed, the zero-sum game may produce heat, but no light. This does not result in an increase of knowledge, wonder, or even the due consideration required for learning. This is especially true when it comes to theology, which demands not merely intellect but humility—the willingness to stand before mystery and confess that one does not see all, and perhaps never will on this side of eternity.
We often become caught up in the game of labeling theology, even before we’ve read it, much less discussed it. It is Roman theology. It is liberal theology. It is conservative theology. It is new theology. The labels are applied first—and often without digesting any of the claims or purposes. We may dispute the meaning of a verse of Scripture, but first we must look at the text, the words that are used, the context, the grammar, even the structure of the original language. We may want the verse to say something different, as we’ve already applied an interpretive label, but our wish does not alter the text.
Likewise, we may want to assert a different view of Church history, but we cannot change or ignore those events to our liking and our narrative, disregarding the evidence of written records, recorded events, and all the rest. Certainly the writing of history involves a moral judgment—how to tell a story, what aspects to bring into relief, whose stories we choose to tell.
But it is so easy to fall into an intellectually precarious and spiritually dangerous place. Once we bend the truth to suit our predispositions, we no longer serve the truth—we serve ourselves. In his very unpopular defense of the British soldiers accused of murder in the Boston Massacre of 1770, John Adams wrote: “Facts are stubborn things; and whatever may be our wishes, our inclinations, or the dictates of our passion, they cannot alter the state of facts and evidence.”
His words are not simply a warning, but an invitation. He calls us to slow down, to listen, to discern. It reminds us that the task of learning is not to conquer but to comprehend, not to silence but to understand the other.
Learning is sometimes hard. The answers are not always at our fingertips, and sometimes they are not what we want to hear. Sometimes there are no answers, and we are left to imagine or speculate or, on occasion, simply to trust—but that is part of learning as well. To acknowledge the limits of our knowing is not to abandon the quest; it is to make peace with the quest being larger than we are. It is to stand, as it were, on the threshold of mystery, content to be a pilgrim rather than a cartographer.
Kallistos Ware once wrote:
It is not the task of Christianity to provide easy answers to every question, but to make us progressively aware of a mystery. God is not so much the object of our knowledge as the cause of our wonder.
I think this is why I value my diverse friends who now occupy the shelf above my desk. Through my reading them, discussing with them, and learning from them, they have made me increasingly aware of the mystery of faith. They haven’t just increased my knowledge—they’ve increased my wonder. That is no small thing in an age that prizes certainty above all else. Wonder may not win debates or secure tenure, but it keeps the soul alive. It reminds us that theology, at its best, is not the dissection of the divine but the reverent tracing of its contours.
So I sit at my desk, the shelf above me heavy with their presence. They are more than books. They are companions on the way—pilgrims who have walked their winding roads toward God and left behind signposts for the rest of us. Their voices mingle as I write and read, sometimes harmonizing, sometimes clashing, but always calling me onward. They do not offer me easy answers. They offer me something far better: the gift of shared wonder.
Duane W.H. Arnold, PhD, has served in academic and parish posts in Europe and America. His published work includes The Way, The Truth, and the The Life (1982), Francis, A Call to Conversion (1988), The Early Episcopal Career of Athanasius (1991), and Martyrs’ Prayers (2018).
