theophiliacs

The following essay first appeared in Spring 2008 in the North Central University Newspaper. It was part of my regular opinion column.

When I grow up, I either want to be an Astronaut, a Welsh Shepherd or Dr. William Barnes. As I see it:

Astronauts are the only humans beings that get to fly. As we all know, flying is the single most desirable trait found in the animal kingdom not available to humans. (That and hibernating) So it’s only natural that the astronaut be my first choice. Sure, pilots kind of, sort of fly things but they’re always sitting down surrounded by boring knobs and switches and blinking things. Hang glider operators pretend they’re flying but they’re still restricted to their apparati. Only astronauts float and soar in weightlessness the way God designed us to. If I were an anal astrophysicist, I might admit that any body in orbit is not technically floating but merely falling at a high enough velocity to maintain an angle of descent matching the curvature of the earth. But an anal astrophysicist is not one of the things I want to be when I grow up.

Welsh Shepherds are another strong choice because they hang around in fields all day. For those of you who don’t know, I lived a year of my life in a small town in the UK—this being an area of the world where there are a lot of sheep. One day while riding the train to work I was staring out the window into the green and gray British countryside when something unexplainably remarkable happened. I saw some sheep. Now, I had seen plenty of sheep before in my life, but these particular sheep were special. They were just standing there. And they were extremely good at it.

At this point I need to make it clear that the Bible contains a lot of imagery of Jesus or God as being a good shepherd over the people of the earth. He knows all of the sheeps’ names and loves them and is willing to look out for them and a bunch of really good stuff like that. Because of this, the illustration of being a shepherd is often used with being a good pastor or counselor.

That’s not what I’m talking about at all.

There is no imagery here—no deep philosophical thoughts or stingingly clever metaphors. I want to be a shepherd. A cane staff touting, pie eating, harp playing, wolf killing, sheep dog training, wassailing, field rocking, Welsh Shepherd. Perhaps I’d bring a good book or my notepad, but for the most part I would just hang out in the field and watch the sheep. I could pick a new field every day and I wouldn’t stop until I’d spent a whole day in every field in the UK. If I needed a nap, I’d grab a sheep, set ‘em down under a tree, lay my head on his back, and tip my cap over my eyes. It’s ok, they don’t move.

Dr. Bill Barnes knows everything in the world that there is possible to know. This in and of itself is a great reason to want to be Dr. Barnes when you grow up but it’s not the only reason. I must preface this by saying it is more than likely that Dr. Barnes has no idea who I am. I had one class with him a while back (got a B I think), and I basically did my best to say “Yahweh” instead of “The LORD” as best I could and not stick out too much. Thus, I have nothing to gain in terms of a reward from Dr. Barnes by revealing my dream.

To be completely honest, the main reason I want to be Dr. Barnes when I grow up is my admiration for his incredible beard. Dr. Barnes’ facial hair is trimmed enough for the academic institution yet rustic enough to encourage a healthy sense of intellectual adventurism. It’s the kind of beard you’d expect to see at the corner pub with Lewis and Tolkien discussing ancient things and enjoying a pint. It’s a beard that demands respect and attention to its bearer. It’s a beard I’d like to have some day.