Abstract
We live in a world that is overwhelmed by information and overwhelmingly lacking in wisdom. A world of Fake News, Alternative Facts, and a never-ending chorus of Tweets. We’ve even begun to think in Tweet. We like our thinking short, sweet, and sloganeered. Thoughts don’t come through us, they just hit us on their way past, Tweet by Tweet. Must keep up, keep time, keep saying, keep typing, keep clicking, keep buying. Always more to get, always more to see, always more to say. No time for why. A world that is overwhelmed by information and overwhelmingly lacking in wisdom.
Even those who think themselves thoughtful still find themselves lost. Where is wisdom to be found in a wisdomless world, long gone astray (Ps. 14:2–3)? Traditionally, we’ve looked to books. In bygone eras you were deemed ‘wise’ if you could read a book, let alone write one. Today, in the UK alone 200,000 new books are published every year. 135 million have been published worldwide. Do we seem any wiser? It frequently seems as though we live inside an unbearable avalanche of words, relentlessly sweeping us away.
Some think of ‘wisdom’ and ‘knowledge’ as synonymous with academic achievement, as though the bestowing of a certified qualification might suddenly ‘impart’ wisdom from above. This is particularly the case when it comes to academic theology, whereby it’s assumed that you probably know everything anyone could possibly know about God and everything related to him (i.e., everything!).
I remember once, as a fresh-faced theology PhD student going to visit my new in-laws in rural Norfolk. Apparently, word had gotten around the village that there was ‘a theologian’ in town. My first evening there I was invited (‘strongly encouraged’) to attend a Bible study run by a group of elderly ladies from the local Methodist chapel. The poor lady leading the Bible study that evening—who was perfectly eloquent—could barely utter a sentence without looking to me for some kind of nod of affirmation. It was as if I was a Caesar waiting to give her the dreaded thumbs-down to throw her to the lions for mispronouncing a biblical place-name. At one point, she was about to speak about the origins of a particular Greek word, but by then had clearly found the ordeal of pending judgement too much to bear, so she instead asked if I would give ‘a quick summary’ for the group. I, however, had been far too stressed trying to ensure I looked affirming to hear what she’d actually asked. An awkward silence ensued as I realised they were waiting for me to share a morsel of this ‘great knowledge’ I had brought to the village. What they didn’t know was that theologians (particularly this theologian) rarely know all that much about the origins of particular Greek words. I rattled off everything I could muster about ancient Greece and a number of other vaguely related things to distract them from what I patently didn’t know. It seemed to do the trick.
Clearly my performance at the Bible study must have ‘worked’ because the next day the local Methodist minister popped round to see me (he had, of course, heard I was in town):
‘Can I pick your brains about something?” he asked.
‘Go ahead,’ I replied (now fully confident in my theological/rambling abilities). ‘What do you make of Quirinius?’ Another awkward silence.
‘…Quirinius? As in…the Quirinius?’ At that point, I had never in my entire life heard of whoever (or whatever) Quirinius was. Worse still, I couldn’t even skirt around the topic. For all I knew, ‘Quirinius’ could’ve been a Church Father, a Greek philosopher, a local Norfolk village folk band, or a peculiar variety of cheese!
My façade began to unravel.
‘First, why don’t you tell me your thoughts about it…?’
Be careful where you look for wisdom. It’s not always hiding where you think, and those who claim to have it are often hiding more than you know. When Paul spoke to the Colossians about wisdom, there was no awkward silence. He knew what (or rather, who) he was talking about: ‘Christ, in whom are hidden all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge’ (Col. 2:2). Did he really say ‘all’? What on earth can that mean? Paul doesn’t want the Colossians to be deluded by fine-sounding arguments from the would-be-PhD-theologians of his day (Col. 2:4). Some of them had been duped by the gnostic idea that there was an additional ‘secret’ wisdom beyond Christ. These Gnostics seemed to know something others didn’t, some key to unlock unsolved mysteries, and hidden unattainable knowledge. It was all very mysterious and ambiguous. Paul, aware of this, annexes their very lingo to declare something they never could: Christ is the treasure, Christ is the mystery, Christ is the wisdom, Christ is the knowledge; it’s all ‘hiding’ in Him alone! Christ is the revealed mystery!
In other words, Christianity is no hipster religion. We don’t keep it to ourselves or those in our exclusive club who know the right passwords. Rather, Christianity is something to shout from the rooftops, something to turn the whole world upside down (Acts 17:6)! Far too often we heed the supposed ‘wisdom’ of our day which tells us we must be more ‘responsible’ by keeping quiet about our faith. We can have our Christ, we are told, as long as we keep Him hidden away in our pockets. We wouldn’t want to offend anyone, after all. Although Jesus was deemed so offensive to his hearers that it got him (and many of his followers) murdered, theologians often seem to suggest that the fear of offence is the beginning of wisdom. It isn’t. Sometimes, we may need to seem ‘unwise’ in the world’s eyes because that’s precisely where wisdom takes us. We needn’t be graceless, tasteless, or obscure in how we proclaim Christ (see Col. 4:5–6), but we must remember that Christ belongs not in our pockets but on our sleeves, our tongues, our hands, our feet. The One in whom all knowledge is hidden wants to be made known.
To know that Jesus is the embodiment of all wisdom and knowledge is not ‘to know everything’, nor is it to pretend there’s nothing else worth knowing. Knowing Christ does not give you an instant download of all the answers to all of life’s questions. But it does mean knowing the One who truly knows all, and who lovingly reveals to us what we need to know (and do), and how we ought to think about knowing. Knowing Christ means following his wisdom wherever it may lead, however much that may end up costing you. Christ’s wisdom is not the world’s wisdom. That’s why it’s ‘hidden’. It often seems unrecognisable and counterintuitive: like walking on water, or giving away money, or forgiving sinners, or touching lepers, or dying on crosses.
We’re tempted to be bored by Christ’s wisdom. We’ve heard it too many times, perhaps. A fresh Tweet, book, blog, or video clip, however, might sweep us off our feet in a sensational enchanted moment. We begin to wonder whether Christ’s way really is the way of wisdom when there are so many other fascinating and mysterious things to know. But such a view simply reveals how miniscule and colourless our vision of Christ has become. Paul, however, is in no doubt. Christ is epic. Everything you think you want, everything you search the vast oceans, skies, search engines and repositories to find, cannot exceed Him. Ever. He is the glorious treasure chest of wisdom. Give all your treasures and all your Tweets away if only to attain him. That’d be a start in turning this world of words upside down again, where it probably belongs.