About a year ago, I had the unique privilege of listening to N.T. Wright present a day's worth of lectures at Gordon-Conwell College in Massachusetts. Wright is one of the most influential and respected New Testament scholars within Christianity today, and his presentations did not let me down. 

One of the stories he told, however, stood out more than the others. Before becoming the Bishop of Durham for the Church of England, he spent much of his career in academia. Oxford trained, he later returned to teach there for seven years before taking various other posts within the Anglican community. But it was what Rowan Williams, the archbishop of Canterbury, told him when he was appointed as Bishop of Durham that caught my attention the most. With no hint of irony at all, Williams candidly told him, "You really only understand how to be a theologian when you become a bishop." 

Wright was perhaps perplexed at first, but he soon became acutely aware of the truth that Williams's observations declared. And it's a truth that I have become aware of us as well as I have advanced in my short ministerial career. 

But with all due respect, I would like to raise Rowan Williams one adage. It is something I became surprisingly aware of about two months ago in an unexpected place. Let me explain. 

Four months ago, to the very day, I welcomed my first child into the world. His name is Camden Shawn and--if I do say so myself--he is the cutest, most precious, most lovable child on the planet (photos can be included for proof if interested!). Now, at this point, you probably know where I am going, but stick with me for a minute. 

Soon after we welcomed Camden into the world, my wife and I had to cart him to Maine for our Camp Meeting time. My responsibilities there included helping out with youth-aged children during the week. Unfortunately, at the same time that I would have to be helping out at the youth meetings, my wife was roped into teaching junior-aged kids (9-12 years old) sign language. Thus, she could not watch Camden. And the responsibility was blissfully left up to me. 

What would usually happen was she would drop him off at the church where our meetings were being held and she would continue down to her meeting. I would then sit in the back of the church, holding him, until my wife came back to pick him up again about 15 minutes later. For the most part, it went fine. He wasn't all that ornery or grumpy. Occasionally he would start screaming and I would have to rush him out the back door as quickly as I could. 

But one night I had an "aha!" moment. I was sitting in the back row and I had him resting on my lap, looking up at my face. And for most of this time, I was looking down at him and smiling and trying to interact with him as much as I could--while at the same time keeping one ear to the program. At this particular moment, the worship leaders were leading out in music and they were playing a song that I had heard a million times before. In truth, though I have often played the song when I lead out in music and it's a favorite of many, I don't care much for the song. It doesn't really do much for me--mostly because of its fairly shallow lyrics. 

But it was like a perfect storm. Everything just came together for that one instant. As I looked down at Camden and I stared into his eyes, I heard the musicians and audience sing four simple words that had become rote and meaningless to me long ago. But this time, it was like a typhoon had slammed into me and I couldn't help but take notice. With amazing clarity, these four simple words reverberated through my brain:  

I'm. Lost. Without. You.  

And there it was. Perhaps the deepest realization I had ever stumbled upon in the course of my theological explorations. And it suddenly occurred to me in the next instance that a person only begins to truly understand how to be a theologian when he or she has a child. Until then, it's all conjecture. Until a person can hold that child in his or her arms, and stare down at those little eyes, knowing that you are everything to this little 9 pound crying-machine, I am not sure how one can ever really understand the deep mysteries of God. 

Of course, it sounds like such a cliché; something that would have caused me to roll my eyes two years--or even six months-ago. But I have found it to be indescribably true. The reality is, I cannot imagine life without Camden now. I can't even begin to imagine it. And, whereas this song is usually sung from our perspective towards God, I all of a sudden realized God's perspective towards us. 

The truth is, He is--and will feel--lost without us. This is what caused God to labor and plead so long with His people Israel in the Old Testament, causing him to ask a question (using imagery that makes a whole lot more sense to me now), "Can a woman forget her nursing child, and not have compassion on the son of her womb? Surely they may forget, yet I will not forget you. See, I have inscribed you on the palms of My hands" (Isaiah 49:15, 16, NKJV). It is what caused the prodigal father in Luke 15 to spend every evening embarrassingly looking at the horizon-hoping, praying, wondering if his lost son would return home. And, of course, it is what caused God to send His Son Jesus to die in place of His other sons and daughters. All because He does--and would feel--lost without us. 

Does it sound like an oversimplified cliché? I can't deny that it does. But, you know what? It makes a whole lot more sense to me now. And there is an infinite amount of depth to the idea that I never understood six months ago.