An Ever-Flowing Stream

I am delighted when Google cannot answer my question. Like many humans on the planet with access to electricity and some kind of device, Google is a regular companion. We live in a world where simple questions can be readily answered by a simple internet search. (I’ve noticed that my spell-checker no longer insists on capitalizing “Internet” — succumbing to its ubiquity.)

Yesterday I read a Washington Post article about the close friendship of Chris Everett and Martina Navratilova, and Google told me their ages are 68 and 66 respectively. On Sunday, after watching the last episode of Endeavour on PBS, Google told me who wrote all the episodes in all the series — someone whose name I’d not heard before and have now forgotten. Recently I heard something about Kinross, Scotland, on another TV program. I looked it up on Google maps and discovered it’s north of Edinburgh and east of St. Andrews. None of those facts impacts my life much — except I like knowing Chris and Martina are about my age. Google provides info that typically ranges from somewhat interesting to utterly trivial. And, as a rule, the info doesn’t stick in my head very long.

I remember a few decades ago when I had to go to the library to answer questions rather than just pick up my iPad. But of course I didn’t make the trip for little things like the questions in the last paragraph. Questions that merit a visit to the library (the one I’m most familiar with is 20 minutes away by car) have to be the sort of thing that niggles at my brain for some period of time. Something that arouses more curiosity than say, the exact date when Hey Jude hit number one on the charts. (And . . . I wonder. . . are you now thinking about googling the answer? [Interesting that my spellchecker didn’t try to capitalize “googling” either.]) And when I do take the trouble to research a question at the library, I tend to remember it.

I confess that I am pleased when Google (should I capitalize that word when it’s a noun?) can’t answer my question. I think the longing for a less cluttered world contributes to the pleasure of a library visit, especially a world that requires old fashioned skills — like using a card catalog (conveniently online now!), finding a book on a shelf and a comfortable chair, opening the cover, maybe hearing a small crackle, smelling the paper, and then reading an entire chapter. Perhaps another chapter because it piqued my interest. Before you know it, you’ve spent an hour or two exploring another world where words don’t disappear when you put them down.

I just finished an excellent book by my very good friend Kelly Pigott, called From Eden to Heaven: Spiritual Formation for the Adventurous. Near the end of it he mentions this comment from the early church father Irenaeus: “For the glory of God is a living [hu]man; and the life of [a hu]man consists in beholding God.” I was familiar with the first part of the sentence, which gives us a spectacular idea. But the latter part hadn’t caught my attention before. I’m intrigued now by what it means to “behold” God. I’d like to know what Greek word Irenaeus used in his original text that is translated “behold” in English, and I’d like to explore what the word might have meant in the ancient world — then contemplate (maybe even behold) what it might mean in our world.

I spent a good bit of time on Google trying to locate a free original Greek text of Against Heresies, Book 4 (20,7), the place where Irenaeus left us that wonderful comment. (I know it’s a remarkably nerdy thing to do, but I’m a retired college professor who has already mowed the lawn.) I couldn’t find Irenaeus’ Greek text with Google in a reasonable amount of time for an internet search — that is, the point where I lose patience because the internet long ago taught me to expect instant gratification. Maybe I found a link that would give me access to the Greek text if I pay a subscription fee, but I’m unsure about that (and I hate getting those letters telling me my credit card may be compromised because some company’s computer somewhere has been hacked). Besides that, I suspect that I could find the Greek text of Against Heresies for free in a theological library, which is, after all, only 20 minutes away. I think I’ll go later in the week when I have a couple of free hours.

By the way, you can buy a copy of Kelly’s fine book online; it will probably arrive on your doorstep in a day or two. You can also download a digital copy right now that will appear on your phone in seconds. Or, you can visit a library tomorrow, where they have comfortable chairs. They’ll even let you take a book home where you can enjoy the soft crackle of the spine and the smell of paper for hours on end — all for free.