By Corban Addison Klug

On the east end of Île de la Cité in the heart of what is arguably the most beautiful city in the world lies one of the most famous Gothic landmarks of Old Europe—the Cathedral Notre Dame de Paris. With its grand and intricately wrought flying buttresses, lofty bell towers, vaulted spires, and petaled rose windows, the cathedral is a monument to premodern architectural ingenuity and to the ascendant faith of its progenitors. Surrounding the cathedral in every direction are the bustling twenty-first century accoutrements of France’s cosmopolitan capital—boulevards, hotels, residential apartment buildings, museums and cafés; yet standing at the cathedral’s midsection along the quiet banks of a divided Seine, it is easy enough to imagine a scene from eight hundred years ago, when the last generation of builders gathered together with the resonant excitement of children to worship the God of their fathers and to celebrate the cathedral’s long-awaited completion.

Three weeks ago, on the first Sunday in August, my wife and I walked from our small hotel in Paris’ Opera District across to the Left Bank of the Seine and down to Île de la Cité to attend an evening chamber choir service at the cathedral. Although by upbringing we are Protestant, by choice we are among those who bless God for the revolution of Spirit-inspired ecumenism that slowly but surely is eroding the walls that men, beset by pride and fear, have erected to divide the Church. We made the Cathedral Notre Dame our destination that evening because, even on vacation, we wished to honor God and keep the Sabbath. That the cathedral is a Catholic house of worship did not give us pause. Nor did the fact that many modern Catholics would, if they discovered our Protestant heritage, exclude us from their fellowship as a result of our “heresy.” In deciding to worship at the Cathedral Notre Dame, we meant both to acknowledge that the Spirit of God is still alive in the Catholic Church and to contribute in our small way to the ultimate harmony of souls swept up in the ageless and cosmic work of redemption being accomplished in history by Jesus Christ.

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This post is an adaptation of an article written by Dr. Robert Clinton entitled "Uses And Values of Reflective Journaling". It is not on-line or I would link to it. Since blogging is a form of journaling, I substituted the word "blogging" for "journaling". For you Unix folks, just imagine : 1,$s/journaling/blogging/g I used the article with his permission.

Clinton's article applies to journaling in a written journal such as a diary. Blogging has had a much shorter half life than journaling ... however, if blogging hangs around for a long time (and I hope it will), then bloggers will realize similar benefits from their blogging.

"Reflective blogging" is a new term. I use it to mean posting on a blog with reflective (i.e contemplative ) posts. In other words, posts which reveal how and what a blogger is thinking about God, life, truth etc. These posts are often spawned by interacting with God's thoughts through reading His word. There are some reflective type faith bloggers out there, but most of the rock stars of the faith blogosphere spend their time linking, trackbacking and reacting to each other's posts about the controvery du jour. This criticism, btw, is self-directed too.

The b'sphere could use more reflective blogging, in my opinion – especially by godly men and women who have walked in union life with Christ for some time. We could all benefit from their insight into life.

Here are Clinton's "Five Uses Of Reflective Blogging"

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It was five years ago but I can still remember the musty smell of the sheets when I woke up that morning. It was 9:15 a.m. and the phone was ringing. I swung my legs over the side of the bed and looked out the paned-glass window at the early autumn sky, cornflower blue and alive with sunlight. I picked up the phone and heard my father’s voice. He did not mince words. “They’ve flown planes into the World Trade Center. The towers are burning.” My mind took a minute to engage before I felt the first kiss of dread. “Who?” I finally asked. “Terrorists maybe. No one knows yet.” I looked at the floor and shook my head in disbelief. “When did it happen?” My father replied: “The first plane hit around 8:40 a.m. They thought it was an accident. The second hit just a few minutes ago. It wasn’t an accident.” I swallowed hard. “There must be ten thousand people in those buildings at this hour.” My father was silent for a long moment. “I know.” Standing up, I said to him, “I have to go find a television. I’ll call you later.”

I threw some clothes on, got in my car, and headed toward the Law School. It was my first semester at the University of Virginia School of Law, only the fourth week of classes, and I was still in the process of getting to know my classmates. But there was a guy from my first-year section—Craig was his name—whose apartment I had been to before. He had a television. Craig answered the door on the first knock. The television was on behind him. The Twin Towers were aflame and hemorrhaging oily black smoke. I entered his apartment in a daze. I took a seat on his couch and he said little to me except: “All I want to know is where I can enlist.” The footage of the second plane crashing into the South Tower played with the nauseating regularity of a broken record. The wan light of the television made the monumental explosion look surreal. The announcers talked of people jumping from eighty stories up in the North Tower to escape the flaming jet fuel. Cameras all over New York City captured the smoke streaming eastward on a stiff wind. The news came in that the Pentagon had been hit and that a fourth plane had been hijacked. A little later they told us the fourth plane had gone down in a field in Pennsylvania. There were no survivors. They speculated that the plane had been targeting the White House or the Capitol building in D.C.

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Happy Labor Day from Every Square Inch!

Soli Deo Gloria,

Carl
Administrator, Every Square Inch