I recently heard someone describing the kind of complexity that is necessary in the running of a business. I cannot remember if I overheard a conversation or if it was a program on the radio. I suppose it doesn’t matter. I’ll chalk it up to the noetic effects of the fall.

But what stood out to me, either from the real life convo or the NPR dialogue, was the statement, “I want simplicity, but only on the other side of complexity.” The point was rather clear; the person didn’t want to brush complexity under the rug. They wanted to face it head on, work through it, and achieve a simplicity that was hard won and well deserved.

That made me think about the gospel.

The gospel is lofty enough for a believer to spend their entire life scaling its peaks and admiring its vistas.

The gospel is small enough to be held by a child.

It is like a lion.

It is like a lamb.

It condescends to a simple faith.

It sustains the life of the public apologist.

It stoops low.

It soars high.

Like a song I learned as a child: it is deep and wide.

Like the song and the aforementioned business comment, when it comes to the gospel: I want simplicity. But I want a simplicity that is found on the other side of complexity.

I want to live on the simple side of the gospel, but only as I have worked, and am working, through the richness of its deep complexities. For then its simple truths glimmer in all their radiance.