Real Presence

My daughter, Dr. Ian McGilchrist and a morning in Savannah, GA

We walked the brick streets of Savannah beneath the live oaks, my daughter Emily’s hand in mine. Spanish moss drifted in the wind. It was not a photo op. It was presence—the kind the right hemisphere knows instantly and the left hemisphere can never quite capture.

That weekend Dr. Ian McGilchrist was installed as Chancellor of Raulston College. My daughter had just graduated from high school, and I thought it would be an incredible opportunity for father and daughter to bond and also spend a brief moment with someone who has greatly influenced my life.

I have read McGilchrist’s books. I have listened to his lectures online. I have quoted him in classes. But there is something uniquely different when meeting someone in person. Through the years running my non-profit, I have had the blessing of meeting so many wonderful men and women. Significant people who want and desire to do good things in this world. This opportunity was no different, yet it was also something amazingly special.

This is what our age has nearly lost: real presence. We consume ideas like data—podcasts in the car, PDFs on the phone, endless scrolling. The left hemisphere loves it. It measures, sorts, and controls. But the Master—the right hemisphere—starves. It needs the face, the voice, the shared silence, the unexpected laugh. It needs the incarnate.

Christianity has always known this. The Word did not email us a PDF. He took on flesh, walked dusty roads, broke bread, looked people in the eye. The Eucharist itself is real presence, not a symbol to be analyzed but a Person to be received. McGilchrist’s great diagnosis of the divided brain finds its fulfillment here: in Christ the Emissary finally serves the Master again.

That morning in Savannah I felt it freshly. Talking with Dr. Ian about his work, about the battle for attention, about the recovery of meaning, was not the same as reading his books. It was thicker. More dangerous. More alive. The ideas stopped being information and became invitation. I have to be honest, I was a bit flomoxed at times and could not recall most of the ideas and questions I wanted to ask. However, I have learned over the years that in times like this it is best to just enjoy company and see where the conversation goes.

This is the heart of what I am always trying to do for myself and others in my great state, whether through Tactical Faith or even with my other endeavors (real taps for real heroes). We are not content factories. We are not trying to turn people into better consumers of Christian content. We are calling men and women back to real presence—with God, with one another, with the living world. Walks with daughters. Conversations over open books.

The Silent Planet grows louder with noise every day. But the oaks still whisper. The hand is still offered. The book is still open.

And sometimes, if you are willing to travel to Savannah and sit at a table, the Master still speaks.