I don’t recall exactly how I drifted into the orbit of Dr. Ed Miller, but it was a fortuitous event. At the time, I was a graduate student in medieval history at the University of Colorado; Miller was a longtime philosophy professor there.
As a Catholic convert contemplating the priesthood, I was interested in theological and ecclesial matters – interests not shared by my fellow grad students nor my faculty. My penchant for things religious must’ve come to the attention of one of Dr. Miller’s acolytes, for somebody at some point invited me to participate in his Theology Forum – a loose, irregular pastiche of people that met occasionally to argue (amiably) about Christian themes and issues.
One of the meetings I attended featured New Testament scholar Dr. Craig Blomberg who presented an Evangelical view of Biblical historicity. I boldly asked Dr. Miller if I could prepare a Catholic response, and Miller, who barely knew who I was, readily agreed – a tiny token of the freewheeling openness he both espoused and practiced.
My subsequent talk was well received, and it led to my having a follow-up meeting with Dr. Blomberg himself. More importantly, it resulted in my becoming a regular at Theology Forum events, and eventually an Ed Miller disciple – a role with a very peculiar cast.
You see, to be a Miller disciple was less about aligning oneself with a master's beliefs and worldview than it was about adopting the good professor's manner of evaluating such matters. Plus, it was about imitating his curiosity about…well, about everything. Like Kierkegaard autograph manuscripts, for example, and the history of the tragic Sand Creek Massacre. Dr. Miller wrote an entire book about the punctuation of John 1.3-4, and he'd ably persuade anyone who’d listen as to why it was an important question – even if, especially if, one didn't end up agreeing with his position.
Indeed, convincing others to see things his way wasn’t the point. Miller was primarily interested in getting us to see at all – to see, to ask, to ponder, to be disturbed enough to seek answers. It was especially the disturbing that characterized his effect on people; it was the disturbing that kept us hanging around.
Miller’s ruminative mien evoked what Walker Percy called the “eerie neck-pricklings” that one typically experiences reading A Canticle for Leibowitz – that is, those who encountered Ed Miller and his shtick experienced “a slight shiver, or annoyance, or nothing at all.”
You either got it, in other words, or you didn’t. And it was hard to pinpoint precisely what “it” was.
One day I was sitting in Dr. Miller’s office, ostensibly trying to identify grants and funding sources for Theology Forum, and Miller was leaning back in his office chair, smoking his pipe. There was an easy silence – no awkwardness, no pressure to fill the void with chatter. Then, without warning, Dr. Miller fired a volley: “Mr. Becker!” he exclaimed, gesturing with his pipe. “You’re absolutely right.” The pipe returned to his mouth and he re-entered his pensive zone.
I was too startled to make any kind of sensible rejoinder, so I kept my peace. Later, when I tried to wheedle out of him what I was so damn right about, he refused to answer.
And that refusal, I must say, was Dr. Miller’s greatest gift to me. It was a superlative act of validation all wrapped up in a shroud of mystery, a simultaneous testimonial and incitement, gratuitous praise that goaded me onward, upward. I still don’t know what prompted his affirming outburst that day, but I’m happy to occupy the disturbing space of wonder for the time being.
God willing, I’ll have the chance to ask him about it again on the other side. I can see his wry smile now, and I’m pretty sure he’ll still balk at answering. All the better.
Rest in peace, Dr. Miller. Thanks for neck-pricklings. Please pray for me.
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