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Like many of you, I ’ve often heard folks say something along these lines: “Well, in Biblical times  things like that used to happen, but not anymore.” More often than not, we use the phrase “Biblical times” in our conversations to denote some particularly miraculous time or event in Biblical history such as the flood, the exodus from Egypt, the halting of celestial bodies, or Jonah’s being swallowed by a great fish. That is, we tend to preface these weighty events by first categorizing them as having taken place in “Biblical times”—almost as though we feel a distinction must be made between that time and our own. I fear this is where we can go wrong in both our speaking and in our thinking, for the two go hand in hand. The way we think will manifest itself in the words we choose to use and, though perhaps more subtly, the reverse is also true. Since the Bible is true—not if, but since —what other time in history can there possibly be but those times which are, simply speaking, “Biblical times?” On the one hand, yes, Biblical times certainly refers to the time during which Biblical revelation unfolded; but, the entirety of Biblical prophecy has not yet come to pass—we are still living through the times and seasons anticipated by the Bible. Because the Bible is true and accounts for real history, such a distinction between then and now is not necessary: we’re still living in Biblical times. To help illustrate my point, perhaps I begin with an observation from my own life—or, perhaps it is more of a confession. I recently read through the book of Acts in my daily Bible devotions. Each time I move from one of the Gospel accounts into Acts, I am amazed at how seamlessly the transition is made between the Lord’s earthly ministry into what we’d now call “church history.” Because we are presently in the age of the church, there is a sort of familiarity that can be felt between our time and the time of the Apostles—a familiarity that, while it may not be complete kinship, is easier to adopt than putting ourselves into the shoes of, say, Adam and Eve or another larger-than-life figure like Noah. And yet, while I was reading Acts I would occasionally wrestle with this nagging thought that Acts felt “realer” than some of the other books I had just finished. Having spent some time studying church history over the past year, there was a degree of comfort I felt among the pages of Acts that was sorely lacking anytime I delved into the far more ancient world of the Old Testament. I know that the book of Genesis—and every other Biblical account—is just as historically true as the book of Acts, and yet I found within myself this subtle, seemingly imperceptible, distinction being made in my mind and, upon this realization, repented of it. From a purely observational perspective, I do not think it incorrect to say that there is a distinction that occurs between the Gospel of John and the book of Acts. However, this distinction is not one of truthfulness or accuracy but rather of content and revelation. Afterall, John ’s Gospel marks the end of the fourth and final Gospel account, culminating in the Lord’s resurrection, ascension, and promise to return for a second time, and swiftly at that—“Surely I am coming soon” (Revelation 22:20). Christ’s death, resurrection, and ascension marked a pivotal turning point in world history; and in that way, it rightly marked a distinction between what came before and what followed. Just as the Old Testament looked forward to Christ’s ministry, so too does the rest of the New Testament keep looking back to it—indeed, it is the very nucleus of not just redemptive history, but history itself. Just as there is a revelatory divide between Genesis and Exodus, or Malachi and Matthew, so too can one be observed between John and Acts. In light of Christ’s redeeming work as presented in the Gospels, the age of the church begins to take form as the book of Acts unfolds. In the book of Acts, the Lord continues His work; not as He did while on earth throughout the Gospels, but through His Holy Spirit in the building of His church, ushering in this latter part of human history. In this way, it can be said, to some degree, that Biblical times gives way to the age we are currently living in—the age of the church. Only, I should wonder that if by thinking in this way—in terms of Biblical times giving way to church history—we betray the unity of divinely inspired Scripture and history as a whole. As though such a distinction subtly untethers us from the deep and abiding roots of the Christian faith. And by roots I do not merely mean the Apostles, early church fathers, and first Christian martyrs, but those who came long before even them: Abraham, Moses, David, and the countless others who were used by the Lord throughout Biblical history in the unfolding of His redemptive plan for mankind through Jesus Christ. To say we are now in the age of the church is absolutely correct, but let us never disconnect this age from the one that came before; or, for that matter, from the one which is to soon come. Within the vast tapestry of Biblical history, the Lord God is weaving together many threads; each age and time, whether of the Patriarchs, Moses, or David, serving as a crucial piece in a larger whole. We are now in what the Bible calls “the last days” (namely, the generations immediately following the work of Christ in the Gospels) but we are not yet in the very last of the last days—that is yet to come, and swiftly at that, “Behold, I am coming like a thief!” (Revelation 16:15). And yet the lot of us, from Adam to Abraham to your Applebee’s server, are still living in Biblical times. As twenty-first century Christians, we are living between the bookends of Acts and Revelation. Though divine inspiration of the Bible has ceased, there are many events foretold in Scripture that are yet to take place. And because the Biblical account of history in Revelation bleeds into the plains of eternity, there is a very real sense in which we shall always be living in Biblical times. The book of Revelation ends with the church’s joining Christ in the New Heavens and the New Earth, a glorious love story that shall run uninterrupted into eternity such that, “ as organs in the Body of Christ, as stones and pillars in the temple, we are assured of our eternal self-identity and shall live to remember the galaxies as an old tale ” (C.S. Lewis speaks at length about this topic in his essay, “Membership”). To end where we began, Paul in the book of Acts shares the Gospel with the men of Athens by appealing to their place in human history—which is to say, God ’s story. Standing in the Areopagus , Paul says: “The God who made the world and everything in it, being Lord of heaven and earth, does not live in temples made by man, nor is He served by human hands, as though He needed anything, since He Himself gives to all mankind life and breath and everything. And He made from one man every nation of mankind to live on all the face of the earth, having determined allotted periods and the boundaries of their dwelling place, that they should seek God, and perhaps feel their way toward Him and find Him. Yet He is actually not far from each one of us” (Acts 17:24-27). Our place in history—who our parents will be, where we ’ll be born and raised, our first school and earliest childhood friends, continuing into adulthood and the rest of our lives—has been determined by God before the ages began. There is a direct line that can be drawn from the first man, Adam, through Biblical times and into our own day: “And He made from one man every nation of mankind to live on all the face of the earth, having determined allotted periods and the boundaries of their dwelling place.” To what end? That all mankind “should seek God, and perhaps feel their way toward Him and find Him.” Do you feel lost and overwhelmed when you look at history, especially Biblical history? Do you find yourself easily bewildered as you peer down the annuls of time to ages long past and seemingly alien from our own? Take heart, brother and sister, for God intends that in our study of history—Biblical history, of which we take part—we see a familiar face: the face of our loving Lord building His church throughout the ages into our present day. History may change, but our Lord and His purposes do not. Throughout all of redemptive history, the Lord Jesus Christ is calling sinners unto Himself. The good news of who Jesus is and that lost sinners can find salvation in His name serves as the bridge, the very connecting fabric, between then and now—just as He serves as the bridge between now and the things to come. We’re still living in Biblical times and praise God we always will be. “The cross, though it has at its head a collision and a contradiction, can extend its four arms for ever without altering its shape. The cross opens its arms to the four winds; it is a signpost for free travelers.” —G.K. Chesterton, Orthodoxy Photo by Hu Chen, Unsplash

This week did not get off to the best start, and it was entirely my fault. After a rather long and tiring past few days, my wife and I were looking forward to having this past Monday off. More than that, we were simply eager to spend the day together, just the two of us. We were both adamant that we should spend the day at home, perhaps only venturing out for a walk - and, my wife suggested, maybe, just maybe, for some ice cream as well. However, as the day began to ebb by and once all of our housework was finished, I felt restless. Suddenly, staying at home all day seemed like an utter waste of such a beautiful day. “Let’s go to a coffee shop”, I suggested. “We can catch up on our reading, and then we can find a nice trail nearby and grab some ice cream as well.” And with that, we were off. Indeed, we were off to a great start. A blue sky stretched out before us as we drove; the warmth of the sun bathed our skin, and the aroma of a summer in full-bloom danced in the wind. I was glad that we left the house, and I sensed that my wife was as well; I knew, after all, that sunshine and ice cream were two of the surest ways to her heart. But more than the fair weather and sweet expectation that lay ahead, I was simply and completely content to share in the sweetest of company with the fairest of women. As we drove through the countryside, we were enveloped in that tender sort of silence that can only be enjoyed by those who are totally at ease in one another’s company. Upon arriving, we discovered that the line for ice cream was, well, about as long as one might expect it to be on a warm, sunny holiday. “Not a problem”, I said, “it’s worth the wait.” The day was still young, we were young, and the sun was still shining - a little waiting never hurt anyone. Only, the line did not move. I felt as though we were at Service Ontario; or, with the sun beating how it was, Service Ontario in an oven.  Tick. Just as I was about to suggest that we step across the street and grab ice cream from McDonald’s - just as delicious, no doubt, and likely an eighth of the price - a worker stepped outside and declared that, while they still had plenty of ice cream left, someone near the front of the line was experiencing a medical issue and that was why the line was progressing so slowly. McDonald’s it was. “Why don’t we go to that coffee shop I was telling you about?” my wife suggested. “We can come back here for ice cream after that.” McDonald’s it wasn’t. Just as well, I thought. On a hot day such as this, what better than a nice, steamy cup of coffee? (I assure you that I am not being sarcastic; I did indeed have my wife order me a hot coffee while I stood outside the coffee shop with our dog, Sasha). But alas, I am getting ahead of myself. When we eventually made the short trek to the coffee shop my wife had suggested, it was closed. Tick, tick. Just as well, I thought. “There’s another coffee shop just up the road, let’s go there instead.” It was here that I ordered that hot coffee I mentioned. From here, we made our way to a small park that was nestled alongside a lazy river, all the while firetrucks and ambulances nudged their way through the busy streets before coming to a halt at the ice cream shop. It was only when we sat down on our picnic blanket by the river that I took notice of the sour mood beginning to overshadow my disposition. There was not one thing in particular that frustrated me; rather, it was like there were a succession of small ticks beginning to notch on my mood. First the line at the ice cream place, then the coffee shop being closed, and now the heat was beginning to weigh on me (the hot coffee, as you can imagine, did not help). However, the thing that really frustrated me was that I felt as though I had made all the wrong decisions that day -  that I had led poorly. I was frustrated that the day did not go better, and I was worried that my wife was having a poor time. “You know,” I said, “we can do this at home just as easily. Why don’t we go get our ice cream and head home?” And with that, we made our way back towards the ice cream shop. However, upon arriving for the second time, it seemed as though the line was entirely unchanged. Just as well, I thought. The ambulances had left by this point, so I figured that, though the line was still long, it should now move smoothly. But alas, it did not. After a short time it seemed as though we moved only a matter of inches; I was certain that the grass around us had grown noticeably longer since we joined the line. Tick, tick, tick. — On our way home, without ice cream, silence once again filled the car. I was frustrated. I was frustrated that the day, as beautiful as it was, did not go my way. I was frustrated that our one day together seemed forfeited and wasted because of long lines and closed coffee shops. And on top of all this, I was frustrated because of the fact that I was so clearly frustrated. Frustration had beget frustration, which only gave rise to more frustration. Before I knew it, we were home, and I realized that I had hardly spoken a word the entire time I was driving. If there was anything that had upset my wife about the day, it was my attitude then and there. Not the long lines or closed shops, but me and my attitude. It was in this moment that I became intimately aware of a crossroads, a fork in the road as it were. I could go to Christ and ask for forgiveness for the way that I acted, and then go to my wife and ask for her forgiveness as well; or, rather than make things better, I could continue to make things bitter. Better or bitter, those were the two paths that lay at my feet. Sin and selfishness had knocked at the door, and I chose to open it - but now what? Even though I felt ashamed of the way I acted, I went to Christ. I felt small, sullied, and stupid, but I went to Him all the same. I set aside my emotions, for they aren't God, and ran to Him who is God, and to His Word. As Robert Murray McCheyne once put it, “For every look at yourself, take ten looks at Christ.” I fell headlong upon Christ’s words, “Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls” (Matthew 11:28-29). Indeed, He is gentle and lowly, and in Him alone do our restless souls find rest. In confessing to Him my sin and shame and asking for forgiveness, I put my trust in His promises. The promises of Him who is omnipresent, everywhere, even in the midst of our darkness, selfishness, and sin. He is Alpha and Omega, the Beginning and the End, and everywhere in between, so that no matter where we might find ourselves, whether upon the mountain top or in the valley, we can be sure that He is there with us; or rather, we are there with Him. Every time we sin, we are presented with a fork in the road. Do we run from God, or do we run to Him? Do we choose that which is bitter or that which is better? I wanted the day to go in a particular way, and when it didn’t, the selfishness in my heart spilled over. I wanted to have a great day with my wife and made a mess of it. However, in the midst of that mess, Christ was at work. I intended to bond with my wife over ice cream; the Lord had other plans. In asking for forgiveness from both Him and my wife, a better, sweeter, and deeper intimacy was kindled - indeed, the very intimacy and sweetness that I was aiming for all day on my own, but fell short of. Jesus has told us who He is and what He is like, we would do well to take Him at His word. He is, by His own admission, “gentle and lowly” and eager to give us rest. And so, the next time you sin, stumble, and fall, as we all do, be sure to take quickly the narrow way in the fork, towards Him, for He is “the way”, the only way, “and the truth, and the life” (John 14:6). — It's worth mentioning that in the end we did have ice cream, but at home, and alas, it was freezer burnt. But it didn't matter - we were happy. Author’s Note: In an effort to write with integrity and as unto the Lord, it is important to stress that, though these events are in fact true, I do not always recall the exact words used in specific conversations. As much as I’m able, I strive to remain faithful to the event in question, capturing the ‘intent’ of the conversation when my memory fails with respect to exact words.

Reading is a great passion of mine. Indeed, if I go too long without reading, I just don’t feel right. In like fashion, I love to write - hopefully this comes as no surprise. Similarly, if I go too long without writing, I quite simply do not feel right. However, let us for the moment set aside writing. Now, why is it that I, or anyone for that matter, enjoy reading? Well, there are reasons beyond count, but I would expect that a chief reason rests in the written word’s ability to engage with the human mind. Irrespective of the book that sits upon your lap, if it is a truly good book, there is a degree to which your mind will be engaged, even enraptured. Whether it be a novel about feudal houses in the distant future fighting for control over mind-altering spice or a collection of Wordsworth’s poems, one basic function of good literature ought to rest in its ability to transport our minds from here to there. Good writing should lead to good reading, which in turn should lead to good thinking. Now, good thinking can take on a variety of forms: a particularly good novel may enable you to effectively imagine a fictional world far beyond our own, thus engaging your mind’s imaginative mechanisms, while a good book on history may allow you to catch a glimpse down the halls of time - and perhaps help you better understand your own time as well. While God’s Word does far more for us, infinitely more, the Bible nonetheless grants us the ability to do both these things. On the one hand, God’s Word allows us to step into a world that is truly stranger than fiction, while on the other it provides us with an infallible record of history itself. Such a glorious revelation no doubt prompted Charles Spurgeon to exclaim that we should “visit many good books, but live in the Bible.” Perhaps a quick note about the former point before we move on. The Bible truly is stranger than fiction. Picture this for a moment (if I were reading this aloud, I would at this point tell you to close your eyes, but alas reading does not work that way): the infinite, immortal, utterly holy God of the universe, Author of all that is seen and unseen, makes Himself seen and known in the person of Jesus Christ, God the Son, and dies upon the very tree that His hands nurtured from seed to sapling to Roman cross, in order to save His people - by Himself, for Himself, and from Himself, forever. Dear reader, there is not a volume or tale in all this world that is more weighty or strange, wonderfully strange, than the story of the Bible; and yet, it is the truest tale that there is. Indeed, it is the tale to which all others point, the ‘one true myth’ as Tolkien described it. Within this ‘one true myth’, nestled near the end of Luke’s gospel, lies an account that is incredibly dear to my heart. Beginning in Luke 24:13, he outlines an episode that occurs shortly after Jesus’ resurrection - in your Bible it is likely under the heading “On the Road to Emmaus.” For those of you who are unfamiliar with the account, I would encourage you to cease from reading my babble and dig into this beautiful passage without a moment’s waste. However, I shall quickly summarize the event all the same.  After Jesus rose from the dead, He proceeded to do what He often did during His earthly ministry: He walked and He talked. Though, in this case those with whom He walked and talked did not know that it was in fact Jesus they journeyed with - not yet. On the road leading from Jerusalem towards Emmaus, the newly risen cosmic King of the universe walked with two of His friends in deep talk as the daylight waned and the shadows of nightfall began to bleed across the countryside. Upon coming across this ‘Stranger’ on the road, the pair of disciples began to pour out their hearts to the very One whose very death caused their very heartache - all the while completely unaware of Jesus’ identity. After they finished speaking, Jesus, whose identity was still veiled from their sight, began to unfold “to them in all the Scriptures the things concerning Himself” (Luke 24:27). Despite the gathering of night, there was a warmth kindling in their presence along the road that no shadows could overcome or cool wind dispel - for their hearts were on fire  as they spoke with Someone far more ancient and wise than they could have ever imagined. As Jesus spoke with the two along the road, no doubt the countryside itself began to fade away until it was just them three adrift upon a sea of deep talk.   As the company began to draw near to their journey’s end, the disciples pleaded with Jesus to stay with them. And, “When He was at table with them, He took the bread and blessed and broke it and gave it to them. And their eyes were opened, and they recognized Him” (24:30-31). The two men were stricken with joy at this sudden realization: “Did not our hearts burn within us while He talked to us on the road, while He opened to us the Scriptures?” (24:32). Indeed, stranger than fiction. Indulge me once more while I seek to illustrate another point. Jesus, God the Son, has just risen from the dead. The single greatest event in human history, in His story, has just transpired. The very nucleus of God’s redemptive plan from eternity past, that to which everything before and after points either backwards or forwards, is finished. The head of the serpent has been crushed beneath His heel, sin has been atoned for, and He has taken up His life once again. After He rose from the grave, did Jesus erupt from the mountaintops like fire so that all the world would know who the King of kings truly is? Or did He wield His voice of many waters and send His name rippling across the cosmos until the furthest star resounded in the darkness with the light of His glory? No, He did not. Perhaps that is what we would have done, or suggested, or devised had this been a man-made myth, but not Jesus. The heavenly realms were doubtless trembling at this work of God - either with fear or joy, but likely both. His work was most seen in the realm of the unseen and veiled in part, for a time, in the world of the seen. After all these things, somewhere in the depths of His matchless humility and unfathomable wisdom, the Lord Jesus thought it best to embark on the road to Emmaus with two unnamed disciples. What a God we serve. While this may be an ancillary point in this passage, I shall make it all the same: what a joy it is to have a relationship with a God of such tender and intimate mercy that, after rising from the dead, our Lord took aside an entire evening to simply walk with ‘the least of these.’ Is it any wonder that the hearts of these two disciples burned within them? While not completely analogous, I had a similar experience only a few weeks ago, the effects of which are still as warm embers in my soul. I awoke at around four in the morning feeling completely rested. Rather than lie awake in bed or fight for a few more hours of restless sleep, I got up determined to carve out a productive start to my day. It's been my routine of late, rather imperfectly, to seek the Lord first and foremost in the morning through prayer and His Word. However, this particular morning, there was a deep warmth as I settled into prayer and communion with Him. There was a clarity and depth to His Word in the early hours of that day that I won’t soon forget - a burning of the heart, as it were. No visions, no swooning, no voice from above - just me, the Lord, and His Word. I devoured my daily reading for the day and, given I had many hours left until work, simply continued reading - I was underwater, and had no desire to come up for air. I took Spurgeon’s advice to “live in” rather than simply “visit” the Scriptures. Pages of His Word were consumed, cups of coffee alongside them, as though my soul were a great cistern being filled with roaring torrents of water. In moments like these, when His Word is living and LOUD, I often catch a glimpse of Him on the road to Emmaus as He “interpreted to them in all the Scriptures the things concerning Himself.” And then, well, I had to get ready for work. Like the two disciples on the road to Emmaus after Jesus had left, I “rose that same hour and returned to” the things of this world. Such moments are difficult to come back from. Heaven begins to weigh in on the walls and borders of this world, feeling so near as though you could step out onto its very threshold, only to return to this world moments later. As though we were there for just a second, having “slipped the surly bonds of earth,” and then before we knew it we were back again. In these moments, how can one be expected to simply go to work or school or do anything at all, really? And yet we must.  We must also remember how the book of Luke ends. Jesus departs from the two disciples in Emmaus and returns to His disciples in Jerusalem. He does not leave them, or us, as orphans - “And behold, I am sending the promise of my Father upon you” (Luke 24:49). And what is the promise of the Father? He is the Helper, the Holy Spirit: God Himself. So while we yet have life in us, let us daily dig deep into His Word. As John Piper once put it: do not settle to rake leaves upon the surface of Scripture, but dig deep for gold. Seek Him, see Him, and savor Him - and let your heart burn within as you sup with Him. For, if your heart aches and burns for Him, consider how His heart must burn for you.

“I will open rivers on the bare heights, and fountains in the midst of the valleys. I will make the wilderness a pool of water, and the dry land springs of water” (Isaiah 41:18). Fresh out of university, famed author and conservative commentator William F. Buckley Jr. penned God & Man at Yale: The Superstitions of ‘ Academic Freedom .’ Though he was only twenty-five at the time and would go on to author many other books, God & Man at Yale remains Buckley ’s most widely recognized work. In it, he dismantles “ the extraordinarily irresponsible educational attitude that prevailed at his alma mater ” during the 1950s. What Buckley ultimately sought to expose at the University of Yale was the dominating culture of academia at the time—a culture that was fundamentally anti-intellectual, anti-American, pseudo-historical, and above all, utterly anti-Christian. The bloated, bureaucratic, monstrous Hydra that the University system has become in the West—the direct result of leftism’s “long march through the institutions”—is precisely the beast that a young William F. Buckley Jr. strove to slay during its infancy back in the 1950s. These words, penned by Buckley nearly seventy-five years ago, are more relevant today than they were in the 50s when the various ‘-isms’ we now wrestle against were only beginning to gather forces: “I believe that the duel between Christianity and atheism is the most important in the world... We find that in the absence of demonstrable truth, the best we can do is to exercise the greatest diligence, humility, insight, intelligence, and industry in trying to arrive at the nearest values to truth. I hope, of course, to argue convincingly that having done this, we have an inescapable duty to seek to inculcate others with these values.” Buckley ’s proposition here is twofold. First, do all within your power—intellectually, physically, and spiritually—to seek truth. And then, once you ’ve arrived at it , strive to pair truth with virtue and share these findings with others. He was, of course, speaking of Christianity as the highest truth one can arrive at, and the values flowing from the Bible were to be those truths we should teach and inculcate in others—a lofty, admirable goal. You may be surprised to find—as I was—that Ontario ’s Education Act employs similar, albeit even stronger , language than Buckley does. In section 264.1(c) of the Ontario Education Act, the duties of a teacher are outlined as follows: “...to inculcate by precept and example respect for religion and the principles of Judaeo-Christian morality and the highest regard for truth, justice, loyalty, love of country, humanity, benevolence, sobriety, industry, frugality, purity, temperance and all other virtues.” This is explicitly Christian in nature. As much as some Canadian teachers and administrators buck wildly against these words, the fact remains that section 264.1(c) yet remains embedded in the Education Act. It is still Canadian legislation. However, many educators refuse to see it this way. When this legislation was introduced during one of my lectures, the speaker—bound no doubt more by compulsion than personal preference—took time to unpack section 264.1(c) in particular. Upon reading the words “sobriety, industry, frugality, purity, temperance and all other virtues,” the speaker paused for a moment and made pains to openly deride these virtues, particularly that of “frugality.” “What does frugality even mean?” this individual argued, “How is that even important anymore!?” Ironically, the very school board that this guest speaker came from was imploding due to near-radioactive levels of financial mismanagement. Indeed, the importance of “frugality” cannot be understated—as is the case with all other virtues. At this point I do want to pause for a moment and make a few items abundantly clear. Firstly, my words in this piece are at no point to be taken as an attack on any individual, least of all teachers and professors, or even educators who consider themselves to be staunch atheists. While I vehemently disagree with the atheist’s perspective, as well as many facets of Western education’s posture towards Christianity, I do hope to voice my disagreements with love: “ but in your hearts honor Christ the Lord as holy, always being prepared to make a defense to anyone who asks you for a reason for the hope that is in you; yet do it with gentleness and respect ” (1 Peter 3:15). My heart’s intent is to shed light on the current state of affairs in education with regards to truth and the person of Christ. Stemming from my first clarification, it is worthwhile to say that throughout my journey, whether in my undergrad, at Teacher’s College, and in the public school system, I have encountered a host of teachers who, while not Christians or even religious, have become inspirations and in some cases, even friends. Continuing on, it would then seem fair to say that the post-secondary (that is, university and college) and public school systems of education in the West are primarily anti-Christian in their current state. Given that the pursuit of truth and the underlying conviction that the universe tends towards order and not chaos is a fundamentally Christian worldview, anti-Christian education seems ridiculous on it’s face, yet here we are. Indeed, by challenging the Christian worldview, the atheist educator must first adopt the position that things such as truth, order, reason, and an understandable view of reality exists, which is to in effect borrow intellectual and moral capital from the Christian worldview in order to attack Christianity—it really is so very non-sensical. Whether this is a top-down or bottom-up phenomenon—whether the rot began in the university system only to trickle down to the public schools, or vice versa—is a subject for another day. However, the fact remains that, by and large, publicly-funded education in the West at all levels of study remains unabashedly opposed to the Lord Jesus Christ on both an intellectual and moral level. All of this preamble, as important as it may be, brings me to my chief point. Before beginning my journey as a teacher, I labored for a time in the world of concrete. Transitioning from shaping rock to shaping students seemed like a natural progression of my talents. However, even after I finally determined within myself that the profession of teaching was the path for me, I did wrestle with whether I wanted to teach in the university system as a professor or focus my energy at the high school level. Ultimately, the Lord laid a burden on my heart for teenagers; indeed, the young men and women who were sorting themselves out before entering the real world as I had only done—and still continuing to do, in fact—only a few years earlier. Having lost my father as a teenager, I felt a particular weight upon my shoulders to be an example of Christ and demonstrate proper, Biblical masculinity to a generation of young men who likely lacked both. Not that I was anything special, but because of the presence of Christ in me, it would be clear “that the surpassing power belongs to God and not to [me]” (2 Corinthians 4:7). When I settled on the vocation of teaching as God ’s call upon my life, I did so with a sense of zeal coupled with reservation. On the one hand, I was under the conviction that Canada’s public schools represented a mission field ripe for the Gospel message; and on the other hand I knew that, as with all mission fields, it would be an absurdly difficult task—impossible, even. However, I took refuge in the words of our Lord, “ ‘ What is impossible with man is possible with God ’ ” (Luke 18:27). Under the shadow of God ’s providence, He was incredibly gracious—as He always is—in providing me with a Christian Associate Teacher for my most recent placement. In Teacher’s College, an Associate Teacher essentially functions as a mentor and supervisor for young teachers during their placement in a school board. Needless to say, working alongside my sister in Christ in this setting was an incredible blessing, but exceedingly unexpected all the same. Having grown up, worked in, and now studying at this particular school board, I was under no illusions as to what I as a Christian teacher was up against. But God. After dancing around the topic of our union to Christ in our first hour together, there was a palpable sigh of relief once my Associate Teacher and I discovered we both knew and loved the Lord. After this discovery my Associate Teacher said something to the effect of, “Okay, we have to start over—there ’s so much I’ve got to tell you! ” It was at this point that she informed me of the school ’s upcoming Christian Youth Conference —a board-wide Christian conference that was to be held at our school for all the Christian students and teachers in the board. And, as if the Lord ’s timing wasn’t already airtight enough, it was to take place the day before my placement ended. Indeed, “ ‘ What is impossible with man is possible with God. ’ ” In the days and weeks that followed, I not only had the opportunity to teach alongside my Associate Teacher, but in the Lord ’s kindness I was able to support her as she took the lead in organizing the upcoming conference that our school would host. Looking back, I did not ‘do’ very much for the conference myself, but I am quite comfortable with that. In the Lord’s timing, I was placed where I needed to be, when I needed to be, to provide support for those who needed it most. Reflecting on how the Lord orchestrated everything, my mind is routinely drawn back to these words from Isaiah: “When the poor and needy seek water, and there is none, and their tongue is parched with thirst, I the LORD will answer them; I the God of Israel will not forsake them” (Isaiah 41:17). When I began to excitedly share the news about the upcoming Christian Youth Conference, I was met with, in my opinion, rather lacklustre responses. “That ’s really great! ”, most would say, to which I would respond: “Yes, it is—but this is more than just great . It ’s nothing short of a miracle. ” Again, having been educated under the public school system—in this very board—and now working in it for some years, it was hard to overstate with others just how immense this opportunity was. Truly, what an unexpected God we serve, who always does “ far more abundantly than all that we ask or think, according to [His] power at work within us ” (Ephesians 3:20). I am thankful to the Lord for the kindness extended to us as Christian teachers by the board ’s administration in supporting this conference; I am thankful for the many teachers, students, and community members who gave of themselves for countless hours out of a desire to bless the Lord and others; I am thankful for the Christian vice-principle who, only a few months ago, was bold enough to send out a board-wide email to his colleagues asking if they could supply him with the contact information for the teacher sponsor of their school’s Christian group; and I am thankful and encouraged by the courageous example of my Associate Teacher who, doubtless through her many years of Christlike gentleness and love in this environment, garnered the trust and support of those above her to organize this conference. Above all, I am thankful to the Lord for His immense kindness in allowing me to play a small part in this incredible display of His grace only a day before my departure . To my fellow teachers in Christ, take heart and be encouraged that the Lord is at work: “ Therefore, my beloved brothers, be steadfast, immovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, knowing that in the Lord your labor is not in vain ” (1 Corinthians 15:58) . In the midst of a place that violently denies the Lordship of Christ and so reviles much that is dear to His heart, I am thankful that we as Christian students and teachers had the honour of singing His praises among those very same halls at the first annual Christian Youth Conference —the first of many more to come, Lord willing. It was in these precious moments of singing unto the Lord together that any divisions between us began to fade away; no longer were we merely colleagues, teachers, and pupils, but rather brothers and sisters in Christ praising our God and King. What a foretaste of the glorious joys to come, when we in Christ shall forever sing His praises in the New Heavens and the New Earth—where all darkness is swept away by the light of His glory, every tear dried, and only perfect love remains in the household of our Heavenly Father. “I will open rivers on the bare heights, and fountains in the midst of the valleys. I will make the wilderness a pool of water, and the dry land springs of water. I will put in the wilderness the cedar, the acacia, the myrtle, and the olive. I will set in the desert the cypress, the plane and the pine together, that they may see and know, may consider and understand together, that the hand of the LORD has done this, the Holy One of Israel has created it” (Isaiah 41:18-20). Photo by Matteo Grando, Unsplash

While I ’ve always enjoyed writing, it wasn’t until after my father passed away that I truly took up my pen and got to work. My father, like his father before him, was a hard and handy man—there was hardly a thing he could not build or a household problem he could not fix. I, on the other hand, am not an exceedingly handy person (though, I’d like to think I’m becoming more of one). However, despite the ‘handy’ gene being recessive, I take comfort in the words of Irish Poet Seamus Heaney who, speaking of his own father in the poem “Digging”, wrote these words: “ The old man could handle a spade.    Just like his old man.   But I’ve no spade to follow men like them. Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests. I’ll dig with it. ” Digging I began writing all those years ago out of a desperate desire to untangle the many thoughts and emotions that were beginning to swell within me after my father went home to be with the Lord. There was something in my heart that needed unearthing, and so my words got to digging . And though the Lord has given me much more than grieving and sorrow to write about over the years, I do find that my writing so often returns to my father, to his passing, and to this subject of longing, nostalgia, and homesickness. The season of life that brought about my father ’s death was not simply one season among many, but indeed the very season that shaped all the rest. Not that his death was the chief catalyst of change (for, he is now more alive than he ever was), but rather it was the Lord’s sanctifying work in and through this experience that so profoundly shaped me. I do not write these words lightly when I say that though my father’s passing was the greatest sorrow of my life, it was also one of the Lord ’s greatest gifts to me and my family—cultivating within us an eternal perspective, a thirst for Christ, and a longing for that place to which all our lifelong nostalgia only dimly points. Indeed, my writing on any other matter cannot be properly understood outside of my father ’s battle with cancer and his passing not long after. Though, can it rightly be called a battle that cancer has won ? People so often say, “After a long battle with cancer, the cancer finally won and ____ died.” I disagree wholeheartedly. As Norm MacDonald once said, “Both body and cancer die in the end, I’d call that a draw. ” As those in Christ, we know that the one, cancer, has perished forever while the other, our loved one, has gone to be where death is no more—to me, that sounds like a far cry from defeat. In a world where cancer ‘claims’ millions of souls every year, one can scarcely say the Lord has no use of it. If cancer be the cold hand through which Christ brings many of our loved ones home into the warmth of His eternal embrace, then so be it. Kissing the Wave My wife, like many of you who’ve been reading along for some time now, never met my father. In light of this reality, my earnest hope in much of the things I’ve written has been to share him with you all in some way—to present a mosaic of who he was and what he meant to so many such that, even if you never met him, you could gather a sense of what he was all about. While he was here, my father ’s life shaped so very many others, and I like to think that he is continuing to do so. I hope and pray I’ve accomplished that task faithfully. That being said, my father was not a perfect man. For all the joy and warmth that radiated from him, there were times—more times than I’d prefer to admit—where my father seemed gripped by a great heaviness of heart. Looking back, it seemed as though this melancholy of soul would come and go mysteriously—surfacing now and again, perhaps for a moment, only to disappear for a season. At times, this heaviness of heart was just that—a sort of heaviness about him, an inner-sighing of his spirit. In other moments, it was as though he was quietly carrying the world upon his shoulders. Charles Spurgeon, the “Prince of Preachers”, was my father’s favorite theologian and writer. Many Christians may not realize this, but he too suffered a similar heaviness of heart all his life. Spurgeon once professed in a sermon of his that, “My spirits were sunken so low that I could weep by the hour like a child, and yet I knew not what I wept for.” I never realized it at the time, but I’ve now come to believe that this was in large part why my father loved Spurgeon so dearly; he saw in Spurgeon not only a theologian and preacher, but a friend. A friend who, like Christ, was “a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief” (Isaiah 53:3). A friend who, like David before him, was likewise caught in the vice-grip of Biblical conviction and yet still cried out into the darkness from time to time—“Why are you cast down, O my soul, and why are you in turmoil within me?” (Psalm 43:5). Later on in the Psalms, the writer voices his sorrow in this way: “You have put me in the depths of the pit, in the regions dark and deep. Your wrath lies heavy upon me, and you overwhelm me with all your waves” (Psalm 88:6-7). When I remember my father, imperfections aside, I see a man of immense courage and faith who, echoing the words of Spurgeon, could boldly say that he “learned to kiss the wave that [threw him] against the Rock of Ages.” “ Just Like Your Dad ” Shortly after my father passed away, I made the short walk to my cousin’s house next door as I had done a million times before. As was my custom (one I learned from my father, in fact), I simply knocked on the door and then let myself in a second later. While I was in the entrance way taking off my shoes, an unseen voice circled from around the corner—“Josh? Is that you?” “Uh, yeah, it is... How did you know it was me?” I replied, somewhat taken aback. “It’s your breathing—you sigh just like your dad.” I said earlier that my dad was an incredibly handy man and that, unfortunately for me, the ‘handy’ gene was a recessive one. This being the case, there are nonetheless many other things I do share in common with my father—one of them being this disposition towards a heaviness of heart, an inner-sighing of the spirit that has followed me all my Christian walk. Ever since becoming a Christian in my teen years, I must admit that the fight for joy has been a daily battle. Indeed, there are times in which I fear this is what makes me most like my father; not his brilliant mathematical mind or deep love for those around him, but rather this disposition towards a heaviness of heart. And through every sign and ache of the soul, the Lord has remained utterly faithful and good to me. Like my father, I have “learned to kiss the wave that throws me against the Rock of Ages.” Looking at the broken and sinful world around us, it can become all too easy to give ourselves over to hopelessness and despondency. And yet, we do not lose hope—we must not lose hope. The Word of God does not sugar-coat the fallen state of the world nor does it insist we view reality through the lens of rose-colored glasses. The Apostle Paul, inspired by the Holy Spirit, recognized this reality well when he urges believers to “Rejoice in the Lord always ; again I will say, rejoice” (Philippians 4:4). It is as though Paul is anticipating the Philippians’ response before they have even the opportunity to make it—“I know life is hard, but rejoice always. Yes, let me repeat myself: no matter what happens, why it happens, or how many times it happens to happen, always rejoice!” And why are we to rejoice always? The answer, spelled out in verse 5, is quite simple: “The Lord is at hand” (Philippians 4:5). Paul is reminding his fellow believers that eternity is upon their very doorstep; they can and must rejoice because soon and very soon, they will be in that place where dying, crying, and sighing no longer take place. We ’re going to see the King soon, Paul says—so just relax, serve, and be happy. No More Sighing There I said earlier that part of my motivation for writing is to share my father with those who did not know him, and indeed, to also bless those who knew him best. With that purpose in mind, perhaps I can share one more angle of him, another piece in this mosaic that I ’ve been trying to craft—a piece that just so happens to be the final glimpse I caught of him. Leading up to the evening of my father’s departure, there was a shared sense among our family that the time of our final goodbye was drawing close. In the Lord’s great kindness, He slowly gathered the whole family to the hospital—nieces, nephews, life-long friends, siblings, children, his father, and wife, nearly everyone who rubbed shoulders with my father on a daily basis found themselves in his hospital room at the end. In his final moments a song, like a warm breeze among us on that cold winter night, began to envelop around my father’s bed—growing softly until it outstretched its embrace into the rest of the cancer wing, flowing into the adjoining rooms, the nurse’s station, before finally settling in the lobby at the far end of the corridor. The last sound my father heard here below was the voice of his family, his brothers and sisters in the Lord, singing the hymn “Soon and Very Soon.” The hymn goes like this: “Soon and very soon, We are going to see the King; Hallelujah hallelujah, We ’ re going to see the King. No more crying there, We are going to see the King; No more dying there, We are going to see the King; Hallelujah hallelujah, We ’ re going to see the King. ” Moments after our song ebbed to a close, my father’s earthly life closed with it. He was guided seamlessly from this world and welcomed into the next with song, his hand held firmly by His faithful Savior all the way—into that place where there’s no more crying, no more dying, and at long last, no more sighing. Photo by Fitra Zulfy, Unsplash

L.M. Montgomery ’s novel Emily of New Moon was the required reading of my undergrad that, quite possibly, excited me the very least. How could the misadventures of a young girl on Prince Edward Island possibly compare to the heroic heights of Beowulf or the literary—and ocean—depths of Moby Dick ? However, flowing from the love I have for my wife (and her insistence that we read it together), I decided to give it an honest try. And upon finishing Emily of New Moon two summers ago, I now have to admit that Montgomery ’s novel very well may have been the single most pleasant reading experience of my undergrad. Now, if you are a young girl under the age of around seventy-five, were yourself once a young girl under the age of seventy-five, or have once known a young girl under the age of seventy-five, I likely don’t need to explain to you who L.M. Montgomery was. But for those of you who are yet unaware, Lucy Maud Montgomery was the famed Canadian author who penned the incredibly popular Anne of Green Gables novels. To this very day, she is considered to be Canada ’s most widely read author. Both series of novels by Montgomery , the Emily of New Moon books and Anne of Green Gables novels, are semi-autobiographical in nature in that they each follow the exploits of a young girl who, like Montgomery, spends her childhood in P.E.I. vested with an unusually large imagination. The Emily of New Moon books are particularly autobiographical in that, while the novels are still fictional, they chronicle young Emily ’s journey as a blossoming writer, mirroring Montgomery ’s own journey from years earlier. In this way, Montgomery ’s quest throughout these novels as the author, like Emily ’s as protagonist, is razor-focused on the art of writing. As a hardened reader of Lewis, Tolkien, Hemingway, and Dostoevsky,—these men serving, alongside others, as my literary tutors— Montgomery ’s addition among them as an influence may seem out of place. And yet there are many things that I have gleaned from Montgomery that have shaped my own writing— wonderful things beyond count that, having not read her work, would have left me poorer for it . Indeed, there is a passage in the second book of the Emily trilogy, Emily Climbs , that is, in my opinion, one of the most hauntingly beautiful expositions on what the writing process truly feels like: “I forgot everything but that I wanted to put something of the beauty I felt into the words of my poem. When that line came into my mind it didn’t seem to me that I composed it at all—it seemed as if Something Else were trying to speak through me—and it was that Something Else that made the line seem wonderful—and now when it is gone the words seem flat and foolish and the picture I tried to draw in them not so wonderful after all. Oh, if I could only put things into words as I see them! Mr. Carpenter says, ‘Strive—strive—keep on—words are your medium—make them your slaves—until they will say for you what you want them to say.’ That is true—and I do try—but it seems to me there is something beyond words—any words—something that always escapes when you try to grasp it—and yet leaves something in your hand which you wouldn’t have had if you hadn’t reached for it.” —L.M. Montgomery, Emily Climbs Beautiful. Of course, while this process—this grasping for something beyond words—is perhaps unique to writing, it is not limited to writing. These truths can just as readily apply to music, arithmetic, and parenting. Johannes Kepler, the German mathematician and astronomer active during the 1500 and 1600s, once said that because humans are made in the image of God, we can “think God’s thoughts after Him.” The world around us—the universe, the atomic realm, the disciplines of reason, literature, science, and art—is understandable and intelligible because God, being a God of order, made them so. And because the world around us can be understood, we undertake as God’s image-bearers the gargantuan task of thinking His thoughts after Him in our endeavor to unravel the mysteries around us and bring Him glory. As a writer, I feel the weight of this reality. From an early age, I recognized that I had a certain proclivity towards words but it wasn’t until I became a follower of Christ that I finally sensed the purpose behind this talent. Upon becoming a Christian, my talent became a gift , supernaturally bestowed by the Holy Spirit for the edification of the church and for the glory of God. I was always good at writing, more or less, but it’s only now in my Christian life that I sense “ as if Something Else were trying to speak through me—and it was that Something Else  that made the line seem wonderful. ” In his book Delighting in the Trinity, author Michael Reeves describes this as the “beautification” of the Holy Spirit. God the Holy Spirit not only gifts and inspires the people of God, but He makes their finished product something beautiful. The Spirit of God endows believers with their gifting, imbuing their work with a depth and weight that they couldn’t possibly accomplish in their own strength or by their own imagination. Consider, for example, the beautifying work of the Spirit in the canon of inspired Scripture, the mighty feats of architecture throughout church history, and more recently, the music of Christian composers such as Johann Sebastian Bach. It is in and through the beautifying work of the Spirit that our work ultimately finds purpose—moving from transience to transcendence, touching the very fringes of eternity itself. “I have filled him with the Spirit of God, with ability and intelligence, with knowledge and all craftsmanship, to devise artistic designs, to work in gold, silver, and bronze, in cutting stones for setting, and in carving wood, to work in every craft” (Exodus 31:3-5). Though the very best of our work only but approaches the edges of His glory, we yet strive, strive, and keep on. For, even though some—or most—of the beauty escapes from our grip anytime we try to fasten our hands on it, our labor “yet leaves something in your hand which you wouldn’t have had if you hadn’t reached for it.” Whether you are a musician, an engineer, an astronaut, a theologian, or anything else in between, your God-given task in the vocation you find yourself is to glorify the Lord and make Him known. Much of this requires that you, in your work and toil, tug hard enough on the various threads dangling around you until they lead back to the Lord Himself. In this way, we are unraveling the truth and beauty around us, thinking God’s very thoughts after Him and feeling our way towards Him in all we do, though He is not far from any one of us (Acts 17:27). Photo by Alex Dukhanov, Unsplash If you enjoyed reading this post, you may also be interested in a similar piece I wrote last year on the topic of music and how, through it, we can trace the fingerprints of God:

Over the course of the last year, I ’ve taken on the labyrinthian task of dipping my toes into the murky depths of church history. I began this study out of a growing realization that I spent my first few years as a Christian in a sort of naivety on the topic of church history—a general malaise characterized by ignorance and caricatures. Perhaps you can relate, as I did, to these words by Burk Parsons: “In our day, many Christians have a view of church history that is a popular, but unfortunate, caricature. They believe the church started in the first century, but then soon fell into apostasy. The true faith was lost until Martin Luther recovered it in the sixteenth century. Then, nothing at all significant happened until the twentieth century, when Billy Graham started hosting his evangelistic crusades. Regrettably, we form caricatures of history on account of our ignorance of history. Too often, our historical awareness is sorely lacking. What’s more, we don’t fully know where we are, because we don’t know where we’ve been. We might be aware of certain historical figures and events, but we are often unacquainted with what our sovereign Lord has been doing in all of history, particularly in those periods that are less familiar to us.” This naivety of mine did not end at church history, either. Flowing from my lack of historical literacy sprung several general misconceptions about those belonging to the Catholic and Orthodox church in particular. It was about a year ago that I began to have, all of a sudden, a number of in-depth and challenging conversations with some close friends of mine who recently converted to the Orthodox church—a growing trend among young Evangelical Protestants in the West, to say the least. While I felt competent in my defense of the Gospel from a Biblical perspective, I must admit that my knowledge of historical Christendom during these conversations was a sorely lacking blind spot. It was in and through these conversations that the Lord challenged my understanding, urging me to pursue Him and the study of His Word with greater diligence and, of course, prayerful humility. While I can safely say that after studying church history I am more reformed than ever before, I am nonetheless thankful for the stretching of my soul over the past year. In a genuine effort to better understand the theological positions of my Catholic and Orthodox friends, I found myself falling more deeply in love with Christ, His Word, and the truth of the Gospel that His Spirit has preserved throughout the ages, irrespective of the foolishness of men. Just as “ we don’t fully know where we are, because we don’t know where we’ve been, ” so too must we familiarize ourselves with the church ’s fight for truth throughout the ages, lest we forget it ourselves. Reflecting on this past year of on-and-off study on the topic of church history, I’ve come to three chief conclusions. The first is that, as Socrates once said, “I now know that I know nothing.” Perhaps that is an exaggeration, but there is a very real sense in which the study of church history is merely the study of history itself—and history is nuanced, complex, and not always immediately clear. The moment we become overly confident in our evaluation of history is perhaps the very same moment we’ve begun to make a caricature of it. This brings me along neatly to my second point. In Mere Christianity, C.S. Lewis considers the legacy of human history in this way: “All that we call human history—money, poverty, ambition, war, prostitution, classes, empires, slavery—[is] the long terrible story of man trying to find something other than God which will make him happy.” Unfortunately, I think a similar accusation can be leveled against church history as well. In the many conversations I ’ve had over the past year with my Catholic friends in particular, my study has routinely brought me back to pivotal moments across church history—councils, trials, executions, and movements that to this very day mark the seemingly seismic divide between Protestant, Catholic, and Orthodox theology. In all of these historical happenings, I am at once disturbed by the disposition towards sin and cruelty that marks many so-called Christians throughout history, while at the same time amazed at the patience and longsuffering of the Lord without which “no human being would be saved” (Matthew 24:22). Lastly, my study of church history has made this third and final point abundantly clear: the Lord is building His church, and He ’s building me as well. When I consider my own need for daily correction, the wandering nature of my own heart, and the plethora of shortcomings in my own theology that I am not yet even aware of, I see a picture of Christ’s church. Indeed, in our own walk with Christ and through the sanctifying work of His Spirit bringing us from dust to glory, we see a microcosm of church history. In Matthew 16:18, the Lord Jesus Christ directs our gaze forwards, up and through history, that we may find comfort in His sovereign leadership: “ I will build My church, and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it. ” Christ is building His Church in and through history, no matter how dark and bloody, and He is building us in spite of our sin-stained history. The Spirit who hovered above the primordial waters in Genesis 1:2 is the very same Spirit of Christ who built His church from antiquity into the present day. And, this is the very same Spirit who resides in you and I if we know God and are known by Him, having been washed in the precious blood of His Son, chosen from before the foundations of the earth. Just as the Spirit of God brought order out of chaos on that first day of Creation, so too is the Father bringing His people out from the kingdom of darkness and into the Kingdom of light, the Kingdom of very own His Son. I love how this reality is unfolded in Ephesians 2:19-22: “So then you are no longer strangers and aliens, but you are fellow citizens with the saints and members of the household of God, built on the foundation of the apostles and prophets, Christ Jesus Himself being the cornerstone, in whom the whole structure, being joined together, grows into a holy temple in the Lord. In Him you also are being built together into a dwelling place for God by the Spirit.” Without an eternal, Biblical perspective, human history quickly becomes a rather nasty portrait. But we do not lose heart. History is, after all, His story—is it not? The Lord knows what He is doing. Even as I reflect upon my personal history, it ’s tempting to think only in terms of my own blunders, buffoonery, and blatant sin, altogether forgetting the fact that I am forgiven, redeemed, and being sanctified “ from one degree of glory to another ” after the image of Christ my Creator (2 Corinthians 3:18). And when we shift our gaze from ourselves and onto the history of the church, we should see a similar trajectory from disgrace to grace, from dust to glory, from sin to salvation. Through even the darkest days of the church,—when the truth of the Gospel seemed veiled under the Catholicism of the Middle-Ages, when hell itself was howling at the very gates—the Lord was at work and in complete control, building His church year after year, soul by soul. At another point in Mere Christianity , Lewis picks up on this point: “Imagine yourself as a living house. God comes in to rebuild that house. At first, perhaps, you can understand what He is doing. He is getting the drains right and stopping the leaks in the roof and so on; you knew that those jobs needed doing and so you are not surprised. But presently He starts knocking the house about in a way that hurts abominably and does not seem to make any sense. What on earth is He up to? The explanation is that He is building quite a different house from the one you thought of—throwing out a new wing here, putting on an extra floor there, running up towers, making courtyards. You thought you were being made into a decent little cottage: but He is building a palace. He intends to come and live in it Himself.” Indeed, the Lord is building His church, and He ’s building you and I—from cottages into cathedrals. Generation after generation, billions of souls have been redeemed and woven into this grand tapestry of the church. Even as the gears of history gnaw onwards to His definite end, the great Shepherd of the sheep has been spreading His arms out wide throughout all the earth and throughout time, drawing His people unto Himself through the proclamation of the Gospel—eternal life through faith in Jesus Christ alone . The church is no mere building or institution, nor is it some abstract amalgamation of ideas rolling through the ages, but rather a living, breathing cathedral of sons and daughters of the Living God, “ built on the foundation of the apostles and prophets, Christ Jesus Himself being the cornerstone ” (Ephesians 2:20). “And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, ‘Behold, the dwelling place of God is with man. He will dwell with them, and they will be His people, and God Himself will be with them as their God’” (Revelation 21:3). Photo by Dario Veronesi, Unsplash

Though my grandmother didn ’t speak much English, I loved her very much. More importantly, I knew that she loved me even more than could be imagined—no words in any language were needed to convey that reality. While my grandmother passed away some time ago,—almost fifteen years now—she remains in my memory as one of the warmest, kindest, and sweetest souls that I’ve ever known. The day she passed away was the first time I remember seeing my father cry. It all happened so unexpectedly. It was the first week of the seventh grade and I was getting ready for school like any other morning. My father was outside lugging our garbage bins down the considerable length of our driveway, when suddenly my mother appeared in the room and let me know that Tata’s mom, Makica as we called her, had died and went to Heaven. I do not remember anything else from that day other than a single, momentary frame from my memory: as I was walking from my room to the kitchen, I glanced out the window and saw my father hauling the garbage bins down to the side of the road, pausing now and again to wipe tears from his face as he walked. Several days before he went home to be with the Lord, my father expressed his excitement at the thought of seeing his mother again. Despite the fact that my father and I were separated by thirty-five years, I sense that she was the first significant loss for us both. Surely we had suffered the loss of others, but Makica was different. I lost a grandmother, he a mother, but we both suffered the heartache of saying goodbye to a godly woman who was very dear to us. My father was just fifty-six when he passed away and I was only nineteen. Each in our own way, my father and I were still young and had not as of yet tasted the fullness of grief that accompanies aging: the sobering reality of life here below as those closest to us begin to pass from this age into the next. Sitting by my father ’s hospital bed all those years ago, I could only dimly understand his longing to see Makica again. While his eagerness to see his mother made sense to me, my heart could not yet grasp the depths of such a longing. Now, standing upon this side of my father ’s passing, I have come to understand in a greater measure what I only caught glimpses of back then—a deep longing to depart and be with Christ and those closest to us who have left this world behind, yet constrained by another desire to remain here below with those who yet remain. “For to me to live is Christ, and to die is gain. If I am to live in the flesh, that means fruitful labor for me. Yet which I shall choose I cannot tell. I am hard pressed between the two. My desire is to depart and be with Christ, for that is far better. But to remain in the flesh is more necessary on your account” (Philippians 1:21-24). As my father battled cancer, you can imagine that my prayers during this season were occupied upon a single point: “Lord, please heal my father; don’t take him yet.” However, as the weary days pressed on the Lord began to cultivate a change in my heart and in my prayers also. What if—I began to think—the Lord did not purpose in His heart to heal my father? Surely He could, but would He? Could it be that more good and glory would spring from my father’s passing than his healing? In God ’s perfect timing, it so happened that in the months leading up to my father’s passing I was making my way through C.H. Spurgeon’s devotional, Morning & Evening. As is so often the case with Spurgeon, his writing offered a treasure trove of wisdom and comfort for this particular season of my life. Sitting by my father’s bedside, thinking of Makica and what the days ahead would hold, I shared these words with him from a passage in Morning & Evening : “Death smites the best of our friends; the most generous, the most prayerful, the most holy, the most devoted must die. But why? It is through Jesus’ prevailing prayer—‘Father, I will that they also, whom Thou hast given Me, be with me where I am.’ It is that which bears them on eagle’s wings to heaven. Every time a believer mounts from this earth to paradise, it is an answer to Christ’s prayer. Many times Jesus and His people pull against one another in prayer. You bend your knee in prayer and say ‘Father, I will that Thy saints be with me where I am’; Christ says, ‘Father, I will that they also, whom Thou hast given me, be with Me where I am.’ Thus the believer is at cross purposes with his Lord, for the soul cannot be in both places: the beloved one cannot be with Christ and with you too. You would give up your prayer for your loved ones life, if you could realize the thoughts that Christ is praying in the opposite direction—‘Father, I will that they also, whom Thou hast given Me, be with Me where I am.’” This past Mother’s Day weekend as I was reflecting on the heartache that often accompanies holidays, anniversaries, and special occasions, my mind kept going back to these words from Spurgeon that my father and I wept over many years ago. Spurgeon did not provide a title for this devotional, but perhaps I can be so bold as to offer one: “A Tale of Two Prayers.” How often we as Christians pray from the perch of our own comfort rather than pausing for a moment to consider not only the glory of God, but the ultimate good of the other. Or, as Spurgeon put it, are we not so often at cross purposes with our Lord? We cling desperately to our loved ones with the hope of healing in mind, all the while that is precisely what Christ is offering them. As we grow in Christ and in the consideration of our eternal home, let us pray earnestly for those God has given us while also ever resting in this glorious truth: “Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His saints” (Psalm 116:15). Death is no small enemy. Indeed, so dark was the shadow of death upon humanity that the Lord Jesus Christ was born, died, and rose again to abolish death and the sting of death, which is sin, for all who repent and believe in His name (1 Corinthians 15:56). And so, when “d eath smites the best of our friends; the most generous, the most prayerful, the most holy, the most devoted, ” may we take comfort in the truth that the Lord is gathering His people home: “ Every time a believer mounts from this earth to paradise, it is an answer to Christ’s prayer... ‘Father, I will that they also, whom Thou hast given Me, be with Me where I am.’” Photo by Annie Spratt, Unsplash

Have you ever found yourself lost in a sunset? In the dying light of an evening long ago, across an ocean of time and circumstances, I caught a glimpse of something that I will never forget. What I saw—the beauty that my heart tasted in that moment—was less the thing in and of itself than it was the thing beyond the thing . What I saw was a sunset: sharp, grey spires of pines clothed with golden light; and as the horizon leveled, a rich amber, like fire, erupting from the velvet shadows just beyond the nearest hills. I had seen many sunsets up until this point, but something stirred in me on that particular evening. What I tasted in that moment—the ache my soul experienced—filled me with a sense of nostalgia. It was as though I became an onlooker into things that were not to be seen by mortal eyes, while feeling strangely familiar and at home all the same. Truly, something restless stirred in my soul that evening; a deep and profound sense of longing awoke that is yet to be put to rest. Indeed, I have been trying to open that curtain again and again ever since that night. An Ode to Sunsets There are moments, perhaps only fleeting slivers of a moment, in which one catches the tune of something far-off and distant. We hear this tune in the dancing of golden sunlight upon autumn leaves, or the crescendo of beauty that lies in the clouds at sunset; a sight so rich in beauty, so tangible, that you feel you could almost walk over the nearest hill and round the next bend directly into those halls of glory beyond the clouds themselves. As if, for only for a moment, the curtain is pulled back ever so slightly on every longing and ache of the human soul: the doors of eternity themselves having been thrown wide open for a moment in time. As though you were chasing an otherworldly song through an endless corridor, unsatisfied until your hands finally and fully rested on the source of the music. And then, before we know it, the music fades and the curtain is drawn once more, leaving us back in our own world once again. In these moments there arises a longing; a near maddening, romantic arousal within one’s soul; a faint whisper and soft suggestion that this world is not our home after all—indeed, how can it be? When C.S. Lewis spoke of the wood beyond the world, —this feeling, this sense of nostalgia—he had this mysteriously evasive quality of aching and longing in mind: “the scent of a flower we have not found, the echo of a tune we have not heard, news from a country we have never yet visited.” In his monumental essay The Weight of Glory, Lewis expands further on this ache: “Apparently, then, our lifelong nostalgia, our longing to be reunited with something in the universe from which we now feel cut off, to be on the inside of some door which we have always seen from the outside, is no mere neurotic fancy, but the truest index of our real situation. And to be at last summoned inside would be both glory and honour beyond all our merits and also the healing of that old ache.” ...And Childhood While no one has had a perfect childhood, many of us had a good childhood—even a great one. I, for my part, had a great childhood. Indeed, the joys and comforts of my own upbringing have shaped me and my understanding of the world in ways beyond count. And when I consider my own childhood, there seems to me no other way to describe it than as one long, continuous sunset. Perhaps this feeling is just that, a feeling ; a rose-colored, nostalgia-tinged caricature of my early years. But, on the other hand, perhaps not. Perhaps this nostalgia of mine is not romanticism run amok, but instead the “ truest index of my upbringing, ” to borrow words from Lewis. Indeed, sorrows and imperfections aside, I feel like this characterization is most true to the heart of what my childhood actually was. As though every moment and memory of my youth is clothed in the warm light of a setting sun—Sunday evenings baking bread over a charcoal fire with my father and sister; going on family walks through the wood of this world with our dogs; large family gatherings at my uncle ’s home; and maybe most potently, Sunday evening song services at our local church. From the first to the last, all these dear childhood memories are touched with a golden hue, casting shadows far beyond themselves to a reality far greater, realer, and more beautiful. Though, I feel as though Sunday evening song services occupy a place unto themselves. I am by no means a competent singer (in fact, I was gently ‘released’ from junior choir several years early for this very reason—a story for another time, I’m afraid). Nonetheless, I love to sing; I love to sing unto the Lord; and above all, I love to sing unto my Savior with my fellow brothers and sisters in Christ. Growing up, there was one hymn in particular that we typically saved for last on Sunday evenings, simply titled “Sunset.” Some years later, I often find myself singing the first verse now and again: “When shadows grow long in the evening, When birds wing their way back home, I get a heavenly feeling; It’s sunset and I’m going home. God paints the clouds in the evening sky, To show me the way to the palace on high, And stars mark the pathway lest my feet should roam,   It’s sunset and I’m going home.” That Old Ache I fully realize that not everyone had a great childhood, or even a good one. While there is a difference between good and great, I sense that the gulf existing between good and bad is far wider and more treacherous. Perhaps your childhood is marked not by the the light of a setting sun, but rather by storm clouds, sleet, and many dark nights. Though in either case, that old ache yet persists, does it not? Doubtless we sensed it from early childhood, no matter our circumstances. Some weight in our souls, a longing without name; a cry within the howling infinite of our innermost-being that testified to the truth that God “has put eternity into man ’s heart ” (Ecclesiastes 3:11). Without Him, our souls remained utterly restless. And when the Lord saved us, did we not finally taste and see the One to whom all the sunset-shadows kept pointing? All of life is as the setting of the sun—a gradual closing of the curtain as night falls upon this age. A groaning of all creation itself in anticipation of a new, unending day: “ But according to His promise we are waiting for new heavens and a new earth in which righteousness dwells ” (1 Peter 3:13) . When the shadows begin to grow long in the evening sky, do not despair. If you are the Lord ’ s, this world was never your home to begin with: “ For you have died, and your life is hidden with Christ in God ” (Colossians 3:3) . Rather, follow these shadows and longings to the feet of Him who is the remedy for every ache in our hearts. For in a short time the sun will set on each of our lives, and with joy we will say to ourselves, “I ’ve got a heavenly feeling; the way has been long and hard, but now it’s sunset and I’m finally going home.” And when we at long last see Him for the first time and hear those words,— “Well done, good and faithful servant. Enter into the joy of your Master”—every ache shall then be healed and every longing satisfied. On that day, we will at last step into the light to which our lifelong nostalgia only dimly pointed—we’ll finally be home. Photo by Andrey Svistunov, Unsplash

Several years ago, Jordan Peterson appeared on the rather popular Lex Fridman Podcast . In no time at all, a discussion arose between the two men regarding their favorite author—the great Russian writer, Fyodor Dostoevsky. Their conversation was narrowing in on this point: which of Dostoevsky ’s novels can rightfully claim the title as the greatest book ever written, Crime and Punishment or The Brothers Karamazov ? In his defense of The Brothers Karamazov , Fridman made this simple but profound statement when pressed by Peterson—“Some of my best friends are inside that book.” I feel as though I have now reached the stage in my Christian life where I can honestly say of the Bible that “some of my best friends are inside that book.” The more I read the Bible, and the more I am shaped by it, the dearer its words and characters become. Only, they’re not just characters, are they? From Adam to David to Peter, these are real, living, historical individuals we are presently concerned with. Real individuals that all we in Christ shall one day meet in the age to come. Real individuals that, through trillions of ages, we shall get to know, converse among, and grow to be friends with. After the Lord Jesus Christ, my best and dearest Friend in all the Bible, I think the Apostle Paul is a distant second, but second all the same (not bad considering some of the mountainous, larger-than-life folks he’s squared up against in Scripture). Indeed, over the years I feel as though I’ve come to know Paul as a friend and grown to love him rather dearly. The words of Paul, inspired by the Spirit of Christ, have so permeated my life that I can scarcely think of a man who has more deeply influenced my thinking aside from the Lord Jesus Christ Himself. The words of Paul, of course, only hold the weight they do because of the Lord’s leading and inspiration, but I am thankful all the same for the man that God used in such a mighty way—both in my own life, and in the life of many billions of others. I do not suppose to know what Heaven will be like, but I do look forward to seeing my brother Paul face to face. I am eager to shake his hand and draw him in for an embrace; to let him know that, though we were separated by an ocean of time, he was used by the Lord so profoundly in my life. Like ships passing in the night, he and I and many countless others slipped by one another in the fleeting shadows of history, and yet a friendship was sparked—a friendship that though it began here below through the pages of Scripture, shall continue forevermore in the world to come. Photo by Joshua Newton, Unsplash Author’s Note: With respect to where I stand on the Dostoevsky question, I would lean towards Crime and Punishment over The Brothers Karamazov . For while The Brothers Karamazov is often hailed as Dostoevsky’s magnum opus and arguably the better of the two novels, Crime and Punishment resonated more with me personally. Indeed, I have often heard folks make a similar distinction, with some going so far as to say that Crime and Punishment was the novel that brought them back towards God and Christianity because of Dostoevsky’s deep treatment of such things as guilt, justice, and redemption. Nonetheless, both novels are often found in any “The Greatest Novels Ever Written” list and rightfully so—Dostoevsky was a literary genius with few parallels, a master at weaving together theology, politics, the human condition, philosophy, and psychology into rich stories with characters so real you could very well find lifelong friends among those pages. Dostoevsky was the kind of author that, upon reading him, you would find burning within yourself a great desire to write more and to write better—only to quickly realize how pale an imitation your work was in comparison to his upon starting. For those of you who may be interested, the link to the Fridman and Peterson clip in question will be below. While I by no means can get behind everything Jordan Peterson says,—especially his often muddled perspective on Christ and the Bible—I do find that he has many worthwhile insights, particularly into literature and philosophy.

Yesterday my sister married the love of her life in Kitwe, Zambia. Cheyenne, the oldest among my three younger sisters, had first met Willem on a mission trip to Zambia two years ago where she served the Lord and others in her vocation as a chef. Even back then, my sister rightly recognized that this trip would be the fulfillment of a childhood dream, an adventure long in the making. Though, who among us could have anticipated such a turn of events? Well, maybe I had my suspicions, as all big brothers do—slight as they may have been at the time. All the same, while the adventure for Cheyenne may have begun in Africa, it by no means has ended there. Unfortunately, Elaina and I are not in Kitwe, Zambia. Bound by the constraints of time, many thousands of miles, and the nigh-draconian attendance policies at my school, we were unable to make the journey from Canada to Zambia for Cheyenne and Willem’s wedding. Nonetheless, Elaina and I are joyfully looking forward to seeing and celebrating with them once the equally draconian process of acquiring a visa for Willem is complete and they find themselves back in Canada. Well— back for Cheyenne, but a new home entirely for her husband, Willem. To my knowledge, Willem has never left Zambia and so life in Canada will be quite the adjustment for him: the joys of highway 401 at rush-hour, the excitement of ‘rolling-up-the-rim’ at Tim Horton’s just to be told—again— to ‘Please Play Again’, and of course, fighting off polar bears in the morning as you de-ice your car. He’s going to love it here! My mother, however, was in Zambia for my sister’s wedding. It was she who suggested that Elaina and I write up a short speech that she could then share at Cheyenne and Willem’s reception in our stead. My sister has a printed copy of this speech for her own memory, but I feet it necessary to share my thoughts here as well. Perhaps for my own sake above all, I share these words as a remembrance of the fact that we—my siblings and I—are no longer the kids we once were; that seasons come and seasons go, but thanks be to the Lord that the most important things yet remain and forever will. Indeed, in the best of days and the worst of days, I take refuge in the tremendous reality that the best is yet to come for all of us who are in the Lord Jesus Christ, “to all who have loved His appearing” (1 Timothy 4:8). — Words have profound weight behind them. Words are able to build up, and to break down; to encourage, as well as discourage; with words we begin relationships, mend them, and end them. And yet, for all their power and beauty, sometimes words just seem to fall short—here I am, writing these words many thousands of miles away, and I don’t quite know what to say. As you well know, Cheyenne,—and doubtless she’s already told you this, Willem—Tata’s favorite passage of Scripture came from Ecclesiastes chapter three. Here are a select few verses from the passage he cherished most: “For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die… a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance…” (verses 1, 2, and 4). Over the years, we have, all of us, done our fair share of weeping and mourning, but that is not how this day is to be remembered: today is to be filled with laughter and dancing, and strive to remember it this way, for the day slips away all too quickly if you allow it. Though, as it is with even the best of days, there is sorrow mixed in with the joy; tears from both laughing and weeping. On days like today, it is only natural—only human—to mourn for those empty chairs around us. But as Christians, our prayer is ever this: Lord, hasten the day when death is undone, and every empty chair is filled once more, never again to go empty. Just as the warmth of spring cannot be enjoyed without first having endured the slush and bitter cold of winter (you’ll see soon enough what we mean, Willem), in order for any season of life to begin another must come to a close. As I reflect on the seasons of life that you and I have shared together, Cheyenne, a few moments of sweetness come to mind: playing video games together in our teenage years (or rather, you watching me  play video games); baking and cooking up a storm in the kitchen (and stealing ingredients from the cousins’ house next door when we ran out of anything); playfully teasing Mama for being unable to differentiate between the words pool and pole  (sorry, Mama). But above all, and I speak for both Elaina and I when I write these words, our great joy in knowing you as a sister has been witnessing your love for the Lord through the many seasons of life that He has brought you in and out of, leading you now to this new season—one of laughter, dancing, love, and joy.  I think it’s only right, in a way, to mourn these dear seasons of life that have come and gone; for they were sweet indeed, and we should, as the saying goes, not cry because these years are gone, but rather smile that they happened at all. Though you and I are no longer children like we once were, I am thankful that we remain sweet friends. And though I cannot be there with you in person, I feel the need to thank you for your many years of faithful love and friendship towards me, for these have been one of God’s great gifts in my life. And as you embark on this next journey with this new best friend, with Willem, just try your best to remember that your old friends will always be there for you—and above all, ever remember Him, the Lord Jesus Christ, who is your best, dearest, and oldest Friend, no matter what season of life you and Willem may find yourselves in. Love, Josh & Elaina Photo by Martin Fennema, Unsplash

“Now is the judgment of this world; now will the ruler of this world be cast out” (John 12:31). The dark night of the soul—have you tasted those bitter waters, believer? Have you wandered those dark, starless paths wherein your faith seems to hang by a lone thread? It is a dreadful thing to fall under the shadow of such a night; when the hand of the Lord seems so very heavy, and His face ever so far away. In these dreary moments, it is as though a great veil is drawn over the Son, obscuring from our souls for a time the warmth and comfort of His light. It is during such dark nights of the soul that one ’s faith seems as nothing more than a dancing candle flame in the midst of a howling infinite. Perhaps you have found refuge from the storm within—as I have often done—in the words of David. Consider, for a moment, the utter desperation of spirit with which he calls out to the Lord in Psalm 88: “I cry out day and night before you... For my soul is full of troubles, and my life draws near to Sheol... You have put me in the depths of the pit, in the regions dark and deep. Your wrath lies heavy upon me, and you overwhelm me with all your waves” (verses 1, 3, 7, and 7). The words of David in Psalm 88 draw to a close with these haunting remarks: “O LORD, why do you cast my soul away? Why do you hide your face from me?... You have caused my beloved and my friend to shun me; my companions have become darkness” (14, 18). The man is caught between a rock and a hard place, with no relief in sight. There is in the Christian life a particular darkness of soul that can at times almost overwhelm the believer. A spiritual depression—a dark night of the soul, a crisis of faith—that clouds our hope and gnaws at our assurance, casting our souls into the pit alongside David in those “regions dark and deep.” Having walked those dreaded halls more than once,—and been led out of them again by the faithful hand of the Lord—an observation I have made is this: the Lord’s purposes are far greater in and through such suffering than we can possibly imagine. Indeed, His hand is not heavy without purpose. Have you ever considered, dear believer, that in allowing such fears and doubts to linger for a season, the Lord is gently, lovingly, redirecting your gaze back towards Him? Perhaps you’ve been caught navel-gazing of late—drawn away from your first love and the gospel by your own sense of achievement, comfort, or security—and the Lord in His love towards you has come to stir you awake from your slumber. Whatever the source of these dark nights of the soul may be for any one of us, I feel confident in saying that the Lord uses such soul-agony for this predetermined end: that we should despair of ourselves anew, set aside our fleeting emotions, and cling to His promise of life eternal secured through the work of the Lord Jesus Christ alone. Do not trust your heart or the feelings that flow from it—trust in the Lord and His steadfast love, independent of whether or not you feel it. For, His faithfulness towards those in Christ is the surest thing there is; indeed, surer by far than the sun which will rise tomorrow morning. Now, our own sin and unbelief aside, we must reckon with the reality that we have an enemy in this world: that ancient serpent from long ago, the accuser of the brethren (Revelation 12:10). It is he who whispers lie after lie in the ears of the righteous, flinging all manner of accusations against us before the throne of God night and day continually. “Now the serpent was more crafty than any other beast of the field that the LORD God had made...” (Genesis 3:1). In days both dark and delightful, his lies can so easily come to us and make us stumble—and worse yet, cause us to doubt that gentle hand which holds us. “You have sinned again,” the forked tongue whispers,  “best you give up now, your God has turned His back on you for good this time.” Whether it be the reminder of some fresh sin we have just committed, or an old haunt from our past, the father of lies and his ilk are ever quick to accuse us. In his wicked craftiness, the airing of old haunts seems to be his specialty: the painful remembrance that he calls to mind of those sins committed long ago—the sins that have scarred us, and perhaps others also. It is as though the enemy says, “You have been forgiven, you say? Perhaps—but has He forgiven you of that? Perhaps not.” This debilitating, nigh-paralyzing feeling of unworthiness that believers can so often fall into is perfectly illustrated in Fyodor Dostoevsky ’s final novel , The Brothers Karamazov. After a humiliating arrest under suspicion of murdering his father, the eldest Karamazov son, Mitya, begins to feel naked and ashamed before his tormentors after they stripped him of his clothes, belongings, and humanity: “He felt unbearably awkward: everyone else was dressed, and he was undressed, and—strangely—undressed, he himself seemed to feel guilty before them, and, above all, he was almost ready to agree that he had indeed suddenly become lower than all of them, and that they now had every right to despise him.” Given The Brothers Karamazov was published in 1880, I have no qualms about spoiling this significant detail: Mitya did not kill his father. And yet, the fierce accusations of those around him make Mitya feel as though he did; as though he is in someway worthy of being despised. He is innocent, but he does not feel as though he is. Rather, he feels undressed, naked, and despised by his enemies; indeed, every bit as vile as they accuse him of being. The enemy tempted our first parents in the garden, he sought the life of Job, and in his hubris he dared breathe lies and temptations in the presence of Him who is altogether truth. Surely we as believers cannot expect exemption from such ill-treatment if the enemy was so bold as to accuse our Lord. In the book of Zechariah, the Lord has given us a mighty illustration of our identity in Christ—in Him, we stand pure, forgiven, accepted, and forever set free from the lies of the enemy. In Zechariah 3:1-4, we find these words: “Then he showed me Joshua the high priest standing before the angel of the LORD, and Satan standing at his right hand to accuse him. And the LORD said to Satan, ‘The LORD rebuke you, O Satan! The LORD who has chosen Jerusalem rebuke you! Is not this a brand plucked from the fire?’ Now Joshua was standing before the angel, clothed with filthy garments. And the angel said to those who were standing before him, ‘Remove the filthy garments from him.’ And to him he said, ‘Behold, I have taken your iniquity away from you, and I will clothe you with pure vestments.’” Now, I want you to notice something very important: Joshua the high priest is not clean when Satan brings an accusation against him. Joshua is, as the text says, “clothed with filthy garments” (verse 3). There is a sense in which Satan’s accusation is perfectly legitimate: “God, you say you are holy and yet here is your high priest, filthy and entirely unfit for service!” Joshua is every bit unworthy as Satan accuses him of being. Notice, however, the response: “ The LORD rebuke you, O Satan! The LORD who has chosen Jerusalem rebuke you! Is not this a brand plucked from the fire? ” God, being God, is entirely, infinitely aware of our condition before Him and in no need of any reminders. And yet, though He is aware of every skeleton in every closet—every old haunt that the enemy may tread out before Him in accusation of us—it is nonetheless He who loves us most. I believe it was Charles Spurgeon who once said that when he is tempted into thinking he is unworthy, he thinks little of it—for he was never worthy. At no point were any of us worthy of salvation. But God, being rich in mercy, has taken our filthy garments off of us, nailed them on the cross of His Son, and clothed us with the perfect righteousness of Jesus Christ: “And you, who were dead in your trespasses and the uncircumcision of your flesh, God made alive together with [Christ], having forgiven us all our trespasses, by canceling the record of debt that stood against us with its legal demands. This He set aside, nailing it to the cross” (Colossians 2:13-14). Allow this mighty, infinitely deep truth to wash over you. The One who made you, died for you; if you are in Christ, and He in you, your vestments are pure indeed. If you have turned from your sin in repentance and found refuge in Christ through faith alone, then all your sin, every haunt and source of guilt, has been forgiven by the Lord. In Christ, your sin has been cast into that sea without bottom to forever plummet further from all living memory, blotted out from the record of Him who knows all, forgotten and forgiven entirely, removed as far from you as the east is from the west. Plucked from the fire, we in Christ have not only been forgiven, but clothed in the very righteousness of the living God Himself, saved forever. In the death and resurrection of the Lord Jesus Christ, the ruler of this world has been cast out: “ He disarmed the rulers and authorities and put them to open shame, by triumphing over them in Him ” (Colossians 2:15). The accuser of the brethren, Satan, has been crushed beneath the heel of the Lord; the truth of the gospel renders the accusations of the enemy empty and impotent. Nothing in all of creation can separate us from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus our Lord because our Lord lived the life we could not live and died the death we could not die. We do not need to fear the judgement, for Jesus has died in our place. I love these words from Dr. John Neufeld: “I will love the cross more when I come to realize how deeply dark were my sins and therefore how deeply merciful was Christ’s mercy. And my love for that which Christ has done will increase exponentially... when we paint sin so exceedingly sinful, it paints the cross so beautifully. And I can’t help but think we’ll never appreciate the cross until we appreciate how deep and dark were all of our actions here.” Ours sins are dreadful—indeed, far more vile and nightmarish than we could possibly dare to guess—but the salvation in which we stand, secured in our Lord, is far more beautiful than our hearts can ever fathom. In fact, so infinitely rich is the gift of our salvation in Christ that we shall spend all our days in the ages to come trying to uncover its bottom: “ so that in the coming ages He might show the immeasurable riches of His grace in kindness toward us in Christ Jesus ” (Ephesians 2:7). Photo by m wrona, Unsplash