Search & Ye Shall Find...

“ And the scribe said to Him, 'You are right, Teacher. You have truly said that He is one, and there is no other besides Him ' ” (Mark 12:32). All of history is His story - and we're living through it. Every day, every moment, counts for eternity and counts for Him. Our lives either abound unto Christ, or rail against Him; there remains no middle ground concerning Him with whom we have to do. Indeed, “What we do in life, echoes in eternity.” And yet, do not some moments feel weightier than most? As though we are, the lot of us, standing upon a great threshold that, once crossed, ushers us into a new day, for good or for ill. If for good, praise the Lord. And if for ill? Praise the Lord all the same, since “we know that for those who love God all things work together for good” (Romans 8:28). Whether in the best of times or the worst of times, the Lord is God and God He will stay. When the flow of history seems uncertain and fearful, remember this: it is His story, and He is the One who determines the end from the beginning. Indeed, no matter who is President, Jesus is King: “On His robe and on His thigh He has a name written: King of kings and Lord of lords” (Revelation 19:16). The Lord reigns from on high, and all things are under His rule - angels, demons, men, birds, beasts, creeping things, the seen and the unseen are all His, whether they realize it or not. Every. Knee. Will. Bow. Even if the tides of history begin to turn for, in our estimation, the very worst of outcomes, there remains no need to fear or tremble: “Be still, and know that I am God. I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth!” (Psalm 46:10). The Lord forms both light and darkness for His glorious purposes, and He will be magnified in them both. Should the kings of this earth and the very nations themselves rage and revile, what is it to Him, the Almighty?: “He who sits in the heavens laughs; the Lord holds them in derision” (Psalm 2:4). Rulers come and go, but the Lord remains forever; He is the same yesterday, today, and forevermore. And what of the kings of this earth, and the power they wield? What of it?: “The king's heart is a stream of water in the hand of the LORD; He turns it wherever He will” (Proverbs 21:1). They are as clay in the hands of the Master Potter: “Our God is in the heavens; He does all that He pleases” (Psalm 115:3). And should things “go our way”, we would do well to remember what He has said of Himself: “I am the LORD, and there is no other, besides me there is no God” (Isaiah 45:5). He alone is our Rock, our steadfast hope, our Savior - salvation belongs to the Lord and none other. Like us, the prophet Isaiah lived in a time of political turmoil and unrest. Indeed, there was no earthly king to be found in all of Israel, for he was dead: “In the year that King Uzziah died...” (Isaiah 6:1). Uzziah's death marked the end to a time of relative peace and prosperity in the land of Israel. In the midst of darkness and uncertainty, God Himself lifted Isaiah's head upwards where he “saw the Lord sitting upon a throne, high and lifted up; and the train of His robe filled the temple” (Isaiah 6:1). In Isaiah's vision, the holy angels themselves could not bear to even look at Him, the once and future King: “Holy, holy, holy is the LORD of hosts; the whole earth is full of His glory!' And the foundations of the threshold shook at the voice of him who called, and the house was filled with smoke. And I said: 'Woe is me! For I am lost; for I am a man of unclean lips, and I dwell in the midst of a people of unclean lips; for my eyes have seen the King, the LORD of hosts!” (Isaiah 6:3-5). Isaiah saw the King. Uzziah was dead; but the Lord of the universe, the thrice-holy King of kings and Lord of lords, was there, just as He always had been. Indeed, no matter who is President, Jesus is King and always will be - there is none other . Photo by Paul Bulai, Unsplash

The elders and pastors had only just left the house, leaving my father and I on our own for a moment. My father was weak by this point, quite weak, and so it must have been me who walked the men across the house, through the softly playing music in the living room, and to the door to bid them farewell - and thanks. Did I walk the men out? I truly cannot remember. It's a harmless thing to forget, really, but strange all the same given that so much of this moment has been deeply impressed upon my memory. I do, however, remember that my father looked tired, weary in both body and soul; his head leaned back on his pillow, eyes closed. This would have been around mid-January. Canadian climate will often do this curious thing where it vacillates between all four seasons for a time, unable to make up its mind, only to suddenly wholeheartedly commit to either scorching heat and humidity, or else bitter cold and howling winds. Now that Christmas had passed, so had all weatherly indecision; the veil of winter had decisively fallen, and a darkness began to rest over the land. Indeed, the shortening days were weary and the ever lengthening nights were so very dreary. It was around this time that my father's cancer had worsened and spread. As though riding upon the velvet feet of darkness itself, a shadow and sorrow began to threaten our family. That same shadow of cold and howling wind which had gathered out of doors began to steal across our own household. Cancer... What an ugly word, like a mouthful of razors... So hard and harsh, both in word and in deed... The C's so sharp you could cut your tongue on them. Dear reader, I hope that you do not read self-pity in my words, for that is not my intent. I do not mean to exaggerate, nor am I on the prowl for your sympathies; I only mean to recount things as they happened and as they seemed to me at the time. And yet, there is always a warm light that persists in the dark, howling infinite - " The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it" (John 1:5). It was in these days that Christ's presence felt most near, as though His reality took upon itself a greater weight - an intended weight - in those times when our family's faith was most fragile, "The LORD is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit" (Psalm 34:18). And yet, in the moments between moments, a fissure in our faith could be traced. A hairline crack, thin as an atom, that gave room to a single, deafening question: does Jesus care? It must have been a Monday when the elders and pastors came to visit - though again, I cannot remember entirely. What I do recall is that on Sunday our church held a communion service. My father was unable to attend church by this point, but he deeply desired to share in communion. As is the custom of many churches, a handful of men in our local leadership would often visit the sick and elderly the week following Sunday communion to partake of it with those brothers and sisters who had been unable to attend in person. That Monday, several elders, pastors, and close friends of my father came to our home to do this very thing. After thanking the men and seeing them out, I walked back to my parent's room and paused at the doorway to observe my father. Standing there, I could only just make out the melody coming from the other room - music that my mother must have turned on when the men arrived. He was in the same position as before, sitting upright with his head leaned back on his pillow, eyes closed, though not asleep. As I recall this memory to mind and see my father there in his bed, I draw comfort from Paul's words, "Though our outer self is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day. For this light momentary affliction is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison, as we look not to the things that are seen but to the things that are unseen. For the things that are seen are transient, but the things that are unseen are eternal" (2 Corinthians 4:16-18). Without Christ, there is no hope. Apart from unwavering faith in His unwavering promises, would we not, all of us, be undone? Looking at my father from the doorway, weak and worn as he was, these twin realities presented themselves: "Though our outer self is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day." This was true not only of my father, but of me also - of my entire family. We stood in these days upon a great threshold; the wasting away of the world and its comforts on one end, and a peace that surpassed all intelligible understanding on the other. While fully aware of the answer, we would ask ourselves, does Jesus care? And yet, did we not ask the question all the same? I left the doorway and made my way into the room by my father's side, sitting on the bed with him. We sat in silence for some time, with only fleeting exchanges here and there - that was alright, we had a lot on our minds and even more on our hearts . His eyes were still closed, but he was thinking. No doubt he was going over many of the same things in his mind that I was, though I am sure it was with far greater intensity. He looked both tired and restless, caught between the need to rest and the need to care for his family as he had always done. Was he thinking and worrying about those things that occupied my own mind? Was he too, somewhere deep in his own heart, asking that dreadful question - Does Jesus care? If he was, he never would have let on; his head was still leaned back on his pillow, eyes closed. In the stillness that veiled that moment, I also must have closed my eyes at some point. It was such a quiet stillness that rested over the room that I could sense even the slightest motion of my father. He was the first to hear the music. I opened my eyes and looked at him curiously. His eyes were still closed, but his head was swaying gently, up and down, back and forth, as though he were following a tune or conducting an invisible orchestra. His lips were moving softly, tracing the words quietly as he heard them. And then, suddenly, I heard the music as well. Streaming softly from the living room, and then more noticeably, a haunting melody began to swell through the door, "Does Jesus care when my heart is pained Too deeply for mirth and song? When the burdens press And the cares distress And the way grows weary and long? Oh yes, He cares, I know He cares His heart is touched with my grief When the days are weary The long night dreary I know my Savior cares." I know my Savior cares. As the hymn continued to fill the room, I once again closed my eyes and allowed the music to cascade over me; to clothe me, to comfort me. When I say that this moment was 'haunting', understand me well: it was haunting. It was hauntingly beautiful, hauntingly weighty; it was poignant, reflective, transcendent even. In those fleeting minutes, it seemed as though the great gulf between earth and Heaven was breached, as though the eternal stepped foot onto the dusty floor of the temporal, transient, and fleeting. To borrow from another hymn, "Heaven came down and glory filled my soul." For but a moment, the unseen could be seen - "the things that are unseen are eternal." The music faded, and with it the moment also. That door left open into the infinite was gently being shut once again, leaving my father and I as we were. My eyes slowly opened and I looked at him. He was in the same position as before, sitting upright with his head leaned back on his pillow, eyes closed, though not asleep - with a smile on his face. "Does Jesus care when I've said, 'Goodbye' To the dearest on earth to me? And my sad heart aches Till it nearly breaks Is it aught to Him? Does He see? Oh yes, He cares, I know He cares His heart is touched with my grief When the days are weary The long night dreary I know my Savior cares. I know my Savior cares."

The Bible is a Him book - it’s all about Him. The Bible also happens to be the world’s greatest hymn book. From Genesis to the Psalms to Revelation, every word sings of the glory of God and His marvelous salvation across a fallen cosmos in what is unmistakably history’s mightiest song. The Psalms in particular are too precious to be read only. These words must be sung, whether vocally, in prayer, or simply as the tune which echoes in your own heart as the day passes by. Let the words of God Himself fill your mind such that they trickle down into your soul like a steady stream, resonating within and without that you are indeed a child of the Father, numbered among His precious little ones and filled with His Spirit. Preach and sing these truths to yourself morning and evening, always “ addressing one another in psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, singing and making melody to the Lord with your heart” (Ephesians 5:19). Throughout history, the Psalms have not only served as the Church’s hymnal, but as a book of prayer also. Whether in seasons of want or fullness, wandering or wondering, joy or sorrow, the Psalms have given voice to countless saints along every leg of their earthly pilgrimage. Millions upon millions of voices have found refuge and utterance in the Psalms, producing a mighty cathedral of God’s people throughout the ages, crying and singing and praying God’s own words back to Him in worship. Indeed, there are few examples given us in all the world that are better suited for personal and corporate prayer than the Psalms, the very treasury of King David himself. In the Gospels, the Lord Jesus provides us with another pattern of prayer, aptly called ‘The Lord’s Prayer’. The Lord’s Prayer appears twice in the Gospels, once in Matthew 6:9-13 and again in the Gospel of Luke, 11:2-4. While these two prayers are very similar, they are nonetheless slightly different while maintaining consistent structure and content between the two. Matthew’s prayer is taken from the Sermon on the Mount and is the longer of the two, while Luke’s account is slightly shorter and recorded as being from an entirely separate account.  Dr. John Neufeld thoughtfully observed that the differences between the two versions of this prayer should be a source of great joy and liberty for Christians. These differences in length and content demonstrate the reality that, within God’s desire for prayer that pleases Him, there exists a certain flexibility within the bounds of the structure that He has given to us. Like the Psalms, we can insert our own words, burdens, and desires into the structure of Jesus’ prayer, while at no point straying from God’s intended will for how we are to address Him. How then shall we pray? I am indebted to the wisdom and example of my dear father-in-law for the prayer that lies below. Though I have added some of my own words and a section or two, much is drawn from his example and above all, from the example of our Lord Himself. May these words give you strength, utterance, and a renewed zeal for prayer when you find yourself with little strength and even fewer words. — Our Father, Abba Father, as your little children we call out to you as our Heavenly Father who is in authority over us, and over all. We are as sheep in the pasture of your providence, and we look to you as our great Shepherd - who saves us, leads us, provides for us, and protects us from the wolves and darkness of this world. We thank you for the many good and godly fathers that you have given us here below, but we know that the very best of these men are only shadows of you, our God and Father from whom all good things flow, and to whom all good things point. You have established the rules and we are never to forget that you, Father, are in authority over all things and to be obeyed with trembling, love, and child-like joy. Give us the grace, Father, to obey you in all things; like the waves of the sea and the stars of the night sky, to only and ever live within the borders that you have sovereignly established for our good. Your will is good, Father, for it proceeds from the wellspring of truth, righteousness, and love that resides in your own heart. Your will is good, Father; give us grace to see it that way, and not easily forget it. As our Heavenly Father we have experienced your intimacy and love. You are committed to doing us good and not harm, working out all things for our eternal good and your eternal glory. Through faith in the finished work of your Son, the Lord Jesus Christ, we now belong in your presence; for you have adopted us into your family, given us a seat at your table, and made us heirs with Christ, not upon any merit of our own working but solely by grace through faith in Christ alone. Hallowed be your name, Father. May your great name be everywhere honored and adored and revered by all. As we pray in this way we align ourselves with your purposes and eternal will, submitting to you as the thrice-holy God of the universe. For you as Creator have created us for your glory, to glorify you and enjoy you forever. There will come a day when you redeem all things and your name will be glorified by all creation, with every knee bowing and every tongue confessing that Jesus is Lord. May He increase in all things, and may we decrease. You are sovereign, Father, you rule over all. Thy kingdom come, Father; that time when all the ravages of the fall come to a complete and utter end, when the invisible becomes visible, when faith steps into the light of sight. In that day, when your Kingdom comes, all sin and its effects will end; sin and death will taste death; all rebellion will be decisively settled and stilled; the groanings of creation will sigh no more; violence, wars, and disease will waste away; demonic activity will be forever cast out from the glory of the universe; aging will cease; sorrow, sighing, and every last tear will be wiped away by the touch of your fingers. We pray with expectation and longing for your Kingdom as we live and move and breathe here below with an eternal perspective. Truly, may your Kingdom come and your will be done on earth and in us, as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. Bread signifies that we should pray for everything that is needed to sustain our daily lives. We do not experience a single need that should not be the immediate subject of our prayers, so we pray for all these things, trusting that you as our Father know what we need long before we do, before the words even enter our minds or leave our lips. We acknowledge and trust that our needs will be met by a sovereign and all-loving God who has promised to meet all our needs and to do so abundantly. Father, we thank you that you are always faithful to do much more abundantly than we can even ask or think. For, all good things come down from above, from the Father of lights who gives His rain to the just and the unjust. Everything we need, from the air that we breathe to the clothes we wear to the very faith that sustains us, are good gifts from you, our Father. Forgive us our sins, for we ourselves forgive everyone indebted to us. You are holy and we are not. As we confess our treason against you, our Holy God, we are humbled and reminded of your amazing grace towards us. Not a day has gone by where we have loved you with all our hearts, minds, souls, and strength, or others as ourselves, and yet we hunger and thirst for the time soon to come when we shall worship and love you, and others, perfectly.  We thank you that though we fall short of your glory, we cannot fall short of your goodness and grace; nothing can separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus, your beloved Son. We are reminded that our righteous standing before you is not based on our work or merit or anything we have done, but on your grace and your grace alone. For we do not forgive others to merit your forgiveness; rather, we forgive others because you have forgiven us in Christ Jesus, because we have experienced your love and grace and therefore respond with love and grace to all. And Lead us not into temptation. Not that you tempt us, for you do not and cannot, but we pray that you will keep us from those situations which we are too weak to handle. Keep us safe from the darkness of the world, the flesh, and the devil, and give us grace to be lights in this world while we yet draw breath. In this, we remember your promise to keep us from being tempted beyond what we are able to bear.  Father, we thank you that, though the world is evil, the Lord Jesus has overcome the world; He is the King of kings and the Lord of lords, and we joyfully submit to Him and await His coming with groans unutterable. Grant us grace to live by faith and not by sight. Equip us to more zealously love Him who we do not see, that we may then more earnestly love those who we do see, until that day when faith shall become sight and all is set right. In the name of the Lord Jesus Christ and in the power of your Holy Spirit do we pray all these things before you, Father. Amen. Photo by Aaron Burden, Unsplash

Upon every front, Ireland is divided. For centuries, her identity has been caught between the Catholicism of her past and the Protestantism of her colonists, between Gaelic and the King’s English - between an Irish and an English heritage. Does Ireland embrace the bogs and mossy crags of her Celtic past, or does she embrace the speed and vitality of modernity? The enigma of Ireland’s complicated identity, and her path into the future, is one that Irish writers have been unraveling for hundreds of years. In the last century, the answer to this question has only grown murkier with the advent of Ireland being split, both symbolically and literally, into the Republic of Ireland and Northern Ireland. However, within the 20th-century two sons of Ireland have brought forth compelling considerations to these titanic questions. Though they are by no means in agreement with regards to Ireland’s identity, W.B. Yeats and James Joyce have shaped Irish culture and literature more than any writers before them. All of Irish literature, whether penned by Yeats as he looks backwards or Joyce as he strives forwards, is asking this very question: who are we as the people of Ireland? By examining Joyce’s short story, The Dead,  through the lens of cultural materialism , his divided affections about Ireland’s past and his anxieties about her future are brought into direct conflict with the Celtic romanticism of Yeats proposed in Cathleen ni Houlihan  and other texts. The character of Gabriel in The Dead  becomes the canvas upon which Joyce’s conflicted notions about Ireland are fully realized, and in this way casts Gabriel as a symbol of the identity crisis faced by Joyce and the modern Irishman.          Additionally, Gabriel’s anxiety over his Irish heritage in The Dead  becomes further symbolized in the complicated intimacy that he shares with his wife, Gretta. In this way, Gretta becomes a modern embodiment of Ireland herself, much like Cathleen ni Houlihan in Yeats’ play of the same name. Indeed, just as Gabriel represents a divided Joyce, Gretta becomes the object of those divisions - a woman, a nation, that he is attempting to love even though she herself is caught between the aroma of modernity and the distant music of her past.          The story of a divided Ireland is very much the story of James Joyce himself. Despite being born in Dublin, Joyce’s identity as an Irishman was in constant tension throughout his life. The questions that Joyce wrestled with were no different from the very questions that his kinsmen sought to answer: who are we as Irishmen, and where are we going? This tension within the soul of Joyce becomes expressed in the character of Gabriel from The Dead. There is a real sense in which Gabriel is the ultimate expression of Irishmen: a man torn between Ireland and Britain, between a Celtic past and a globalized future. Gabriel’s own identity crisis is emblematic of not only the tension within Joyce himself, but the rivalry between himself and Yeats, and indeed symbolic of Irish history itself. Only, Joyce is less interested in absolute answers to these age-old questions and more concerned with the conversion itself, as becomes evidenced in his story, The Dead. In this way, The Dead seeks to frame the conversation about Ireland rather than propose a strict answer to the issue of Irish identity. However, before delving into Gabriel’s divided affections over his Irish heritage, it would be wise to first consider the primary tenets of cultural materialism to understand the depths and nuances of Irish history and politics. Unlike other theoretical frameworks, cultural materialism does not become overly fixated on one specific dimension of Ireland, as though the answers were that simple, but rather considers Ireland as a whole - her economics, politics, religion, colonial past, and especially her literature. When Raymond Williams developed this theory, he did so because he contested that historical materialism was too simple; the delineation between dominant and emergent ideologies is rarely, if ever, clear cut. Culture is never static; it is alive and in a constant state of flux from one ideology to another. Dominant ideologies are slowly replaced by emerging ideologies which are, at times, usurped by residual ideologies - and through history all these ideologies are constantly recycled. The ideology of Ireland at any given moment, whether dominated by Yeats or Joyce, will impact every facet of her character and sense of self. Cultural materialism as a critical theory allows students of history to determine the state of Ireland at a given point by examining her literature and writers. Literature will often isolate emergent ideologies before they become dominant; indeed, literature itself may be the very force that perpetuates such ideologies into becoming dominant when they otherwise would have remained simply emergent or even become residual. Now, onto The Dead. Right from Gabriel Conroy’s very first appearance in The Dead, a contrast is drawn between himself and the rest of the dinner guests. Freddy Malins, a drunk and an embarrassment, is running late to the aunt’s party, but so is Gabriel - “Freddy Malins always came late but [the aunts] wondered what could be keeping Gabriel” (Joyce 152). No doubt this was Joyce’s subtle attempt to distinguish Gabriel - that symbol of refined Irish heritage breaking into the future - from the rest of the ‘rabble’ at the party. Freddy Malins was expected to be late, but Gabriel is above reproach. Immediately following Gabriel’s arrival, he talks briefly with Lily, the caretaker’s daughter, and smiles softly “at the three syllables she had given his surname” (153). Gabriel, though he is a refined gentleman and an academic, cannot help but be amused at Lily’s pronunciation of his surname as Con-er-roy , thus betraying her ‘flat’ Dublin accent that would have contrasted with Gabriel’s Anglo-Irish accent after his years on the continent (Joyce 156; Brown 266). Despite being a Dubliner himself, Joyce is taking pains to distinguish Gabriel - and himself - from the ‘common’ folk of Dublin. Shortly after this encounter with Lily, Gabriel ruminates about the speech that he is to give at dinner and becomes anxious over which lines of poetry he should quote. Gabriel is fearful that quoting Robert Browning would “be above the heads of his hearers” and that by reciting Shakespeare he might be suspected of “airing his superior education” (Joyce 154). Indeed, Gabriel is no ordinary Irish commoner, for he “had taken his degree in the Royal University”, a degree granting body that was established by the British Government (Joyce 161; Brown 268). It should be no surprise that Joyce himself graduated from the Royal University in 1902. Gabriel’s education and experience are thus shown to be in contrast with the other Dubliners at the party, casting “a gloom over him which he tried to dispel” as the night rolled on (Joyce 154). However, the division between Gabriel and the rest of the party guests is not only educational, but ideological as well. Joyce was critical of Ireland’s desire to be isolated from the rest of the world and modernity - a view held chiefly by Yeats. Whereas Yeats desired that Ireland should lean into her ancestral past and sever ties with British influences, Joyce thought quite the opposite: if Ireland was to survive, she must embrace the future and modernity. Thus, when Gretta tells Gabriel’s aunts the seemingly innocuous fact that he purchased a pair of goloshes “on the continent”, she is answered with a soft murmur and an incriminating head nod from Aunt Julia (156). From goloshes to ideology, Gabriel is influenced by the comings and goings of those on the European continent. European influence was so heavy upon the soul of both Gabriel and Joyce that the music of Ireland no longer entranced them as it once did: “He liked music but the piece she was playing had no melody for him” (160). Indeed, the allure of Ireland’s distant music was becoming just that - distant. The ideological divide between Gabriel and the other Dubliners, and consequently between Joyce and his fellow Irishmen as well, comes into sharper focus in his conversation with Miss Ivors. During a dance, Miss Ivors reprimands Gabriel for writing in The Daily Express, a Dublin newspaper of pronounced Unionist sympathies that hoped for greater developments with Britain (Joyce 162; Brown 269). Though he is only writing a weekly column in this newspaper, Miss Ivors accuses Gabriel of being “a West Briton” - a slur of sorts that was directed towards Anglo-Irishmen or those who sympathized with Unionist causes by separatists and Home Rule advocates (Joyce 162; Brown 269). According to Miss Ivors, Gabriel is representative of an emerging ideology within Ireland that sought to shake off the dust of their Celtic past, as proposed by Yeats, and move towards a globalized future wherein, allegedly, Ireland would become indistinguishable from the rest of the world. While this may be a simplistic view of modernism and Unionist efforts, it was nonetheless the ‘dragon’ that Yeats’ writing was attempting to slay. Understandably, Gabriel is perplexed at this charge from Miss Ivors, and “wanted to say that literature was above politics” (Joyce 162). This statement by Gabriel, however, could not be further from the truth. Cultural materialism makes clear that literature is informed by, or in response to, politics, just as politics is bound by the influence of literature. Indeed, this was the very essence and purpose of Joyce and Yeats’ lifework, though they were on opposite sides of the conversation. Literature may be “above politics” for a time, especially if it is literature that exists on the residual outskirts of a nation so as to have no impact. Alternatively, literature can be “above politics” when it is so above the dominant ideology that it goes entirely unnoticed because it too is dominant and thus in line with the ideological grain of culture. However, it should be noted that Miss Ivor’s animosity towards the British is not totally unfounded. Indeed, Joyce himself - and thus Gabriel - does not make a strawman or a mockery out of the separatists, for the entire story of The Dead is his genuine attempt to sort out his own feelings about Ireland’s past and her future trajectory. The tension within Joyce, Miss Ivor’s scathing comments, and Gabriel’s own sense of disillusionment make greater sense when they are cast against the backdrop of Ireland’s troubling colonial history with Britain. Additionally, such a detour will help frame the historical context that cultural materialism is attempting to respond to. As Britain was emerging from the fog of the Middle Ages, she became intoxicated with a deep sense of cultural and religious superiority. This was largely predicated on Britain’s self-profession as a Christian nation, coupled with her deep and abiding desire to be held in the same breath as the Roman Empire (Callan 1). One need only read the opening passages of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight to recognize the Roman inspiration for Britain's imperialist aims: “and Brutus / Split the sea, sailed from France / To England and opened cities on slopes” (Sir Gawain Poet lines 12-14). As a ‘Christian’ nation, Britain felt justified in her imperialist pursuits, coming to see herself as the righteous arm of God extending like a dreadful shadow across the nations (Callan 15). Britain’s sense of superiority becomes blatantly clear in her invasion of Ireland. 12th-century Ireland was a nation that, seemingly, was indistinguishable from the white, Christian nation of Britain herself. Since there were no obvious racial justifications for the British invasion of Ireland, the Crown conjured up religious objections to Ireland’s practice of Christianity to justify their imperialist aims (2). It is against this historical backdrop that cultural materialism, and Joyce, seeks to untangle Irish history and literature. By painting the Irish as “Christians in name, pagans in fact”, the British set the stage for what would become the impetus for all future colonial endeavors in Africa, Asia, Australia, and the Americas (3, 13). In Britain’s estimation, the Irish were “a savage and sacrilegious race, hostile to God and humanity” (3). Britain’s disposition of religious and ethnic superiority towards other nations, a disposition that was ‘tested’ in Ireland, would fuel Britain’s colonial efforts around the world. Indeed, Ireland became “the laboratory of nations”, thus determining the course for the colonial escapades that were to come in the following centuries (Carter Lecture 10). In the wake of Britain’s colonial invasion of Ireland, the demographics of the nation slowly began to shift. Britain initiated the settlement of the northernmost parts of Ireland with English speaking Protestants, meanwhile the southern and western portions of Ireland remained largely Gaelic-speaking Catholics. Such a contrast sparked an us and them mentality between the Irish and the English, a division that still exists to this very day between the Republic of Ireland and Northern Ireland (Callan 10). Indeed, during the construction of the Titanic in early 1900s Belfast, Protestant upper-management at the shipyards wore lead-lined bowler hats in the event that bolts and rivets were dropped ‘accidentally’ on their heads by their Catholic employees (Holland and Sandbrook 5:00). After the Titanic disaster, there was a report circulating Belfast about Protestant ship workers stripping a Catholic co-worker naked and roasting him over a fire until he was eventually rescued by fellow Catholics (40:00). Such incidents were not uncommon in Belfast’s Harland and Wolff Shipyard which employed nearly 11,000 workers during Titanic’s construction - thus embodying a melting pot of Irish and English cultural tension. Historians Holland and Sandbrook have argued that, though it is only a sliver of Irish history, the years of Titanic’s construction in Belfast and her eventual fate can be seen as a rich metaphor for not only industrial Europe’s imminent descent into global war, but indeed a metaphor for Ireland’s own imminent eruption into chaos (2:50). Titanic was not only being built during Irish Home Rule political agitations, but it was being constructed in a particular part of Belfast that increasingly became symbolic of the vast cultural and religious divides between Catholic and Protestant Irishmen (2:35). Though Belfast was originally founded as being Scottish-English, with the sudden rise in industrialization, of which Belfast became the beating heart in Ireland, the city began to absorb more and more Irish-Catholics from the rural countryside and the west of Ireland (38:20). The thread of tension and emerging modernist ideology that weaves through the story of Titanic is the very thread that can be traced back into Irish antiquity. To this very day, tourists in Belfast can buy t-shirts that say: “Titanic: Built by Irishmen, sunk by an Englishman” (Holland and Sandbrook 3:50). Indeed, is that not the very story of Ireland itself? A vessel built and honed for centuries by Irishmen, only to be sunk into chaos by the English. In The Dead, Gabriel expresses complicated feelings not just about Ireland, but about the west of Ireland in particular. On the cusp of their earlier conversation, Miss Ivors asks Gabriel if he and Gretta would like to join her on an excursion to the Aran Isles in the west of Ireland (Joyce 163). According to Miss Ivors, this would be a splendid idea, particularly because Gabriel’s wife, Gretta, is from Connacht, an almost entirely western province of Ireland (Joyce 163; Brown 270). Gabriel, however, has no desire to journey ‘further into’ the depths of Ireland, for he already has plans to further explore the continent (Joyce 163). When pressed by Miss Ivors as to why he refuses to learn his country’s language and explore her lands, Gabriel confesses that “I’m sick of my own country, sick of it!” (164). In Ulysses, Stephen Dedalus, a literary proxy for Joyce, also expresses a growing disgust for Mother Ireland. In the mind of Joyce, the romanticized notion of Mother Ireland as popularized by Yeats was “the green sluggish bile” that was causing her nation’s death (Joyce 296). Joyce was convicted that a blind loyalty to a residual and dying vision of Ireland was not conducive to the blossoming of Irish nationality, but rather a virus that needed to be torn up from an already sick and rotting liver. W.B. Yeats, however, had a very different view of Ireland. Indeed, the ideological divide between Joyce and Yeats can be seen in the early 20th-century divide between Dublin and Belfast. Whereas Belfast was quickly becoming the innovative metropole of Ireland with the city’s heavy focus on industrialization, Dublin’s wealth lay in her ability to trade in the nation’s natural resources (Holland and Sandbrook 35:25). Belfast was leaning into the future of modernity, like Joyce, while Dublin found her prosperity in Ireland herself, not unlike Yeats. This contrast can yet again be poetically displayed in the story of the Titanic. During the ship’s construction, it was said that Irishmen visiting Belfast, particularly from the west of Ireland, were struck by the city’s alien-like nature when compared to the rest of Ireland. Indeed, Belfast was described by other Irishmen as “a terrifying temple to industrial modernity” (37:40). The Titanic, the jewel of Belfast, represented a tremendous “investment in modernity”, perfectly encapsulating the speed, vitality, and sleekness of the future that Joyce so desperately desired for Ireland (7:40, 14:35). However, to Yeats, the raw brutality of the industrialized future pushing against the borders of Ireland represented a terrifying future - indeed, “All changed, changed utterly: A terrible beauty is born” (Yeats 347). In an effort to quell the march of modernity, Yeats looked to the west of Ireland. Just as the roaring ironworks and shipyards of Belfast represented an emerging and almost altogether dominant ideology in Ireland, the Aran Islands to the west represented the residual remains of an ancient Celtic past. Yeats held that Ireland’s future lay not in looking ahead, but in looking behind to an ancient past - isolating the forgotten remnants of the past to forge a new future. This inspired Yeats’ dedication to begin the Irish Literary Revival and moreover, his immense interest in the Aran Islands (Carter Lecture 7). It is worth noting that Joyce stands in direct contrast to the aims of the Irish Literary Revival - indeed, he is utterly determined to stand alone (Roche 10). This cultural isolation of Joyce’s, the struggle of a man without an identity, becomes manifest in his character Stephen from Ulysses. Joyce’s exclusion from the halls of Irish society by Yeats “represents Stephen’s social exclusion from the cliques of the Literary Revival” and in this way mirrors “Joyce’s Ibsenite resolve to stand apart and alone” (11). By focusing on residual cultures to the west, Yeats hoped to, like Hamlet, hold a “mirror up to nation” by creating a kind of Celtic Shakespeare (Roche 9-10). In Yeats’ work to revive Irish literature, theater, and culture, he was attempting to draw a parallel between 20th-century Ireland and the height of English art during the time of the Renaissance (9). Oddly enough, despite Yeats’ insistence to remove Ireland from British influences, there are striking similarities “between the formation of the drama of the English Renaissance and that of the Irish” (9). This is reflective of the vast overlap between dominant, emerging, and residual ideologies throughout history. Nevertheless, Yeats recognized that literature contained within itself the ability to both give an image to one’s affections, while also being able to direct the national narrative from residual cultures to emergent and, possibly, to make these cultures dominant. The Aran Islands to the west, that place which drives Gabriel sick, is precisely the place that Yeats looked to during the Irish Literary Revival. For Yeats, the cultures of the Aran Islands represented a pure and untouched Ireland, one that he longed to bring from residual to dominant within Ireland. In an effort to expand the Irish Literary Revival’s scope, Yeats dispatched poet John Millington Synge to the Aran Islands to draw from the yet untapped cultures of the west. Yeats’ influence on Irish drama was furthered by Synge who inserted quotes by Milton and Shakespeare into nearly all his dramatic works to give them an aura of authenticity and kinship to the other great literary works of history (13-15). However, Yeats’ romanticized view of Ireland can be best understood by examining his dramatic play, Cathleen ni Houlihan. In Irish tradition, Kathleen Ni Houlihan was a mythical symbol of Ireland itself, often represented as a matronly figure (Carter Lecture 1). This female representation of Ireland is to embody the character and qualities of all that Ireland represents - her strength, solidarity, and sovereignty. However, the characterization of Kathleen Ni Houlihan will largely depend on who is doing the writing. Namely, the writer’s view of Ireland will impact their depiction of her, thus why she can take the form of a motherly figure, a young woman, or even an old hag. In the case of Joyce, Kathleen Ni Houlihan is reduced to that of an old woman selling milk in Ulysses (Carter). But for Yeats, Ireland was no mere milkmaid. Indeed, “her name was like a summons to all [his] foolish blood… Her image accompanied [him] even in places the most hostile to romance” (Joyce 20). In Cathleen ni Houlihan , Yeats’ symbol of Ireland begins as an old lady, only to transform at the end of the play into something far fiercer and more beautiful. Indeed, Cathleen first appears to Michael and his family as “an old woman coming down the road” seeking shelter, rest, and more men for her cause (Yeats 422). In her words, as the very vessel of Ireland, “many a man has died for love of me” (427). Yeats was effectively calling his fellow Irishmen to action. Yeats, like Cathleen ni Houlihan, is luring young men to the aid of Ireland from the exploitation of the outside world - urging them to give up every iota of themselves (428). As Cathleen’s hooks begin to sink deeper and deeper into Michael, she is suddenly transformed before his eyes from an old and beggarly woman into “a young girl” with “the walk of a queen” (431). Yeats did not resent his Irish heritage nor the past that crafted her into the nation that she was, and so his depiction of her in Cathleen ni Houlihan as a fierce warrior is completely in line with his sentiment that Ireland’s strength rested in her past. Yeats, like Michael, is casting from himself the young bride offered him in the form of modernity and becomes intoxicated by the distant music of Ireland’s past. However, Yeats’ infatuation with an ancient Ireland had its share of reservations. As tensions within Ireland began to mount after the first World War, disaster struck in 1916. The Easter Rising, an armed insurrection initiated by Irish Republicans against the British, was a terrible failure - culminating in the loss of many Irish men and women. Shortly after the rebellion, Yeats penned his famous poem, Easter 1916, wherein he laments the loss of life and bloodshed: “What is it but nightfall? / No, no, not night but death; / Was it needless death after all?” (349). Just as Cathleen had so enchanted Michael, presumably to his very death, Yeats too began to fear that his play had a similar effect upon the men of Ireland. Indeed, had his play “changed utterly” the Irish consciousness? Is it possible that in Yeats’ war against modernity, a new and “terrible beauty [was] born”? There is a sense then, a terrible sense, that neither Yeats nor Joyce knows what to do with Ireland. On the one hand, Yeats’ visions of patriotism and romanticism very well may have contributed to the spilling of Irish blood in 1916, whereas Joyce seems to have nothing but disdain for his nation. However, with respect to Joyce, this is not the case; while his affection for Ireland may be confused, he does not hate her. In The Dead, Joyce produces his own Kathleen Ni Houlihan, of sorts, in Gabriel’s wife Gretta - a symbol not of strength and ferocity, but of sorrow, heartbreak, and division. While preparing to leave the party, Gabriel stands still “in the gloom of the hall”, the very gloom and mists of a languishing Ireland, and gazes up at his wife - as though she were the symbol of something, though he could not say what of (Joyce 182). Gretta, not unlike Michael in Yeats’ play, is entranced by the song of Bartell D’Arcy as he sings an old Irish ballad in the upper room (182). In this moment, Gabriel “asked himself what is a woman standing on the stairs in the shadow, listening to distant music, a symbol of” (182). Indeed, is this not the very symbol of Ireland herself? A woman, young and beautiful, caught between her cosmopolitan husband and the entrancing melody of distant music, the music of her own past? Though he cannot determine what Gretta is a symbol of in this moment, Gabriel becomes lost in this vision of his wife. Gabriel is unable to restrain himself as a “sudden tide of joy went leaping out of his heart… The blood went bounding along his veins” (184-185). Like Joyce, Gabriel finds himself in love with a vision of this woman despite the fact that she is entirely beyond understanding - a product of his cosmopolitan self and the very past that he loathes. For, even though Gretta is from the west of Ireland, Gabriel’s lust for her burns all the hotter, so much so that moments from their “secret life together burst like stars upon his memory” (185). Something, some new and emerging force, has taken hold of Gabriel towards Gretta and he is determined not to let the moment pass them by. Upon leaving the party, Gabriel and Gretta make their way in the early morning hours to their hotel room. All the while, Gabriel’s heart is burning within him - the vision of his wife upon the staircase, enveloped in shadow and distant music, has stirred something within him. However, once they enter their room, the moment seems to be fading - “He was trembling now with annoyance. Why did she seem so abstracted?” (188). Indeed, amid Joyce’s love for Ireland there is the constant presence of frustration and division, a heated anger within his soul over his country’s stubbornness. When asked by her husband what is troubling her, Gretta responds in tears by saying that D’Arcy’s song reminded her of a man from her youth in Galway that used to sing that song - a man from the west of Ireland (189-190). The name of the young man was Michael Furey and, as Gretta relates, he died very young after catching a cold in the rain while professing his love to her (192). Though Michael suffered from consumption, Gretta confesses that “he died for me” (191). Michael, both in Yeats’ Cathleen ni Houlihan and Joyce’s The Dead, share the very same fate: being led to a certain death by the woman of their affections - Ireland herself. Gretta, as Joyce’s Ireland, is in a state of utter sorrow and indecision; she is married to a man of the future, Gabriel, and yet the memory of her past lover, Michael to the west, continues to beckon to her, almost as though he were a ghost. Like Joyce, Ireland is caught upon that shadowy staircase, caught between the allures of a globalized future, and the distant music of the past. The story of a divided Ireland is very much the story of James Joyce himself. He cannot submit to Yeats’ romanticized and entirely non-existent version of a forgotten Ireland, and yet he fears what an Ireland bowing entirely to the emergence of modernity would look like - that “terrifying temple to industrial modernity” (Holland and Sandbrook 37:40). In his hubris, Yeats thought that he had Ireland figured out, only to dread that “terrible beauty” that his own pen thrust upon Ireland. Joyce, however, much like Gabriel, does not know what to make of his sorrowful and tearful wife. Gretta - and Ireland - was shifting before his very eyes, becoming a shade. Though only moments before he was burning with passion for Gretta, now “she slept as though he and she had never lived together as husband and wife” (Joyce 192-193). Nor was Gretta the same woman that Michael Furey had died for; her face now lacked the beauty that both men once knew and would have braved death for (193). Indeed, cannot the same be said not only of Gabriel and Michael, but of Yeats and Joyce? Had not Ireland changed, changed utterly? As The Dead comes to an end, Joyce and Gabriel become nearly indistinguishable, as do Gretta and Ireland. As Joyce considers his nation, an epiphany dawns on Gabriel’s soul while he stares at his sleeping wife: “a strange friendly pity for her entered his soul” (193). What if, Joyce wonders, Ireland’s place is upon that shadowy staircase? Is it possible that Ireland’s path forward lies not in only a cosmopolitan future or the distant music of her past, but in both? As Joyce and Gabriel consider this woman to whom so much of their souls are bound, they become aware of “the vast hosts of the dead”, those Irish souls who came before speaking from “that other region” (194). Ireland is not binary; she cannot be divided quite so easily - she will not let Joyce do that to her. Her voice, mingled with the lament of the dead that “had one time reared and lived” within her, penetrates the hearts of Joyce and Gabriel (194). At this moment, the world is not pressing in on Ireland, but she seems to be pressing in on the world. Indeed, she is pressing in on Joyce also. He can no longer ignore the voices of history, the voice of Ireland’s ghosts, as they fall upon his memory. The descent of her dead, like snow falling, soft as distant music, scatters through the universe, “upon all the living and the dead” (194). Indeed, Joyce’s running from Ireland was now over, “The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward” (194). Reference: Brown, Terence. “Notes.” Dubliners, edited by Seamus Deane, Centennial Edition, Penguin Books, 2014, pp. 207-275. Callan, Maeve. “A Savage and Sacrilegious Race, Hostile to God and Humanity.” The Journal of Medieval Religious Cultures, vol. 49, no. 1, 2023, pp. 1-23. Carter, Kathryn. “Lecture 1: Ireland in Literature.” EN-420K-BR: Ireland in Literature, 9 January 2024, Wilfrid Laurier University. Lecture. Carter, Kathryn. “Lecture 7: Contested Ireland.” EN-420K-BR: Ireland in Literature, 27 February 2024, Wilfrid Laurier University. Lecture. Carter, Kathryn. “Lecture 10: An Overview of Literary Theories.” EN-420K-BR: Ireland in Literature, 19 March 2024, Wilfrid Laurier University. Lecture. Holland, Tom, and Dominic Sandbrook, hosts. “Titanic: The Tragedy Begins (Part 1).” The Rest is History, episode 427, 10 March 2024, Goalhanger Podcasts. Accessed on Apple Podcasts. Holland, Tom, and Dominic Sandbrook, hosts. “Titanic: Kings of the World (Part 2).” The Rest is History, episode 428, 11 March 2024, Goalhanger Podcasts. Accessed on Apple Podcasts. Joyce, James. “Araby.” Dubliners, edited by Seamus Deane, Centennial Edition, Penguin Books, 2014, pp. 19-24. Joyce, James. “The Dead.” Dubliners, edited by Seamus Deane, Centennial Edition, Penguin Books, 2014, pp. 151-194. Joyce, James. “Ulysses.” Irish Writing, edited by Stephen Regan, Oxford World’s Classics, 2008, pp. 293-314. Roche, Anthony. “‘Mirror up to Nation’: Synge and Shakespeare.” Irish University Review , vol. 45, no. 1, 2015, pp. 9–24. JSTOR , http://www.jstor.org/stable/24576891 . Accessed 10 Apr. 2024. Sir Gawain Poet. Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. Translated by Burton Raffel, Signet Classic, 2001. Yeats, William Butler. “Cathleen ni Houlihan.” Irish Writing, edited by Stephen Regan, Oxford World’s Classics, 2008, pp. 421-431. Yeats, William Butler. “Easter 1916.” Irish Writing, edited by Stephen Regan, Oxford World’s Classics, 2008, pp. 347-349.

Theologian A.W. Pink once observed, "When we complain about the weather, we are, in reality, murmuring against God." With that in mind, I shall tread lightly when I simply say that I've never been well suited to the summer humidity, and I loath winter driving - both of which compose the twin poles of Canadian climate. Thus, I love autumn. This being the first few days of October, doubtless we have all sensed the changing of seasons this past week. Commuting several hours a day for class through the countryside has impressed upon me that times are indeed changing. The mornings are crisper, the wind is sharper, and the forests are aflame - there is a new tune in the air. The green of summer has ebbed to a close; the countryside is now bathed in hues of gold and amber. Only, this change is by no means restricted to the realm of nature. As Tolkien observed, “The world has changed. I see it in the water. I feel it in the Earth. I smell it in the air. Much that once was is lost, for none now live who remember it.” The world itself is changed and ever changing. There is a great movement away from the truth, and from Him who is the fountain of all truth and beauty, the Lord Jesus Christ. However, this trajectory is nothing new. Ever since the Fall, all of humanity has been plunged into a deluge of darkness, a season of sin and sorrow that only seems to be worsening. Perhaps worse still, men are blind and deaf to their plight. If men have never seen the Light, if the darkness is all they've ever known, the dark suddenly seems far less dark to them. For all the change in the world, this reality can be depended upon: "And this is the judgment: the light has come into the world, and people loved the darkness rather than the light because their works were evil" (John 3:19). It is not only that men have ceased to see Him, they refuse to see Him. In a world that is ever changing and changing for the worse, what a joy that we serve a God who does not change. Indeed, a God who cannot change. Why? Simply because perfection cannot be improved upon. If God changed for the worse, He would then cease to be perfect and by extension cease to be God. Alternatively, if God changed for the better this would then mean that He corrected some lack in His being that mandated moral improvement, suggesting He was at some time or another in a state of imperfection, and thus, no God at all. God is either perfect in all His glorious attributes and thus unable to change, or He is not perfect at all. "For I the LORD do not change; therefore you, O children of Jacob, are not consumed" (Malachi 3:6). "Lord, you have been our dwelling place in all generations. Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever you had formed the earth and the world, from everlasting to everlasting you are God" (Psalm 90:1-2). Life is full of seasons. Seasons of sorrow, seasons of joy, seasons of contentment, seasons of want, and seasons that fall somewhere along the middle. Your life, like the world around you, is in a constant state of change; moving from one season to the next, never truly settled. Whether in the best or worst of our days, seldom are we free from the whirling leaves of a new season beginning to gather around our feet, ushering in new days to come. Why should our lives be settled? We certainly are not. Constantly we are tossed to and fro' by the winds and waves of emotion and circumstance. Even as Christians, our steadfast hope is fixed not upon ourselves, but upon Him who is steadfast and faithful. For our part, we are far less consistent than we'd like to think ourselves. We taste the bitter drink of doubt and fear when we begin to suppose that our God is fickle and changing, given to the whims of emotion as we are. We stumble upon the waves of this world not because our Lord ceases to be who He is, but because we, like Peter, cease to see Him as He is. O, what a mighty bulwark of the mind that our joy, hope, faith, and very salvation rest upon Him who does not change! For, "if we are faithless, He remains faithful - for He cannot deny Himself" (1 Timothy 2:13). Like a mighty mountain in the midst of the shifting sands of this world we find a sure and eternal foothold in the person of Jesus Christ, the Shepherd and Overseer of our souls who is the same yesterday and today and forevermore. See the Lord Jesus Christ as He is revealed in Scripture and cease your worrying, or else you may cease to see Him altogether. See and cease, or simply cease to see. "Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever" (Hebrews 13:8).

Finding a moment to be alone at my father's funeral visitation was not impossible , but it certainly was difficult. Funeral visitations are a funny thing, are they not? Friends, family, and all manner of distant relations gather to comfort the grieving family; and yet, how often the very opposite tends to occur. How often do the grieving families, in an effort to look joyful and composed, seem more put together than the tearful guests offering their condolences? From the moment a loved one passes into the hands of the Lord to the moment the funeral is over, there exists an entire spectrum of emotions that the loved one's family must navigate. However, just as grief itself can take many forms, so too can responses to grief. Individuals can choose to lose themselves adrift the sea of grief and sorrow, they can remain reserved yet hopeful, or they can distance themselves entirely from all emotions, sorrowful or otherwise. Though, I'd suspect it's often a combination of all these emotions, or lack thereof, that most often occurs - we are human after all, and we tend to be terribly inconsistent creatures. Justly so, for grief is a terribly inconsistent foe. On the evening of my own father's visitation, I was far more composed than I ever thought possible. I am more reserved by nature, but this posture of mine can only go so far - indeed, though it takes a good deal to make me cry, I often find it hard to cease once I've begun. And so, in light of this reality, I took great pains during my father's visitation and funeral to set aside my own emotions in an effort to ensure I could properly interact with guests and, more importantly, be a source of comfort and solidarity for my mother and younger sisters. Nonetheless, I valued - and needed - the moment or two of solace that came my way during the evening, as fleeting as these may have been. As the last few guests were filing out of the funeral home, a man from my church came along beside me during one of these quiet moments. After the routine back-and-forth that accompanies such conversations, filled with all manner of warm words and sturdy encouragements, he said something that has never quite left me. "You were his only son, right?" the man asked, though I suspect he knew the answer. After a moment he continued, "That makes you the man of the house now - those are some big shoes to fill." I nodded slowly in affirmation, saying only a word or two in response, and then the man made his way out along with the others. As he left, my gaze trickled down to my shoes - newly purchased for this very occasion, clean and shiny, and beginning to feel a little too big for my feet. In my opinion, my father was above average in many things. He had a strong mind, a strong faith, a big smile, and an even bigger heart - yet, his feet were very small, well below average for a man. This fact notwithstanding, he always stole my shoes. I say 'stole' because he knew very well which shoes were his and which were mine. Even if our styles were the same - which they were not - he should have deduced which shoes were mine the very moment he slipped them on, for he would have been swimming in them. Growing up, there were several Sunday mornings that had my family rushing out the door for church, quite late as it was, only to be held up by me as I scoured our front closet for my dress shoes. With the rest of our family waiting in the car, my father would stroll back inside and patiently ask, "What's keeping you, Josh?" "I'm sorry, I just can't find my shoes!" I'd say with my head deep in the bowels of our shoe closet. "Have you seen them?" I'd ask as I rose from my hands and knees, only to look down at the floor and see none other than the very shoes I was looking for saddled upon my father's feet. To avoid further shoe-related escapades - and further reprimands from my mother as we drove to church late, again - I came up with a sure solution: I would buy my father new shoes for his birthday. He was notoriously difficult to buy gifts for, as he claimed he already had everything (I suppose by everything, he included my shoes as well). Given this life-long game of musical shoes he and I were engaged in, I suspected the sheer practicality of this gift, new dress shoes, would be warmly welcomed. Indeed, in a way, it was a gift to myself as well. And so, when his 56th birthday arrived a few weeks later, he was well-pleased to see that I bought him, seemingly, the one thing in the world he actually needed. "Just make sure you don't wear these, Josh - these are my shoes ", he said with a smile as he hugged and thanked me for the gift. Though, he never did get the chance to wear those shoes. His cancer was spreading aggressively by the turn of the new year, worsening more and more by the day. By mid-January, his birthday, he was the weakest he had been since his diagnosis. I suppose I bought those new shoes for him in hopes that he would not only live long enough to wear them, but that he would live long enough to wear them out. When he died only a few days into February, I found myself without a father and without proper shoes to wear to my father's funeral. Though it seemed like an irreverent exchange at the time, I was left with little else to do and went back to the shoe store I had visited only a few weeks before and exchanged his newly purchased shoes for a pair of dress shoes that would fit me. After all, I had no need for his shoes - they were too small and did not fit me. "I suppose I bought those new shoes for him in hopes that he would not only live long enough to wear them, but that he would live long enough to wear them out." The game of musical shoes that my father and I had engaged in all my adult life continued after he passed into the arms of his Heavenly Father. Indeed, he and I were to exchange shoes but once more. When he died, my father took off his earthly shoes, mired by sin, sickness, and sorrow, and stepped onto holier ground than shoes of any kind could endure - "take your sandals off your feet, for the place on which you are standing is holy ground" (Exodus 3:5). I, on the other hand, had a long road ahead of myself. One journey had ended, another was just beginning. As the man had informed me during my father's visitation, I was in many ways the man of the house now; those were some big shoes to fill. My sisters were without a father, my mother was without a husband, and the family was without a leader, protector, and provider - was it now my task to take up these roles? In the beginning, I thought it was. My father may have had small feet, but he left big shoes to fill. I've come to realize two things since my father passed away. Firstly, though I was 'the man of the house' now, it was wrong to think I could - or should - take my father's place. My sisters didn't need their older brother to take on a role that was never meant to be his, to pretend to be their dad; they needed their older brother to be himself, just as my mother needed her son to be just that, her son. We were all grieving the loss of Tata; better to recognize the loss than attempt to fill those shoes with feet that were far, far too small. "My father may have had small feet, but he left big shoes to fill." The second and chief thing that I've come to realize since his passing is quite simply this: though our Tata passed away, we were at no point without a leader, protector, and provider. Our Lord was ever faithful and by our side: "I will not leave you as orphans; I will come to you" (John 14:18). There is a special degree of intimacy reserved by the Lord for those who are fatherless and widows. Anyone who has passed through these dark waters can surely attest to this reality.  In his sermon on Psalm 121, Dr. Rick Reed draws an important distinction between hurt and harm . Even the darkest of trials, though they hurt immensely, will only serve to multiply our eternal good and God's eternal glory. The Lord may bring hurt and heartache into our lives, but He never allows His children to be harmed. Hurt, not harm; therein lies the crucial difference. He leads in and through these dark waters of hurt and heartache to a greater weight of glory on the opposite shore, and often that glorious relief is none other than Himself. In light of such vast and overwhelming circumstances, shoes of which our small feet find themselves swimming in, presides a living and loving God. A BIG God that overwhelms our trials with infinitely greater strength than the strength with which those same trials overwhelm us. We may, each and every one of us, be tasked with filling shoes that are far too big for us - but the bigger the shoes, the bigger our God shows Himself to actually be. "The Lord may bring hurt and heartache into our lives, but He never allows His children to be harmed. Hurt, not harm; therein lies the crucial difference. He leads in and through these dark waters of hurt and heartache to a greater weight of glory on the opposite shore, and often that glorious relief is none other than Himself." If I could go back to that conversation with the man at my father's visitation, knowing what I now know, I would speak differently. I would say that though my father left big shoes to fill, those shoes were never mine to occupy. In fact, they weren't ultimately my father's shoes either. My dad loved, led, provided for, and protected our family, but only insofar as he was strengthened by Christ to do so. He led our family to be sure, but it was Christ who led him. My father may have left big shoes to fill, but it was Christ who wore them to begin with. Photo by Jia Ye, Unsplash 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.

What is a year? Is it not but vapor? For an insect, a year is a lifetime, or perhaps many lifetimes; but to a man, a year is as sand falling through his hand, quickly passing, and then gone. Indeed, as we grow older, the years move quickly against us. Today is my twenty-sixth birthday, and while that may not make me “old”, I feel the wane of time all the same. Perhaps I am just an old soul, but I feel the weariness of this world more and more with each passing year. Sin has the tendency to do just that: it strains the soul, it burdens the mind, and quite simply, it makes us tired. This dreary world makes our weary hearts long for rest, for home - for Him. What is a year? Is it not a test-run? Just as our years are made up of days, so too are our lives made up of years. If we throw away our days - and our years - will not our life suffer for it? The days go by slowly, but the years fly by; our life is but a little flame that is easily and quickly snuffed out, and then we are ushered upon the plains of eternity before “Him with whom we have to do” (Hebrews 4:13). Indeed, as C.T. Studd once penned, “Only one life, ‘twill soon be past, only what’s done for Christ will last”. As I do with the approach of each birthday, I’ve been taking stock of the past year. If the last twelve months can be seen as a microcosm of my life, a test-run of sorts, did I run my race well? The answer is both yes and no. As it is with many of us, this past year has been a mixed bag; a series of bruises and blessings, a combination of dark valleys and high mountain tops. Over the last year, tears have been shed, both of joy and profound sorrow. Last night, I took some time aside at the end of a busy week to simply walk and talk with the Lord. Over the years, I’ve found that I think and pray best while walking through the countryside, so that’s precisely what I did. It didn’t feel right to end the last day of my twenty-fifth year without simply thanking God for the countless blessings that He’s showered on me over the past twelve months. Even if I wanted to list everything that the Lord has done for me this year, I could not; for, “I suppose that the world itself could not contain the books that would be written” (John 21:25). However, in remembering the past year, my mind was slowly being drawn to the year ahead. There are many exciting things lying before my feet in the upcoming year, for both myself and my wife, but there is a lot of change on the horizon as well. Suddenly, my thoughts began to drift not too all of the good that the Lord has done in the year behind, but to the things that must be done in the year ahead. In no time at all, my distracted mind began to compose a list of everything that required my attention in the coming days: bills to pay, emails that needed answering, and so on, endlessly as it were. It’s so easy to feel stretched thin, is it not? And then, just as suddenly as my mind became distracted, a certain warmth began to bleed across my soul. Within moments, indeed in the moment between moments, a single truth took hold: “You are anxious and troubled about many things,  but one thing is needful”.  The words felt like a warm embrace. I couldn’t at first recall where these words were from, but the speaker, the who , was unmistakable. As I was walking, it took me only a brief moment to pinpoint where exactly these words came from, and then I remembered: “Now as they went on their way, Jesus entered a village. And a woman named Martha welcomed him into her house. And she had a sister called Mary, who sat at the Lord’s feet and listened to his teaching. But Martha was distracted with much serving. And she went up to him and said, ‘Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to serve alone? Tell her then to help me.’ But the Lord answered her, ‘Martha, Martha, you are anxious and troubled about many things, but one thing is needful. Mary has chosen the good portion, which will not be taken away from her’” (Luke 10:38-42). There is a sense in which the past year of my life can be characterized by distraction. Not a distraction with bad things, exactly, but with lesser things. Not an all-consuming distraction with lesser things by any means, but not a whole-hearted devotion to the most important things either. In the midst of such profound blessings - my relationship with the King of kings, my beautiful wife, our family, and our church family - how easy it is to become fixated nonetheless on the fleeting things of this world: financial responsibilities, work stress, and the state of the world at large. In our daily lives, there are many voices and vices vying for our attention. And yet, amidst the clamor of these many voices, the voice of the Lord cuts directly to the heart. When this passage in Luke 10 came to my mind last night, I was struck by how powerfully and immediately it set my heart at ease. The sound and fury of this world is no match for the still, small voice of the Lord; He created your heart, He doesn’t need to shout. He is the good shepherd, and His sheep “know His voice” (John 10). In asking the Lord for wisdom and guidance in the year ahead, He provided at once from His Word the very words I needed to hear most. Indeed, “one thing is needful”. For, in this one thing, intimacy with Christ and obedience to His Word, all other things are bound. To make much of Him is to make much of all things. To love Him with every iota of my being is to also love my wife, and family, and church to the utmost. It is a profound mystery, but it also makes total sense - if we are willing to lose our lives for Him, we will surely find our lives in the process, for He is life itself.  My friend C.S. Lewis, who at this point is such a fixture of this blog that he might as well be a co-writer on it, remarked on this very mystery in this way: “Put first things first and we get second things thrown in: put second things first and we lose both first and second things.”   And so, while we may not know what lies ahead in the year to come, let us endeavor, all of us, to put first things first. In the midst of any anxieties and troubles that may come our way, let this banner be over our hearts: but one thing is needful, and He shall not be taken away from us, nor us from Him. Come what may, the Lord is God, and God He’ll stay.

No, I did not misspell the word place. The Plac (тхе плаце) is a Serbian word that when directly translated means “ the place”, though it means far more than merely “this place” or “that place”. Plac, or the Plac as it was often called by myself and the other members of our large extended family, simply meant “the place” to us.  For my family and I, the word Plac directed our minds not to a single geographical location, but rather to a certain place held within our hearts. Whenever one of my aunts or cousins - and even myself - said that they were coming by our home or to my uncle's home right next door, they would simply say that they'd be swinging by the Plac sooner or later (although, it was more often sooner, and they often stayed far later, which made for many joyous memories I shall not soon let go of). The Plac was our family home. The phrase “the plac” could be understood as either being the house in which my family had always lived or the home of our uncle and his children right down the hill, but it often referred to both. My late father and his brother purchased the slice of land many moons ago and drew a line in the sand (or forest) between the top half of the lot wherein our home was located, and the lower section of wood where my uncle then proceeded to build his family's future home.  Although we were two very distinct families, there was a great sense in which our homes and lands and very lives were tied up with one another's. Family dinners, reunions, holidays, bonfires, church events, sleepovers, games of baseball, long nights of manhunt, countless summer days of biking in the forest, Sunday evening sings, and Friday night board games were all held beneath the umbrella of a single location - the Plac. Or, quite simply, home. Not my home or my uncle's home, but our home. Indeed, it was the dearest place in all the world to me. Shortly after my father passed away and settled in at another plac altogether, my mother, sisters, and I left our childhood home. The Plac, with its rolling hills and dense forests, were behind us, and another journey began before our very feet. A new journey in another home; not terribly far away from our old home, but in another sense, all too terribly far from the Plac. It was in this grand transition from home to house, from the Plac to “the place”, that I caught a glance or two at our homeland in Heaven, albeit merely from the shores of this fleeting earth. It was in saying goodbye to our childhood home, and the memories made within those walls and halls, that the Lord began to untether my heart from this world in a way that I had not yet known to be possible. This was not an easy journey, nor was it a quick and painless one that was free from bereavement and bewilderment. However, I found the move itself somewhat easier due to the reality that I had wrestled with the beast known as “moving” in the weeks, months, and years leading up to the exodus itself; a journey that began just as my earthly father's journey here below had ended.  It seemed like a good deal of living had in fact only begun for myself shortly after my father rounded the bend in this road we call life. One man's adventure had come to an end here below, and countless other journeys had really only begun to take form. It is a comfort, however, to remember that though my father's pilgrimage here is over, he is no doubt more alive now than he has ever been. He has not passed from life into death, but indeed from death into life - indeed, into life Himself. He has taken up a dance with Divinity that shall never cease. But I am not my father, nor am I now in his shoes. He had gone home, and I had, for the first time in my short life at that point, left home. Though, in the midst of sorrow, is it not so often God’s delight to show unimaginable and unexpected grace? It was during this time of great transition from one season to another that the Lord saw fit to introduce yet one more ‘new’ part into my life. It was during this already tumultuous season that grace upon grace was heaped upon me - for, it was in this time that a friendship began to blossom between myself and the beautiful woman who is now my wife. Indeed, just as God brings some people out of your life, I’ve found that He is always faithful to bring others in at just the right time. While I love my wife to no end and could write about her endlessly, I did bring her into this particular story for good reason. After my wife had left what was then her childhood home in another province and began to settle down where we now find ourselves, she found that the Lord was at work mightily in her heart during this time of transition. Indeed, during my own move she confessed to me that a house does not become a home simply overnight - these things take time. In fact, she had said that there is a part of her heart that has not yet truly settled down; there remains a fragment of her soul that still roams the halls of the home she left those few years and many miles ago. There is a sense in which her home now is but a shadow of the home she had left behind - a mockery of sorts, a rough sketch of the real thing that her memory so cherishes. This is not to say that our home now is any less home than where she came from. Indeed, there is far more to be found where she is now than in that home she had left behind - but home is home, and it is not quite so easily replaced or forgotten. Once we moved from the Plac many things changed, but thanks to God a good deal of things remained in a state of familiarity. The rolling hills and thickets gave way to paved streets and cramped quarters, but the faces around me were the same, and within a few short days most of our furniture was arranged in such a way that this new house began to feel like a home away from home. Only, therein lies the rub: it was a home away from home.  As comfort and warmth began to stir in that new house, just as embers do from a fire coming back to life, so too did these little comforts and familiarities draw my mind to the fact that this is not home - not quite, not close. It is a mockery of home. But, what I have discovered is that it is not a mockery of home that points backwards towards our old home, the Plac, but rather a mockery that points forwards. Nor is it a negative mockery. It is a rough sketch, of sorts, that strives with all its might to point towards the reality of its own self. To not only an image or a sketch, but the real thing - the very thing beyond the thing. And what is this 'thing beyond the thing'? It is that place to which our soul's deepest desires incline; that itch of inconsolable longing that ripples across our heart at sunset or burns in our chests during fellowship with dear friends. However, these are not home, they are but markers that guide us on our way along this earthly pilgrimage. Or, as C.S. Lewis has said, “Our Father refreshes us on the journey with some pleasant inns, but will not encourage us to mistake them for home.” This world is not our home. It is an inn along the way that, while it may be filled with many comforts, should not be mistaken for the real thing. Though, how is it that a place we have never been to can suddenly feel like home at the mere mention of it? There cannot possibly be a place more different from earth than Heaven, or so it would seem at times. How then are we to look forward with any kind of excitement to a place that we've not only never been, nor can possibly imagine, but is indeed so foreign to our natural selves?  In all my probing and in the wondering and wandering of my mind I have but a single answer - Jesus. Jesus will be there; that is not only enough, but it is all we shall ever need. We will not recognize the countryside once we arrive, nor will we know how to get around or where to go at first. No doubt the furniture will be arranged in a way that we've never seen before, and there will likely be a great deal of folks and beasts that we have never met nor yet imagined, but He will be there. We will for the first time in our lives not be strangers or guests or tenants, but we will be at home, never to roam again. I trust that Heaven will be quite far removed from any of our thoughts and wildest expectations, and yet all the while it shall feel as though it is the place we've been longing and looking for all our lives. Our souls shall find rest and lasting pasture within the heart of our God and Lord. We will have finally arrived at the Plac that He has prepared for us.

In the dwindling light of an evening only a few short years ago, though a lifetime has been traversed since then, a young man broke the silence of the countryside with his prayers. That young man was me. However, when I reflect on who that man was and who he now is, I find that I can hardly recognize him - it is as though he is being seen, remembered, and considered through a glass, but dimly. The mirrors of memory and time have contorted his image; he is seen, he is remembered, though not clearly. His voice is familiar, many of his interests have remained or even deepened, perhaps he is going grey in a spot or two now, but otherwise, from the outside, he remains the same - though something surely has changed. Indeed, looking back on the man I was only half a decade ago is like looking "in a mirror dimly" (1 Corinthians 13:12). I suppose such an introspective self-reflection is not only the blessing of hindsight, but the unique blessing of being intimately and infinitely intertwined with a God who works out all things for good. In the dying light of that evening long ago - across an ocean of time and circumstances, it seems - I caught a glimpse of something that I will never forget. Though, what I saw was less a thing in and of itself as it was the thing beyond the thing that I saw, and only then for a fleeting moment. Here I will divulge into poetics and my more romantic sensibilities, though you may see them as only rubbish, to explain something that is nigh beyond words entirely. What I saw was a sunset: the cool, grey spires of pines being clothed with golden light, and as the horizon leveled, a rich amber, like fire, erupting from beyond the hills. That was what I saw, but now I shall endeavor to explain what I tasted, what I observed beyond these things. Indeed, it was as though I was an onlooker on events that were not to be seen by mortal eyes. As if, only for a moment, the curtain was pulled back ever so slightly on every longing and ache of the human soul. There are moments, perhaps even mere slivers of a moment, in which one catches the tune of something far off and distant; the dancing of golden sunlight upon autumn leaves, or the crescendo of beauty that lies in the clouds at sunset, so rich a sight that you feel you could almost walk beyond the nearest hill and around the next bend right into those halls of glory beyond the clouds themselves. As though you were chasing an otherworldly song through an endless corridor, unsatisfied until you reach the source of the music. In these moments there arises a longing; a near maddeningly romantic arousal within one’s soul; a faint whisper and soft suggestion that this world is not our home after all, for how can it be? C.S. Lewis, the architect of Narnia’s world, often described a similar sensation, a whisper from beyond the rim of this life. Or, as Lewis often called it, a sight of something from beyond the wood of this world - "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.” And then it was over. Just as mightily and suddenly as the curtain opened, so did it close again. Nonetheless, 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. In response to being struck by things beyond words, I did the only reasonable thing that anyone would have done: I tried putting these things to words. I began writing vigorously, more than I ever had in my life, as though there was a mighty torrent within me that was aching to get out. At first, I composed letters and smaller, more reflective posts on social media, only for these endeavors to grow into what became my first blog - Iotas in Eternity (the 1st). Unfortunately, just as death and taxes are inevitable, so too is man's inclination towards idleness and inconsistency - or in my case, not posting for nearly three years. However, I assure you, I have not been entirely idle, not in the slightest, but those are stories that will be reserved for other posts, you have my word on that. This is a terribly long way of stating something rather simple: this is a new blog, but the chief aims of my original site remains the same. With respect to my older posts from the first blog, I fully intend to graft my previous work into this new site over the course of the next few months. It has been on my heart for a good long while to update my site - and my faithful readers - with my various comings and goings during these 'silent years' while at the same time updating my old posts, for these works are quite dear to my heart. As aforementioned, much has happened in the 'intertestamental period' between my two blogs. Indeed, as the inviolable Norm Macdonald once remarked, "I have traveled from here to there, to here again ". It is my desire to both catch you up to speed while continuing to pull back the curtain in each of your daily lives with new words as God gives me grace to do so, whether this be in the form of reflective posts, theological poetry, or essays on everything literary, historical, and philosophical. In this way, 'There & Back Again' seems a fitting title for my first post as I venture into a new season of not only writing, but life and discipleship under the shadow of God's hand towards that place beyond the golden pines and rolling clouds. 'There', because this site is very much the same as my old blog, the original Iotas in Eternity , albeit under slightly better dress and construction. Consider, for example, that on my old site one couldn't even subscribe, and in order to find any given post a poor soul would have to navigate the murky depths of countless ramblings in order to find the piece they desired. Though, I am deeply humbled by the sheer fact that anyone, any of you, found some truth and warmth in these old works of mine - for after the Lord, it is to each of you that I write. All that to say, now that I am no longer the Luddite I once was, please do take advantage of the ability to subscribe, I assure you it will be worth your while. '& Back Again' because, well, here we are - back again to where we started. This new site, though it is better furnished, is to serve the very same purpose as the one I set out to achieve with Iotas in Eternity the first time around - to glorify Jesus Christ, the One who beckons beyond the curtain, and to make Him known by pulling back the curtain in your daily lives, one word at a time. "To the King of the ages, immortal, invisible, the only God, be honor and glory forever and ever. Amen." -1 Timothy 1:17 Soli Deo Gloria

Life is a vapor. The days may be long, but the years are short, and becoming shorter still. There hardly seems time enough in the day to do those things that are required of us, let alone time for the things of leisure. To circumnavigate the timeless issue of time itself, there are no shortage of ‘life hacks’ promulgated by Social Media Gurus and Instagram Influencers online - though, in my opinion, these individuals often constitute the real hacks. Their proposed daily regimes to capture more of your day are, at best, rigid, unrealistic, and hollow; at worst, these tactics are utterly self-centered and unbiblical. However, I absolutely understand the appeal of having more time. If I had all the time in the world - time that was my own; time that, if taken, would not wreak havoc on those things and people that I am responsible for - I would likely spend a good deal of it reading. Books, books, books - I would devour thick and dusty novels, plumb the depths of history, consume theological volumes from Augustine to Edwards to Spurgeon, and even then my appetite would not be satisfied. But, I do not - we do not  - have all the time in the world. As J.R.R. Tolkien once wrote, “All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.” Literature is my field, it is a great passion of mine, and so I understand better than most the temptation to live in good books - even if I don’t have the time to read as many good books as I would like. Charles Spurgeon once said, “Visit many good books, but live in the Bible.” Read Augustine, Edwards, Sproul, and even the man behind the quote himself, but live in the words of Christ and live in the Christ of the Word. Do not be content to simply read your Bible, but live among its pages, morning by morning, evening by evening. Bombard yourself with the presence and influence of God’s Word as Deuteronomy commands: “And these words that I command you today shall be on your heart. You shall teach them diligently to your children, and shall talk of them when you sit in your house, and when you walk by the way, and when you lie down, and when you rise. You shall bind them as a sign on your hand, and they shall be as frontlets between your eyes. You shall write them on the doorposts of your house and on your gates” (Deuteronomy 6:6-9). Indeed, “Visit many good books, but live in the Bible.” Though, I expect the issue facing many Christians today isn’t the temptation to get lost in a myriad of good books, but rather to get lost in our phones, on social media, or in any number of entertainment services. Indeed, our generation, as Paul Washer once said, is entertaining itself to death. How many countless hours, days, weeks, months, and even years have been wiped from existence itself because of our addiction to entertainment, adding nothing to our sanctification, our eternal perspective, the good of our brothers and sisters, and above all, the glory of Christ. How many good things have gone undone for the Lord Jesus because we were content to only visit the Bible, but live within our phones. Just because time has been wasted, we need not waste more time. When the Spirit convicts me of sin, how often I feel unworthy to pursue the Lord’s mercy, forgiveness, and promise of renewed closeness with Him simply because I’ve walked waywardly for far too long in that particular area. The logic makes no sense: I have sinned, I now know that I have sinned, but because I’ve been weak in this area for so long, and so much time has already been wasted, how can I hope to move onwards with such a weight behind me? Confess, seek the Lord’s forgiveness, repent, and move onwards and upwards, trusting in God’s faithfulness - that is what obedience to Christ looks like. The time may have been squandered, but we need not squander more: “Not that I have already obtained this or am already perfect, but I press on to make it my own, because Christ Jesus has made me his own. Brothers, I do not consider that I have made it my own. But one thing I do: forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead, I press on toward the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus” (Philippians 3:12-14). As Paul writes in the book of Ephesians, "[make] the best use of the time, because the days are evil" (Ephesians 5:16). Do not simply put down your phone and hope that your habits will improve, for another distraction will just as easily take its place. Rather, strive to make a conscious effort, with the Lord’s help, to reach for the Word when that itch for temporary pleasure comes. Indeed, reach for the Word as you would your phone; reach for the Word instead of your phone. Outside of your regular study of Scripture, as prolonged a visit as this may be, allow yourself to return daily, multiple times a day, to the living waters of God’s Word, even if only for a moment. Spurgeon goes on to say, “It was God’s Word that made us; is it any wonder that His Word should sustain us?”   While we yet have life and breath, let us daily dig deep into His Word. Do not settle to rake leaves upon the surface, but dig deep for gold. Strive with joy to walk well-worn paths of friendship with the Lord here below. Seek Him, see Him, and savor Him - 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. Let us visit many good books; but endeavor to live in the Bible, that the Bible may then live in and through us. Photo by Ioann-Mark Kuznietsov, Unsplash

“Aslan is a lion - the Lion, the great Lion.”  “Ooh” said Susan. “I’d thought he was a man. Is he - quite safe? I shall feel rather nervous about meeting a lion…”  “Safe?” said Mr. Beaver. “Who said anything about safe? ‘Course he isn’t safe. But he’s good.  He’s the King, I tell you.” -C.S. Lewis, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe — I’ve never been one to struggle with the reality of God’s sovereignty. Namely, that lofty doctrine whereby God declares that there is not a single iota of reality, visible or invisible, that is beyond His knowledge and control. He not only knows all, but He is above all, in control of all; the nations and cosmos are as dust in the scales to Him; pieces of lint stirring around in His pocket, unnoticed. Indeed, He is untroubled by the threats and howls of men, demons, and everything in between. God’s sovereignty over all things is manifested perfectly in His ordered maintenance of the created order, and in the universe by extension. The stars and black holes are able to keep their pace and path in the dark corridors of the cosmos because of their guide, the Lord - without Him, they would soon lose their way in the darkness, just as we would. Indeed, without the Lord’s upkeep of this world and universe, it would soon crumble and waste away, for “in Him all things hold together” (Colossians 1:17). As R.C. Sproul once put it, there cannot be even a single maverick molecule in the universe apart from God, for if that were to be the case, then He would cease to be sovereign. If He is not utterly sovereign over everything, then He ceases to be who He claims to be; He ceases to be God. Like Narnia’s Mr. Beaver puts it, “He’s the King, I tell you.” Not only is He sovereign over the world of birds, beasts, and creeping things, but He is Lord over all creatures. And, as the psalmist pens, “Our God is in the heavens, He does all that He pleases” (Psalm 115:3). Whether it be kings, presidents, monarchs, angels, or demons, all bow the knee at the feet and will of the one true King, the Lord Jesus. He is intimately involved in the affairs of men, steering the course of history according to His will - for, after all, what is history but ‘His story’? Men may draw issue with this reality if they like, but it will do no good - the Lord is God, and God He’ll stay. In the words of Vernon McGee,  “This is God’s universe, and God does things His way. You may have a better way, but you don’t have a universe.” The Bible is clear and unapologetic about the fact that God is sovereign in both creation and salvation. To walk away from Scripture thinking otherwise, one would first have to read the Bible upside down and backwards in a different language while being blindfolded in an entirely darkened room. Then, and perhaps not even then, one may begin to conclude that God is lacking in His power and dominion over all things.  Now, I began by saying that I’ve seldom doubted the doctrine of God’s sovereignty. While that may be true, I often fear that my grasp of, or ‘belief’ in, God’s sovereignty is limited to an intellectual affirmation rather than one founded upon the truth and veracity of His perfect character. Even when we grasp the reality of God’s sovereignty, it is nonetheless all too easy to doubt God’s goodness. When calamity and frustration strike within my own life, I feel as though my initial response is quite ‘agreeable’ with the truths outlined in Scripture. Like Job, I find it easy enough to say, “The LORD gave, and the LORD has taken away; blessed be the name of the LORD” (Job 1:21). When the tempests blow up against my life, when the rug beneath my feet is pulled, it is a great comfort to cast myself upon Him who accounts for every sparrow in the heavens, every lily of the field, and every hair upon my slowly-graying head. However, in due time, my soul begins to grumble. I, like Job, if only ever in the depths of my own heart, begin to question God. Indeed, the intellect can only take one so far. At no point have I ever questioned God’s sovereign hand, His ability to work “all things according to the counsel of His will” (Ephesians 1:11) - it’s His heart towards me that I so quickly cast a shadow on. In the moment, when heartbreak and sorrow come knocking, I have often said and done all the right things, all the while not allowing the depths of these truths to truly penetrate my heart. I have often rationalized the situation in this way: I know that the Bible is true and that God is sovereign over all things, including this situation, even if it’s hard to believe at the moment. I can do the whole song and dance of ‘wrestling’ with God’s sovereignty in the storm, only to come out on the other end in due time and see Him for who He is, or I can just trust Him now - either way, the destination is the same, best not to waste precious time. As a young man, just after my father passed away, I responded in this very manner. I knew that God was sovereign, but an intimate knowledge of His enduring goodness escaped me in the moment. I put on a brave face, said the right things (all of which I believed, mind you), and did my very best to direct others to God’s sovereignty in the midst of a trying and sorrowful circumstance. I knew that God was good, but I did not taste it yet.  And because I did not taste the goodness of God, I soon became uneasy. I began to question God, to grumble against Him. The razor-thin veneer of my faith in God’s character was exposed, revealing a heart brimming with self-pity and entitlement. It was only after God drove the white-hot spike of His Word through my mind and into my heart, joining the two, that I began to see His goodness yet again. A goodness that was not independent of, or in submission to, His sovereignty, but in perfect union with it. A goodness that was indivisible from His divine power, infinitely intertwined with it for our good and His glory, working all things “together for good, for those who are called according to His purpose” (Romans 8:28).  Indeed, I began to “taste and see that the LORD is good” (Psalm 34:8). My faith took refuge in the one true God; He who is not safe, but good. And what a joy it is that God is good, but not safe. An all-powerful and sovereign God without goodness and love is a horror beyond our darkest imaginings, a cosmic tyrant of infinite proportions; and yet, a good God without infinite power, one who is unable to exercise perfect dominion over the work of His hands, is a fickle, pathetic God, no God at all. In our trials, God reveals Himself as both sovereign and good, so much so that the two attributes cannot possibly be divorced from one another or His character. Like Job, sometimes we are brought through the storms of life by His sovereign hand without ever knowing why - but we can rest assured that He is good. Perhaps we become battered and bruised through the ordeal, but it is of little consequence. In the end, we are altogether blessed because we can see Him for who He is on the other side of the whirlwind. When I first became aware of His enduring goodness, intimately aware, I penned a poem titled “Sovereign” in response. Like Job, what could I do but worship when confronted with the living God? Indeed, “I had heard of you by the hearing of the ear, but now my eye sees you ” (Job 42:5). Sov·er·eign “Hands of rich timber, might Divine, With unknown brilliance maketh fine; Alone able to form sea and sky, Eager to give the weary where to lie. Ten trillion suns tribute to Him give, Yet through Him does the lily live; Heavenly hosts bathe in light where He abides, O, all these and more, in His mind resides. The One who tames cold, distant star, Is not deaf to child’s cry from afar; Mighty King, ancient One, in majesty, Is ever clothed in robes of humility. God of bird, beast, creeping thing, Is glad to hear His creatures sing; He whose very crown is flaming holiness, Ever inclines towards us in lowliness. Chief among all beings is He, Yet how is it He ponders over me; With every sin He does ache in pain, His own blood has rinsed every stain. The mighty storm, the sea, speak His name, Though in His heart is shelter from the rain; Residing in the realm of heaven’s highest court, Lives an eternal and everlasting port. Roaring as a lion upon His great white throne, Yet a shepherd, every sheep is surely known; Clothed in fire, wreathed with a mighty mane, The sovereign King, who shall forever reign.” Photo by Keyur Nandaniya, Unsplash

In my pride, I once thought that only a miracle had sufficient power to bring me to my knees before Christ. An event so utterly significant and supernatural in origin that it could only be ascribed to the hand of God Himself - perhaps a vision would do the trick, or surviving a catastrophic motorcycle accident. An event that was unexplainable and inescapable - a miracle. Though, in the end, the way that Christ saved me was in reality far simpler - and far more miraculous - than I ever could have imagined. — Ten years ago, the Lord saw it fit to finally bring me to Himself - “as to one untimely born, he appeared also to me” (1 Corinthians 15:8). Having just turned sixteen, I found myself in Virginia for the week during what my church called ‘Eastern Camp’. Eastern Camp ran once a year in the month of July at a university campus that the church rented in Harrisonburg, Virginia. Unlike many church camps, Eastern Camp was by no means limited to the youth and children. Rather, it was a week that entire families across our church’s denomination - spanning Canada, the U.S., and even Europe - took off during the summer. And, quite like many other church camps, Eastern Camp was filled with all manner of activities: early mornings of Bible study, forums for teens and adults, choirs, a myriad of sports to fill free time with, lots of food, all ending with nights that went ever so late, only for it to all begin once again early the next day. And, like other church camps, there was always the heavy expectation that many youth would come to Christ during the week of Eastern Camp. At the time, I was acutely aware of this annual reality, so much so that I heavily debated whether or not I would even attend camp that year. Yet there I was. Whether it was for the sports, the friends, or something else that has escaped my memory entirely, I was at camp that year. I had an appointment to keep, one that had been set a very, very long time ago. Whatever my own personal motivations for attending camp that year may have been, this much I remember for certain: I had no desire to know God or to be known by Him. I would become a Christian, or so I thought, on my own terms and at a time that best suited me. I grew up in the church and rubbed shoulders with the truth all my life and yet it was clear that I truly believed less than an iota of it. At best, I had an intellectual grasp on the truths that the Bible presented, with no real interest whatsoever in ever knowing the God who made me or living in obedience to Him. I knew there was a God and that He was indeed the One that the Bible spoke of; but then again, so do the demons - “You believe that God is One; you do well. Even the demons believe - and shudder!” (James 2:19).  For that matter, I believed in Heaven and Hell as well. Only, I foolishly supposed that I would be allowed to eke out enough of an existence in the pleasures of this world before ‘becoming’ a Christian. Once I had my fill, I would become a follower of Christ, if only to escape the horrors of Hell - a reality that was, curiously enough, always in the back of my mind. Indeed, there was a sense in which the terrifying truths of Hell were far more palpable to my senses than God Himself, His Word, and His love ever was. I say all of this to make one single point excruciatingly clear: I did not want to become a Christian, and I did not want to know the Lord - at best, I just wanted some eternal fire insurance. That was, of course, before the Lord revealed Himself to me. For fear of speaking too much from the mind and too little from my own heart, I will explain what happened next as simply as I’m able.  Nestled neatly somewhere in the middle of the week, just after one of the evening sermons, He came for me. I do not remember the exact words that were spoken, or the passage that was preached, but this much I do know: the Gospel was shared. Indeed, the Word of the Lord was fitly spoken that night, and it accomplished its purpose. I remember that, within a moment, a sudden dread passed over my soul. Though I had always believed in Hell, I at no point thought - much less believed - that I was a sinner who was justly worthy of all its horrors. For the first time in my life, I suddenly saw myself as I truly was; not as a young man who had his life before him - one who would someday believe in Jesus - but as a sinner who was in direct and willful enmity with the holy, holy, holy God of the universe. It was only upon later reading Jonathan Edwards’ Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God that I have been able to rightly capture my feelings in that moment: “The God that holds you over the pit of hell, much as one holds a spider or some loathsome insect over the fire, abhors you, and is dreadfully provoked; His wrath towards you burns like fire; He is of purer eyes than to bear to have you in His sight; you are ten thousand times more abominable in His eyes as the most hateful venomous serpent is in ours. You have offended Him infinitely more than ever a stubborn rebel did his prince; and yet ’tis nothing but His hand that holds you from falling into the fire every moment.” At the very heart of this dread was the Lord Himself. A tremendous sense of horror and a tremendous sense of God flooded my soul. For the first time in my little vapor of a life I did not fear Hell only; my soul trembled before Him who alone was able and just to cast me there.  However, coupled with this dread and fear was a kind of beauty; a solid, tangible, dreadful beauty that spoke softly to me in the very midst of my fears. Suddenly, I saw Him whom I had only heard about all my life, Him who I had spent all my days running from - He was there, as though He were right beside me. The foolishness of my life thus far, the weight of my sin, instantaneously became so utterly clear - I no longer just wanted to escape the horrors of Hell, but I wanted with all my soul to know Him and be with Him. Simply put, I saw Him as beautiful, as supremely beautiful. Suddenly every whisper about Him that I had heard all my life made total and complete sense. At that moment, there was no further deliberation in my soul, no hesitation or tarrying; I simply cried out to Him, confessing that I was a sinner and asking that He would forgive me, that He would make me clean with His blood and bring me into relationship with Himself, no matter the cost. Though I had grown up in the church, my understanding of God up until this point was about an inch deep and less than an inch wide. But in that moment, however bitterly weak my theology may have been, I was given enough sense to cast myself upon the Lord Jesus; looking nowhere else and to no one else but God Himself for mercy.  What came next could only be described as a great calm - “And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus” (Philippians 4:7). Not merely an emotion, but true peace; a peace that was secured by the finished work of the Lord Jesus on the cross for me; a peace that displaced the dread and horror that was there only a moment ago; a peace that can only come to pass when a creature finally comes into friendship with the Creator who made it. Just as Edwards gave utterance to my horror and dread, John Newton’s hymn “Amazing Grace” gave words to my joy: “’Twas grace that taught my heart to fear, / And grace my fears relieved; / How precious did that grace appear / The hour I first believed.” All of this, from beginning to end, took place over the course of mere moments. Yet there I was, a new man entirely - and I knew it. For sixteen years I bucked and reared against the Lord Jesus, and yet, in the span of only a few seconds, He did more for me than eternity itself will be able to tell. Sitting there alone in that dark auditorium, overwhelmed with joy and emotion, a single scene entered my mind. I cannot say why I thought of this particular scene, but for some mysterious reason my mind was taken to the book of Exodus, right when Moses and the people of Israel crossed through the midst of the Red Sea. Only, none of these were featured in the scene that suddenly flooded my mind. No, all I saw was this: a wall of water crowded my vision, like a wave, hundreds of feet high, replete with every variety of blue and green, dazzling colors of turquoise, emerald, and aquamarine; and standing before this otherworldly wave was a single creature - a white horse. The horse drove up the sandy seabed with its hooves as it turned this way and that, frantically trying to escape the roar and might of the sea that was to come descending upon it at any moment - only, the sea did not fall, and the horse did not perish. — In the end, it was not a vision of Heaven exploding upon my senses or surviving a catastrophic motorcycle accident that brought me to Christ. No, it only took Christ Himself; no other methods or devices were necessary.  “For as the rain and the snow come down from heaven and do not return there but water the earth, making it bring forth and sprout, giving seed to the sower and bread to the eater, so shall my word be that goes out from my mouth; it shall not return to me empty, but it shall accomplish that which I purpose, and shall succeed in the thing for which I sent it” (Isaiah 55:10-11). My conversion was at once the most simple and miraculous event in the universe that evening. I was blind, and now I see; I was dead, and now I am alive - I could not have imagined such a miracle. So it is with all of us who have come to know and be known by the Lord, no matter how simple or miraculous our conversion may have been. You were raised from the dead, dear Christian - that is a feat attributable to God alone. I never wanted to be a Christian, and I never wanted to know the Lord Jesus Christ. Had I been given a thousand lifetimes, I would have denied Him in each and every one if it were up to me. But that night, Christ made it abundantly clear to me that I did not choose Him, He chose me - “You did not choose me, but I chose you” (John 15:16). Jesus, with that same voice by which He crafted the cosmos and raised Lazarus from the dead - “Lazarus, come out!” - He raised me also. Oh, if the Lord were not speaking to Lazarus only, would not the entire grave have been emptied! I thank the Lord that when I stood broken before the torrents and howling winds of His majesty, He did not consume me. That great wall of turquoise, emerald, and aquamarine did not devour me, it washed me - He made me clean with His own blood. I stood, and yet stand forevermore, white as snow before the radiance of His glory, as a white horse galloping upon the seashore. I never wanted to become a Christian - but now, give me ten-thousand lives and I will live each and every one for Him, and Him alone. Photo by Silas Baisch, Unsplash