Search & Ye Shall Find...

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). 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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

A small voice broke the silence with a question, “Mordor, Gandalf, is it left or right?” Frodo’s words, whispered as they were, seemed to be snatched up by the wilderness around him. As Frodo spoke, his cloaked form began to slowly lead the company from the gates of Rivendell in the gathering light. The journey’s end is of little present concern to Frodo, for there is much road that lies between here and home. For the moment, his question is simple - “left or right?” In the pale light of a new day dawning, another voice could suddenly be heard - soft, strong, and sure . “Left”, answered Gandalf with calm assurance as though he had walked this very road before. His large hand steadied itself on Frodo's shoulder, guiding his path to the left. — I look to the right and I see a road paved with grand cobblestones, innumerable in number. These stones carry a winding pathway beyond the bend of an ancient oak - the path is wide, well-worn, and crowded. The oaks begin to grow in company as the road goes ever on; countless trees stand as sentinels of a past age upon the lip of the road, each adorned with the flame and flicker of fall upon their leaves. Though, many of their leaves have fallen, and many are falling still. The road to the right is carpeted with leaves of red, orange, yellow, and auburn, as though the very path were consumed with flame. The road flows like a river through the midst of the forest, ebbing to and fro, ever sloping downwards - sloping gradually, imperceptibly, decidedly . As the road bows ever downwards, a chill begins to sweep through the air; the warmth of summer in this part of the forest has long since faded, and the flame of autumn has been all but snuffed out - the dark of winter approaches, and a mist lays upon the furthest reaches of the land. Further down, dead and dying oaks innumerable litter the road; hollow husks of the saplings they once were, far from the tender hands of the Gardener’s pruning. Suddenly, the road to the left beckons me. I turn my face from the gathering dread of the road to the right towards the path that lies on my left. The road is not clothed in fair cobblestone; it is a harsh, uneven, and narrower path tangled with the roots and brambles of oaks far more ancient than those of the right.  The journey to the left is cloaked with the shadows of nightfall, broken now and again by sunlight and starlight as it makes its way past the broken branches of those timeless oaks. These oaks are solid and steadfast. Bruised, bent, and beaten as they may be, they yet blossom. Ages of wandering in the shadows and whispers of the forest have not robbed them of their many leaves - for their roots are dug deep, immovable.  There is one oak - the grandest of them all - that catches my eye as I proceed along this leftward path. Only, despite his grandeur, this oak is now alone; around him lay the splintered stumps of his friends that left him many winters ago, leaving him to wander the years ahead in solace. He is battered and alone in a forest that no longer remembers his name, living among young saplings that do not rightly appreciate his great height as it towers above them. Nonetheless, he aches outwards and upwards with his remaining branches - broken by the wind as they are - towards the heavens. Aching with all his might for that wood beyond the world, yet ever faithful and firm here below until he is told otherwise. For though he longs for home, he is sure to keep his branches, like wings, outwards as well as upwards, overshadowing those young saplings under his shadow. There are other trees in the forest as well, many others. These oaks bear fruit in and out of season, drinking deeply from the streams of water that run along their roots. Whether in the scorching and suffocating heat of summer, or in the desolate waste of winter, their leaves remain. And when their leaves do begin to wrinkle and fall, they do not spurn the gentle hands of the Gardener who is ever at work in the forest - rather, they let Him prune as He desires, for His heart is that they bear fruit, and much of it. Though this road is narrow and filled with many unexpected turns, I yet feel the strength of One who is mightier than I upon my shoulder, beckoning me onwards, upwards, and to the left. The road is not crowded, but it is by no means empty. I catch the patter of feet behind me, and the rumbling of pots and pans upon the backs of my fellow travelers - my brothers and sisters, my fellow pilgrims, my friends. — We are wandering through a forest that is at odds with ourselves. We see the other trees, the beauty of the wildlife, and the glory of the rolling hills and we recognize them as lovely, and rightly so. Yet, the hearts of oaks and men groan for something  more. A world destined for decay, with its harsh winters and heavy winds, serves to untether us from any allure it may have had when we were but saplings. The trees of this world, our Father’s world, cast long shadows to the foot of that wood beyond this world - our home . To take up residence in this world with any sense of permanence is to pitch your tent among the shifting shadows of nightfall. Strive with all your might then, regardless of the soul’s aching, to press onwards. Firmly planted not in this world, or its comforts, but in Him - the One who planted you where you now find yourself.  The forest around you will begin to change; the sense of home and comfort you once drew from those quiet hills and trickling brooks may even become cold and strange. The whisper of the wind among the leaves of friends you knew for many long years will one day cease, leaving the forest a much quieter place than you remembered it, or ever thought possible. The bark upon your trunk may begin to grow brittle, the strength of your bones may wane, but the roots you dug long ago in the dawn of your youth will stand, firmly planted in the palms of Him who has raised every lily of the field, oak in the forest, and star in the cosmos. Though the ages may have waned against you, though the wind blew vehemently for many long nights, you will yet stand, endure, and make it safely home because of Him. Photo by Johannes Plenio, Unsplash

July 16th marks two wonderful years of marriage for Elaina and I. Oh, how the time flies! Though I am by no means a fan of country music, a line from Luke Bryan’s song “Most People Are Good” has always stuck with me: “I believe that days go slow and years go fast.” Indeed, the days do ebb slowly at times - all 731 of them - but these two years have nonetheless been the quickest years yet, and the most beautiful . My wife and I often remark to one another that it feels like we’ve always been husband and wife. Almost as though we’ve always been married. Sure, the past two years have flown by alarmingly fast, but on the other hand, Elaina and I can hardly remember what life was like before we got married. By God’s grace, we slipped into married life very naturally - almost as if it was meant to be (which it surely was). In the days and weeks leading up to our anniversary, I began to dwell on how richly the Lord has blessed Elaina and I. Several nights ago, I was unable to sleep and as I was lying in bed my thoughts kept smoothing over one particular point: I have everything, infinitely more, that a man could possibly ask for. There is none so blessed as I - indeed, “He who has God and everything else has no more than he who has God only.” In Christ I have all things and Him who is all things - and, I just so happen to be married to the most beautiful of His daughters.  Lying in bed that night I was struck by the tremendous contrast between us - my wife and I - and the vast majority of people in this country, whether they be young or old. We in and of ourselves are nothing special; her and I enjoy a simple life, we aren’t rich or famous, and yet, our hearts are full, wonderfully full. Can most people in this country truly say that? That they are, circumstances aside, truly happy and content? And that is, quite simply, the thought my mind keeps returning to: this is it, this is life abundant. My soul has no greater delight than to rest in the Lord, to be happy in Him, and to “rejoice in the wife of [my] youth” (Proverbs 5:18). What greater adventure can the human soul hope for than to know its Maker and journey alongside another soul, one with whom it is one, towards Him, our great hope? One of the great joys of Christian marriage rests not only in the bliss of our earthly relationship, but in the sure hope of an even deeper friendship that will echo throughout the halls of eternity. You need only open Instagram or Facebook for a fleeting moment to come to the conclusion that most people are sad, disillusioned, and without hope. No matter what face they wear, or what words happen to come out of their mouths, this is the sad reality of many, many lives. The entire apparatus of social media is fueled by a longing for something that always seems just out of reach; folks moving from content to content, all the while remaining utterly discontent. Ultimately, people are restless because they refuse to rest their souls in the Lord. As Augustine remarked, “You have made us for yourself, O Lord, and our heart is restless until it rests in you.” However, what makes social media so corrosive is that it subtly influences the way we as believers think and act as well. When we see posts and videos of people skyrocketing to fame, or ‘making it big’ financially, we ourselves are suddenly tempted to feel discontent in our own little lives, as though we are in some way or another missing out on ‘what’s going on out there’.  Only, therein lies the rub: it's all an illusion. Even if the folks on the other side of our screen are indeed ‘genuinely happy’, whatever that actually means, their happiness is ultimately short-lived and shallow without the joy of the Lord.  And so, today, it is my desire to give honor where honor is due. To glorify Him who is the Giver of all good gifts, and to honor my wife, Elaina, who is the greatest gift given to me aside from relationship with Himself. My intent is to remind you, Elaina, that I love you, and that I love our little life. I praise our Lord for making you, for saving you for Himself, for giving us to one another in this life; and I praise you for your multitude of beauties, and I praise you for each and every way that you point me back to Him. In his book Reflections on the Psalms, C.S. Lewis plumbs the depths of this thing we call ‘praise’. In his own words, Lewis remarks that, “The most obvious fact about praise - whether of God or anything - strangely escaped me. I thought of it in terms of compliment, approval, or the giving of honour. I had never noticed that all enjoyment spontaneously overflows into praise… the world rings with praise - lovers praising their mistresses, readers their favourite poet, walkers praising the countryside, players praising their favourite game… I think we delight to praise what we enjoy because the praise not merely expresses but completes the enjoyment; it is its appointed consummation.” When the rest of the world is preoccupied with ‘big things’, like the near-assassination of former President Trump and the gathering forces of darkness all around us, it can seem like our quiet little lives matter only a jot in the grand scheme of things. This little post, my little marriage, it all means little in the eyes of the world - but before the Lord, the God of the “great and small”, it means much (Revelation 20:12). I know that my marriage means a great deal to the Lord, and that He is, imperfections aside, using mine and Elaina’s marriage to further His kingdom; that is no small weight to bear. With each passing year, I am more and more convinced of the reality that God concerns Himself chiefly with ‘little people’, with His people - everyday folk like you and I. Not only does God concern Himself with little, everyday people, but with little, everyday situations. I would encourage you, dear friend, to likewise concern yourself with the little, seemingly infinite moments that make up your day - for it is these that, day after day, make up one’s life. As I reflect upon my first two years of marriage, it's the little moments, the moments between moments, that come to mind. The sun-bathed evenings of walking and talking; toiling quietly in the kitchen together preparing dinner; stolen glances of love and romance that are exchanged across the room, ever in the presence of our Lord, the Shepherd of our marriage. As I reflect upon our first two years of marriage, Elaina, my heart delights to praise you, for that is the natural end to the joy in my heart, to the love that you and I share in.  Two years ago, I made a vow to love and lead you, for better or for worse, until our journey’s end. Standing upon the threshold of marriage all those days ago, I could not anticipate the weight of that joyous responsibility, nor could I possibly anticipate the countless beauties and glories that we’ve encountered along the way. Two years ago, I said “I do” - I still do, Elaina, and I always will. — Elaina, as your husband I am called to imitate our spiritual Husband, Jesus Christ; I vow to dig deep into His Word daily that I may be fashioned more in His likeness; To pursue holiness, joy, wisdom, faithfulness, and love above all earthly treasures, as an example to you. I vow to seek my soul’s satisfaction in Christ first and foremost, to walk well-worn paths of fellowship with Him that you and I can then tread upon daily as husband and wife; By God’s grace and leading, I vow to imitate Christ in our household; as a leader, lover, and lifelong friend.   No matter how many seasons of marriage we are given together, whether many or few, I vow to always delight in you as the wife of my youth, just as Christ delights in His bride, the church; I will never cease to praise God for your beauty, nor cease to remind you that your worth outnumbers all the stars, and that you outshine each and every one in beauty.   Whether in seasons of sorrow or in times of joy, I will strive to remind you of God’s eternal truth; assuring you that whether it be dark valleys or mountain highs, come what may, the LORD is God and God He’ll stay; I will laugh and dance with you in the light, and weep with you and comfort you in the night, until the sun rises.   I vow to wash you daily with the water of God’s Word, that you might be presented to Him in splendor and without blemish;  I vow to seek your holiness as that of my own flesh, to nourish and cherish you, to encourage you, to pray for you, to provide for and protect you, and sacrifice daily for you; So that when we reach our journey’s end you may hear those words, “Well done, my good and faithful servant.”   However, I am not Christ, and along this journey I will stumble and I will fall; But I vow that I will hurry to humility, that I will be fast to forgive, and swift to ask for forgiveness, just as God has forgiven you and I in Christ; And when you stumble, I vow to speak the truth to you in love, always striving to reflect the gentle and lowly heart of our Lord towards you.   I am unworthy of you, Elaina, and I am unable to keep these vows apart from Christ; And so I promise that I will trust Him to lead and strengthen me that I may in turn lead you; I will make much of you in order to make much of Him, that in all things He may be glorified; I love you, Elaina, and I vow to love Christ with you for the rest of our days. Photo by ashleyphotography.ca

“Algebra is like sheet music - the important thing isn’t can you read music, it’s can you hear it. Can you hear the music, Robert?” “Yes I can”, replied Robert. -Niels Bohr and J. Robert Oppenheimer discussing quantum mechanics at the University of Cambridge, Oppenheimer — This may age me terribly, but so be it. Claude Debussy’s “Clair De Lune” is not only my favorite piece of classical music, but it very well may be the dearest song in all the world to me. Though “Clair De Lune” is not a hymn, it stirs my soul as mightily as “Nearer, my God, to Thee” or “It is Well With My Soul” ever has. What the piece lacks in lyrics - for there are none - it makes up for in the sheer transcendence of its musical glory. What “Clair De Lune” is found wanting in theological precision, it makes up for in the utter beauty of its composition - and if beauty itself is not a masterclass lesson in theology, then I don’t know what is. Every time I hear “Clair De Lune”, I feel as though I can hear the whispers of Heaven in my ear - an echo from home played upon a celestial organ. The piece is as a light breeze from a far, far away land; a gentle breathing upon the back of my neck, beckoning my soul upwards and onwards.  I say all this as a man who knows very little - terribly, terribly little - about music. Indeed, I spend most of my Sunday mornings either singing in the key of H or struggling to find a key at all. However, none of that matters when I hear “Clair De Lune”. When confronted with true beauty, words are not necessary to convey truth. Truly beautiful music, like the heavens themselves, need no words to “pour out speech” (Psalm 19:2) - their beauty alone is a faithful witness to the beauty of their Maker.  Truly, the song is beautiful. And given that all beauty belongs to God, “Clair De Lune” has a way of pointing me back towards Him every time I hear it. As beings made in the image of our Creator, we have an innate proclivity towards beauty. Indeed, true beauty needs no translator. “The heavens declare the glory of God, and the sky above proclaims His handiwork. Day to day pours out speech, and night to night reveals knowledge. There is no speech, nor are there words, whose voice is not heard” (Psalm 19:1-3).   This echo of glory, this mighty transcendence, is by no means silenced in the art of song. All of creation is the medium through which the eternal shouts; a grand metaphor that reverberates throughout the universe like a chord struck upon an organ, crafting a mosaic that points to greater things beyond the curtain of the cosmos. Music, like the stars themselves, has a way of shouting at us out of the darkness. “Wake up!” declares the universe from the deep, “Look at me, and behold your God!” The very best of music, the kind that lingers within our souls, must always point beyond itself. Behind all the beauty in the universe stands the Lord Himself, giving weight and purpose to the beauty that our eyes and ears observe, and souls taste. However, unlike the sparrows, roaring seas, and all-consuming stars, music is invisible - it is intangible, immaterial. Bound by its invisibility, music then must become a single entity with the thing it is trying to point to. Music not only whispers of things beyond the stars - it is almost one and the same with these intangible, transcendent mysteries. To properly enjoy the beauty of music we must step inside the beauty itself. Indeed, music invites us to participate in the dance rather than simply watching it.  The word transcendent suggests something that is beyond our natural experience. A thing that surpasses our everyday comings and goings to such an extent that we no longer have words to explain it. Transcendence is to the human mind what quantum mechanics is to the amoeba.  There is a certain kind of transcendence that presents itself within not just any kind of music, but in the great pieces from long ago. These are gusts of wind from a far away country that whistle through the keyholes of Mozart, Bach, Beethoven, and of course, Debussy. While the classical form may have been perfected by these artists, the echo does not end with them. Transcendence endures into all music - all art and beauty - that seeks to utter things far more mysterious and glorious than itself. No doubt we have all at some point heard the music ? Tasted within our souls the very essence and nature of the eternal itself, so near that we could almost feel its breath press upon the back of our necks? The hearing of those notes and melodies, perhaps as brief as half a second, that seem to catch our souls for an eternity; not quite the thing itself, but perhaps the closest our souls have ever been to it. A remembrance of sorts, a kind of nostalgia for a thing not yet experienced, a place not yet been - an echo of home . As Trevin Wax describes it, “Music isn’t just something physical and material. There’s something beyond the notes on the page. In great works of art, we touch the edges of the transcendent because the best of our human creations are consciously or unconsciously reaching for the true, good, and beautiful. Music, like other art forms, resembles the beauty we see in nature. These aesthetic experiences are like cracks in the sidewalks of secularism, through which shoots of grass and the occasional flower appear. They’re pinholes in the ceiling of immanence, laying waste the claim that nothing exists beyond this material world. They’re whispers in the wind that send a chill up the spine and tell us we’re not alone. There’s something more there.” There is something more, much more, beyond this world of ours. Behind every piece of truly beautiful art or resplendent spectacle of nature is the original Artist. All beauty is His, and He is jealous over His glory - indeed, we cannot truly appreciate beauty, truly taste it, without first considering it in the light of His glory. I recently learned that “Clair De Lune” was in fact a name given to three compositions by Debussy. Think of these as ‘sister-compositions’, as it were. These pieces were originally set to a series of poems by Paul Verlaine, the poems themselves inspired further by the paintings of Jean-Antoine Watteau. How fitting: all beauty is inspired by the beauty that proceeds it. For all his genius, even Debussy was not truly original. If we take all beauty back to first principles, to that first cause, we find God - the uncaused Cause. He does not need to borrow beauty, He is beauty. “The first gulp from the glass of natural sciences will make you an atheist, but at the bottom of the glass God is waiting for you” (Werner Heisenberg, the father of Quantum Physics). Beyond all things is Him, the great I Am, the only one “with whom we have to do” (Hebrews 4:13). If there be any craftsmanship in the work of the builder’s hands, or even a single, solitary stroke of pure brilliance in the artist’s brush, or but an iota of eloquence in the poet’s verse, then there lies beauty, His beauty. Beauty that is true, eternal, and infinite, breaking through the fetters of this world, frame by frame, to remind our souls of that end to which we were made.  And so, when you look around this world, do you see His craftsmanship, the work of His hands? Can you hear the music?