Search & Ye Shall Find...

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?

For every significant event in our lives, there are the many, seemingly countless, insignificant moments that lead up to it. The day of my wedding was, and forever shall be, one of the most important and beautiful days in my little vapor of a life. As a brief aside, I say “one of the most important and beautiful” because, while it remains the most beautiful day of my life thus far, I’d like to imagine that my wife and I have many more days of equal or greater beauty yet on the horizon, both here below and in the world to come.  As memorable as my wedding day was, the morning of was far from exciting. While my wife and her bridesmaids were getting dressed, stressed, and prepared for the day ahead since the early morning hours, I had what could be called a ‘normal’ start to my day. I woke up early, though not too early, had a coffee, spent some time in prayer and in God’s Word, and more or less followed my typical routine for a Saturday morning. My groomsmen were to arrive around mid-morning, at which point we’d all head out for breakfast only to return and get ready ourselves. Between waking up and their arrival, however, my time was my own.  While my morning was relatively ‘normal’, what I do recollect is that there was a peculiar stillness in the air; a stillness that seemed to swell within my own soul as well as in the rest of the house around me. An inexpressible, impalpable, elusive - and yet altogether weighty - sense of importance rested on me.  This was, after all, the morning of my wedding day. In only a few short hours, I would make a covenant with another soul, promising lifelong love and faithfulness to her for the rest of our days before our Creator and witnesses. This was the last morning in which I’d awake as a single man; the last time I’d be ‘on my own’ in the particular way that I had grown comfortable with all my life. It was a sobering thought, a weighty thought, but above all, it was a joyful thought. Nonetheless, what struck me was the undeniable stillness and normality of the morning itself, contrasting mightily with the bustle, joy, and celebration that was to erupt in only a few hours’ time. I stood before a great divide, the Mariana Trench of milestones - marriage . Though I was unable to identify the sensation in the moment, I could feel the leaves of a new season in life beginning to circle around my feet all the same. Though I moved into our apartment two months before my wife and I got married, it still felt relatively unlived in. My wife and I, with help from our parents, had been slowly furnishing the place and making it our own, but it still lacked one very important thing: her, my wife. While I was waiting for my groomsmen to arrive, I disassembled my bedroom set (as we were taking my wife’s), prepared some other pieces of furniture to be moved out by our family while we were away, and finished packing my suitcase for the honeymoon. When all was said and done, I vividly remember looking up across our new home, struck by the emptiness of it, then staring down at my suitcase, and simply sitting down. Everything that needed to be done was now done, there was nothing left to do but wait - and I couldn’t have been more excited to begin the next part of the journey. I’ve been thinking a lot about Heaven lately. And whenever my thoughts begin dwelling on Heaven, a certain restlessness comes over me. A restlessness to get up and out, like on my wedding day, and begin the adventure. Life is so incredibly good; marriage to Elaina, my wife, even better, and the Lord, the Giver of all good things, infinitely better still. And yet, when my heart fastens tightly on thoughts about Heaven, thinking about seeing Christ face to face, anticipating being rid of every trace of sin, I get restless. It’s not so much that I want to leave this life and the good things in it, but rather that I want to scoop it all up and take it with me - take it home, take it to Him. Not long after becoming a follower of Jesus, I found myself thinking more and more on the reality of my own death. Not in a morbid way, but in a Biblical way: “It is better to go to the house of mourning than to go to the house of feasting, for this is the end of all mankind, and the living will lay it to heart” (Ecclesiastes 7:2). Like David, the song of my soul, still and strong, though perhaps quieted in seasons by the things of this life, yet never hushed entirely, has been simply this: “One thing have I asked of the LORD, that will I seek after: that I may dwell in the house of the LORD all the days of my life, to gaze upon the beauty of the LORD, and to inquire in His temple” (Psalm 27:4). To feast on the beauty of Jesus, to inquire about His temple and to rest among the folds of His robe, that is what we were made for - is it then any wonder that this life feels like a waiting of sorts? A sense in which we are all sitting on suitcases, everything having been done and prepared, waiting with excitement for the true adventure to finally begin? I recently finished listening to Dr. John Neufeld’s series simply titled “Heaven” on Back to the Bible Canada. In ten short episodes, twenty or so minutes in length, Dr. Neufeld unfolds the Biblical vision of Heaven. Right in episode one, Neufeld does well to set a few matters straight.  Firstly, he makes clear that many, indeed most, firsthand accounts of Heaven are almost entirely fictitious. Whether these tales are from folks who claimed to have been there, only to return, or from others who ‘experienced a vision’, or both, the fact remains: many of these accounts are unbiblical, no matter how sincere. These ‘accounts’ make much of rolling hills like endless golf courses and paint pictures of excessive white - shining white people clad in bright white robes playing harps on white clouds. Where is the color in these visions? The creativity? The endless variety and beauty that God imbued this fallen world with seems to be missing entirely in these accounts. And above all, where is the glory of Christ in any of these visions of Heaven? If someone claims to have visited Heaven and yet their words about Christ are sparse or entirely nonexistent, then I assure you it was not Heaven they visited. Jesus is eternal life, and so no mention of Him in accounts of Heaven should make us take immediate pause - or cause us to run away altogether. The second point that Dr. Neufeld stresses throughout the series is akin to the first. Namely, our notion of Heaven is not only weak, but it is unbiblical. Indeed, it is weak because it is unbiblical. Much of Western society’s thinking about not only Heaven, but life after death and bodily resurrection as well, are far more in line with ancient Greek, Hellenistic philosophy than Biblical truth. Indeed, these little pieces of philosophic leaven have leavened the lump of our thinking so thoroughly that we no longer recognize their influence. No doubt the primary reason so many Christians have a lackluster thought life about Heaven is owing to the fact that the place they are picturing is less of a place at all and more of an ethereal, disembodied ‘state of mind’ - a place that is utterly divorced from what the Bible says on the matter of Heaven. With such low thoughts on the Biblical Heaven, is it any wonder then that we so readily dig our heels into a world that was never meant to be our home? As C.S. Lewis once said, “If we find ourselves with a desire that nothing in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that we were made for another world.” In the series, Dr. Neufeld faithfully gathers the many threads spoken about Heaven in the Bible and weaves them into a refreshing, coherent whole. Are there gaps in the tapestry he weaves? Absolutely. Is he quick to admit when he simply does not have the answers? Absolutely. Neufeld is wise to speak little on those things that Scripture has also spoken little on rather than indulging in speculation. For, in the end, “What no eye has seen, nor ear heard, nor the heart of man imagined, what God has prepared for those who love Him” (1 Corinthians 2:9). I suppose what I’m trying to say is that my mind has been turning to Heaven more often these days quite simply because I see Heaven more clearly now than I ever have before. I feel a renewed longing and excitement for our eternal home not only because of Dr. Neufeld’s careful teaching on the subject, but because of the Bible itself. I feel I can imagine and dwell confidently upon our eternal home with greater anticipation because of the very confidence I have in the Scriptures. And that is why I found this particular series so encouraging and refreshing. Indeed, there is a sense in which Dr. Neufeld says nothing new; he simply, as his program suggests, goes ‘Back to the Bible’. So much of life is made up of waiting. Not just waiting, but a hopeful anticipation of something better. In fact, so often waiting actually deepens the joy of the thing we are in anticipation of. Waiting for the arrival of your wedding day, a newborn child, or perhaps a family vacation that you’ve been planning, all of these take time to arrive, and therein lies part of the sweetness - the very act of waiting. As the day draws nearer, the joy grows stronger. Thus we often hear the saying, “Life is a journey, not a destination”, and how true that is. If we don’t take time to enjoy the life God has given us, it will pass us by without a second thought. However, therein lies the rub with much of waiting. While waiting may heighten the joy of the thing that you are waiting for, sometimes it actually overshadows the object, or destination, of your joy, resulting with you taking comfort in anticipation of the next thing just over the hill.  It is not so with Heaven. Heaven is a real place, it is the destination. Indeed, it is both the destination and the journey, the never ending journey. Occupying ourselves for all eternity with the worship, exploration, and inquiry of our infinite Lord is the foundation upon which our eternal joy rests. In His unending perfection, there will always be another door beyond the next that can be opened, revealing greater splendor than what we had previously known, or even thought possible. In our marriage to Christ, we shall enter into a honeymoon phase that will never come to an end; rather, as the endless years of eternity roll, so too will our joy increase. While we may have great and exceedingly great joy in our anticipation of Heaven, rest assured that the reality will in no way fall short. God Himself, our eternal dwelling place, cannot fall short. As we sit on suitcases here below, awaiting that train that will take us home to the Wedding Feast of the Lamb, allow yourself to wait with joy because, dear friend, the best is yet to come. Photo by Peter Herrmann, Unsplash

Walking and talking are lost arts. Whether done on their own or in conjunction, this fact remains: people no longer walk the way they used to, and quite frankly, most of the ‘talking’ that this world does can hardly be called conversation at all. Texts, emojis, and 3-second vanishing pictures do not a conversation make. Now, by ‘walking’ I do not only mean the physical act of walking from place A to B. Rather, I’m talking about the conscious, all time-consuming, seemingly pointless, archaic practice of grabbing your coat, a hat, and a person (optional) and heading out into the world to - you guessed it - simply walk around in it.  Stemming from ‘walking’ is ‘talking’, another art that we have lost sight of altogether. ‘Talking’ has little to do with the mere exchange of words between souls - for enough of that occurs in this world as it is, and we would do well without much of it. By ‘talking’ I am referring to the act of sharing in rich conversation and fellowship with another person; particularly face-to-face, made especially sweet when on a walk together. To any sensible person, what I am saying is perfectly obvious. Only, these two simple and ancient facets of human existence and happiness, walking and talking, are completely foreign to many people in this world. In our society of hustle and bustle, of sound and fury, the idea of taking aside an hour from one’s day to walk aimlessly and talk deeply with a close friend (or in solitude) seems like an utter waste of time. We have altogether forgotten the words of Lord of the Rings author, J.R.R. Tolkien, when he said: “Not all those who wander are lost.” Indeed, to prove this very point let us turn for a moment to the moral and ideological backwater-swamp known as TikTok. Several months ago, there was a trend on the social media platform called “Silent Walking”. Influencers and social media peddlers hailed the trend as ‘revolutionary’ and ‘groundbreaking’ in one’s pursuit of peace and calm. If someone wanted to enjoy “Silent Walking”, all they had to do was this: put on some comfortable shoes, leave their phone at home, and simply go outside and walk. No fuss, no noise, no distractions - just walk in the theater of nature’s beauty. What a revelation! You mean to say that walking outside in the fresh air in peace and quiet while surrounded by the beauty of God’s created order is preferable over being flayed on a couch like a salmon in front of a screen? Whence cometh this wisdom! As much as social media influencers may want to take credit for discovering the act of walking, I’m afraid that they may be a little late to this particular party. Indeed, “What has been is what will be, and what has been done is what will be done, and there is nothing new under the sun” (Ecclesiastes 1:9).  As expected, the proponents of “Silent Walking” were mocked mercilessly online. They were mocked not because they were wrong, for they were quite on the mark when it came to the benefits of walking. Rather, they were ridiculed because of their bold presumption that they alone discovered the thing that Adam himself no doubt did only minutes after his own creation - that is, walk in the garden of God’s glory sans Spotify, podcasts, or AirPods. Walking and talking have been beautifully reliable fixtures in the life of my wife and I, going back as far as our first date. The pattern established on that first outing - a sharing in rich conversation as we walked around our small town, basked in the golden light of an August sun, followed by violet shades as the shadows began to gather under warm, lamp-lit streets - has since become a well-worn path that my wife and I walk daily; a dance that we have been engaging in ever since our first date. To borrow words from my wife, there is a “timelessness” to these moments we spend together while walking and talking. A sense in which the veil of this world, of time itself, is lifted entirely. In these moments, the soul seems at rest in the cozy cottage of conversation; indeed, home feels ever so near. The tune of Heaven pierces the air; a place made up not of endless time, but of no time at all. On her blog, “Sparrows & Lilies”, my wife captures this reality of “timeless” and yet “timeful” moments with beautiful precision (for her entire thoughts on the matter, follow this link: https://elainabudimlic.wixsite.com/sparrowsandlilies/post/to-be-timeless ). For the moment, allow these words of hers to suffice: “But is that what eternity in Heaven will really feel like? The perpetual passing of time unendingly, stretching on and on forever? For the first time in my life, I don’t think so. Eternity in Heaven will not be infinite time, but timelessness. There will be no time. Yesterday will be as today, and today as tomorrow. We shall live in timeless bliss. Each moment will be time full, in the sense that there will be nothing lacking, there will be joyful satisfaction and complete fulfillment, all our longings coming to rest in the presence of the One we always longed for, were made for, without the angst of time. Our hearts will finally be free, released from the bondage of time, and freed to live each moment as its own. ‘Timeful moments of infinite duration’ (Sheldon Vanauken, A Severe Mercy). And that to me really does sound like Heaven, to be with Christ, infinitely, blissfully ignorant of time, because there is no time, and yet there will be all the time in the world.” While terribly anachronistic, perhaps “Silent Walking” is the one wholesome thing to emerge from social media of late. Only, you need not be silent. Whether in solitude or with a companion, in silence or in speech, take time to walk in the cool of the Lord’s garden today, as Adam did. Walk and talk with your God, with your spouse, friend, or dog, or simply allow your mind to wander along with your feet in quiet reflection.

The Romantic period was a time of unprecedented political, cultural, and artistic upheaval. It was also a time of staggering contradictions, wherein technological advancements promised prosperity to many, all the while children and slaves were crushed under the boot of ‘Enlightenment’ ideals. Just as the Industrial Revolution was ushering Europe into a new age, so too were the Romantic writers, such as Wordsworth and Blake, striving towards a future that more closely reflected Britain’s supposed profession of Christianity. Chief among the writers and activists of the day was John Newton, slave-trader turned Christian abolitionist and esteemed hymn-writer of “Amazing Grace”. By examining Newton’s A Slave Trader’s Journal, “Amazing Grace”, and other abolitionist texts, it will become clear that Britain’s orientation as a slave trading nation was not only incompatible with her Christian profession, but contradictory of the Bible itself. Indeed, Newton’s slow and incremental conversion to Christianity, and his subsequent rejection of the slave trade, is reflective of Britain’s own change of heart towards slavery in the midst of her self-professed Christianity. Only by first examining the roots of racism and colonialism in Britain will Newton’s own conversion to true Christianity shine all the brighter and frame the trajectory for Britain’s own slow, albeit mighty, conversion. In order to understand Newton’s pro-slavery sentiments as a young man, one must first grasp Britain’s own colored past with racism, colonialism, and imperialism. As Britain was coming out of the Middle-Ages, she became imbued with a profound sense of cultural and religious superiority, largely predicated on her self-professed identity as a Christian nation (Callan 1). As a ‘Christian’ nation, Britain felt justified in all her imperialist pursuits, believing herself to be the righteous arm of God extending across the nations (15). Britain’s sense of superiority becomes blatantly clear in her invasion of Ireland; 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). According to Britain, Ireland had fallen from the faith and this alone justified invasion. 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). This disposition towards other nations, one of religious and ethnic superiority, fueled British colonial efforts around the world, climaxing in the transatlantic slave trade. This undercurrent of racism that, mingled with a form of Christianity, spurred the British invasion of Ireland in the 12th century was thriving in the lifetime of Newton. As a young man, Newton became well acquainted with both sailing and the slave trade, insomuch that by the time he was only twenty-eight he was commanding his own slave trading vessel (Black et al. 731). By this time in Britain, however, the ‘type’ of racism that predicated her invasion of Ireland had morphed into a version of ‘Christian colourism’, wherein light skin came to represent goodness and purity, contrasted with dark skin that symbolizes sin, darkness, and death (Callan 5-6). In this way, religion became weaponized against those who did not fit the ethnocentric mold of white, Christian Europeans - weaponized against the black population in particular. According to Callan, “racism partnered with religion”, creating an us and them mentality between Britain and the rest of the world that fueled both societal and colonial expansion, resulting in widespread oppression (10). When racism becomes partnered with religion in this way, it results in a type of colonialism that sees itself as both the savior and scourge of the nation or peoples being invaded, as was the case during the slave trade.  Understandably, this twisted view results in people, particularly British slave traders of the time, to conclude that the individuals they are enslaving are less than human. In Newton’s A Slave Trader’s Journal, this disposition becomes devastatingly clear. Newton writes about the slaves on his ship as though they were mere cargo or beasts, often lending greater focus to their physical abilities or price than their identities as men and women made in the image of the God he claims to believe in (Newton 731). Indeed, when burying a slave that died, Newton cannot be bothered to refer to him by name, simply calling him “a man slave (No. 84)” (731). During their voyage, Newton expresses anxiety over the hygiene of the slaves not because he cares for their wellbeing, but because he is “much afraid of another ravage from the flux” which has already claimed several victims (731). As one might expect, these victims are not mourned as humans, but as lost profits and mere numbers. As Newton writes in his journal, “Buried a girl slave (No. 92)” (731). Indeed, Newton’s nonchalant attitude towards the abuse of slaves, particularly female slaves, is extremely distressing. Newton recalls an episode where “Willaim Cooney seduced a woman slave down into the room and lay with her brutelike in the view of the whole quarter deck” (731). Newton is distressed at this event not because of the slave woman’s inherent value as a human being, but because of the economic loss he may suffer if  “anything happens to the woman… for she was big with child. Her number is 83…” (731). Once again, Newton cannot be troubled to remember this slave woman’s name, worrying only about his personal gain and reputation in the midst of such vile sin. What is more distressing is the fact that on “some ships, the common sailors are allowed to have intercourse” with such slaves as they choose, thus displaying utter contempt at the humanity of these women (Falconbridge 734). In this way, the state of Newton’s own soul, and that of other proponents of slavery, reflected his contempt not only for his fellow man, but for Christianity as well. However, just as the tides began to turn in Britain away from slavery, so too were things changing in Newton’s own heart. Before setting out on his fourth slave trading voyage, Newton fell ill and was prevented from taking to the sea again (Bilbro 571). Providence would have it that, in the midst of his illness of both body and soul, Newton heard the revered George Whitfield preach - thus commencing his own conversion to true Christianity (571). In fact, Newton’s conversion, and his subsequent change of heart, paved the way for the road that Britain herself would soon follow.  Newton’s conversion, like Britain’s, was slow and arduous. Though Newton left the slave trade in 1754 after hearing Whitfield preach, it would be years until he fully grasped the depths of his own depravity and the evils of the slave trade (571). In 1754, Newton regarded the slave trade merely as “disagreeable”, only to amend this statement in later years when he admitted that it was “unlawful and wrong”, ultimately being convicted that the slave trade was “ so iniquitous, so cruel, so oppressive, so destructive” (572). Like many other evangelicals in Britain during the height of the slave trade, Newton came to his senses gradually. Indeed, many British Christians during this period were slow to embrace slavery reform despite the base hypocrisy that such an ideology had in light of holy scripture (566, 571).  It was around this time that Newton penned “Amazing Grace”, a hymn that stands not only as one of the greatest ever written, but as a testament to Newton’s own conversion - one of darkness to light, from blindness to sight. In it, Newton captures his own blindness - and that of Britain’s - quite brilliantly: “Amazing grace! how sweet the sound, / That saved a wretch like me! / I once was lost, but now am found / Was blind, but now I see” (575). Indeed, the great darkness that had hung for so long over Britain was slowly beginning to wane, and the true light was now shining forth. Just as God commanded in the beginning that there should be light in the midst of outer darkness, to bind and cast out that very darkness, so too did the light of knowledge and truth begin to dawn on Britain: "For God, who said, 'Let light shine out of darkness,' has shone in our hearts to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ" (2 Corinthians 4:6). Newton’s conversion had rung so mightily in his soul that he became utterly convinced that no Christian, indeed no man of any creed, could remain ignorant of the slave trade’s stench and evil. Like anyone who goes from darkness into light, from blindness to sight, Newton began to have grave misgivings about his past life as a slave trader. Of his own ignorance, and that of his fellow slave traders, Newton admitted “that neither he nor any of his friends had had any notion” that slavery was indeed a great evil (Black et al. 730). The conviction that the slave trade was evil and antithetical to Christianity may have begun with men like Whitfield and Newton, but soon this sentiment was general over all of Britain. Truly, "Then he touched their eyes... And their eyes were opened" (Matthew 9:29-30). William Wilberforce, a member of Parliament and militant opponent of slavery, vocalized over all of Britain that the slave trade was not only a great evil, but a plague to her citizens and the people of Africa as well (Wilberforce 735). Wilberforce’s influence on the British public cannot be dismissed, nor can Newton’s influence on his life, as he was instrumental in Wilberforce’s conversion to Christianity (Bilbro 560). In this way, Newton’s own conversion led to the conversion of Britain herself, wherein his own experience soon became that of Britain’s. The Romantic period in Britain was not only a time of significant cultural and artistic change, but it was an era that ushered in lasting change. Indeed, the work and works of the Romantic writers, men like Newton himself, changed their society in such magnificent ways that the effects of their labor are still being echoed in our own time. The lasting impact of the Romantic writers during the abolition movement sought to remind Britain of her commitment to God and the truth, and in this way brought about her conversion to true Christianity as she shrugged off the vices of racism and slavery. The great light that dawned in Newton’s soul soon spread across the entirety of Britain. This light continues to shine in our own age as we wrestle with injustice, cruelty, and sin; as we strive to secure a voice for the voiceless, just as Newton had done. However, though the battle rages on, we must have hope. Hope that, like Newton once wrote, “Tis’ grace has brought me safe thus far, / And grace will lead me home”. Reference: Bilbro, Jeffrey. “Who Are Lost and How They're Found: Redemption and Theodicy in Wheatley, Newton, and Cowper.” Early American Literature , vol. 47 no. 3, 2012, p. 561-589. Project MUSE , https://doi.org/10.1353/eal.2012.0054 . Callan, Maeve. “A Savage and Sacrilegious Race, Hostile to God and Humanity.” The Journal of Medieval Religious Cultures, vol. 49, no. 1, 2023, pp. 1-23. Black, Joseph, et al., editors. The Broadview Anthology of British Literature: The Age of Romanticism. Third Edition, Broadview Press, 2022. Falconbridge, Alexander. “Account of the Slave Trade on the Coast of Africa.” The Broadview Anthology of British Literature: The Age of Romanticism. Edited by Black et al., Third Edition, Broadview Press, 2022, 733-734. Newton, John. “A Slave Trader’s Journal”. The Broadview Anthology of British Literature: The Age of Romanticism. Edited by Black et al., Third Edition, Broadview Press, 2022, 731-732. Wilberforce, William. “Speech to the House of Commons.” The Broadview Anthology of British Literature: The Age of Romanticism. Edited by Black et al., Third Edition, Broadview Press, 2022, 735-736.

“We imagine a future, and our imaginings horrify us.” - J. Robert Oppenheimer, during his construction of the first atomic bomb in World War II. — Just as we battle suffering and sickness all our lives, so too will we wage war until our dying breath with the many sins that characterize not only our earthly pilgrimage, but our individual personalities as well. For example, a man who has struggled with anger will, to some degree, find that this particular temptation is quick to knock at the door of his heart more often, and more heartily, than other sins. In my case, when I was a young Christian, and particularly just after my father passed away, I consistently struggled with anxiety. You could say that it ‘came easily to me’. It was my ‘pet sin’, as it were; I hated it, but I felt that it was my burden to bear all the same. However, what lay at the bottom of this sin was just that - sin. It was an obstinate and consistent rejection, no matter how minute, of God’s love, faithfulness, and sovereignty over all things. I projected a future in my mind that was inconsistent with God’s character, and thus became fearful because of this reality, no matter how unrealistic it was.  I thank the Lord that, after many weary days and dreary nights, this sin is now dead and buried. Indeed, Christ has been busy at work on me since then, and He has taught me a thing or two about Himself along the road. However, this does not mean that the scars are gone, or that the well-worn trail that anxiety blazed in my mind has been completely overgrown. But this much I always remind myself of: I scarcely know what is best for myself, and I’d be wise to look to Him not only for what each new day will hold, but for every trillionth of a second in between. The war on anxiety may be won, but there is still a good deal of land left between us and home; and the enemy, though broken and scattered, still has his servants in place along the road. Several years ago, I read an article titled “We Prophesy Grief, Not Grace” by Tim Challies. Tim made the case that we as humans have the tendency to project and imagine very specific things about our future; dreadful things that are informed by our fallen minds, not renewed minds informed by the Word. Tim goes on to say, “I wonder if you have ever pondered the reality that much of our worry, much of our fear, much of our anxiety, comes from predicting the future. The ability to gaze forward in time is an essentially human trait. We have the ability to use our imaginations to see and to feel the future - to imagine that victory and feel the thrill of it, to visualize that loss and feel the sorrow of it. Our imaginations engage our emotions so we begin to weep or to rejoice over what has not yet come to pass and what may never come to pass.” In the midst of a world that was in shambles during the development of the atomic bomb, Oppenheimer made a similar remark: “We imagine a future, and our imaginings horrify us.” We do the same. We take a sober look at how things are in the present moment, and from here we strive to imagine what the road ahead looks like, often going so far as to add bends, roots, ditches, ravines, and steep hills along the way. We take stabs in the dark and try to imagine some fictitious future state of our own lives that lurks only a week or two ahead of where we are currently stationed, or perhaps we are so bold as to extrapolate what the upcoming year itself might hold in store.  This future ‘lurks’ ahead because, quite simply, doesn’t this future that we make out for ourselves often seem overly pessimistic? We are slow to expect goodness and grace from God when it regards our future, and instead shower upon ourselves miseries and misfortune, though totally misplaced. We become grieved and anxious over a future that has not yet come to pass; indeed, one that will never come to pass. For, even if the things we are foreboding do in fact come to be, surely things will not unfold as we have prophesied. No matter how close to the mark our projections may be, we are not sticklers for the details like our Lord is. For, “we know that for those who love God all things work together for good” (Romans 8:28). However, trusting in the Lord is easier said than done. Do we not organize our thought life so often upon the basis of some unknown and distant version of our future lives? Is this not the very essence of worry and anxiety: an ambiguous fear of the unknown, a pessimistic projection of our lives? A dreary future that seemingly dismisses all of God’s abundant past provisions and instead chooses to focus on the plethora of things we do not and simply cannot know or have control over? Rather than live by faith, we live by fear . With every new season of life, we are thrust into uncultivated land in which God's faithfulness must be proven all over again to our hearts and souls. On the upward and narrow road to Heaven, we are brought and taught through various seasons of life so that we might be all the wiser when the next season begins to dawn on our doorsteps.  There is, however, always a sense in which we must begin all over again, is there not? With each new road in life and its corresponding struggles we become convinced that our circumstances are so different from our past trials and triumphs that there is no possible way to remain untroubled. We so quickly forget God's past goodness, and begin to cast a shadow upon His kindness the very moment we find ourselves in a land we do not recognize. We are altogether too keen to thrust ourselves down this dark and deep rabbit hole of despair and what if. As Charles Spurgeon had said, “We are far too prone to write our trials in marble, and our blessings in the sand.” But thanks be to the King of the universe that though our lives may change so very much, He does not change in the slightest. For Jesus is the same yesterday, today, and forevermore. Christ's very immutability is the foundation upon which our fears, worries, and anxieties (and every other pet name you might choose to crown your doubts with) suddenly and unequivocally become bankrupt. They have no grounds. Our circumstances may change, but our God does not. Worry and fear is but a mist - it has no substance. We are squabbling over things that have not even come to pass, and even if they DO come to pass, we ought to remain steadfast and joyful knowing that these things have not come across the desk of our Lord's mind unseen and uncared for. Our struggles are not loose sheets of paper floating around His office, unorganized and unkept; if He cares for the sparrows and makes time for the least of these, be sure to know that He will keep you abundantly as well.  There is no need to worry, He is utterly faithful. Besides, what use can there possibly be in worrying, for how on earth will that begin to contribute to the solution of our problems? Shall our worry add an inch or two to our height? Or shall it change even a single hair from gray to black? That is why anxiety and worry is merely an orchestration of our own fallenness; it is within the eye of the beholder, a thing that we have construed out of their own minds, a thing wholly inconsistent with God and reality. We are called to plan, instructed to be wise, and commanded to be good stewards over the things we have been given. However, we are also told to “fear not”; commanded to rather cast our cares upon our Father in Heaven who cares so deeply for us. Seek the Kingdom of God and His friendship above all, strive to apply obedience and Biblical principle to all you do and plan to do, and He will provide every moment of the way. This may not be in the way that we expect or project, but we will be taken care of all the same. We are not called to know and foresee the future, that is God's prerogative. He will order and provide, and in the meantime you and I are called to be faithful and obedient. Do not worry about being faithful and obedient tomorrow or the day after, rather make that a reality on this very day: “But seek first the Kingdom of God and His righteousness, and all these things will be added to you. Therefore do not be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow will be anxious for itself. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble” (Matthew 6:33-34). — “‘When I broke the five loaves for the five thousand, how many baskets full of broken pieces did you take up?’ They said to him, ‘Twelve’. ‘And the seven for the four thousand, how many baskets full of broken pieces did you take up?’ And they said to him, ‘Seven’. And he said to them, ‘Do you not yet understand?’” (Mark 8:19-21).   What Jesus' disciples failed to understand, as I fail to fully understand every day, is that He provides for those who not only seek Him, but also for those who are bold and honest enough to depend upon Him not only for every day, but for every meal and every breath. The disciples were always under the shadow of Jesus, they served with Him and followed Him everywhere he went, and not once did He fail to meet their needs. In the first encounter with the multitude, Jesus fed a crowd of five thousand and after all the leftovers were gathered there were twelve baskets of food not eaten - twelve baskets, for twelve disciples.  In another account, Jesus had fed four thousand men and women and once all was said and done, there remained seven baskets of leftovers and broken pieces for the disciples. Now, why seven? Well, the number seven is the Biblical number of fullness and perfection. In this way, the seven baskets of food leftover simply meant that, among all the sound and fury of Jesus' ministry, He ensured that His friends were not only fed, but fully and completely provided for. We need not prophesy grief for ourselves or be overcome by fear. In doing so, we easily forget the heart of our Lord towards us. It is not an audacious thing to wait upon the Lord; it is what is expected and commanded of us. If we only understood our dire need and His utter dependability, we would never be caught waiting upon the doorstep of His love again. “The Lord is my chosen portion and my cup; you hold my lot. The lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; indeed, I have a beautiful inheritance ” (Psalm 16:5-6).

When I was a young boy, I had an imaginary friend. In fact, I had many imaginary companions. These make-believe friends of mine were beyond count; they were the ones that walked with me and played with me beneath the boughs of my childhood. I am not ashamed to admit this because, for one, these make-believe friends were quite dear to my heart at the time; and for two, I am confident that I was by no means the only person who rubbed shoulders with those of other worlds  as a child.  The adventures that I shared in with these make-believe companions were unrivaled and legendary, and they have since proved to be some of my warmest and dearest memories of childhood. Though, I must admit, these adventures were often inspired by whatever fad of the imagination I found myself in at the time and were by no means always original in their origins. However, my imagination and I only ever used the stories I read or the films I watched as a landscape or backdrop for our own escapades. Surely, my imaginary friends and I slew many orcs in our day and took part in many epic battles across Middle-Earth, but these were our adventures . It was always other orcs that we slew and other battles that we fought in, different from those of Aragorn and Gandalf, though at times our paths may have crossed with theirs. I was always eager to walk those roads to Rivendell or see the land of Mordor from afar, and I often found myself doing that very thing; but I was also content to roam those hills that the Fellowship did not visit, rather letting the pines of my own backyard cast shadows on lands that Tolkien did not speak of.  These escapades, as I call them, were numerous. Indeed, they were the earliest outlet I had as a child to release my imaginative constipation. Earliest imaginative outlet, of course, before I learned how to form letters and words and from there on went to form worlds and fantastic folk to occupy them. These escapades were very much the beginning of an adventure that would continue into adulthood; a collecting of twigs and branches to be used in a fire that was not yet lit. The truth nevertheless was this: I filled my mind as well as my heart with friends that did not exist except in my own imagination, and yet, they were ever so dear to me despite the fact that no one else ever knew their names or how well they had fought in battle. However, as the days and years waned, these friends of mine became more and more distant, and dust began to collect on the swords and shields we once used everyday. As school began and I made other friends, friends of real people so to speak, I did not see my make-believe friends nearly as often, and I even began to forget the sound of their voice. They no doubt sat around a charcoal fire telling one another tales of our past journeys as they waited for me to come home from school, at which time we would be off once again in search of strange lands and stranger creatures to fight within those lands. Somedays I did come to meet them, and the wood trembled as our band of adventures journeyed among its ancient oaks and whispering streams in search of dragons to slay and trolls to behead. Though, there were other days that I did not join my friends. As I grew older, those days began to grow longer, and soon the fire my friends sat around began to grow cold as they waited for a young boy that would never return. — As you read these words, I do hope that I managed to kindle a fire within your own heart; or rather, awake from the cooling embers a fire that has long since grown cold. Just as work and taxes and oil changes are the staples of adulthood, so too are imaginary friends the anchor of childhood. Whether it be a stuffed tiger, or something beyond this world entirely, we have all shared in friendships with those of other worlds.  These were the companions that waited for us at home while we spent time at our desks in school, wasting our energies on math and music when there were kingdoms to claim and beasts to slay beyond those classroom walls. Perhaps we saw our imaginary friends from time to time at recess, but we nonetheless wanted to get home with them as soon as possible to continue the adventure that our education so rudely interrupted.   Our earthly friends, the ones we could touch and talk to and play soccer with, though in their own ways lovely, were little match for our other friends that held company with kings and wizards. In the light of such great friends as these, so and so from the school yard who did this and that suddenly became dull and unimpressive; a trivial and pathetically small friend when compared to those you fought sea creatures with. There is a wonderful book, To Kill a Mockingbird,  in which this point is illustrated quite well (this book is little known to most children today, besides those of you who are in the ninth grade, perhaps). Little Scout Finch - the story’s child protagonist - is sitting at the kitchen table, and as she is grumbling over her meal, the young boy Dill who visits his aunt over the summers comes strolling in. Dill is in his usual high spirits as he begins to speak lofty things about his father, saying such things as, “My daddy was a railroad man until he got rich, and now he flies airplanes.” At these words young Scout begins to show greater distaste than she did for the meal she was grumbling over. Scout clearly does not care for anything that Dill, or much less his father, has ever done or will do; she has bigger things to busy herself with, such as playing with her older brother Jem, or not being eaten by Boo Radley down the street. So it was with many of our imaginary friends as children - for they often cast long shadows in our minds that our school friends and their fancy hobbies could not even begin to match. It seemed then that it was also our imaginary friends that knew us best, and knew how to put a smile on our faces like no one else. You see, this world is rather cruel and relentless, much like Middle-Earth or Narnia - only worse. It would be naïve to say that children are always kind and friendly, or that the schoolyard is always a safe place, because they are not and it isn’t. It is in our early years that our cruelty is either corrected or perfected. Friends that did not exist except within our imaginations were often kinder and closer to us than those more real  people. I suspect this to be a great reason as to why we have imaginary friends to begin with: because they cannot hurt us or leave us like the others can. Our imaginations as children were often a daunting and scary place, full of strange lands and vile creatures that would sooner squash us into jelly than invite us in for dinner; but these monsters were harmless as doves when compared to the school bully, an abusive parent, or the mean girl only a few lockers down. Even as children we became well aware that others cannot always be depended on or even trusted. We then “made up” friends within our minds that could be both depended upon and trusted without exception when our school friends were either busy with trumpet lessons or their paper route. Our imaginary friends were the ones who waited on us for a change, and they always seemed so happy to do so. Indeed, their apparent happiness served as the foundation for our own childlike joy - a joy that ripples into adulthood in the form of sweet nostalgia. Perhaps Dostoevsky was right: “You must know that there is nothing higher, or stronger, or sounder, or more useful afterwards in life, than some good memory, especially a memory from childhood, from the parental home. You hear a lot said about your education, yet some such beautiful, sacred memory, preserved from childhood, is perhaps the best education. If a man stores up many such memories to take into life, then he is saved for his whole life.” Now, I do not mean to make all children out to be villains. For while some children are certainly vipers in diapers , there are others that are cut from the good cloth, so to speak, and these friends may have even shared in these many adventures with us. Their imagination linked arms with ours, and suddenly our two worlds collided to form something that was in fact quite unique and special; that secret world, that place where our fantastical world touched the borders of their own. I do believe we all had such dear friends as these when we were young boys and girls, those friends who were content to leave the soccer field behind and instead journeyed to distant lands with us, and of course, with our imaginary friends.   It was quite like the Narnia stories; only instead of Lucy, Edmund, Peter and Susan, it was you and your friend from the schoolyard that found themselves lost in a world far more enchanting and dangerous than their own. Two young souls wandering a place that was far from this world and far from home; yet, in a very real way, did it not seem at times to be more like home than this world? This world was awash with gray and had many rough edges and was either filled with angry people or worse still, very sad people; but that other world made sense, it had a warmth and comfort about it that this world often seemed to lack. Though, just like the young children in the Narnia books, there always comes a time when the dinner bell rings and we must return home to this world before it gets too late and supper gets too cold. — At some point or another, our bodies begin to change and with them so do our appetites and interests. We hang up our capes and crowns and sheath our swords or our space blasters because we foolishly think that to tickle our imaginations is to be childish again. We misinterpret the apostle Paul’s words when he says, “When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I gave up childish ways.” We tend to forget the former things because that is what this world says sensible adults ought to do. We become embarrassed by our imaginary friends’ swords and pelts and treasure chests strewn across the room and insist that they be cleaned up or else they shall be cast out into the cold wilderness. For the real guests are on their way and what would they think if they saw all this childish nonsense. We forget those friends from other worlds. We leave them waiting for us by the warmth of a fire with no intention of returning, and we instead settle for the things of this world: work, taxes, and oil changes. Though, the road of adulthood isn’t entirely void of creativity or imagination, it just presents itself in different ways, and we soon make new friends that are from a place beyond our world. I am speaking of course of those characters we meet in the pages of books or in films. These folk are much like our imaginary friends of old, for in the same way they do not exist and yet we still share affection for them and they take us on many exciting adventures. When they are happy, we also will share in that joy; and if something bad happens to these characters or worse yet, they die, we then mourn them as though they were indeed a real part of our world. Perhaps there is a realm beyond our own world where all these fantastic folk gather; our childhood friends and the legends of fiction coming and going from the same place, in and out of our lives. I suppose the greater characters - the ones worth knowing like Gandalf, Indiana Jones, and Atticus Finch   - are the ones that break the fetters and make their way onto the pages of novels or the big screen while the lesser of them must be content to play with us as children, and only then as our imaginary friends .  It is in the pages of a stirring book, or on the big screen, that we perhaps catch a glimpse of those old imaginary friends of ours. For though it has been so very long since we’ve seen their faces or heard their voice, there is something in the eyes of these larger than life characters in books and movies that catches our imaginations once again; as though we only just caught the whisper of a voice calling us back to the charcoal fire.  I would suspect that it would do us some good if we set the things of this world aside for just a moment, maybe even an hour, and went back to that charcoal fire. I am confident that when you go back you will see that the fire has cooled, perhaps with only an ember aglow, but still very much alive ,  needing only a twig or two to get it roaring again. And there you will see smiles on familiar faces once again; perhaps slightly older and grayer than you remember them, for they have grown older and grayer just as you have. The faces of those imaginary friends   from long ago, still waiting by the fireside for you to come home from school.

As a student and lover of literature, the film Dead Poets Society has long held a place of particular affection in my heart. However, there are nonetheless a few things the film gets wrong, but we shall get to these in due time. In the film, Mr. Keating, an English teacher at a prestigious New England school for boys and young men, strives to inspire the students in his class through the beauties of poetry. Mr. Keating’s aims, though admirable and at times controversial, grind against the ultimate goals of the school itself: namely, not to inspire young men, but to prepare them for the real world, to conform them. According to powers that be at the school, poetry and literature cannot change the world, only science and mathematics can - and so, these young men should concentrate their efforts appropriately. Upon meeting Mr. Keating for the first time (played by the late Robin Williams), the class of young men is taken out into the hall wherein Keating selects one of the boys to read a passage of poetry. The passage in question is taken from Robert Herrick’s To the Virgins, To Make Much of Time. The stanza that the young boy reads goes as follows: “Gather ye rose-buds while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying; And this same flower that smiles today Tomorrow will be dying.” This poem, explains Mr. Keating, is extolling the idea of carpe dium - Latin for “seize the day”. Indeed, as Keating goes on to say, “Seize the day, gather ye rose-buds while ye may!” Why seize the day? Well, according to Keating, because we are, all of us, “food for worms”. The charge of history is ever moving forward, and “this same flower that smiles today” is the very same flower that “Tomorrow will be dying” and surely dead the day after that.  Mr. Keating then directs the young boys to the other side of the hall and has them “peruse some of the faces from the past”; pictures of men who have long since graduated, married, worked, lived, and died before any of these young men were even born.  What separates the men in the picture case from the young boys standing before them is not intellect, wealth, or charm - no, what differentiates these two groups of men is a matter of years only. Just as the men who were immortalized in the school’s gallery lived, loved, and died, so too will the men standing before them. The men in the picture case thought that they too were immortal, and now they are “fertilizing dandelions” in the very cemeteries of their fathers. What then shall we do in light of this ancient dilemma? Mr. Keating’s solution is simple: carpe dium! Seize the day! The eyes of the men entombed in the school’s gallery are burning outwards from their frames, urging the young men before them to resist conformity and seize the day! Carpe dium! Only, something seems to be missing from this equation, does it not? Some vital ingredient is lacking that, without it, will result in no change at all. For, what does it prosper these young men if they, like the men in the picture frames before them, seize the day, every single day, only to die all the same? Indeed, “If the dead are not raised, ‘Let us eat and drink, for tomorrow we die’” (1 Corinthians 15:32). There is a sense, however, in which Mr. Keating is absolutely correct. We shall, all of us, “fertilize dandelions” in our own time. Our flesh will, as James says, fade away and wither like a flower of the field - “For you are a mist that appears for a little time and then vanishes” (James 4:14). Seize the day or not, you will surely die and be forgotten by this world. Clearly then, carpe dium is not the solution to our ailing souls - coram Deo is. Coram Deo , another Latin phrase, translated means “before the face of God”. It means that in whatever we do, whether we eat, drink, or work, to do all before the face of the living God. As author and theologian R.C. Sproul says, “This phrase literally refers to something that takes place in the presence of, or before the face of, God. To live coram Deo is to live one’s entire life in the presence of God, under the authority of God, to the glory of God.” To live coram Deo means to live before an audience of One. In all that we do, whether sacred or secular, we ought to do so with the knowledge that we are in the presence of an all-present, all-knowing, all-seeing, and all-powerful God whose gaze penetrates all superficialities, right down to our very heart of hearts.  When we live coram Deo, in the light of God’s presence, suddenly there remains no division between the sacred and the secular - for all must become holy before Him. Indeed, when we live and love and work and sleep before Him, according to His good pleasure and will, then all things become good and holy. By living coram Deo, there is no such thing as an insignificant life. Suddenly, by living coram Deo, to preach a sermon to thousands of souls becomes no more ‘sacred’ than waking up in the wee hours of the night to tend to a crying child or working a seemingly insignificant job provided that it is all done “as unto the Lord”. For though this world shall forget us, both while we are living and certainly after we die, the Lord will not forget those who are His: “the world is passing away, along with its desires, but whoever does the will of God abides forever” (1 John 2:17). I would venture to say that coram Deo is the ‘big idea’ of the Christian life. What greater purpose can any creature aspire to than exercising the opportunity to do all of life before a glorious and perfect Creator? This is precisely what the apostle Paul was urging the Corinthians to do: “So, whether you eat or drink, or whatever you do, do all to the glory of God” (1 Corinthians 10:31).  The Biblical summons to “do all” coram Deo, no matter how seemingly insignificant it may feel at the moment, is a tremendous encouragement to anyone who feels as though life has passed them by. If we truly take to heart that all of our existence is to be unto and before God, then suddenly all of life becomes elevated to a profound degree. Before God in Christ, we are no longer ‘mere mortals’, and thus there are no ‘mere tasks’ that the Christian sets their heart to. And so, let that be our song; to live in such a way that the very aroma of Christ can be found in all our deeds, whether great or small. Let us strive to live in such a way that is carpe dium, coram Deo - seizing each day before the presence of God Himself.

I am a perfectionist. However, there are times when this reality feels more like a curse than it does a blessing. Sometimes, no matter how much I strive, whatever I do never seems good enough - whether it be as a writer, a friend, a husband, or as a Christian. For example, rather than rest on my last day of vacation, I spent the better part of my afternoon in the Appalachians wrestling within myself trying to think of a way to begin this very article. Indeed, I am a relentless perfectionist. This has enabled me over the years to compose several pieces of writing that I am rather pleased with; on the other hand, these pieces are not as regular as I’d prefer them to be. I often find myself agonizing with nauseating precision over minute details in my writing that no one, save God Himself, will ever notice. I mention these things not to boast, but as a statement of fact; I wish this were not the case. My life would be a lot easier if I could simply sit down, write effortlessly, and be thoroughly pleased with what I come up with on the first go. By way of another example, I’ve been slowly rereading some of my old pieces over the course of the last few weeks. Most of these pieces are articles and blog posts that I’ve written over the years, many of which were on my original blog. Initially, my intention was to edit some of these articles and post them on this very blog. However, in the process of transferring these old articles and blog posts to a new home, I was struck by something rather unexpected: these pieces are not as good as I remembered them to be. Indeed, I fancy that I’ve become a better writer over the past few years, but what a crushing blow all the same - especially to me, wretched perfectionist that I am! What was particularly humbling about this unexpected revelation - that is, the fact that my old writing had lost the ‘glimmer’ I once ascribed to it - was that I previously thought these pieces contained some of my best work. What if, I fearfully thought, I am not the writer I suspected myself to be? What if my current work will eventually fall by the wayside just as, in my mind, my old work has? If you were to ask me, my writing was progressing from good to great, not from bad to merely ‘better’. Upon realizing this, a moment of quiet desperation began to stifle my soul - though, only for a moment. For a moment was ample time for me to realize that I was being utterly ridiculous. Indeed, within this desperate moment of mine we can find a useful microcosm - a pressing lesson about life itself. What a folly it is that we ascribe so very much of our worth and sense of self to our past achievements. Or, for that matter, to any of our achievements; whether they be past, present, or yet to come. Whether these achievements be as a spouse, parent, worker, student, or friend, there is always the temptation to lean on these acts more than we should. Achievements and milestones are good things to be sure, for they are blessings from above, but we should be careful to ensure that they do not constitute our identities. Let us, as Christ commanded, be as that wise man who “built his house on the rock” of the Lord Himself rather than like the fool who, though he knew better, yet trusted nonetheless in the shifting sands of this world for his security, worth, and identity. By focusing with such aggressive ardor on our works, past or present, we will all become relentless perfectionists. Relentlessly ruthless perfectionists who, no matter our triumphs, will always sense a vacuum in even the very best of our deeds. Our past achievements will never be good enough, leaving us entangled in a vicious cycle of striving and strife that will gnaw steadily at our souls. Therein lies the rub with perfectionism of any kind, and how much more so with moral perfectionism - namely, legalism. Indeed, one of two paths lie before our feet: trust in Christ who offers us rest for our weary souls, or kick against the goads until our dying breath, like the Pharisees, only to become empty, rotting sepulchers in the end - whitewashed ones, but tombs all the same. In my case, I have indeed become a better writer over the last few years - and what a joy that is. Does this mean that any writing I’ve done in the past is rubbish? By no means! It is simply a tangible indication of the reality that through hard work and God’s tender leading of my pen I have become a more skilled wordsmith. Just because my writing has gotten better, this does not mean that my old work has ‘gotten worse’. Clearly, this reality is true of all life, not just in writing. Could I have been a better husband in my first year of marriage? But of course. However, the sins, selfishness, and shortcomings of mine in my first year of marriage - in every husband's first year of marriage - were used by God to better me in my second year of marriage, just as my shortcomings as a fiancé prepared me to become a husband, and so on. Indeed, where would any of us be without our past failures and triumphs? For it is upon these, for better or worse, that our current work stands. Furthermore, by dismissing the past, we can so easily lose sight of what God is doing in the present and lose hope entirely in what He has promised to do in the days to come. What a pitiful reality it would be if our best days lay behind us. While we are not promised rest and riches in this life, we can rest in the promise that there are far better things that lie ahead than any we leave behind: “For this light momentary affliction is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison” (2 Corinthians 4:17). What a tragedy it would be if, upon revisiting some of my old pieces, I discovered that they were not only better than I remembered, but exceedingly better than even my current work. What a crushing discouragement it would be to discover that I had not become a better writer despite years of working away at it, but indeed retrograded into a far worse one. And yet, by God’s grace, not only have I become a better writer, He has made me a better man as well. Perhaps that is why my old work seems so different to me now; I have changed, or rather been changed, and am no longer the man that I once was. My old writing is a reflection of a man from several years ago. Though I have changed along with my writing, it would be unwise to forget and forfeit entirely who I once was. For, in many ways, these old pieces of mine are in fact testaments of God’s faithfulness through the years. Just as our past achievements - or failures - serve as milestones along our journey, so too do they stand as sentinels of God’s faithfulness in and out of season. And what are our works, fruits, and gifts but alms that we give back to Him, the Giver of all good gifts? Is the fruit of our labor not, as Augustine once said, the “gracious crowning of His own good gifts”? We are but stewards, He is the supplier. We are as beggars who, in crying out to the Lord for help and provision, render back to Him alms from the very abundance that we have so graciously received from Him. Indeed, what can we possibly give back to Him from whom all things flow - the God of Heaven and earth: “For from him and through him and to him are all things” (Romans 11:36). So, what of my old writing? Well, the perfectionist in me is learning to love my past work - imperfections and all. Like Paul, I am striving ever upwards and onwards in my work; forgetting that which lies behind, but not forgetting the lessons learned. I am learning to give such alms of what I have. When I first began writing again all those years ago, God faithfully provided the necessary encouragement and inspiration along the way - from this perspective, who am I to belittle my past work? Is my writing today truly any different from back then? Perhaps; though, all of my work is but “Borrowed words from the One who gave the gift to me”, and I would do well to remember that more often. Indeed, let us all, whatever our post may be in this life, strive to be faithful stewards and render alms of what we’ve been given joyfully back unto Him - the Giver of all good gifts.

Once upon a time, though time is a poor word for it, hardly a timeless term at all, for time did not yet exist, time was not yet made - there stood, upon the plains of eternity, like a mighty crag in a sea of stars, an ancient throne and naught else. This throne was untouched by the rust of endless ages  and could not be subjected to the feeble, wobbly, wane of memory.  The years of this ancient throne none could grasp, save One, but it too once was naught. Like all things made it has a beginning; though, unlike a great deal of things, this throne shall by no means come to an end.  Upon this ancient seat is one, the One,  for He is the only One with whom we have to do.  Long before He poured the waters into the basin of the sea, or ran His finger through the trough of the valleys,  or formed the night sky with the Word of His mouth - that lofty address - He was once alone .  He who now sits enthroned on the hearts of men, was once enthroned upon His own majesty alone; for a throne - a mere seat - does not a King make. He needed not the collective chorus of the wilderness to sing His praises, nor the cries of men to devote Himself to; for an endless era He simply was. Father, Son and Spirit, cloaked with holiness, immortality, and beauty eternal,  sit upon this ancient throne.  The murmurs of men, barking of beasts, and ancillary actions of angels are but dust in the scales to Him; for what can we bestow upon Him that He does not yet possess?  He penned the course of history, won wars, weaned whales, named the nameless stars, measured the breadth of our every breath, and with His Word He sang all that is into existence. All of creation is a hymn, all of creation is about Him; A hymn about Him, for from Him we do draw life, and breath, and everything. For He Himself is Being;  we are but becoming .

Picks up the whole horizon, how can it not The weight of the world, wood, and wild Sits upon its very shoulders, that is its lot To blaze and burn, its nature is far from mild The leaves, rocks, and rivers are on fire A golden thread it weaves through the world A world of darkness, lifted from the mire Land of shadow and night, utterly unfurled The heat of worlds, gently upon the shoulder rests The sun, at the birth of each day, will rise Clothes the world in light, where all nature nests The sun, day by day, shall not know demise Night’s shadow has swiftly descended The Son wanders cold halls of darkness But the day is not so quickly ended Breaks the night with His glory in starkness Picks up the whole horizon, how can He not The weight of sin, engulfed in mercy mild, Sat upon His shoulders, without a second thought To seek and save, His nature is gentle and mild The day breaks forth, as if set on fire A scarlet thread weaves through the world A world of darkness, lifted from the mire Land of shadow and sin, utterly unfurled The sin of the world upon His shoulders will rest The Son, at the birth of third day, will rise Clothes the world in light, O, we are blest That the Son, day by day, shall not know demise For on that third day did the Son also rise