Search & Ye Shall Find...

“From generation to generation it shall lie waste; none shall pass through it forever and ever” (Isaiah 34:10). W hether I ’m driving to church, work, the gym, or our weekly Bible study, the first leg of my route always remains the same. It is along this portion of my daily commute that I pass—several times a day at the very least—what is without a doubt the largest house I have ever seen. Only, this particular house can scarcely be called a proper house at all . What purpose does a house serve? At its most foundational level, what even is a house? Among other things, a house should at the very least house someone—that is, it should provide shelter for those who reside within its four walls (though this house had far more than just four of them). Despite all its grandeur and material excesses, this specific house could not even perform its most basic function of providing shelter. For you see, this house, though large and adorned with all the trappings of extravagant wealth, stands unfinished. When construction first began on this house it immediately arrested my attention—in part because of its sheer scale, and because I was somewhat confined to tracking its progress day by day as I drove past. What was once a bare and dusty lot soon became crowded with all manner of tradesmen and machines, each adding their collective sweat and labor to what seemed an impressive project, to say the least. Almost overnight it was as though the foundations were laid, the framing complete, and the roofing finished, with the smaller, more ornate details soon to be underway in the coming weeks. One day, however, construction simply ceased. Suddenly and without warning, this lot which was once buzzing with productivity and promise became a desolate, dilapidated haunt for buzzards and tumbleweeds, not unlike a Western ghost town. Where signs with the names of contractors once stood on the driveway there were now gates and barricades; piles of unused stone and wood haphazardly covered at the last minute with tarps now littered the front lawn where men of industry used to busy themselves. Were the tarps so carelessly strewn across these tools and materials because the men suspected they would soon be back to work? Where the light and warmth of domestic life would have gleamed amber and gold upon completion , now only black, glassless windows peered outwards, gaping like the open mouths of long-dead corpses towards any onlookers. If this house—this mere structure, this skeletal blot defiling the skyline—provided shelter for anything, it was for the howling wind and creatures of the night. No family lived here, this was no house— “ From generation to generation it shall lie waste; none shall pass through it forever and ever... Thorns shall grow over its strongholds, nettles and thistles in its fortresses. It shall be the haunt of jackals, an abode for ostriches ” (Isaiah 34:10-13).  Why did the work cease? How could a labor that began so well only then end so embarrassingly—so tragically? We can only venture a guess. At some dreadful point along the construction process, priorities must have shifted or else the money ran dry. Someone neglected to properly count the cost before setting out and, upon realizing their fatal flaw, judged that it was better to abandon the work altogether than see it through to the end. Whether large or small, have you ever seen a house left unfinished, or a labor excitedly begun only to fizzle into apathy and ruin? Have you ever witnessed a soul make a profession of faith in Christ only for them, in time, to turn both their hands and gaze away from the plow? Surely we have all known such individuals and mourn their reckless choice with no shortage of tears. Many efforts and commitments have begun in the name of the Lord, only to be abandoned partway through—rendering them incomplete, desolate, and utterly useless in the end. In some way, shape, or form, a cost along the way was not properly calculated, or perhaps the cost was never determined from the outset. Whether the work began in might or weakness, splendor or simplicity, in either case the effort was deserted. There came a point when the cost of following Christ simply became too expensive, too steep, and then the effort was forsaken. The lingering ruins can scarcely testify whether the project began in majesty or modesty, for unfinished ruins they yet remain—forsaken, desolate, any former glory undiscernible. The resolve to build the house, to bear the good fruit, was rooted not in the strength and lovingkindness of God but in the weakness of man: “ Unless the LORD builds the house, those who build it labor in vain ” (Psalm 127:1). Unless a complete and utter renovation of the heart takes place,—unless the Lord breathes new life into a dead sinner—any and all exterior work is as the whitewashing of a tomb (Matthew 23:27). Many are called, but few are chosen (Matthew 22:14). Many run the race, but the crown of life is reserved only for those who finish and finish well: “ Do you not know that in a race all the runners run, but only one receives the prize? So run that you may obtain it ” (1 Corinthians 9:24). Have you counted the cost of following Christ? The cost is great, He will demand everything of you: “For which of you, desiring to build a tower, does not first sit down and count the cost, whether he has enough to complete it? Otherwise, when he has laid a foundation and is not able to finish, all who see it begin to mock him, saying, ‘This man began to build and was not able to finish’” (Luke 14:28-30). Faithful allegiance to the Lord must run deeper than any other commitment, affection, or familial bond. The person who loves child, spouse, mother, father, or even his own life more than Jesus cannot be His disciple (Luke 14:26). The cost is great, but so is He: “ So therefore, any one of you who does not renounce all that he has cannot be my disciple ” (Luke 14:33), and “No one who puts his hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God” (Luke 9:62). The cost of discipleship is steep because the price of our salvation was far, far steeper still—the Father sent His own Son to satisfy our infinite debt to God by having Jesus die in our place. The cost of discipleship is great because God is great—so count the cost, Jesus says. We lose nothing of eternal value when we relinquish all for Jesus ’ name. He asks that we weigh the cost not because we have something to lose by following Him, but because we have everything to gain by following Him. When we place our faith in Christ, we stand to gain everything ; and if we reject Him, we stand to lose everything , even those things we think we have, our soul chief among them—that much is certain. And those things we do sacrifice in this life will be returned to us one-hundred fold, He promises; and, in that age to come, we will receive from His very own hands life eternal (Mark 10:29-31). Slavery to Christ, our perfect Master, is as freedom to those who are under His care. The cost of faithfulness to Christ is great, but it is not comparable to the cost paid on the cross where He purchased you: “ looking to Jesus, the founder and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross, despising the shame, and is seated at the right hand of the throne of God ” (Hebrews 12:2). Jesus counted the cost—have you? Photo by Rocco Dipoppa, Unsplash Would you enjoy reading more of my work? Subscribe by simply scrolling to the bottom of this page and entering your email. All future articles, essays, and short stories will be sent directly to the address provided. However, be sure to check your ‘Junk’ or ‘Spam’ folder and mark me as a trusted contact should my posts fail to appear in your email. If you’ve been encouraged by my writing, I’d be humbled if you shared my work with others who may also benefit from reading. And, if you’re looking for a way to support my work financially, you can do so via my Patreon Page .

B eginnings are such delicate things. Now and again, I know exactly how I want to begin an article, right down to the very order of the words themselves. At a gut level, some words and phrases just seem right in certain cases—as though they were always meant to be . And other times, I won ’t so much as even start a piece for days or weeks—or years!—because I am at a complete loss as to how I can properly open it. And in case you haven’t already guessed it: I did not know how to begin this article. Despite having made several notes for this piece over the better part of the past year,—a jot here, an appropriate Scripture reference there—I remained at an utter loss on not only how to begin it, but at how best to bind together my scattered thoughts on something as ubiquitous and yet staggeringly complex as humor —much less holy humor . (Sorry, my fellow Canadians, as I’ve deferred to the American spelling of humor —forgive me!). I think the hesitancy on my part to actually begin writing on this topic largely rests in the fact that, though we all know, almost instinctively, what humor is, it is actually quite difficult to define it clearly. We can describe things that are or are not humorous easily enough, while never actually putting our finger on why some things are very clearly funny and others are not. So, as I said only a moment ago, I did not know how to begin this article. “Maybe I just need to get up, stretch my legs, and make a fresh coffee,” I thought to myself. I had today off, and so my wife suggested that I drive her in to work so she wouldn’t have to make the lengthy commute on her own. As a Biblical counselor, Elaina does the vast majority of her work from home but will drive in once a month for her office’s monthly staff meeting. It’s a far drive, and day by day she grows increasingly more pregnant—so, it seemed as good of an excuse as any to spend the day together. No complaints here. All that to say, I am not in my normal writing space today, tucked away as I am in the office of one of her co-workers. As I was looking out the window waiting for my coffee to finish brewing, I observed a curious sight. Some twenty feet away from me, in broad daylight, a large raccoon was teetering and tottering along the top of the chain-link fence that surrounded the property. Between the fence line and the detached garage running parallel to it was a narrow laneway of about three feet in width. Swaying back and forth on the fence like some drunken pirate, the raccoon finally arrived at the end of the fence and then attempted to climb onto the garage’s roof. Whether this was his first time attempting such a thing or if this was a regular occurrence, I know not. Going about casually with the dim-witted confidence only a raccoon could muster, the animal narrowed his focus as he leapt across the narrow laneway and grasped onto the eavestrough of the garage on the other side. To my disbelief, the raccoon was now swinging completely suspended in open air with nothing below him but a short drop and a sudden stop, not unlike Indiana Jones or Nathan Drake. Almost without effort, the raccoon then lifted his sizeable bulk from this suspended state—his little feet swirling below him uselessly—and then proceeded to dottle upon the roof lazily before, to my surprise, squeezing that same bulk of his into a small opening he discovered that lead into the garage. It would appear this particular raccoon was well-accustomed to breaking and entering. It’s only fitting, then, that he looked the part of a burglar or bandit, as all raccoons do. All through this ordeal, entirely unbeknownst to the raccoon, I stood beaming with a smile on my face only a stone’s throw away. Caught between joy and laughter and another sensation approaching a warmth of some kind, though hard to isolate on its own, I found myself quietly thanking God for this little moment, seemingly curated for my own eyes and entertainment alone. It would appear, I thought, that the Lord had an idea for how I should start this piece. Then, as though stirred from a pleasant dream, the coffee maker beeped and I left the window to grab my cup and, well, I’ve been here ever since. Have you ever stopped to consider what makes something truly funny? What, for example, makes my encounter with the raccoon humorous? If you were to analyze the situation and break it up into its constituent parts—a fat raccoon, a narrow fence, an equally narrow laneway, a jump of supposed bravery or foolishness between said narrow fence and narrow laneway, the dangling of pink little feet, an act of breaking-and-entering—you might be hard pressed to isolate exactly what about this story makes it funny . Think about it. At a gut level, without anyone ever having to tell us so, we know such a story to be incredibly humorous despite the fact that no one was there to experience it save myself. Doubtless a smile drew across your face as you were reading—or, at least, I hope so! But why was it, and such stories like it, funny? Why do we find anything humorous at all? In the grand scheme of things, in a world bent out of shape by the Fall, what’s so entertaining about a fat ol’ raccoon practicing gymnastics out in the cold? Not everyone is funny, but everyone can appreciate a good laugh. Indeed, if you ask me, I truly believe that humor is one of God’s sweetest gifts to His creatures. Indeed, even if we aren’t funny, we all love to laugh. There is something very good, very human, and very right about sharing in a good, hard laugh with those whom you love— “ A joyful heart is good medicine, but a crushed spirit dries up the bones ” (Proverbs 17:22). The Fall may have twisted and warped humor, as it has with many other good things, but it has by no means eradicated or taken it from us—at worst, sin has only diminished humor. Much like how sin has tampered with sex or food or entertainment, all of which are good gifts from God, so too has sin soiled much of what passes for humor in this world. Humor is not a product of the Fall. Only wicked, crude, and rotten humor is: “ Let there be no filthiness nor foolish talk nor crude joking, which are out of place, but instead let there be thanksgiving ” (Ephesians 5:4). Like all of the Christian’s speech, our humor and joking ought to be seasoned with salt and light: “Let no corrupting talk come out of your mouths, but only such as is good for building up, as fits the occasion, that it may give grace to those who hear” (Ephesians 4:29). True humor is from the Lord. For remember, evil cannot create anything: it has only the capacity to corrupt. For all of Satan’s twisted genius, he yet still remains a fool: a proud, despicable, unhappy fool who is utterly incapable of producing anything approaching humor, joy, or laughter. And in his foolish pride, Satan seeks not to make, but to destroy. Everything evil does is a pale, warped imitation of that which is good; of that which the Lord God has made. As it is with all good things,—whether it be nature, humor, or even fat raccoons—one day the corrupting effects of sin will be done away with entirely by Christ and we shall then see and taste all good things as God originally intended them. Indeed, we as God’s people ought to daily groan inwardly for the redemption of all that which has been tarnished by the Fall. We have established that humor is not only not evil, but that it is good—very good, holy even. Some of the dearest folks in all the world to me also happen to be some of the funniest . Thus, if the Lord be the very dearest to us, why then can we not also expect Him to be the most humorous? We were made in the image of a God who laughs (Psalm 2:4). God made humor: it belongs to Him. And because God is holy, every attribute of His is also holy. His love is holy love, His wrath is holy wrath, and His humor is holy humor. God’s boundless holiness adorns all His other attributes in a transcendent, beautiful otherness that is far above and infinitely removed from the attributes of the creatures He has made. God is, without question, the holiest, happiest, and most humorous Person in all of existence. There is no one funnier than God. Because holy humor is so closely bound to that which is pure, true, and quite simply good , we can then comfortably say that sarcasm, cynicism, and flippancy are not only lesser forms of humor, but hardly authentic varieties of humor at all. This type of joking is so often far from holy : it is typically predicated on untruths, and often thrives at the expense of another. Individuals who are truly funny—in a good, pure, and righteous kind of way—also tend to be among those who are the warmest and most joyful. They know when and how to take things seriously, without taking themselves too seriously. Truly funny people are humble, but not self-deprecating; witty, but not cruel towards others. We all know the type, I’m sure. Maybe we are the type; and if so, be sure to steward this gift of humor well for the Lord ’s glory and the sheer joy of others. Perhaps we aren’t the type to be witty or humorous. But, hopefully we all know what it’s like to be the source of at least one great, boisterous roar of laughter—even if it be only once or twice in our lives. Though, hopefully more often than that! Indeed, for as good as it is to laugh, there is a joy sweeter still in making others laugh: “ It is more blessed to give than to receive” (Acts 20:35). The very fact that we love to laugh and that laughing is best done in the presence of others reveals humor’s obvious relation to community. Indeed, things are always funnier in community. Case in point: Have you ever tried to watch a funny movie on your own? The audience (or lack thereof) can either make or break the experience of humor. And, as soon as we see or hear about something we deem to be hilarious, what is so often our first course of action? You guessed it: we want to share it with others. Indeed, it’s as though the joy is incomplete or lacking some crucial element until we have brought in others to share in the joy with us. Thus, humor is not only tied closely to community, but it seems as though it is also inseparable from joy and happiness as well. And as far as definitions of humor go, I for my part could scarcely do much better than this: True humor is a joyful expression of that which is good, pure, happy, holy, and true being communicated in some form of playfulness, whether it be physical, linguistic, or otherwise. But again, we all know funny  when we see it. Nonetheless, hopefully my definition is helpful. Life here below in a fallen, sinful world is hard . So often our tears flow from hearts swelling with sorrow rather than laughing. The Lord understands this reality well, and offers us supreme comfort such as only He can provide: “ Blessed are you who weep now, for you shall laugh ” (Luke 6:21). As we anticipate the age to come, I am fully convinced that the bedrock of our joy in Heaven will be our sweet, joyful fellowship with God Himself. And I have all the confidence in the world that much of this joy will be the direct result of God’s own infinitely overflowing joy as it bursts forth from Him who is the supremely holy, happy, humorous Being. God made humor, it belongs to Him: the very best laughs and joys trickle down from Him and cascade back upon us. There is no one funnier than God—a truth of which we will become joyfully aware as the endless ages roll. Image by Simon Infanger, Unsplash Would you enjoy reading more of my work? Subscribe by simply scrolling to the bottom of this page and entering your email. All future articles, essays, and short stories will be sent directly to the address provided. However, be sure to check your ‘Junk’ or ‘Spam’ folder and mark me as a trusted contact should my posts fail to appear in your email. And if you’ve been encouraged by my writing, I’d be humbled if you shared my work with others who may also benefit from reading.

“ For the earth will be filled with the knowledge of the glory of the LORD as the waters cover the sea ” (Habakkuk 2:14). N o sooner had I learned that my wife and I were expecting a son, than did another revelation flit across my mind: “I’m having a boy... I’m having a son!— Hmm, I really need to get back into shape .” It’s difficult to explain, but for some strange reason this was one of the earliest thoughts that crossed my mind upon discovering that my wife and I were having a baby boy—a son. It wasn’t so much that I was grossly out of shape or living an unhealthy lifestyle at the time, though one can always be in better shape. Rather, there seemed to flash before me in that moment an echo from my own childhood. There I was, a small boy, and then suddenly the image of my father took form before me: he was not very tall or overly muscular, never was, but he was strong— for much of my boyhood, no one seemed stronger than my father. “That,” I thought, “is the way I want my son to see me.” I’m confident there must be a female—or motherly—equivalent to this revelation of mine, though I won’t venture to guess what it may be. Nonetheless, something about the fact that I now knew I was a father to a son motivated me to begin working out again, at least in thought at this point. It was an almost instantaneous conviction. Though, I’m sure I would have had a similar response if we were expecting a daughter—only, perhaps, for slightly different reasons. If Elaina and I were expecting a baby girl, I suspect I’d feel motivated to get back into shape so as to ensure I can protect her. As the eldest brother of three younger sisters, some old habits are hard to shake, particularly when it concerns the girls and women in my family. But, because I’m having a son, I now feel a burden upon myself to demonstrate to him, much as I’m able, how a man ought to protect those around him—spiritually and relationally above all, but also physically . And, perhaps somewhat selfishly, I want to ensure I can whip my son in as many sports as possible for as long as possible. Indeed, one can never be too young to cultivate ‘old man strength’—that rare quality accompanying fatherhood that enables dads, without so much as having stretched in decades, to outmatch the saplings around them in whatever sport, workout, or labor the latter finds themselves presently engaged in. It seemed by pure happenstance, then, that I found myself catching up with a family friend on the afternoon of our son ’s gender reveal party (though, of course, he was just ‘baby’ until only moments before—hence the gender reveal dimension of the party). As this woman and I were catching up, I asked how her son was doing. He and I worked together a few years back, and though our correspondence ran somewhat thin since then, we yet remained friends—friends in the way only men tend to be friends , with often a year or so, or more, between our chats. In response to my question, she mentioned that her son had taken up swimming at a gym not far from where Elaina and I live. I grew up swimming quite regularly and so was delighted to hear there was a gym nearby that also happened to have a pool. Both my sister and I swam competitively in our teens, and I’ve been itching to get back into the water for years—only, facilities with pools are often far, far more expensive than your typical gym. Much to my surprise, this location worked out to be about the same price on a monthly basis as the gym where my current membership was gathering dust. I began swimming again a few days later. As it often is with getting back into any old habit, particularly one that is physical, I was immediately struck with another revelation— “Wow, I had no idea I was this out of shape.” What a curious phrase: “out of shape.” What shape would the Lord have us be, I wonder? All that to say, I didn’t feel particularly shapely or aerodynamic my first day back in the pool, but I stuck to it. To say that I have felt like a fish out of water these past few years seems a fitting comparison given the context. It was hard work, but I loved getting back into the pool. The many years of my training flooded back into my body in short order. Almost immediately after my first few laps,—as the world grew silent and still beneath the unbroken surface of the water, the distance passing by—my mind turned to those now famous words by Olympian Eric Liddell: “When I run, I feel His pleasure.” I know exactly what Liddell meant. For the longest time, I had always applied those words of his to that particular joy I feel when I write for the Lord. But now, though I remain an unremarkable swimmer by most accounts, I have been reminded once again of a different sort of joy, a variety I haven’t experienced in years. A joy borne out not by words, ideas, or literature, but by sweat and steam and the still, glassy surface anticipating my next stroke as I stretch and flex and ache and breathe for His glory. In my own way, I am beginning again to feel what Liddell must have felt each time he ran— “When I swim, I feel His pleasure.” I used to workout a lot as a teenager, perhaps too much. Indeed, I was not yet a Christian and it was more than likely that physical fitness was an idol in my life. Upon becoming a follower of Christ, I continued to stay in shape but, if I ’m being quite honest, there was a sort of guilt that now stalked me anytime I took to the gym. Looking back on those years, I’ve come to realize a few errors about both my thinking and my living. Firstly, I more than certainly had a poor theology of the body. And second, this unbiblical understanding of mine was only bolstered by the nagging conviction that Christ’s Second Coming was due at almost any time. Why bother staying in shape if the world was about to end? I wish I were joking because, as a young Christian, I thoroughly believed this. But that wasn’t all. Growing up in a church that preached from the King James Version, Paul’s words from 1 Timothy 4:8 frequently rattled about my head: “ For bodily exercise profiteth little: but godliness is profitable unto all things, having promise of the life that now is, and of that which is to come .” In the grand scheme of things, yes, “ bodily exercise profiteth little, ” but that does not mean it is of no value. I fear that is how many Christians choose to read this passage, substituting little with not at all . Notice, however, that Paul says exercise has some value; he did not say exercise has no value. It profits little, perhaps, but there is yet profit to be found says Paul. Thus, we cannot so easily discount it’s value in our lives. Our physical fitness becomes an issue when it is elevated above our spiritual fitness. Like anything in life, exercise can readily become an idol in our hearts if at any point it becomes an object of affection above God Himself, or even above the many good and godly responsibilities that God has stewarded to us. Like writing, exercise can become an idol if I obsess over it to the degree that my other tasks at home, work, or in my family are grossly neglected. And, even if Christ was due on history’s doorstep tomorrow morning, why should that rule out our doing some good today, however fleeting? I once heard a story where Martin Luther was asked what he would do if the world were to end the very next day. Luther responded, “I would plant an apple tree today.” However, back to our bodies. The physical is good; God made the physical. God likes stuff. He filled His universe to the brim with physical, material stuff , of which our fleshly bodies—composed of bones and muscles and tendons and skin—are a part. The Apostle Paul’s words in 1 Timothy 4:8 must then be understood in light of the overall testimony of Scripture. Consider two other passages penned by Paul on the importance of the body. From a general perspective, everything we do as believers must be conducted with joy Coram Deo —that’s Latin for “Before the face of God.” This is drawn from many Biblical passages, not least of which is 1 Corinthians 10:31: “ So, whether you eat or drink, or whatever you do, do all to the glory of God. ” Everything in life is on the table when it comes to living for the glory of God, provided it is not sin or prohibited in His Word—whether it be planting apple trees, working out, or writing. Because God is everywhere, we are then ever in His presence. We should therefore ever be busy about those things which pertain to His good pleasure. Downstream—or rather, upstream —from 1 Corinthians 10:31, we find these well-known words only a few chapters earlier in 1 Corinthians 6:19-20: “Or do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit within you, whom you have from God? You are not your own, for you were bought with a price. So glorify God in your body.” God does nothing out of necessity, as though He is in need of anything or ever moved to do a thing contrary to His will. God did not walk in the cool of the day with our first parents in the Garden because He had to, or because He was lonely; God did not need to condescend to Israel and dwell amongst them in the Tabernacle, and then afterwards in the Temple. Our God, the One true God,— “ the King of the ages, immortal, invisible, the only God ” (1 Timothy 1:17)— is not a God who dwells in houses and temples built by human hands, as though these are able to contain Him. He is infinite beyond all measure; the heavens themselves cannot contain Him. And yet, beyond all expectation and imagination, we as those in Christ are called the temple of the Holy Spirit (1 Corinthians 6:19). In the New Heavens and the New Earth, “ the dwelling place of God is with man ” (Revelation 21:3) not because man is anything special, but because God loves us and has redeemed us for Himself. Inside and out, we are, in the entirety of our essence, both physically and spiritually, His possession, having been purchased with the precious blood of God Himself. Therefore Paul writes, “ So glorify God in your body.” We must, then, be about the business of tending to the temple of our bodies where God Himself resides. We do this not because we want to eke out a few more years on this planet for our own purposes by chasing the latest health craze, nor do we tend to our bodies for the allure of the world and watching eyes: we tend to the temple of our bodies because God Himself is its holy resident. And because God is present, the place must be tended, well-kept, swept, ordered, and altogether holy even as He is holy. As R.C. Sproul once said, “We are prone to stuffing and stretching the temple of the Holy Spirit. ” This ought not be the case. Indeed, “ bodily exercise profiteth little ” in comparison to the weight of glory prepared for those who cultivate spiritual maturity; but the fact remains that you very well might be far less capable to bear spiritual fruit consistently if your physical body is neglected to the point of atrophy and decay. The Lord numbers our days, but those days might be far fewer should we steward them foolishly. The Christian walk is not a sprint, but a marathon. The steadfast and faithful life requires of us endurance that is spiritual as well as physical. If we are to be faithful disciples of Christ for the long haul, then let us ensure the bodies He gave us are healthy and up to the task for the work He’s given. For my part, I intend to steward my body well until I am unable to do otherwise. I want to glorify God in all my physical efforts to the far greater end of being able to work energetically and enthusiastically in His Kingdom on those spiritual matters He’s stewarded to me, whether they be in my family, writing, church, workplace, or beyond. I want to glorify God now as I swim or walk or lift heavy things with the hope that I can still do those things, and far better things, with my own son in the years and decades to come, if the Lord wills. Of course  age, injury, devastating circumstances, and illness take their toll on our bodies. This is, after all, a fallen world and our bodies feel the curse deeply—some bodies more than others. I do not mean to bind anyone’s conscience on this issue, for I realize personal factors abound that may inhibit regular exercise; or even regular movement, for that matter. I do, however, want to offer encouragement and hope such as I’m able. Encouragement, because God has indeed given us good, physical bodies that He intends for our regular use unto His glory—so do not feel guilty as you exercise, “ glorify God in your body.” And hope, because we have a perfect body and a perfect world awaiting us in the New Heavens and the New Earth. This hope penetrates the brokenness of both body and world that we so regularly rub shoulders with in this life. In that place, we won’t be able to go anywhere without seeing some new, previously unfathomable, dimension of God’s glory and goodness and beauty. I firmly believe we will take part in this glory to some degree, clothed as we shall be, body and soul, with immortality, holiness, and perfection, even as Christ is: “Beloved, we are God’s children now, and what we will be has not yet appeared; but we know that when He appears we shall be like Him, because we shall see Him as He is” (1 John 3:2). There are times when I have caught a fleeting glimpse of it as I swim — of that glory to come, of our resurrection bodies and the realm they shall forever inhabit. I’m underwater, and then suddenly the world around me grows altogether dim and quiet. I glide suspended between those two worlds divided only by a shimmering veil of blue swirls and pale lights, like a loose sheet drawn across the sky. Then, in the moments between these moments,—as though the image is thrust upon me—my mind begins to think on that world to come, where “ the earth will be filled with the knowledge of the glory of the LORD as the waters cover the sea ” (Habakkuk 2:14). Photo by Matt Hardy, Unsplash Would you enjoy reading more of my work? Subscribe by simply scrolling to the bottom of this page and entering your email. All future articles, essays, and short stories will be sent directly to the address provided. However, be sure to check your ‘Junk’ or ‘Spam’ folder and mark me as a trusted contact should my posts fail to appear in your email. And if you’ve been encouraged by my writing, I’d be humbled if you shared my work with others who may also benefit from reading.

“ Dreams feel real while we ’ re in them. It ’ s only when we wake up that we realize something was actually strange. ” T ime . Christopher Nolan’s 2010 film, Inception,  much like Nolan himself, is deeply concerned with time . Indeed, the final montage in the film is scored to a haunting song titled “ Time ” by Hans Zimmer, and this is not without purpose. Many of Nolan’s films— Memento, Inception, Interstellar, Dunkirk, Tenet —are chiefly interested in telling stories that deal with time in an unconventional manner. According to Mieke Bal in Narratology: Introduction to the Theory of Narrative, “a fabula is a series of logically and chronologically related events” (159). In other words, a fabula is the raw, chronological data contained within a story. Throughout Inception, Nolan weaves together time and narrative, intertwining the two, to demonstrate how they intersect in the telling of a story. In many ways, Nolan’s approach to filmmaking and storytelling plays fast and loose with this definition of Bal’s, often resulting in thought-provoking and unique cinematic endeavors that take many creative liberties with how audiences interpret time and chronology. In this way, Nolan’s film, Inception, serves a twofold purpose: firstly, it is a master stroke of cinematic entertainment while, secondly, also serving as a visible representation of how narrative works. Indeed, concerned as Nolan may be with the innerworkings of time in Inception, he is far more interested in story —namely, how do we as people interpret and experience story ? What do stories mean and how do they work? How do time and narrative impact one another? To answer these questions well is no small task for image-bearers: “ [God] has made everything beautiful in its time. Also, He has put eternity into man’s heart, yet so that he cannot find out what God has done from the beginning to the end ” (Ecclesiastes 3:11). Because Nolan is made in the image of God,—though he is not a Christian—he has a sort of transcendent curiosity embedded deeply within him. As is the case with many of his films, Inception dares to ask some imposing questions of reality, questions that are quite obviously important to Nolan himself— “ It is the glory of God to conceal things, but the glory of kings is to search things out ” (Proverbs 25:2). Indeed, if Interstellar is to be considered Nolan’s treatise on the subject of time, then Inception should rightly be considered his final word on story. By employing the film’s central premises regarding dreams and time, Nolan is able to divide his story into multiple levels of narration, giving a greater idea of how this narratological framework looks when visibly displayed and how it relates to time itself, all the while maintaining the audience’s utmost interest. However, before journeying further, it is imperative that some context is given regarding the film’s plot and the various premises at play within it so that the narratological concepts can be better observed and understood. In the world of Inception, technology has progressed insofar that people can enter the dream world and experience it as though it were a physical dimension. Taste, pain, death, and love—all of these can be experienced in the dream world as though they were taking place in reality itself. However, because mental constructs can now be physically represented through the dream technology as though they were physical, this means that mental assets such as secrets, memories, and desires can likewise be stolen. In Inception, this kind of mental theft is called “extraction” (00:03:20). The film’s protagonist, Dom Cobb, specializes in this type of dream theft. Very early on in the film the audience is introduced to extraction’s twin concept, called “inception.” With inception, ideas are not stolen, they are implanted—something Cobb says is extremely difficult to do, almost impossible (00:19:30). However, when a billionaire energy mogul makes him an offer he cannot refuse to plant a corrosive idea in a rival businessman’s mind, Cobb accepts, and he and his team begin planning for the reverse-heist (00:20:30). In this reverse-heist, Cobb and his team enter into the dream realm with the man they are planning to plant an idea in, and in order to make this idea seem “genuine”, they must not only hone the idea down to its simplest form but layer the idea in multiple dreams within dreams (00:50:30). Or, for the sake of narratology, stories within stories.  Each dream, or level, is presented as its own reality, taking place within the larger frame of narrative, but serving its own individual purpose, nonetheless. Nolan’s direction and clever writing make wise use of common knowledge regarding dreams to explore not only the human mind, but narrative itself. Inception ’s unique concept provides the perfect canvas upon which narrative embedding—or narrative levels—can be explored, understood, and visibly demonstrated. Indeed, each dream is treated as a story within a story, or a narrative within other narratives, each with its own location, conflict, and narrative arc. Furthermore, these dream sequences fit within the definition of narrative embedding because each dream is not only self-contained, but contained within the dream proceeding it, given that in order to enter into one dream one must first be present in the dream before it. This lines up well with Bal’s definition of fabula, or story, as something that is both logical and chronological (159), given that the dreams (narrative levels) operate on a basis of forward motion and reason. The relationship between the primary narrative and the embedded narratives in Inception is represented in the following diagram: In Inception,  as outlined in the diagram, there are five main levels of narration, or dreams, that one must be concerned with. Like most narratives that explore narrative embedding, there is the frame/main narrative as represented by A , this being the core reality that all the other stories and narratives are contained within. Bal puts the concept this way: “the narrative text constitutes a whole in which, from the narrator’s text, other texts are embedded” (51). In this case, the core reality, or “real world”, of Inception can be considered the narrator’s text, while all the other “texts”, or dreams, are those which are embedded. In Inception, given it is a film, the frame narrative serves as the main diegesis (the primary story), and it occupies most of the runtime of the film (roughly an hour and five minutes), whereas the other narrative levels comprise the other half of the film. In the above diagram, the frame narrative is contained within a thick, bolded line, which is meant to indicate that nothing can enter or exit the primary diegesis. Perhaps I can illustrate with a thoroughly Christian example. Imagine that the thick, bolded line in the diagram represents the boundaries of reality as established by the Lord God: everything that is true and factual—Heaven and Hell, our world and all others, and every being that God has made—exists and is contained within this border that God has prescribed. There is nothing outside of reality proper, not even God—He is reality, the very nucleus of it. Anything beyond Him and the thick, bolded line He’s drawn around His world is complete and utter nothingness. Similar to the example of Bal’s wherein he makes note of Arabian Nights, Inception can also be considered a frame narrative in that there are multiple stories occurring within the main fabula itself (52). These embedded narratives are represented in the diagram as B, C, D, and E . However, unlike the example of Arabian Nights, the additional levels of narrative within Inception profoundly impact the overarching course of the primary narrative, so much so that the embedded narratives cannot be divorced from the primary narrative without losing the substance of the entire film. As Bal puts it, “the apparently loose relationship between primary and embedded text is relevant to the development of the primary fabula” (53). Beyond the primary narrative in Inception, Cobb and his team enter four additional levels of embedded narrative, all of which occur within the dream world. Within this dream world, there is the rain-slicked city scape, followed by the hotel vista, then the snowy hospital facility, concluding with Limbo ( Inception 01:04:00-02:12:00). What makes Inception such a compelling example of narrative embedding is that all these realities are entangled and contingent upon the primary fabula itself (the frame narrative, reality ), while also standing apart as their own narratives, despite at no point ceasing to exist within the all-encompassing frame provided by the primary narrative. As aforementioned, the primary frame narrative comprises about half of the film’s runtime, and it is during this time that the heist is planned and the main characters are established, with the focalization being upon Cobb himself. Significant time is committed to explaining the “rules” of the world and taking pains to demonstrate how dreams operate in order to make sense of things when the other narratives, or dreams, are introduced. However, once the other narratives are embedded, though there is frequent jumping between them, there is not a return to the frame narrative until the very end of the film once all the additional narratives have been collapsed. Hence why the embedded narrative frame of B is represented by a solid, although thinner, line, drawing to mind the fact that once the audience enters the second level , they do not leave until after all the other dreams have ended, thus returning to the primary narrative. At a point in the film, Cobb remarks that “downwards is the only way forwards” ( Inception 01:10:30). That is, in order to progress further in the story, one must progress further within the story. To grasp the full depth of the primary narrative, one must first experience all levels of narration. As the audience progresses further within the embedded narratives, there is frequent jumping back and forth between B, C, D, and E , but as aforementioned, all these embedded narratives are contained within the structure of B . However, because there are seemingly loose boundaries between the embedded narratives, their narrative frames are represented as having a thin and dotted line, indicating that there is indeed passage between them once entered. Not only is Inception concerned with narrative levels and how this can be demonstrably explained via the use of dreams, but the film, and Nolan, is very interested in time as well. Cobb explains that the human brain functions at a much higher rate while asleep when compared to wakefulness, resulting in a disparity between how long a dream feels and how long it actually occurs for in the real world ( Inception 00:28:30). In the film, the real world to dream time ratio is about 20:1; five minutes in the dream world is roughly one hour in the real world ( Inception 00:28:45). This introduces the idea of fabula time as opposed to time span in the context of embedded narratives. Now, what makes this concept of fabula time vs. the span of time passed even more interesting is that this ratio is compounded as one descends into a secondary dream level, and even more so when one enters a third dream level, and so on. Namely, the fabula time as opposed to the time span varies depending on which level of narration one finds themselves in. In the film, Cobb and his team enter the first level of dreams during a ten-hour plane flight, resulting in one week of dream time at level one ( B ), six months at dream two ( C ), ten years at dream three ( D ), and potentially limitless time once they reach Limbo ( E ) ( Inception 01:09:30-01:10:45). If one considers the length of time presented by the final narrative level, Limbo, this means that the time span over which the film occurs is well over one hundred years, despite all of it taking place in the real world over only several hours. In this way, Nolan toys with not only the narratological concept of embedded narratives, but with how time itself works within those individual narratives.             In the film Inception,  director Christopher Nolan succeeds to not only produce an exceptionally entertaining film, both thematically and technically, but also manages to put rather complex narratological concepts to film in a clear and digestible manner. Rather than exploring embedded narratives as mere narration within a larger diegesis, the film demonstrates the concept of frame narratives via the use of dreams within dreams. Through the exploration of Mieke Bal’s definitions of what narrative and narrative embedding is, one is able to then apply these concepts to the narrative structure of Inception in remarkably complex ways. Indeed, when one considers how well these concepts map onto Inception, it is tempting to ask why Bal neglected to include the film as an example in his book, Narratology. And, more pressing still, the question must be asked of Nolan as to why—in light of his very obvious and very serious fascination with time, science, and the stories that bind them together—he hasn’t yet fixed his gaze and faith on Him who is the Author of all? “ It is the glory of God to conceal things, but the glory of kings is to search things out. ” —Proverbs 25:2 Photo by Lu Quang Do, Unsplash Author’s Note: This is a slightly edited version of a paper I originally wrote for a class focused on narrative theory during the second year of my undergrad. While it may be somewhat different from the kind of writing I usually produce here, I hope it was enjoyable nonetheless—particularly if you’re as interested in the art of storytelling as I am (and, of course, in anything produced by Christopher Nolan). All truth is God’s truth, and all stories are but a thread in the much larger story that He is weaving, of which you and I, and even Christopher Nolan, are a part. Would you enjoy reading more of my work? Subscribe by simply scrolling to the bottom of this page and entering your email. All future articles, essays, and short stories will be sent directly to the address provided. However, be sure to check your ‘Junk’ or ‘Spam’ folder and mark me as a trusted contact should my posts fail to appear in your email. And if you’ve been encouraged by my writing, I’d be humbled if you shared my work with others who may also benefit from reading. References: Bal, Mieke. Narratology: Introduction to the Theory of Narrative. Fourth Ed., University of Toronto Press, 2017. Inception. Directed by Christopher Nolan, Warner Bros., 2010.

W hen I ’m on vacation, I so often find it difficult to do that very thing for which vacation was made— rest. I eventually get around to relaxing; only, not right away. Indeed, it very well may take a few days before I feel as though I’m actually on holiday at all. It seems that vacation tends to come around only after a particularly busy spell. So much is going on in life leading up to the holiday season or some specific trip that, well before the vacation itself ever arrives, it seems as though ‘just getting away’ is all I can think about. And then, when I’m actually on holiday, I struggle to fully relax and enjoy my rest because—looming just over the horizon like some brewing storm—I know that the end of the trip will eventually come, ushering me back into the whirlwind of daily life. There is, therefore, that sweet spot somewhere along the middle of any given vacation where one finds they can properly rest. This phase is often nestled neatly after the first few days once you’ve finally settled, though far enough away from the end of the trip so as to keep your mind away from the fact that, as it is with all vacations, the time will soon come for you to return home. And then there is that particularly curious point during vacation where, especially during long stretches away, you are actually looking forward to returning to your own things, to your own well-worn routine, and, perhaps above all, to a semi-stable diet. It is no strange thing to grow homesick on vacation. We are, then, hard pressed between the two: between staying and going, between work and rest, between home and holiday. To remain at rest and leisure forever seems unbearable after a time; we were created to work, and work is good. However, to go home and stay home seems equally dreadful without the prospect of another fresh vacation penciled in to break up the mundanity. This ache in the heart speaks to something profound that has been stitched into the human soul by our Creator. As we pine between home and holiday, between rest as comfort and rest as leisure, we find our hearts merely expressing a sort of homesickness —a longing for that home, Heaven, which is the blessed inheritance of all those who are in Christ. The Lord God “has put eternity into man’ s heart ” (Ecclesiastes 3:11), and only God Himself can fill such a vast void. And, what is Heaven but God’ s goodness, love, and glory made manifest? Consider that Scripture itself has no trouble describing Heaven as both a place of rest, as though it were some unending vacation, and as home. Heaven is that supreme place of rest which we have only ever seen and felt from afar, and even that through whispers; never having visited this land, all the while knowing it ’ s where our true home rests—waiting. So, Heaven: home or holiday? The Bible knows no such distinction. In the book of Hebrews alone, we see this tapestry of home and holiday being intricately and intimately woven. For, on the one hand, Heaven is the ultimate fulfillment of that rest to which the Sabbath only pointed: “ So then, there remains a Sabbath rest for the people of God, for whoever has entered God’s rest has also rested from his works as God did from His ” (Hebrews 4:9-10). In a very real sense, Heaven—or rather, the New Heavens and the New Earth—is to be thought of as the holiday to end all holidays; the vacation to which all others dimly pointed; the ultimate rest after the ultimate busy season in life—a busy season wrought with many joys to be sure, but with many tears, heartaches, and battles over sin also. Heaven, however, is not just a rest in the way a trip to Florida or Europe is a rest. It is also our true and lasting home. Anytime you step out your door and in through another for rest or holiday, you are also stepping away from the comforts of home to some extent. Despite what even the best hotels and resorts have to say of themselves— “A home away from home”—, the fact remains that there presently exists a wide gap between even the best home and the best holiday. Whenever you leave your home for another, you are parting with a quintessential dimension of what makes you and your family just that— you and your family. Heaven, by contrast, is the believer ’s true home away from home. After outlining the many triumphs and sufferings of the heroes of the faith in Hebrews 11, of whom the world was not worthy, “ wandering about in deserts and mountains, and in dens and caves of the earth ” (11:38), the author then turns his gaze, and that of the believer’s, towards home: “These all died in faith, not having received the things promised, but having seen them and greeted them from afar, and having acknowledged that they were strangers and exiles on the earth. For people who speak thus make it clear that they are seeking a homeland. If they had been thinking of that land from which they had gone out, they would have had opportunity to return. But as it is, they desire a better country, that is, a heavenly one. Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God, for He has prepared for them a city” (Hebrews 11:13-16). Heaven is the believer ’s homeland. If you are in Christ, Heaven is not just a home, it is your home—a home cut out for you in the very living, breathing heart of things. It is where you now belong. Heaven is where your treasure is, where your family is, where your Father is, where your Savior is, and where you will forever be. Heaven is your forever home. It is that place which in the best and the worst of times you’ve always felt a tug towards. When the days are hard, you long for the rest and comfort that Heaven affords; and when the days are good, the ache yet persists for that homeland which even the very best in life can only faintly point you towards. One of my favorite hymns is a song you’ve likely never heard of, titled “The Homeland in Heaven.” The first and last verse are as follows: “The homeland in heaven draws me from this earth, The homeland in heaven alone has true worth. Naught here stills my longing, naught can me inspire, To dwell there forever is what I desire; To dwell there forever is what I desire. Farewell then, O earth, I am only thy guest, Farewell to thy joys, from thy burdens I rest! Thy hills and thy valleys, though wondrously fair, Cannot with the heavenly glories compare! Cannot with the heavenly glories compare!” Here below, we have to contend with either home or holiday . We cannot have both at the same time, and in the long run we will have neither—not in this life, that is. For some, they cannot wait to get away from home and escape to another lavish holiday. There is always a next vacation booked for some folks. Home, for them, may be dull, mundane, and even lonely. Worse yet, home represents for some those four walls holding together all manner of sin, strife, abuse, and hate. For many, home isn ’t always home, but rather just a house—and one of disarray and chaos at that. Others still may have never had either home or holiday. And, even in the very best of cases, holidays always must end and homes either change or become emptied, whether by the wane of time, the shifting of seasons, or the cold intrusion of death. Nothing stays the same—not here, at least. Farewell then, O earth, I am only thy guest; Farewell to thy joys, from thy burdens I rest! In this world, we must dance between home and holiday, oftentimes aching for the other just as soon as we leave it behind, only to remain discontent in the end. But in Heaven, the two, home and holiday, shall be bound into one and forever remain united—indeed, growing increasingly more joyful as the time passes. The very best of both home and holiday will take on their fullest form in the New Heavens and the New Earth. The troubles of home will be done away with, along with any fears that perhaps, one day, it may all simply disappear. The dread accompanying the end of holidays will cease, for this Day will have no end but shall only grow to be more and more wonderful, just as Christ Himself is infinitely wonderful without end. And we will work also, but our labor will be without hardship. The curse presently woven into our work will be drawn out like a loose thread in a piece of clothing, enabling all our building, writing, reading, studying, gardening, farming, composing, decorating, painting, and engineering to not only last and be completed without toil, but to endure with an eternal significance that shall not grow dim. And, should it be the case that you aren ’t particularly gifted or interested in any of these areas of work, fret not: you will have no shortage of time there to perfect many skills and crafts for the glory of God which your life here below on Earth could not afford. For my part, I hope to write many books and, perhaps, even take up an instrument—thankfully I will have endless ages for this latter pursuit, as I just may need it... Oh! what more can be said about that place? To speak further risks casting a shade upon its great light. For God Himself said , “ 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). We would do well to concede this point. James Renwick, a Scottish minister and martyr at the age of twenty-six, reflects on Paul’s words from 1 Corinthians when he writes: “It would only darken the glory of it to you, for me to begin to speak of it. For who is able to describe that holy place? The privileges of it cannot be told you, neither by angels nor spirits of just men made perfect, who are now in possession of it, far less by me! Not all the angels and saints who have been in possession of it these many years, would not be able to describe it to us! But what we may say is that it is a rest without a rest. There they are for ever quit of trouble, of sin, sorrow, or misery, and there they are for ever restless in giving praise to God.” “It would only darken the glory of it to you, for me to begin to speak of it...”   Ah, but we must speak. We must think regularly on home. Not as an intellectual exercise, so as to rest content to wonder about its edges as though it were just another manor in the countryside. Rather, let us humbly wonder on the fact that we shall one day wander about its streets. To think often about Heaven is balm enough for the weary soul. Nonetheless, it remains a dangerous business: to think much of Heaven risks bursting the soul asunder with groaning and anticipation, and yet there runs a danger far deadlier for both soul and body in thinking too little of our eternal home. For remember, those whose minds are most occupied with thoughts of Heaven also tend to be among those whose hands are busiest here below with the work of that holy place. Until we reach our rest of home and holiday, our duty is to serve. Heaven—with all its countless joys, wonders, and comforts, Christ Himself chief among them all—will come soon enough. “The Homeland in Heaven” Photo by Geoffrey Busse, Unsplash Would you enjoy reading more of my work? Subscribe by simply scrolling to the bottom of this page and entering your email. All future articles, essays, and short stories will be sent directly to the address provided. However, be sure to check your ‘Junk’ or ‘Spam’ folder and mark me as a trusted contact should my posts fail to appear in your email. And if you’ve been encouraged by my writing, I’d be humbled if you shared my work with others who may also benefit from reading.

“The one small garden of a free gardener was all his need and due, not a garden swollen to a realm; his own hands to use, not the hands of others to command.” P resident Teddy Roosevelt once made the observation that, “Comparison is the thief of joy.” For the most part, I tend to agree with him—though, I wouldn’t have used the word comparison, but we’ll get around to all that. For the time being, let us simply consider that there are many  thieves of the heart which threaten to rob us of joy and that comparison is somewhere on the list among them. Live , love, lose, and labor long enough, and you’ll soon find yourself looking over your shoulder at how your neighbor is making out, regardless of how richly or poorly you are presently fairing yourself. Of course, there are no shortage of other things that have a mind to steal our joy if they’re given a foothold in our hearts, homes, and lives. Nonetheless, while I don’t believe that comparison can claim the title as the primary thief of joy, no person can argue against the fact that it is a significant thief of joy when entertained with a warped perspective—in even the slightest dosage. People will often say that comparison in this world is simply inevitable. That one can’t help but take notice of the many differences, whether good or ill, that exist between themselves and others. To merely observe such differences surely isn’t wrong, much less sinful, they say . If that is where comparison begins and ends for an individual, then I say fine and well, “Go in peace.” And there is, of course, a sort of healthy comparison that is not without its usefulness if undertaken properly and proportionately. For example, when the Lord says to the sluggard in Proverbs 6:6 that he should “ Go to the ant... consider her ways, and be wise, ” He means for a comparison to be made between the lazy man and the diligent ant. Consider your ways, sluggard, then consider the ways of the ant and put into practice those things which you have learned from her. Furthermore, when Paul encourages his readers to “ Be imitators of [him], as [he is] of Christ ” (1 Corinthians 11:1), this will inevitably involve some degree of comparison—it simply must . Such a command to imitate Paul as he imitates Christ necessitates a few things, all of which constitute a form of comparison from one degree of glory to another. To imitate Paul as he imitates Christ, there must first be i) a sober evaluation of oneself, ii) contrasted with a look at the example of Paul, iii) finally concluding with a consideration of the holiness of Christ Himself. And then, once everything has been weighed in the scales, action must be taken to rectify any disparities between your own holiness and that of Christ’s. This is the sort of comparison that is not only healthy, but indeed necessary. Without the ultimate standard of Christ by which to evaluate ourselves,—and the long line of godly men walking behind Him—how would we know what it means to be a Christian? Without a perfect Christ to compare ourselves to, how would we ever imitate Him? However, if we are truly being honest with ourselves and evaluating the conditions of our heart soberly, many of us will readily admit that there is often much, much more to the story when it comes to the kind of comparing we so regularly engage in. I know this to be the case because I am painfully aware of this very sin—that is, sinful comparison—in my very own heart. How often do I compare my work, my home, my marriage, my salary, or even my reach as a writer to those around me, altogether forgetting that all of it, every iota, is an unearned, undeserved, and gracious gift from the Lord. By ignoring the greater reality of God’s steadfast love,—choosing rather to fixate on closing the gap between myself and another person in any realm of life—I am choosing to instead indulge self, slaughter joy, set aside love for my neighbor, and worst of all, elevate grumbling above glorifying God. My wife is a Biblical counselor. In her conversations with the women she counsels—and oftentimes with her husband also!—she will encourage her counselees to adopt Biblical language when they are talking about the sins and struggles in their lives. For example, she might counsel that, “The Bible doesn’t use the word trauma, but it does speak a great deal of suffering. ” And, “You said that you wrestle with worry , but might it be more accurate to say that you have a heart of persistent unbelief? ” Or, perhaps most famously, “You know, simply saying ‘I’m sorry’ is not the same as saying ‘Please forgive me for ____.’ Biblical repentance and ‘I am sorry’ are not the same thing.” The use of Biblical language as opposed to secular vernacular is a supremely useful tool in exposing the sin in our hearts that we so desperately try to avoid on a daily basis. In like fashion, let’s set aside the term comparison and focus on the Biblical language provided for the kind of comparing that is not merely observational, but indeed sinful: discontentment, covetousness, and envy. Now, what do these words mean and what do they have to do with comparison? To be discontent means to be dissatisfied with one ’s present circumstances, whether these circumstances are financial, marital, familial, professional, physical, or otherwise. It is to express a heart of pride that often swaths itself as self-pity, altogether lacking thankfulness and gratitude towards God who is the gracious Giver of all good gifts. God does not owe us anything— a discontent heart completely forgets that reality . A discontent heart is a proud heart. It betrays a disposition of supreme selfishness; a thinly-veiled belief that you really do deserve better than you currently have it. At the root of discontentment often lies another sin. The tenth and final of the Ten Commandments prohibits the sin of covetousness : “ You shall not covet your neighbor’s house; you shall not covet your neighbor’s wife, or his male servant, or his female servant, or his ox, or his donkey, or anything that is your neighbor’s ” (Exodus 20:17). To covet is to exhibit a strong and sinful desire for what another person has—it is not merely a desire for good things, but a desire for the things someone else possesses. To engage in healthy comparison is to say, “I admire such and such a person: I want to follow after their example in my own life and, perhaps, the Lord will bless me in similar ways in His own timing.” Covetousness, by contrast, is wicked and selfish: “I like such and such that a person has: I want their stuff for myself. ” Covetousness goes beyond merely wanting things. To covet is to want the things of another— their things, specifically . The Lord says, “ He who finds a wife finds a good thing and obtains favor from the LORD ” (Proverbs 18:22) . Covetousness says, “I want my neighbor’s wife .” It is theft committed not with hands, but with the heart. Lastly, let us consider what the Bible calls envy. Speaking on the sin of envy , Tim Challies writes, “Envy is begrudging another person their joy or success. It is being resentful and frustrated at what another person has received, has earned, or has been blessed with. It is not merely wanting what another person has, but wanting that other person not to have it. It is feeling low, diminished, and hard done by when another person receives some good. And it always expresses itself in other forms of sin—hatred, gossip, ingratitude, and even murder.” There is a sort of black, sinister ribbon binding together discontentment, covetousness, and envy. All three are interconnected, and all three sins go far beyond the kind of healthy comparison aforementioned. Indeed, as with all sin, there is a dreadful progression to be found among them. Discontentment isn ’t satisfied with what it has; covetousness is only partially satisfied after it has what belongs to another; and envy, the most vile of the three, isn’t satisfied at all until another person is entirely bereft from that which they once had. Each sin begets the other; each offspring growing to be more evil than it’s parent. We prefer a word like comparison over covetousness or envy because the former is far less prickly. Everyone is guilty of comparison now and again, right? However, would you so quickly admit to being an individual that regularly commits the sin of envy ? Perhaps not. And yet, if we are to be sons and daughters of the Most High who make it a habit of putting sin to death, we must then engage with the enemy in plain terms and simple speech. To obfuscate the enemy is to obfuscate the battle’s primary objective. To bandy about with soft words when it comes to sin is to harm our own souls and rob us of the sweetness offered by repentance. True and lasting freedom comes about only after sin is correctly identified in Biblical language, confessed, and put to death with the help of the Spirit. As John Owen once said, “Be killing sin or it will be killing you.” This process of killing sin begins by naming and defining sin with Biblical terms rather than applying secular euphemisms to our transgressions against God and neighbor. Sin thrives in the dark corners and dimly lit rooms of the heart, cloaking itself in inoffensive language that neither pricks the conscience nor moves the soul to repentance. So, what are we to do? How are we to remain steadfast and content in a world that seeks to pull our affections to ribbons at every turn? What is, in a manner of speaking, the content of contentment—that solid foundation upon which true and lasting contentment can be built? In 1 Corinthians 11:1 and Philippians 3:17, the Apostle Paul encourages his readers to imitate him even as he is striving to imitate Christ. Only a few verses later in Philippians, Paul unfolds his recipe for happy, joyful living that rests content in even the most severe of life ’s many upheavals and disappointments: “Not that I am speaking of being in need, for I have learned in whatever situation I am to be content. I know how to be brought low, and I know how to abound. In any and every circumstance, I have learned the secret of facing plenty and hunger, abundance and need. I can do all things through Him who strengthens me” (Philippians 4:11-13). What is the secret to being content in all circumstances? According to Paul, the secrets rests not in himself, his abilities, his resources, or his present situation. Nor is the secret to being content found in outperforming those around you. Rather, Paul says true contentment rests in the strength of Christ who sustains him. Self, ability, and circumstance are all subject to change, like the waves of a frothing sea during a great storm that, only a moment before, were once still and quiet. The Lord Jesus Christ, on the other hand, never changes— “ Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever ” (Hebrews 13:8). On this side of eternity, everything else in life must be held with an open hand. If we can lose it, then we would be fools to place our hope, joy, and contentment in it—that, my friends, is idolatry. Philip Henry, the father of Matthew Henry, puts the reality in simple terms: “He is no fool who gives away what he cannot keep, to gain what he cannot lose.” The hands and hearts that are happiest are those which firmly grasp the unalterable and immutable promises of God, realizing everything else might very well come and go. The content of contentment is fellowship with God Himself. In a world full of change and heartache, one thing is needful: delight in Him who is the soul ’s supreme delight, “ the good portion, which will not be taken away” (Luke 10:42). As George MacDonald put it, “He who has God and everything else has no more than he who has God only. ” Thus, no matter where we might find ourselves, we can rest at ease knowing it is precisely where God means for us to be, relying on His divine strength moment by moment to see us through every circumstance for His glory. When I ponder on what it means to be truly content, my mind often wanders to the Shire. I recently went through Tolkien ’s The Lord of the Rings trilogy and, as you may have gauged by my last few posts, I remain astonished by the abundance of Biblical wisdom packed into this story. In The Lord of the Rings, the hobbits of the Shire are depicted as the very standard of contentment. They care not for treasure, fame, great riches, or the power that might adorn him who wears the One Ring—no, they care most for peace and quiet, for good-tilled earth, and for the warmth of home and hearth above all. For hobbits, the small and simple comforts of the Shire are more than their fair share in life. Of no hobbit is this more true than Samwise, Frodo’s faithful companion throughout the quest to destroy the One Ring. In The Return of the King, after a fierce bout of back-and-forth temptation, Samwise concludes that he already has everything he should ever need or want, and more—he just needs to survive long enough to get back home in one piece to enjoy it. Lands and servants and the power to control them both are best left to others. For Samwise, “The one small garden of a free gardener was all his need and due, not a garden swollen to a realm; his own hands to use, not the hands of others to command.” Such contentment is wonderfully  freeing to the soul in Christ. That Christ is strong and we are weak opens up the soul to a wide plain free from the suffocating thorns and brambles of never-ending comparison, covetousness, discontent, and envy, allowing deep roots to penetrate the ground wherein we have been set by His hands. To be truly content in Christ frees our stiff necks from having always to gaze around at what others may be doing, instead finding joy in the labor that lies at our own two feet, in our own garden, for His glory. Photo by Ginevra Austine, Unsplash Would you enjoy reading more of my work? Subscribe by simply scrolling to the bottom of this page and entering your email. All future articles, essays, and short stories will be sent directly to the address provided. However, be sure to check your ‘Junk’ or ‘Spam’ folder and mark me as a trusted contact should my posts fail to appear in your email. And if you’ve been encouraged by my writing, I’d be humbled if you shared my work with others who may also benefit from reading.

Until we meet again, my friend. H ave you ever looked at a word or phrase long enough only to then think to yourself, “What a strange collection of letters—I can’t believe I never noticed it before.” I sometimes find this happens in the midst of reading, or as I’m writing by hand on a piece of paper. For whatever strange reason or by some trick of the mind, a word or phrase that I’ve encountered thousands of times before suddenly looks foreign, as though I’ve never seen it up until that point. I know what the letters and syllables amount to, I know what the word(s) means—but in that moment, it just seems alien to me, as though it belongs to another language entirely. Consider, for example, the colloquialism “So long.” On its own, the saying sounds a little ridiculous and altogether meaningless. Even the Merriam-Webster Dictionary struggles to make heads or tails (another colloquialism) of its origins: “ So long , an expression of farewell, is a colloquialism that we take for granted as being a logical construction. ‘ It ’ ll only be so long before you meet again, ’ right? However, no senses of these two words actually add up to mean ‘ good-bye. ’ So where did it come from? ”   Perhaps I can add my two cents (another colloquialism) on the matter. Think about how the expression So long is often used in old movies, particularly Westerns—“So long, partner.” The phrase still seems a little awkward and strange, as all old sayings seem after a time, but I can venture a guess as to what these words are trying to convey. I imagine So long as being a shortened version of a longer saying that came about over time, something along the lines of, “Good-bye, my friend, until we meet again—long years and many miles stand between us and our next meeting.” John Wayne, the quintessential Cowboy during Hollywood’s Golden Era , is quoted to have said, “Talk low, talk slow, and don’t say too much.” In quintessential cowboy fashion, such a drawn-out and painfully protracted phrase as, “Good-bye, my friend, until we meet again—long years and many miles stand between us and our next meeting,” simply would not suffice given the many time constraints of old-timers (another colloquialism) and cowboys like John Wayne—“So long, partner” would do just fine. Eight years ago on this very day, February the 3rd, my family said So long to the dearest man in all the world. That cold, cold evening, as shadows crept across the world with the setting of another sun, Tata, my father, saddled his horse for the final time and prepared to cross those last remaining miles that stood between him and home— “Long years and many miles stand between us and our next meeting: but I will see you all again. Good-bye, everyone, until we meet again at Jesus’ feet.” And with that, he was off . Off to see his Savior; off to see his mother; off to shake loose from his aching bones and troubled heart the many cares and sorrows that darken so many of our days here below. Off to rest: rest from cancer, rest from worry, and above all, to rest from sin. In a world where cancer ‘claims’ millions of lives each and every year, we should be slow in saying that the Lord has no use for it. “Behold, I am making all things new,” says the Lord (Revelation 21:5). He is the Lord of life and the conqueror of death. Through His triumphant resurrection, the sting of death has been removed for all those who believe in Him: “I am the resurrection and the life. Whoever believes in me, though he die, yet shall he live” (John 11:25). Cancer can no more thwart  Christ’s purposes than death can. And if cancer be the cold hand through which Christ brings many of our loved ones home into the warmth of His eternal embrace, then so be it. I miss my father terribly, and I think about him often—especially on days like today. But we in Christ do not grieve as those without hope. On the contrary, we of all people have infinite reason to rejoice: “For I am persuaded that neither death nor life, nor angels nor principalities nor powers, nor things present nor things to come, nor height nor depth, nor any other created thing, shall be able to separate us from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus our Lord” (Romans 8:38-39). Before my father went home to be with the Lord, the phrase So long  was entirely foreign to me. I knew what the letters and syllables amounted to, I knew what the words meant—but it wasn’t until I uttered the words with my own lips that I truly came to understand them. Until I tasted true suffering and loss, the language of Heaven remained a mystery to me. With the Lord’s help over the years, I’ve come to see that the words So long really do mean what they say: “Good-bye for the time being. Long years and many miles stand between us and our next meeting—but I will  see you again.” So long doesn’t mean forever , by no means. The way may be long, the wait longer, and the nights weary, but there is always an end to any given road—and, in the Lord’s kindness, many pleasant inns and fellow travellers along the way for comfort and company, Himself chief among them. The separation may be painful, but the reunion well worth the wait. When the way is hard and the losses harder still, the Lord means for us to develop an eternal perspective. In doing so, we can cultivate joy and thankfulness in even the darkest of circumstances because we know that He is by our side and that He is actively working all things together for our good and His glory (Romans 8:28). Such a perspective enables us to humbly take all that comes our way as from the hands of a loving Heavenly Father who seeks only our best. Such a perspective has changed my very prayers from prayers of lament to prayers of faithful confidence. I have gone from saying, “Lord, my heart aches that Tata will never meet my son,” to instead praying, “Though Tata will never meet my child here below, Father, be pleased to number my son among your very own children that, in the age to come, he and Tata might meet under a fairer light—not as grandson and grandfather, but as brother and brother in Christ, never to part again.” “God be with you till we meet again, by His counsels guide, uphold you, with His sheep securely fold you; God be with you till we meet again. Till we meet, till we meet, till we meet at Jesus’ feet; till we meet, till we meet, God be with you till we meet again.” Would you enjoy reading more of my work? Subscribe by simply scrolling to the bottom of this page and entering your email. All future articles, essays, and short stories will be sent directly to the address provided. However, be sure to check your ‘Junk’ or ‘Spam’ folder and mark me as a trusted contact should my posts fail to appear in your email. And if you’ve been encouraged by my writing, I’d be humbled if you shared my work with others who may also benefit from reading.

M y dad never was the kind of man that loved movies. He liked Westerns, John Wayne, and Peter Jackson’s The Lord of the Rings trilogy. His favorite movie was the 1959 version of Ben-Hur— quite possibly the only movie that he could be said to have truly loved. But all in all, my dad was not a ‘ movie guy. ’             Thus, when he eagerly dragged a little 11-year-old me to the cinemas in 2009 to watch some movie called Avatar, I knew it must be special—and it was. James Cameron’s sci-fi epic broke nearly every record that there was to be broken, and on top of that it grossed nearly 3 billion dollars at the worldwide box office to become the highest grossing film of all time (a title formerly held by Titanic, Cameron’s previous cinematic achievement).             As a little boy, I was enamored instantly with the world of Avatar . The creatures and ecology of Avatar’s fictional planet Pandora were from another world—quite literally. And the story, while simple, made a fantastic showcase for the groundbreaking CGI technology that Cameron and his cohorts developed for the film. All that to say, Avatar was a big deal, and for me, it was made all the bigger of deals because my dad absolutely loved it. Is it the best film ever made? No, far from it. Is it basically Dances With Wolves in space? Yes. However, it was dear to my father and I, and that was enough. When my father was first diagnosed with cancer all those years ago in the dying light of a cool November afternoon, no one thought the worst. No one ever does. The usual tears, prayers, and silent gazes circulated around the room, but I suspect that most of my family, like me, had hope that my dad would make it. He just had to. He was, after all, the sturdiest man I knew; a firm man with a firm faith, a faith seemingly cut from granite. Cancer was a far-off creature that lingered in the frames of movies and under the microscopes of university labs, not something that my family had to deal with. Or so we thought: just as everyone thinks when that razor-sharp word— cancer —is uttered for the first time, drawing like a blade across the mind. My dad was constantly in and out of the hospital in the days and weeks that followed. By Christmas he grew steadily weaker and worse, but things still seemed manageable. However, by the end of January, the doctors sat us all down and told us that he had only six months left to live. He died the following week.             So, one can only imagine my delight when Avatar 2  was finally announced in 2015 or so. I say “or so” because it seems as though the Avatar sequels have been in development for years at this point. Firstly, not one, but four sequels were announced to follow up the events of the original film. Shortly thereafter, it was announced that the first sequel , now officially titled Avatar: The Way of Water,  was to be released in theaters Christmas of 2017, with subsequent films to be released at two-year intervals from that point on. This was great news! Cameron, the director, said that though the first Avatar took over a decade to make, there was no need for fans to fret going forward given the sequels could now be produced much faster. This was largely owing to the fact that, since the first film, significant advancements in the CGI technology needed to bring Pandora to life were developed, mostly by Cameron ’s team, in fact . However, Avatar: The Way of Water got delayed until 2018, and then 2019, and then… Well, then Covid happened. It seemed as though the sequel—the first of four sequels, mind you—was to be suspended in developmental purgatory for an eternity.             But, after years of silence, Cameron finally spoke. At long last, in the early months of 2022 a teaser trailer was released that showcased only a slim 30 seconds of Avatar: The Way of Water, and perhaps more importantly, a release date of December 16th, 2022 was now set in stone. Finally .             I’ve often told myself, and others, that I never truly got to say goodbye to my father. However, upon reflecting on those final days with him, I can quite honestly now say that this was not the case. He lost the ability to speak the last week of January, and he remained hardly conscious from this point up until the moment of his passing. However, only a few days before he stopped talking, he and I shared our last true moments together as father and son.             Much of my family had either gone home to rest or stepped out for a bite to eat, leaving my father and I alone for about an hour or so. I knew that this was precious time; it was hard to get him alone these days and I knew that there wasn’t much time left. Rather than stay folded up in his small hospital room, I took him for a stroll around the hospital wing in his wheelchair. We engaged in idle chit chat as we made the rounds around the cafeteria and nurses’ station, steadily growing more and more accustomed to the unfortunate state of our surroundings—but, a walk was better than no walk. As was my father’s custom, he soon turned the conversation away from the material and onto the eternal. My father, like me, must have realized that our time left together was short, and he had no intention of having these precious moments wasted—indeed, he may have left unfinished work when he passed, but he had no desire to leave behind unfinished business .             “It’s funny,” he said as we rounded a corner, “I’ve been thinking about that Avatar movie a lot these days.”             This took me off guard to say the least, but within a few moments I replied, “Oh yeah? How so?”             After a few seconds, he continued. “It might sound a little silly, but for some reason that movie reminds me of Heaven. Not as though Heaven will look anything like that movie, but just the pure wonder and mystery of it. If that Cameron guy could come up with a world that is so beautiful and so different from our own using only his imagination and a few computers, then I can’t even fathom what our God has prepared for us when we meet Him face to face in Heaven.” He paused for a short moment as we walked, as though formulating his thoughts, and then went on. “Jesus said that He went to prepare a place for us, and that this place was going to be so much better than anything we could have imagined or thought up. We see through a glass dimly here below, Josh, but when we get there, we’ll see things for what they really are.”             Going to see the original Avatar with my father back in 2009 has solidified itself as my all-time favorite movie-going experience. We arrived for an earlier showing, sometime around 6 or 7 p.m., only to be told that the film had been selling out everyday for the last three months: there were no tickets left for the 8 p.m. showing. The man behind the counter issued this news as though my dad and I should have already suspected this to be the case—what were we, country bumpkins? We should have known it would be sold out. To bide our time before the later 10 p.m. showing that had a few remaining seats, my dad and I went across the street to East Side Mario’s for dinner and then caught the movie. The film was fantastic, and the time spent with my dad was a dear memory. This memory was only made all the more memorable when we realized at the end of the film that he locked his keys in the car, resulting in the couple beside us in the theater offering to drive us home on that late winter night. However, we could hardly care less: we had a great time together, and we simply chatted about the film with the young couple as they drove us home in the wee hours of the night. My dad joked along the way that he would deal with the wrath of my mother come morning. We watched the movie on a Saturday night, so my dad had about six hours to figure out a way to get our only vehicle home in time for church the next morning—somehow he managed, as the best dads always do.             Watching the next installment in the series, Avatar: The Way of Water, was never going to be an easy task for me. First of all, I was no longer that 11-year-old boy from 2009—this was 13 years later. I was 24 at the time, recently married to the love of my life, finishing up my university degree, and in an entirely different season of life. However, what was perhaps the most notable change of all on the night I watched Avatar: The Way of Water was the hard reality that my father was not in the seat next to me. I was nervous to watch the movie. What if it wasn’t good? What if it tarnished my love for the original? Worst of all,—silly as it may sound—what if my dad wouldn’t have liked it? These may seem like trivial concerns, but they didn’t feel trivial at the time. There was a sense in which part of my father and my memory of him, the part that loved Avatar and my memory of seeing it with him, was at risk of being tarnished if the second film failed in some way. It was as though I needed this new movie to be good in order to validate the rich nostalgia of that earlier memory; as if both past and present would suffer loss if the future did not live up to my expectations.             Having seen the movie twice now, I rest assured that it was every ounce as good as the original, perhaps even cutting an edge above it. Every story beat and technological advancement that made the original Avatar such a lasting hit was not only present in the sequel but elevated far beyond its predecessor. The action was rich and complex; it felt as though there was real weight behind the actor’s movements and actions, a true feat considering most of the film was purely CGI. The world of Pandora was given new depths and enhanced beauty that made one feel as though they never truly left the theater in 2009. Characters were now given more emotion and nuance, addressing a major concern that many critics had of the original film. Indeed, in the 13 years spent waiting for Avatar’s sequel, we all grew up; and, oddly enough, it was as though the film’s characters grew up with us when the time came for another big screen appearance. We had to wait 13 years, you see; we all had to grow up a smidge before we could properly embark on the next leg of the adventure together. All in all, watching Avatar: The Way of Water felt like seeing an old friend again for the first time in a very, very long time. My dad would have loved it. Grief is a funny thing. It stings, it bites, it numbs, and sometimes it itches. It itches a part of you that no longer exists—in the same way as it once did, that is. After the passing of his wife, C.S. Lewis reflected on grief as though he had undergone an amputation. The amputation is a sharp pain, unlike anything you have experienced before, and then the healing begins—this is what we call grieving. Only, amputation doesn’t solely mean the loss of a limb, as though that was all and all was now well, for you must now go on living without that limb. You must learn to walk, work, eat, and sleep without that part of you, because it isn’t coming back. Yet sometimes in the dark of the night the missing limb will begin to ache and itch terribly. And as you stir from your sleep to attend to the phantom limb, it is only then you realize there is nothing left to scratch at all—it isn’t a part of you as it once was. So it is with grief. Sitting in the theater watching Avatar: The Way of Water without my dad was one such itch. I have had many itches; some are just momentary feelings and others are aches that seem to last for weeks, but they always get better in the end. The parts of you that are dearest, once they are gone, always seem to itch and ache the most. However, there is a certain, quiet beauty in that. As the weeks and months have ebbed and flowed since my dad’s passing, years taking their place, I have had to remind myself that, while he is not here, my Tata is by no means gone—he is simply elsewhere. Though my dad never got to enjoy watching the next Avatar with me, he got to experience something far better—he got to see beyond this dark glass we call life into the clear, open air. Indeed, because of the finished work of Christ, there are far, far better things ahead than any we may leave behind. For though we now see through a glass dimly, soon we shall see things for how they truly are. “For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully known” (1 Corinthians 13:12). Author’s Note: In an effort to write with integrity and as unto the Lord, it is important to stress that, though these events are in fact true, I do not always recall the exact words used in specific conversations. As much as I’m able, I strive to remain faithful to the event in question, capturing the ‘intent’ of the conversation when my memory fails with respect to exact words.

A fter the Bible, no other book has so thoroughly shaped my soul than R.C. Sproul ’s classic work, The Holiness of God. When I first read The Holiness of God as a young believer, I felt like a mountain fell on my head—the very Mountain of mountains. Almost at once, it seemed as though a great weight was lifted from my shoulders just as readily as another crushing reality—that of God’s holy character, as though seen clearly for the first time—came barrelling down upon my heart. Once I saw the Lord high and lifted up, everything about Christianity began to slip into place and finally make proper sense. The Fall, the Gospel, election, predestination, Christ’s finished work on the cross, eternal judgement, the joys of Heaven, all of it came into clear focus only after I saw the Lord God for who He truly is—holy, holy, holy. Suddenly, any arguments in my mind preoccupied with fairness and man’s choice fell to the wayside and worship swiftly flooded into place. This year, I began slowly reading The Holiness of God for the second time in addition to leading our weekly Bible study through R.C.’s six-part video series of the same name. Week after week, I remain awestruck by this book, by the passage of Isaiah 6 upon which it focuses, and above all, by the holy God to whom it points. After pitching my tent beneath Isaiah 6 for several weeks, walking to and fro among those words, I’ve come to realize how wonderfully instructive this passage is when it comes to our understanding of the Gospel. With the Lord’s help, it is my heart’s desire to shed light on this very truth: the glory of the Gospel in light of God’s majestic and unflinching holiness. Together, let us explore the Gospel according to Isaiah 6. “In the year that King Uzziah died I saw the Lord sitting upon a throne, high and lifted up; and the train of his robe filled the temple” (Isaiah 6:1). In the year that King Uzziah died, the prophet Isaiah saw the one true King who reigns from everlasting to everlasting. An earthly king may have died, but the Author of life lives forever. The Lord was sitting on His throne then; and He ’s sitting on it now, at this very moment. Isaiah beheld the LORD: He who rules not only Israel, but the cosmos itself—all within it and everything beyond it, whether visible or invisible. In Isaiah ’s vision, t he veil dividing the seen from the unseen was drawn back for a moment, and the Lord ’s all-consuming glory came thundering into the world of mere mortals. Whatever Isaiah may have thought about God before this moment, of one thing he was now certain: the Lord is King over all earthly kings, Lord over every lord, forever high and lifted up on His throne. Before sinners can understand the good news of Jesus Christ and respond to Him in repentance and faith, they must first come to terms with the dreadful weight of the bad news . The bad news is that “ all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God ” (Romans 3:23). The bad news is that God is holy and we are not. Without knowledge of the one true King, sinful men and women operate as kings and queens in their own minds: walking about proudly with blind eyes and darkened hearts. Before the Gospel can be rightly understood and believed, we must first come to terms with the reality that the Lord is “high and lifted up” (Isaiah 6:1) and that we fall short each and every moment—there exists a great chasm between God and man that you and I cannot traverse. “Above Him stood the seraphim. Each had six wings: with two he covered his face, and with two he covered his feet, and with two he flew” (6:2). The distinction between God and man, between Creator and creature, extends far beyond us as His image-bearers. There lies an everlasting gulf between God and all that He has made—in large part, this is what it means for God to be holy. Indeed, the highest angel in Heaven and the lowest worm on Earth are far closer in kind that the former—that is, the angel—is in proximity to the glory of Almighty God. An infinite expanse separates both these creatures from the Lord; there is little sense in debating between greater and lesser degrees of infinity. This is not to say that there exists no difference in glory between created beings, such as a worm from an angel, from man to man, or even angels from angels. For, “There are heavenly bodies and earthly bodies, but the glory of the heavenly is of one kind, and the glory of the earthly is of another. There is one glory of the sun, and another glory of the moon, and another glory of the stars; for star differs from star in glory” (1 Corinthians 15:40-41). Even in the New Heavens and the New Earth, we as sons and daughters of God will differ from one another in glory— “for star differs from star in glory.” However, the chief point here is that all creaturely glory fades beyond a dim flicker when compared to the incomparable, infinite, thrice-holy glory of the Creator, just as a flashlight ’s beam makes no difference under the blaze of a noon sun . Though even a single seraphim (Hebrew for “burning ones” ) would likely reduce our world to ash should he be unveiled in all his creaturely glory before us, the simple fact remains that these creatures, elevated as they may be, cannot even look at the Lord God. With two wings the seraphim shield their face and with the other two they cover their feet—these beings symbols of their creatureliness —and with the remaining two they flee from the presence of Him with whom we all have to do. The flight of the burning ones from before the inferno of the Lord ’s holiness is not unlike this scene we see at the end of the age: “Then I saw a great white throne and Him who was seated on it. From His presence earth and sky fled away, and no place was found for them” (Revelation 20:11). If heaven and earth cannot flee from His holy presence, nor even the holy angels themselves, then who is man to suppose he is exempt? A proper understanding of God as holy is utterly foundational to our grasp of the Gospel: it locks our unrighteous hearts in the holy vice-grip of the Lord ’s perfection, leaving us with nothing else to do but look unto Him for mercy and grace. “ And no creature is hidden from His sight, but all are naked and exposed to the eyes of Him to whom we must give account ” (Hebrews 4:13) . “And one called to another and said: ‘Holy, holy, holy is the LORD of hosts; the whole earth is full of His glory!’” (6:3). Now we have finally come to it. What does it mean for God to be holy ? What does it mean for us, or anything, to be holy? When the majority of folks think about the word holy, the most likely words that come to mind are purity, perfection, goodness, integrity, righteousness, or any other word that denotes moral uprightness of some kind. Indeed, as believers, we too are called to be holy: “ You shall be holy, for I the LORD your God am holy ” (Leviticus 19:2). While holiness , the very act of being holy , certainly contains within it the virtues of purity, perfection, righteousness and the like, we will come to see that there is actually far, far more to holiness that just moral integrity. When we talk about something or someone as being holy, we are attributing to that thing or person a degree of otherness . We are saying that it is “set apart” or “a cut above” something or someone else. To be holy  is to be other . To be holy is to be in a category apart from other, more everyday things. Consider that we call the Bible not just “The Bible,” but “The Holy Bible.” The Bible is holy because it proceeds from the lips of Him who it utterly holy. However, when we as believers are called to be holy, or when the Bible describes the angels as “the holy angels,” let us always remain humbly aware of the fact that this holiness is an imitation of Him who is alone holy in and of Himself. Ours is a distinctly creaturely holiness. We are to be set apart as Christians—“in the world, but not of it”—but the degree to which we are other from the world only ever remains within the realm reserved for created beings: be it angels, men, or otherwise. As the burning seraphim in Isaiah 6:3 are in the throes of their song, crying as with every fibre of their being the words “Holy, holy, holy,” they are not simply saying God is “Good, good, good” or “Perfect, perfect, perfect.” God is  all of these things, and much more, but He is first and foremost holy. When we speak of God as holy, we are talking about a Being who is in a category entirely unto Himself. God has no comparable equal, sizeable metaphor, or close second. As the sole Creator, God is the ultimate Other. In The Holiness of God, R.C. likens holiness closely with transcendence. He writes, “God is above and beyond us. Transcendence describes His supreme and absolute greatness. The word is used to describe God’s relationship to the world. He is higher than the world. He has absolute power over the world. The world has no power over Him. Transcendence describes God in His consuming majesty, His exalted loftiness. It points to the infinite distance that separates Him from every creature. He is an infinite cut above everything else.” Perhaps it would be helpful to consider some other quotes regarding God’s holiness. A.A. Hodge said that, “The holiness of God is not to be conceived of as one attribute among others. It is rather a general term representing the conception of God’s consummate perfection and total glory. It is His infinite moral perfection crowning His infinite intelligence and power.” Speaking in a similar vein, Thomas Watson spoke about how, “Holiness is the most sparkling jewel of God’s crown. It is the name by which He is known.” John MacArthur, ever the straightshooter, simply said in a sermon of his that “Holiness is God’s total glory crowned. Holy is His name.” In The Holiness of God, R.C. Sproul allots several pages to unfolding the significance of the phrase “Holy, holy, holy” in the song of the seraphim. Have you ever wondered why the word holy is repeated three times? In English, if we want to draw attention to something we can employ a number of tactics: I can write words in bold , I can italicize them, I can underline words, and I can even END A SENTENCE LIKE THIS TO REALLY GET YOUR ATTENTION! In the Hebrew language of the Old Testament, however, the chief device for suggesting emphasis was repetition . Hence, why God is praised as being not just “Holy” or even “Holy, holy,” but “Holy, holy, holy!” No other attribute of God is elevated to the third and superlative degree anywhere else in all of Scripture. At no point is God said to be “Love, love love,” or “Wisdom, wisdom, wisdom.” He is, however, “Holy, holy, holy.” Holiness is the crowning jewel of God ’s beauty; the diadem sitting upon the brow of His other perfect attributes. Because God is “Holy, holy, holy,” this means that His love is a holy love, His wrath is a holy wrath, His wisdom is a holy wisdom. Everything about God is set apart and a cut above even the whisper of comparison. Indeed, “Holiness is God’s total glory crowned. Holy is His name.” “And the foundations of the thresholds shook at the voice of him who called, and the house was filled with smoke. And I said: ‘Woe is me! For I am lost; for I am a man of unclean lips, and I dwell in the midst of a people of unclean lips; for my eyes have seen the King, the LORD of hosts!’” (6:4-5). When the glory of the Lord is unfurled, so much so that the very “train of His robe filled the temple” (Isaiah 6:1), creation itself musters a word of praise: “And the foundations of the thresholds shook... and the house was filled with smoke.” The response of Isaiah follows after the example he ’s provided by the foundations of the temple. It is said that his immediate posture towards God ’s holiness is one of woe, confession, and lament over the sin so readily uncovered in the midst of the Holy . Like the sanitizing presence of bright light in a dark, dirty place, Isaiah is exposed. Similar to Job after the Lord rebuked him from out of the whirlwind, Isaiah now proclaims, “ I had heard of you by the hearing of the ear, but now my eye sees you; therefore I despise myself, and repent in dust and ashes ” (Job 42:5-6). In his book, R.C. defers to the King James translation of this passage, wherein Isaiah cries out “I am undone” as opposed to merely “I am lost”—at the level of the soul, Isaiah is unravelling. Isaiah is undone because he now realizes, in no unclear terms, that the Lord is holy and that he is not. In light of the King, the prophet recognizes his sin and his hand immediately runs to his mouth where he exclaims, “I am a man of unclean lips, and I dwell in the midst of a people of unclean lips. ”  No excuses are made and no negotiations with the Lord are to be had. The mouth of Isaiah has been stopped, just as every mouth shall be when stood before Christ on His throne. Isaiah sees his sin for what it is, recognizing that “ it is not what goes into the mouth that defiles a person, but what comes out of the mouth; this defiles a person” (Matthew 15:11). The responsibility for the sins of Isaiah falls squarely upon his own lap. When the Lord Jesus reveals but a sliver of Himself to Peter after filling the disciple ’s boat with innumerable fish, he responds in much the same way: “But when Simon Peter saw it, he fell down at Jesus’ knees, saying, ‘ Depart from me, for I am a sinful man, O Lord ’ ” (Luke 5:8). Absolutely no one, whether he is a prophet or a disciple or any creature in-between, is safe from the presence of God’s all-consuming glory. The vice-grip of God ’s holiness upon Isaiah has tightened, so much so that the prophet is coming to the end of himself— “I am undone .” “Then one of the seraphim flew to me, having in his hand a burning coal that he had taken with tongs from the altar. And he touched my mouth and said: ‘Behold, this has touched your lips; your guilt is taken away, and your sin atoned for’” (6:6-7). But God. Notice that Isaiah does not provide purification for himself—the prophet knows he is bereft of any righteousness. Even the mighty seraphim himself is but a messenger, for he cannot so much as handle the burning coal with his own two hands but must instead use a tong. Though the seraphim is numbered among the “burning ones,” a minister of flame and fire (Hebrews 1:7), it makes no difference: “Salvation belongs to the LORD” (Psalm 3:8) and to Him only. Only God can provide atonement. Notice further that, though He reserves every right to do so, the Lord in His kindness does not forsake Isaiah to wreathe on the ground like some wounded beast. It is God Himself who initiates the atoning exchange with Isaiah, just as He is the chief agent in all salvation ’s affairs. God initiates, man responds—and even that by grace. For though t he Lord is “high and lifted up” and “Holy, holy, holy,” He is also supreme in steadfast love, kindness, and humility. Only a few chapters earlier in Isaiah 1:18, the Lord welcomes sinners to repent and come to Him for cleansing: “Come now, let us reason together, says the LORD: though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be white as snow.” In His divine kindness, God “ is patient toward you, not wishing that any should perish, but that all should reach repentance ” (2 Peter 3:9). As the thrice-holy God, the Lord cannot even look at sin; and yet it is He who welcomes sinners to come to Him, free of payment, for forgiveness and atonement from the countless sins they have committed against Him. There is an infinite gap between God and us; and all praise to Him, there is an infinite God who has bridged that gap in His Son, the Lord Jesus Christ. For, despite every just and righteous reason the Lord has to wipe humanity from existence, He has instead chosen to wipe away the sins of those who put their faith in Jesus: “ He Himself bore our sins in His body on the tree, that we might die to sin and live to righteousness. By His wounds you have been healed ” (1 Peter 2:24) . By His wounds we have been healed. Jesus has provided the infinite atonement necessary to bridge the infinite chasm between God and man. Speaking on the atonement , Wesley Huff explains how the very meaning of the word is embedded within the letters themselves: at-one-ment. Through Christ’s finished work on the cross we are reconciled back to God. The relationship is no longer strained or fractured, but made to be one again. Where there was once division and enmity because of sin, there is now peace and wholeness between creature and Creator. Because of the great love with which He loved us and chose us in Christ, our guilt has been taken away and our sin atoned for. The Lord’s mercy towards Isaiah in chapter 6 serves as an echo of the ultimate and final atoning work of Christ on the cross for all His elect. Through faith in Christ, all our sins have been atoned for—we are at one with our Creator. “And I heard the voice of the Lord saying, ‘Whom shall I send, and who will go for us?’ Then I said, ‘Here I am! Send me’” (6:8). Finally, notice Isaiah ’s response to the mercy of the Lord: “Here I am! Send me!” Once again, R.C. prefers how this verse is rendered in the King James Version— “Here am I; send me.” Did you catch the difference? By saying “Here am I, ” Isaiah is drawing attention not to his geographical location, but rather to the renewed posture of his heart. The light of the Gospel leaves no man unchanged. Isaiah is not so much saying “This is where you can find me should you need me, Lord” as he is rather shouting with all his heart, “Me! Me! Pick me! I want to do whatever service you have for me to do, Lord!” The terror and woe which at first gripped Isaiah has now passed. The sweet fruit of obedience has taken its place, made possible only because of the Lord’s atoning work. The truth of the Gospel sets us free from the bondage of sin and dead works, making us alive in Christ for that obedience which can truly be said to have been wrought in God. We are not saved by our good works, but, we are saved unto good works: “For by grace you have been saved through faith. And this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God, not a result of works, so that no one may boast. For we are His workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand, that we should walk in them” (Ephesians 2:8-10). Now that justification has occurred, sanctification can begin—that glorious process by which we, even we, are through our union with Christ made to be holy even as the Lord God is holy. “Holy, holy, holy! Lord God Almighty! Early in the morning our song shall rise to Thee. Holy, holy, holy! merciful and mighty! God in three Persons, blessed Trinity! Holy, holy, holy! all the saints adore Thee, Casting down their golden crowns around the glassy sea. Cherubim and seraphim, falling down before Thee, Who was and is and evermore shall be.” Photo by Denys Argyriou, Unsplash Author’s Note: Once again, it’s worth noting that many of my thoughts on this passage are owing to R.C.—a friend and brother before whom my little mind is rebuked. Indeed, I look forward to meeting him when my journey here is finished. Would you enjoy reading more of my work? Subscribe by simply scrolling to the bottom of this page and entering your email. All future articles, essays, and short stories will be sent directly to the address provided. However, be sure to check your ‘Junk’ or ‘Spam’ folder and mark me as a trusted contact should my posts fail to appear in your email. And if you’ve been encouraged by my writing, I’d be humbled if you shared my work with others who may also benefit from reading.

“ For if you keep silent at this time, relief and deliverance will rise for the Jews from another place, but you and your father’s house will perish. And who knows whether you have not come to the kingdom for such a time as this? ” (Esther 4:14). I t ’ s no secret that the name of God is entirely absent from the book of Esther. God is most certainly present, as He always is, but His name—the simple utterance of it—is quite noticeably missing. Again, this isn ’t a secret, but it is surprising. The Bible is, after all, a Him book (it ’s all about Him) and so it’s curious that God is not talked about or praised in the book of Esther as He is elsewhere in His word. Throughout Esther ’s ten chapters, there are no mentions of the LORD, the temple, prayer, the promised land, or the many tumults and triumphs that dominated the Biblical narrative up until that point. It ’s almost as though the book of Esther is something of a side-quest alongside the more weighty, earth-moving, sea-splitting events that make up Israel’s history—creation, the exodus from Egypt, the giving of the Law at Sinai, the call of David, the rise and fall of kings, all leading up to the Babylonian exile, during which Esther is set. For those of you who haven’t read the book of Esther (or watched the Veggie Tales episode about her adventures), the story really is quite simple, even if the events leading up to it are devastating and tragic. Because of Israel’s rampant disobedience and idolatry against God, stemming from her kings and trickling downwards and then back up again, the anger of the Lord swept across His chosen people in violent judgement. After generations of unrepentant sin, the arm of the Lord was exercised against His people through the pagan nation of Babylon, resulting in Israel’s exile and deportation to a foreign land far from home. The chief antagonist of the book of Esther is Haman the Agagite who, out of his burning hatred for the Jewish people, seeks to have them all executed by the king’s edict. The identification of Haman as an Agagite is significant as it suggests he has an important association with Agag the king of the Amalekites—the archenemies of the nation of Israel. God commanded the ancestors of Esther to blot out the Amalekites from the face of the Earth: a task they neglected to complete—to their peril. Just as Israel’s disobedience prior to Esther’s generation resulted in their exile to Babylon, so too did the sinful disobedience of even earlier Israelite generations allow for the wickedness of Haman to subsequently spread throughout the upper-ranks of Babylonian society like a cancer. The burden of this neglect consequently fell upon Queen Esther, a Jewish woman made Queen, as well as her uncle Mordecai, and the many other Jews scattered across the Babylonian domain. Set against even the epic backdrop of Genesis or Exodus, Esther remains one of the most moving and poetic books in all of the Old Testament. In it, we see from man’s perspective how the Lord God moves through history. God’s name may be absent from the book, but His invisible hand is ever present in the narrative; conducting His sovereign will not through divine mandate or command, but through chance encounters, seeming coincidences, and unmistakeable providence. As it is with so much of life, God is often entirely forgotten by people going about their daily lives, all the while He remains powerfully—though sometimes invisibly —at work. Perhaps that is an important lesson for us to consider from the book of Esther: God may be silent, completely unmentioned, even, and yet Lord over all He still remains. Indeed, while His name may not be uttered explicitly at any point in Esther’s story, the Lord’s presence so weighs upon the book such that those ten swift chapters feel incredibly crowded, even suffocated, by His rule and reign. In like fashion, God’s name is noticeably missing from Canadian public schools. Nonetheless, His will is set to their halls and classrooms like a blade upon some great whetstone, shaping and forming it as an object of His good pleasure and for His good purposes; though we may see only sparks and flashing light amidst the shadows and chaos. As with the land of Babylon in Esther’s day, there is a deep, pulsating darkness brewing above the West, threatening boldly with a loud voice of thunder peals and great whips of lightning. And yet, over and above the storm, the Lord stands untroubled; guiding all winds and rain, howling as they may be, towards that end He has determined to be best. Indeed, the Lord reigns. And yet despite this joyful reality, like any man, I sometimes wonder if I am where the Lord would have me. Am I in the right profession—was I wise in pursuing this specific career? Or, would He have me elsewhere, only I’m too busy—or comfortable—spinning my wheels where I currently am to see it? These are real questions that, doubtless, we have all wrestled with at some point. When I became a teacher, I did so because I wanted to, and because I knew that such a career aligned well with the various gifts and talents the Lord afforded to me. As a graduate of the public school system myself, I had a burden upon my heart to go back into that very same system—not merely as a teacher, but as a source of light in the midst of gathering dark. I knew it would be difficult, but exceedingly worth my every effort as Christ worked through me with His energy (Colossians 1:29). I sensed the desperate need for purpose among young men and women,—a need that can only be met by Christ—and I wanted to (and still do!) point these young souls back to Him. This doesn ’t mean those aforementioned questions went away. What it did mean was that I grew content to fight for Christ in this particular foxhole until He deployed me elsewhere. I felt called to represent my Lord in the classroom for as long as He saw it fit for me to do so. Indeed, the words of Esther’s uncle, Mordecai, weighed heavily on me as I pondered what role a Christian could serve in such a workplace: “For if you keep silent at this time, relief and deliverance will rise for the Jews from another place, but you and your father’s house will perish. And who knows whether you have not come to the kingdom for such a time as this?” (Esther 4:14). God is the sovereign Lord over history. We as His children in Christ our Lord can take tremendous comfort in the reality that God has situated each and everyone of us exactly where He means for us to be. In Acts 17:26-27, the Apostle Paul says before the men of Athens, “ And He made from one man every nation of mankind to live on all the face of the earth, having determined allotted periods and the boundaries of their dwelling place, that they should seek God, and perhaps feel their way toward Him and find Him. Yet He is actually not far from each one of us .” Down to the minute details of our birthplace, the family we were born into, our place of study or work, and every facet of our lives that lies in between, the Lord is not only in control but purposefully orchestrating it all for our good and His glory. And owing to this fact, we can rest assured in our calling to faithfully preach Christ where we are now, rather than looking ahead aimlessly for some more fertile ground in the future—ground we may never have opportunity to tread or till, save in our well-intentioned thoughts. This can be hard. Faithfulness demands much patience from us, particularly when we do not see much fruit from our efforts in this lifetime. I think Tolkien understood this truth well when he had Gandalf speak these words on the brink of The Return of the King ’s final, seemingly hopeless, battle: “It is not our part to master all the tides of the world, but to do what is in us for the succour of those years wherein we are set, uprooting the evil in the fields that we know, so that those who live after may have clean earth to till. What weather they shall have is not ours to rule.” Ours is not to know times and seasons and the weather to be of far-off years yet to come. Ours is to trust and obey—to till, sow, and reap in our little garden of the world while we have strength and opportunity such as the Lord provides. Unlike Esther, our faithfulness is unlikely to lead to the salvation of many thousands—but, who knows how the Lord will use our obedience? In any case, we are called to be steadfast in our faithfulness, small as it may seem at times, and leave any increase to God. If we shrink back in disobedience and keep silent, surely “ relief and deliverance will rise ” from some other place, from some other obedient individual, but we will not share in that work or its joyful fruit. That is why we must work faithfully wherever we may be—for, “ who knows whether you have not come to [be exactly where you find yourself] for such a time as this?” Photo by Allen Y, Unsplash Author’s Note: After my final school placement in October of last year, I set to finishing a short story of mine titled “Shadows Over Fairyland.” It is a fantasy story about a Knight named Gabriel who has been accused of a heinous crime in the fictional land of Camelot (of Arthurian legend and the Knights of the Round Table). Though fictional, I nonetheless attempted to—as with the very best stories, which I am but trying to dimly emulate—speak maturely on real-world darkness and the Great Light which has already begun scattering it into the abyss. In a roundabout way, many of my thoughts for the story came out of the joys and troubles I experienced teaching thus far in the public school system. If you are interested, you can read the story by clicking the button below: Would you enjoy reading more of my work? Subscribe by simply scrolling to the bottom of this page and entering your email. All future articles, essays, and short stories will be sent directly to the address provided. However, be sure to check your ‘Junk’ or ‘Spam’ folder and mark me as a trusted contact should my posts fail to appear in your email. And if you’ve been encouraged by my writing, I’d be humbled if you shared my work with others who may also benefit from reading.

“I n the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth.” Thus begins the Story of stories; the grand tale in which all other tales are contained. Indeed, the very tale we today find ourselves living, loving, and laboring through. If the Bible had not commenced with those words—“In the beginning...”—what other words could possibly have sufficed? Surely Once upon a time wouldn’t do. For, there was no time for time to be upon before the Author of life began weaving His epic tale. Story-Sapiens I suppose that many individuals will think their thoughts about God, in some degree, according to their specific trade, profession, or overall gifting. A mathematician will calculate God as being the Master Mathematician (which He is), just as a musician will rightly judge God as being the One from whom all the very best music flows (which it does). Both the mathematician and the musician are right. Math and melody in their own ways each serve as transcendent spectacles through which to view the Almighty. And, if seen as harmonious parts of a greater whole,—the melody of mathematics, or the science of music—yet more still is revealed about the nature and character of our great God. In like fashion, the one who writes may think of God as the Master storyteller, a Poet par excellence (which He is). Consider that though the Bible is much more than just a story, it is also not less than a story. The Bible chronicles the Story; a tale penned in eternity past before the foundations of the Earth were set. With God as its author, how could it be anything less than the greatest story ever told? Indeed, God is the Master storyteller and it seems fitting for the writer to think of God in this way. Though, I daresay this evaluation is by no means limited to the writer. Whereas some folks have little sense for numbers, while others haven’t a musical bone in their frame, I am yet to meet anyone who doesn’t enjoy a good story. Everyone loves stories, and most everyone believes God to be an author in some way. I think the reason for this is clear and simple: because we are made in the image of God, and because God is a Master at telling stories, there is a deep part of ourselves—perhaps the very deepest—that resonates with good, well-told tales. We are in a very real way, because of our Creator, not Homo-sapiens but Story-sapiens. As image-bearers caught up in God’s perfect story, we long for truly good stories that contain echoes and shadows of this far grander tale and the glorious conclusion towards which it is heading. We ache for expertly crafted twists and turns, for suspense, mystery, romance, retribution, and maybe most of all, we long for stories with a proper resolution. For endings where good really does triumph and evil really does face final and crushing defeat. And so, when the stories around us—whether in our own lives, in novels, movies, or television series—fall short, we undoubtedly feel disappointed, cheated, and perhaps even betrayed. The Catastrophe of Stranger Things When Netflix ’s hit television show Stranger Things was announced back in the fog of 2015, I was immediately intrigued to say the very least. The show was described as a nostalgia-driven supernatural drama taking place in the 1980s, drawing heavy inspiration from the works of Stephen King and Steven Spielberg. I’ve always enjoyed meticulous and suspenseful mysteries, particularly those of the supernatural or science fiction variety—so, my hopes for the show were high, though tempered somewhat by the storytelling slop that so readily abounds in all corners of entertainment. And, to the credit of Stranger Things, the first season of the show was mostly excellent. The majority of viewers agreed on this. The show represented a rare blend of tension, mystery, warmth, and mature storytelling about the dark realities of childhood, while faithfully capturing 80s nostalgia in a way that seemed earned and tailored to the story at hand rather than shameless baiting. When the inevitable season two came out a few years later, I stopped halfway through out of boredom more than anything else—the story treaded too closely to the first season for my taste. It wasn’t until I got married that my wife (who had never seen the show) and I began watching Stranger Things from the beginning, mostly on my recommendation that season one was genuinely interesting and worth our time. A few months ago, the fifth and final season of Stranger Things dropped on Netflix in three installments, concluding New Years’ Eve with a movie-length finale episode. And, almost unsurprisingly at this point in popular culture, just as season one of Stranger Things was nearly universally praised, the final season has been widely panned and ridiculed by most viewers—myself among them. There are a number of valid reasons for this widespread criticism, though I intend to focus on one staggering issue that I haven’t heard anyone mention, albeit as an aside. And, in my opinion, this fatal flaw represents not only the catastrophe of Stranger Things, but indeed the secular world’s fatal mistake when it comes to storytelling more generally. Setting aside some of season five’s other, though still glaring, issues (such as the blatant pandering to the woke mob, or the fact that the creators forsook the gritty realism of season one for some Marvel-esque slop, or the sense one gets that the entire script was written by A.I.), the real reason the show’s finale fell so utterly flat was because it abandoned reality altogether. This is directly owing to the fact that the show first abandoned God and the world as He made it. Without God, as Dostoevsky said, everything else becomes permissible. All other gripes with the show, valid as they are, ought to be seen as symptoms of a far deadlier disease, not the disease itself. Secular storytellers really are trying to do the impossible. They are on the one hand attempting to push forward the narrative that truth isn’t objective and therefore everything is arbitrary, while at the same time desperately trying to get you as the viewer to care ever so deeply for their perspectives, storylines, and characters. The principle thesis, or guiding ideology, operating beneath most of their narratives suggests that humans (Homo-sapiens, so called), along with the rest of the world and universe, are merely the result of cosmic chance; a Herculean hiccup of chemistry and physics that just so happened to create everything from absolutely nothing. And yet, while still operating from this foolish premise, secular storytellers who’ve abandoned truth insist that we should engage with their product as sensible, emotional, and moral creatures. Why? Why must we do this? If there is no God and our lives here have no ultimate meaning or purpose, then what sense is there in creating or engaging with stories? Why do anything if everything is, at the day’s end, ultimately and bitterly pointless? Why are you lecturing to me about social justice when, according to your own worldview, justice itself has no real substance? If we are all just atoms bumping into each other, soon to transition into another other form of matter ere long, then I can say, do, and think as I please. Only, of course, what does it mean to think when reason itself it merely a convenient concept and not a foundational truth of the universe? Therein lies the rub with atheism: life becomes utterly unintelligible and unliveable based upon the atheist’s moral and ontological presuppositions. The atheist wants so desperately to live in a world without God, while at the same time living day to day as though He is real, whether or not they realize it. They want to live, love, and tell stories in God’s world without God as Lord over it. That is why the ending of Stranger Things fails to resonate with so many, believers and unbelievers alike. There is something deeply disingenuous and outright wicked about writers who reject God at every turn, only to then insist upon the goodness of those things He has made and ask that you care. This is profoundly unhuman. As image-bearers, we are not, as both secular storytelling and science would have us believe, mere Homo-sapiens. We know, in the deepest reservoir of our souls, that there is more to life and that is precisely why we live as though there is more, even when we cannot place why. To live otherwise is to wrestle with an unreality; flirting with the outer darkness of nihilism where suicide remains the only reasonable avenue in a cold universe hollowed out of all reason. We cannot escape reality: we are made in the image of God: we are Story-sapiens. Indeed, “ He has made everything beautiful in its time. Also, He has put eternity into man’s heart, yet so that he cannot find out what God has done from the beginning to the end ” (Ecclesiastes 3:11). The ending of Stranger Things fell short not only because of its progressive pandering, lackluster character arcs, and hollow, play-it-safe ending, but because it pleaded with its viewers to care for a story in a world where, by the writers ’ own design, stories do not and cannot ultimately matter. Tolkien ’s Eucatastrophe By way of sheer contrast, let us consider J.R.R. Tolkien and the ending to The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King. Have you ever been in a situation where you knew precisely what you wanted to say, and yet couldn’t find the words to say it? Or perhaps you inconveniently forgot a word at just the moment you needed it most? We have all been there. Well, maybe not all of us. If J.R.R. Tolkien was at a loss for words, it was likely because the words didn’t exist—not yet anyways. As one of the world ’s preeminent philologists, the developer of multiple unique languages, and father of the modern fantasy genre, Tolkien can rightly be regarded as something of a wordsmith. Among the many words and phrases Tolkien coined, whether in English, Elvish, or otherwise, the one that strikes most central to his Christian convictions is the word eucatastrophe. A eucatastrophe is the sudden turn in fortune from a seemingly unconquerable situation to an unexpected, gracious, and almost supernatural victory. Unlike a catastrophe, a eucatastrophe is the happiest of all possible outcomes stemming from the very darkest, most evil of circumstances—a great turning of the tide for good when all seems dark and at its most hopeless. For Tolkien, God becoming man in the historical person of Jesus Christ, living a completely sinless life, and dying for the sins of His creatures as atonement was the ultimate eucatastrophe. Mankind ’s catastrophe was undone. The cross was the very reason Tolkien came up with such a phrase: no single word in the English language quite encapsulated Christ ’s victory well enough for Tolkien. We see a similar eucatastrophe unfold near the end of The Return of the King , the final novel in Tolkien’s trilogy. Under the invisible hand of divine providence, coupled with the courage of ordinary individuals, the One Ring has been destroyed by Frodo and Sam; the strongholds of the Enemy have crumbled to dust and shadow, the Dark Lord himself fading into a mist and picked up by the wind as though he were nothing. Bewildered with exhaustion and joy, the two hobbits pause for a moment of much needed rest and then quietly pass into sleep on the slopes of Mount Doom. “I am glad you are here with me. Here at the end of all things, Sam,” whispers Frodo as the pair drift off, supposing that with the completion of the Quest their own lives have now at last come to a close. Only, that is not what comes to pass. After a few days, Samwise awakes to green and golden sunlight falling on his face. The warm speech of friends and the soft melody of music is pouring into his room, both more wonderful than in any dream he could have imagined: “It fell upon his ears like the echo of all the joys he had ever known.” Turning to Gandalf, Sam says, “Is everything sad going to come untrue?” It was not a dream; no, this was far, far better—an ending to the story which even Samwise, the eternal optimist, could not have conjured up. Overwhelmed, Sam begins to weep—though not for long. “Then, as a sweet rain will pass down a wind of spring and the sun will shine out the clearer, his tears ceased, and his laughter welled up, and laughing he sprang from his bed.” Amen, dear Lord—hasten the Day! Photo by Josh Hild, Unsplash Would you enjoy reading more of my work? Subscribe by simply scrolling to the bottom of this page and entering your email. All future articles, essays, and short stories will be sent directly to the address provided. However, be sure to check your ‘Junk’ or ‘Spam’ folder and mark me as a trusted contact should my posts fail to appear in your email. And if you’ve been encouraged by my writing, I’d be humbled if you shared my work with others who may also benefit from reading.

I ’ ve never been much of a ‘morning person’. My father, by contrast, most certainly was. All the years I knew him, there was never a day wherein my father so much as even slept in. Not by my recollection, at any rate. Did he come home from work most days exhausted and often fall asleep during movies in the evening? Sure. Early to rise, early to bed, as they say. Nonetheless—my father was an early riser and no one could take that accolade from him. Growing up in the country on a ‘hobby farm’, of sorts, there was no shortage of work to be done around the property. My father had to wake early to ensure these many responsibilities were attended to. In addition to the countless household renovations he had undertaken, there were always fences in constant need of repair, paths in the forest that required blazing, and all the rest that rounds out the many joys and hassles of country life. There were goats to release for pasture, miniature horses to feed and water, eggs to gather, stables to clean, and most pressing: a small garden to protect from those very same goats and horses. One day, whether by some neglect of my father’s or my own (likely my own), we heard a commotion outside the barn where our garden was. It sounded much like the stomping of many small, hooved feet on a rampage. He was working by the barn, and I had stepped indoors for a moment. “The goats! The garden! I thought you were watching them!” we exclaimed to one another from across the yard. Running outside to investigate, we indeed saw our small flock of goats fleeing from—and through!—the garden as though Death himself pursued them. What could have spooked them?, we thought, as we looked around the assortment of vegetables for a clue, thinking we might stumble across some predator, whether a snake or perhaps even a raccoon. All we found in the end were a few gobbled heads of leaf lettuce and, still swaying on its stem like some dreaded talisman of emerald doom, a half-eaten jalapeño pepper—to my recollection, the goats never again dared set cloven hoof in that garden. Many such chores and adventures littered my childhood. Yet, well before any of these tasks were attended to, while the shadows of early morning still rested heavily upon wood and field, my father busied himself with other, more important work. In and out of season, it was ever my experience to find him in the Word during those early morning hours. Whether in the pale light of spring or in the thick dark of winter, my father remained consistent and steadfast in his daily Bible devotions. As I remember him even now, I can picture his shadowy form sitting in our sunroom; the rising mists of freshly brewed coffee ebbing between his own silhouette and the dimly lit forms of our two German shepherds as they sat by his feet, the audio Bible trickling from his phone like a gently rushing stream. It was my father’s devotion to the word of God, above all else he taught me, that most shaped my spiritual life and character. Imperfect and flawed as he was, my father always reminds me of the man in Psalm 1:1-3, “Blessed is the man who walks not in the counsel of the wicked, nor stands in the way of sinners, nor sits in the seat of scoffers; but his delight is in the law of the LORD, and on His law he meditates day and night. He is like a tree planted by streams of water that yields its fruit in its season, and its leaf does not wither. In all that he does, he prospers.” As the saying goes, “Even the best of men are, at best, still men.” My father was no exception. Even the very greatest of fathers are still tainted by sin and in need of the Lord’s constant strength, grace, and forgiveness. Over the nineteen years he and I enjoyed together, I saw him shaped and molded by the Lord in remarkable ways, often through even the most ordinary means of grace such as his daily Bible reading in those early morning hours of my upbringing. Though I am not yet what you’d call a dues-paying ‘morning person’, I do think that I am slowly evolving into one—largely, I’d say, owing to the lingering example of my father from all those many years ago. I aim to leave the same example for my own children, for I know firsthand the power such a witness wields over small, watching eyes and loosely attentive ears. My father would be the first to say that reading the Word changes a man. Sometimes slowly and imperceptibly, working its way through the heart like a small stream; a small stream that, given sufficient time, cuts a mighty ravine into a mountain side. Indeed, my father’s obvious love for Christ was the greatest gift both he and the Lord could have given to me and my sisters. Not just a good father, but a godly one. Not just a strong father, but more importantly a weak one through whom Christ shone. For it was by my father’s example I learned firsthand that the Christian life is far more than mere dos and don’ts; to be a Christian means to follow Christ closely and with the entirety of your being, to blaze well-worn paths of intimacy with Him that will echo into eternity. To walk so closely behind Christ the Rabbi that the very dust of His feet finds itself caked on your face. I got the sense from my father that an all-consuming love for Christ was not something that came naturally or automatically to a man, even the redeemed man. Rather, deep intimacy with the Lord was something that had to be nourished and cultivated through daily dependence on His Spirit and much time spent in prayer and in the Word. Even as he and I cleared paths in our forest from tangled weeds and thorny bushes, my father demonstrated the utmost importance of clearing well-worn paths with the Savior as well. Well-worn paths made smooth and familiar by regular use. A familiarity that bore sweet fruit and refreshment for the one who daily obeyed the summons of Christ in Revelation 3:20, “Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and eat with him, and he with me.” The sad reality is that many Christians have traded in intimacy with their first love, the Lord, for mere busywork in His Kingdom. Indeed, great hordes of men and women run around all hours of the day doing a good deal for the Kingdom all the while utterly neglecting the King Himself. As below, so above; if our heart for the Lord Jesus Christ runs lukewarm for Him below, who are we to suppose that some great change will occur when we see Him face to face? At death, there will be a great change, but only according to the treasure of our hearts. If we seek little intimacy with Him below, what expectation can we have for beyond? How often we seek distractions, no matter how noble or pious, in order to put off the real work of communing with our Lord in our closets or studying His word under the soft rays of a rising sun. Remember well, with fear and trembling, the dreadful underside of lukewarmness gone unrepented of: a clear warning standing opposite Christ ’s invitation in Revelation 3:20, as found in Matthew 7:22-23: “On that day many will say to me, ‘Lord, Lord, did we not prophesy in your name, and cast out demons in your name, and do many mighty works in your name?’ And then will I declare to them, ‘I never knew you; depart from me, you workers of lawlessness.’” Take heart, He remains faithful even when we are lukewarm: “ if we are faithless, He remains faithful— for He cannot deny Himself ” (2 Timothy 2:13). He only asks that we be honest with our sin, repent by turning away from it, and turn to Him for forgiveness. If you hear Him knocking on the door of your heart, answer, and be refreshed as you sup with Him once more—for, the promise given in Revelation 3:20 is to those who are already His. Pray through the Psalms, go on a walk in creation while listening to Genesis, embark on Mark ’s Gospel, pick up a commentary and fall headlong into Romans—just begin, for little communion with the Lord is still better than no communion at all. However, be not content to remain there; strive onwards and upwards, always. Then, blaze new trails of fellowship and continue walking those well-worn paths of intimacy as you meditate on His word morning and evening. For, when you see Him face to face, I have no doubt those faithful paths forged here below will have found firmer ground above. Paths begun below, stretching onwards above to unknown heights and destinations beyond imagining. Photo by Tarik Haiga, Unsplash Would you enjoy reading more of my work? Subscribe by simply scrolling to the bottom of this page and entering your email. All future articles, essays, and short stories will be sent directly to the address provided. However, be sure to check your ‘Junk’ or ‘Spam’ folder and mark me as a trusted contact should my posts fail to appear in your email. And if you’ve been encouraged by my writing, I’d be humbled if you shared my work with others who may also benefit from reading.