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For 36 hours I stared at the mist gathering in the valley from my cabin perch and discussed the world and heaven with two close friends.

It was mid-summer in the Black Mountains. The Black Mountains of western North Carolina rise to the clouds. A spur of the Appalachian Range, they contain six of the east’s highest peaks. Mt. Mitchell gathers its summit at 6,684 feet—the highest of all. The Blacks range 15 miles in length and get their name from the dark fir and spruce that coats their heights. The boreal evergreens look black in winter as they contrast with the deciduous hardwoods upon the slopes.

Our cabin sat at 3,100 feet and jutted out, like a manmade promontory into the steep river valley south of the spur. The first night, thunderstorms raged through the mountain basin and we watched the ominous clouds gather overhead. They unleashed. The sounds of the storm took over. Lightning and rain and claps of thunder pelted and shook the cabin. Then as quickly as it gathered the storm dispersed, vanishing over the ridge.

A cluster of stars peeked from behind the indigo veil and dripped their light into the misty valley that was so recently ravished with the torrential beauty of the summer storm. With the heat from the day vanished, we lit the fire and laughed beneath the stars and wrote haikus about the storm and trees and the smell of pine and whatever caught our fancy.

The next morning, we departed; filled up with camaraderie and joy. I let the joy guide me to a more circuitous route home. Instead of barreling back to Charlotte on the highway, I wound my way to the Blue Ridge Parkway and drove toward the summit of Mt. Mitchell. With the windows down, and Gipsy Kings blaring in my speakers, I let my hand hang in the mountain air as the temperature cooled.

A thousand feet, then a thousand more; 85 degrees, then 75, now 65. The mountain air poured into my truck, sweet with mint and bergamot and pine and fir.

Wild beebalm lined the Parkway with a crimson thread; their joyous red heads stood tall and confident, showing off their stunning glory. Beside them, the spindly Rudbeckia beamed their yellow petals in a parade of color.

I drove with a permanent grin as if I’d happened upon a secret meeting of angels who’d left a trail of heaven in their wake. I could almost smell the celestial goodness in the air. The summit waited for me, with its height and range and glory. Perhaps I’d find the angels and listen in on their meeting. When I turned up the steep road, I heard distant thunder and found that for which my heart yearned; thunder-filled storm clouds marching toward the peak, while a great blue expanse spread out to the south; the meeting of the heavens.

I took in the view and thought how God greeted me with a billion joys, for that is all can fit into the Black Mountains: countless trees, branches, leaves, flowers, clouds, deer, bear, bobcat, mist and storm, sky and sunshine, and the constituent parts of it all. And yet my eyes can only drink in so much, leaving me wanting more.

“But Tim,” you say, “why didn’t you invite me on your mountain escapade. For I too long to see the joys of God on the mountaintops. This world of ours makes me want to stop everything and return to the remote places if only to restore my sanity.”

“Ah yes,” I reply. “I do apologize for the oversight. I only share this story to inspire you to head out on your own mountain escapade. And when you do ascend to the places of wonder, keep it in your mind to let go of the world’s pace. And if you’re really daring, sit and stare at a view for an uncomfortable amount of time. Let the sights and sounds bend in on you. I’m sure you, too, will find an angel’s meeting of your own.”

When the Apostle Paul stood before the Stoics at the Areopagus, he invited the philosophers to see the billions upon billions of joys. For the seeker, the one groping for God, he says, these joys reveal the invisible qualities of his eternal power and divinity. And yet, the beauty of natural wonder is not sufficient for spiritual salvation.

Beauty unconnected to the Divine leads humans into pagan idolatry. For the disciple of Jesus, the one groping for deeper intimacy with God, the revelation of these joys—of God’s power and divine nature—remind of his unlimited grace and care. But even more than that; they remind one of the lover who leaves flowers on his beloved’s doorstep. The flowers signal his loyalty and tenderness. But they also impart something of his heart concerning his beloved. The flowers say, “You remind me of this bouquet—full of life, bursting with color, alive with fragrance, a bounty snatched from the mountains.” The bouquet is a symbol of love.

In the half-light of heaven, blowing through the incandescent clouds descending upon Mt. Mitchell, I discovered the meeting of angels. They told me the story of the light that came so long ago before humans walked the earth, and how it filled the cosmos with wisdom. The angels reminded me of the ancient philosophy that used to rule the earth; the one that predated our modern materialism. It was basic and true, but not because it was simple. But because it was so deep, full of paradox and the spectacle of wonder. It was a knowledge—a Word—bound up in the Artist’s mind behind the flower that blows in the mountain air, whose bend and bob can give “thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.” As I pondered this ancient philosophy, I remembered that we journey through this world stumbling upon the deep words of God at every turn, if only we have the ears to hear them. Such a glorious paradox, then, to hear the deep words of heaven with my eyes and tastes their fragrance with my nose, and they smell like bergamot and behold, they are good.

Stay stoked my friends.

In 1994 architect and critic Jonathan Hale wrote a brilliant little book titled The Old Way of Seeing. In it, he laments the loss of life and play in modern American architecture.

Hale points to 1830 as the turning point.

Hale says prior to the 1830s architecture was altogether focused on something different. There was a magic to it—and intuitive beauty that made a person feel at home in their town.

“Architecture,” he says, “is the play of patterns derived from nature and ourselves.” He says that design is play, and “The disharmony we see around us is the exception.”

Architects now build lifeless structures that lack an identity and convey a kind of chaos rather than harmony. We feel this intrinsically, he says, though we may be unable to explain it fully. We sense it when we walk our neighbourhoods that tend to look monolithic, struggling under the burden of sameness and laden with symbols of times past in an attempt to convey something.

He attributes this loss of play and life in architecture to a lack of sight; a loss of the old way of seeing. Hale tracks this loss of sight to the 1820’s when architecture lost its charm and delight. Buildings, says Hale, began to strike poses using symbols, like pillars, to communicate some kind of code, like heroic democracy or “greatness of vision.” Architecture turned from “expressions of the human spirit to structures laden with symbols.” A loss of magic and life.

Pattern ruled architecture before the 1820s. Patterns are ends in themselves and communicate directly to the viewer. After the 1830s everyday architecture attempted to either communicate through symbols instead of patterns, or not to communicate at all.

The pressure for the modern designer of the 19th century, yea, even the artist, was to be always new. And by new Hale means strangeness. Not only is this is a burden for the designer but it also moves beauty further out of reach of the everyday person. Beauty becomes the province of specialists.

“Eh, but Tim,” you say, “I’m no architect. The only thing I design is avocado toast or perhaps my evening salad. What do Hale’s observations of modern architecture have to do with me?”

“Ah yes,” I reply. “Yes, architecture does sound like a distant discipline. But I had to remind myself that the buildings that surround us contribute to our immediate environment. Consciously or not, the vision of the Waxhaw Mainstreet affects my mood, my visual delight or visual disgust. And that which comes into my optics does indeed affect me on a deeper level.”

There is a sacredness to the places we build. You and I were created to create. We are, by design, builders and makers, and even if that is not our profession, we are wired to interpret the places we inhabit.

A place of chaos breeds tension. A place of pattern and play breeds, well, magic.

Whether it is a flower bed design, a perfectly patterned deck, or a playful chapel inviting us to worship, the places we inhabit connect us to something beyond the brick and mortar. Their pattern and play give us the joy of something familiar, the delight of home, and remind us that flourishing—that life itself—can and should be found in the places we gather.

Stay stoked my friends.

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Why are we drawn to the idea of adventure?

What is an adventure? What does the word mean?

Certain words in our culture suffer from overuse and adventure is one of them. Watered down, these overused words become castaways in the lexicon of everyday language; once carrying significance, only to drift into the strange land of ubiquity. Adventure for the modern person relates to our sensibilities now almost primarily through simulacra. When we do experience adventure in the physical, it comes via a controlled environment where safety and knownness dominate the experience. The rise of the novel contributed to our current sanitized relationship with adventure.

Since the nineteenth century, the public engaged with the idea of adventure by way of the novel. Stories like Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein (1818), Walter Scott’s Ivanhoe (1820), and James Fenimore Cooper’s The Last of the Mohicans (1826) captured the imagination of generations of readers who longed to travel and see new parts of the world and engage with foreigners.

The novel, however, lives downstream, so to speak, of the real frontier; of expanding cultures around the world. Fiction springs from experiences in the real world. We hear stories, seek to emulate them, and live them vicariously through an entertaining medium.

But adventure novels do touch something within the human psyche, something profound and on an existential level. We sense a calling to go forth and see for ourselves what lies in the beyond.

If we peer further into history, nearly 700 years ago, we find the world opening up to global travel.

Ferdinand Magellan (1480-1521), a Portugues explore, is credited with organizing the first circumnavigation of the world. Magellan founded and named the Pacific Ocean—if it’s possible to name such a thing.

The story goes, when he and his caravan of ships entered the waters of the Pacific, the ocean was calm. Pacific means “peaceful.” It took over two months for them to cross the peaceful ocean—what we now call the Pacific. Many died from starvation and scurvy.

What prompted Magellan’s curiosity to plan such a voyage?

He set out to discover a way to travel westward to South-East Asia where he hoped to find exotic spices and gems. He only knew of the great ocean that lay beyond the Atlantic. He heard the call to, “Come, see, find.”

And, in order to reach his goal, he had to set out into the literal unknown, with only an off-chance of discovering a passage between the Americas. And he had to convince 260 men to join his expedition which required five ships.

But Ferdinand did not successfully complete the journey. He died searching for the gems and spices. He planned the expedition, but it was a man from his crew who would end up completing the circumnavigation around the world.

Adventure is something that happens along the journey. It’s what happens to you on the expedition. It cannot be planned. It must simply be experienced at the moment.

Born To Roam

Why do human beings risk death for the sake of discovering something new?

Experts in landscape, geography, and navigation remind us that a symbiotic relationship exists between human beings and the world in which we live. There is more to the space around us than simply location.

From birth, human beings exist within and explore space. Even in the womb, we come to know and understand the space in which we exist at a base level. As soon as we enter the world, our minds and emotions churn with an innate curiosity to understand our surroundings. We make mental maps of everything. The world imprints on us, spacially, psychologically, and spiritually (self, or creaturely, awareness).

John Stilgoe, a landscape historian, bemoans the twenty-first century’s trajectory as it careens into what economist Klauss Schwabb calls the Fourth Industrial Revolution—a time of digital, physical and biological fusion; a time that will redefine what it means to be human and “what it means to be completely embedded in this world.”

Stilgoe says living in a world in which everything is mapped out for you, where everything is known and safe, is a disaster for our lived experience. This kind of pre-planned and safe world is exactly the world found in a smartphone.

As new generations grow up on portable digital devices from a young age, they will lose their sense of curiosity, wonder, and desire to find their own way in the world.

Getting lost says Stilgoe, is an essential component of the human experience. It forces us to find our way, to explore the landscape, to truly see the world and how to live in it.

Even the way we adventure in our hyper-modern world reflects our inability to actually see the world aright. With the Global Positioning System (GPS) and Google Maps and a plethora of other smartphone apps, we no longer drive to a place reliant upon our experience of it. We listen to the computer. “Alexa, how do I get to Pisgah National Forest?”

We follow the silly blue dot, when we should be “seeing” the landscape and what it’s doing, how it’s shaped, and our place in relation to it.

Since the early Babylonian and Sumerian empires, humans relied upon the landscape, beneath the feet and in the sky, to navigate. Wayfinding was part of what it meant to live and travel. They knew the stars, how they signalled the seasons, and where they moved in relation to their own land.

Today, however, if you want to know how to get somewhere, you enter the data in your device and follow the directions or ping Siri. Having lost the ability to navigate on our own, having lost our relationship with the physical world, the true notion of adventure can only be grasped in a film or television series or a novel.

“But Tim,” you say, “aren’t you being hyperbolic. Adventure does not need to be month-long expeditions into unknown territories. Besides, haven’t we explored everything already? Do we really need adventure in our lives at the level you’re suggesting?”

“Ah yes,” I reply. “I agree there’s little left to discover over land. I do, however, wish to point out that adventure is not a consumer commodity. It is our human heritage. We’ve been given space on a terrestrial planet and launched, so to speak, by its Creator to learn and know who we are in relation to it, thus giving us a deeper understanding as we relate to him. Adventure, you see, is that, in part, for which we were made.”

One of J.R.R. Tolkien’s most beautiful lines comes from The Fellowship of the Ring: “… all who wander are not lost.” The line from Tolkien’s poem reminds us of two things. First, wandering is our natural state. And second, navigation isn’t always about certainty.

The ancients used the stars to navigate, and sometimes they used planets. Plantes, according to Harvard scientist John Edward Huth, are not as reliable as stars for navigation. The word planet means “wanderer.” The brightest planets (Mars, Jupiter and Venus), says Huth, can act as “temporary beacons for travellers, but they move against the fixed background of stars.”

Huth reminds us, however, that planets can still be used for navigation if one understands their motion. The motion of the planetary wanderers reminds us that wandering is a natural state of being. We are planets, in motion upon the fixed background of the earth. But if we cease moving, we lose our birthright as wanderers.

What Happens Along the Way

In this short reflection, we’ve still not defined adventure. Adventure comes from Latin and French and means to arrive, or what’s about to happen. We dub men like Magellan “adventurers.” But that moniker comes after the journey has ended in some fashion. Magellan was an explorer. He employed his natural curiosity to discover that for what his heart yearned. In his case, spices and gems.

The late literature professor Joseph Campbell, famous for his book The Hero With a Thousand Faces said heroes are called into an adventure. The call might be something tangible, like gems or spices, but there is something else under the surface that calls. As a professor of literature and world religions, he said this call came from the World Navel, the source of existence. As a Christian, I call this source the Creator God.

The landscape or something behind the landscape, the stars, the cosmos calls to us. It is the voice of God whispering to us through creation. To answer His call is to set out on the expedition of human existence. And what happens along the way? Well, that’s the adventure.

Stay stoked my friends.

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Read the Stoke

The stoke is back. And in my mind, we need it now more than ever.

2020 jolted us with a bit of despair and a dash of “Get me out of here,” or “Come, Jesus, come.” Seems like everyone believes their view is the best and if your view doesn’t jive, then you’re outta here.

But we all know that reasonable people don’t think like that.

We all know that respecting one another and our backgrounds and experiences is what it’s all about. These are universals. And we need it all to thrive—to survive, even.

We gather here in this little digital space because we believe in the stoke. We believe there’s a better way forward than what’s offered by talking heads and social media.

But just so we’re all on the same page, I thought I’d give a little stoke review.

“Eh, but Tim,” you say, “we know where the stoke comes from. And besides, shouldn’t you be discussing more relevant topics; you know, the kind that people like to gossip about and all of that. Why do you always veer away from the “in crowd” stuff into your little world of adventure and beauty?”

“Ah yes,” I reply. “So you do know all about the stoke. I am thankful for that. But I want to review, because who doesn’t need a bit of inspiration from the past. Furthermore, I believe the best way to stay relevant is to be about one’s own business; to be building and creating and imagining and marvelling. Besides, who wants to rehash trendy topics until your brain explodes?”

Well, here’s a quick review.

In the 1950s “the stoke” became a popular term for surf riders. For them, being on the waves was enough—you were “stoked” to be out there, feeling the ocean, drinking in the experience. To be stoked meant to be “overjoyed, ecstatic, thrilled, or delighted.”

We also find the word “stoke” attached to town or village names in the United Kingdom. It comes from the Old English term stoc, which means a settlement or farm. So, as a noun, stoke can mean a place.

But the word “stoke” also has roots in the Germanic language, from which we get the word “stick.” And the German was influenced by the Latin instigare which means, “to spur on.”

Turns out the German and Latin “stick” and “spur on” root their meanings in the idea of “adding fuel to the fire,” or using a stick to push the coals of a fire together—to get the flames raging, and burning brighter.

I love that we find this idea of “stoke” in the New Testament.

The writer of Hebrews urges his readers to stoke the fires of their faith.

He writes: “Let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds.” But it’s not just about offering fellow Christians a word of encouragement.

The stoke comes from gathering together. Picture human beings as coals of a fire and also the sticks that poke those coals to get them burning brighter.

So, it’s when we gather, that we should be caught up in the act of stoking one another on toward love and good deeds.

But how do we do this in a COVID reality? That’s the question, and a difficult one.

Well, joining together here in this space is one way.

But you can also stoke those people around you, in your own sphere of influence.

Have you thought about how you’re doing that lately? Inspiring others with the way that you live out your faith?

Are you a source of stoke or despair?

Without the stoke in our lives, we stay in the status quo. We don’t challenge ourselves to elevate, we don’t seek whatever it is that lies out there beyond the horizon, we don’t look to the stars and imagine our place among them.

Here’s a quick hack for being the stoke for someone who needs it:

Remember that you carry eternity in your heart.

The writer of Ecclesiastes reminds us that all humans carry eternity in their hearts. But the tension comes from our inability to grasp it fully.

But, that does not mean we don’t reach for it, pray it in our lives, or do our utmost to mine the wonders of nature and Scripture for clues that will help us grasp how wide and how deep God’s love is for us.

Cosmologists tell us that there are at least 10 dimensions in our current reality. It’s mind-bending to think about God not only caring for us within the confines the of our trans-dimensional reality, but that somewhere beyond the realms of the cosmos he’s there, preparing something for us.

What does it mean to carry eternity in your heart? It means you carry the hope of glory within you. And hope does not disappoint.

The person who hopes rests her thoughts not on the things in this realm, but in God’s eternity. And the mere contemplation of such things can and does open our spirits up to new possibilities.

It’s the idea that if you just focus on the worst thing you’ve ever done, you’ll not move beyond that mistake.

But if you constantly flood your mind with an aim or goal or some big dream that pushes you beyond what you thought you could achieve, you discover how the mere thinking of that good goal can radically change your life.

That’s what it is to carry eternity in your heart. That’s what it is to be the shining bit of hope for your neighbour.

That’s how we stoke one another on toward love and good deeds.

Stay stoked my friends!

Now is not the time to hide.

In-doors, in yourself, in your heart, in your faith.

A price was paid for you. Two thousand years ago the one they called Immanuel did something that shook the world. He introduced a new way to live, a new way to be alive.

He invited me and you to be part of his kingdom—a spiritual kingdom—a spiritual revival.

It’s not crazy talk. Emperors tried to snuff it out. But the kingdom wasn’t of this earth. It was built upon a foundation of blood and truth and it eventually seized upon the earth’s empires by spreading throughout the countryside of the Roman empire.

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Fostered in the private homes of the first believers—believers of an incredible story, of an impossible dream. It didn’t matter where they met, it just mattered that they met.

Through the line of decades and centuries, they contribute to humanity by building a better culture. Not one focused on the deeds of man but centered on the transcending glory of the Divine.

And when the time came to stand up to governments and rulers who sought to suppress humanity, to exploit the masses for the elite, to order the worship of the rulers, they refused.

They didn’t shout at people or rip one another apart. They didn’t use the rhetoric of the day. Instead, they clung to something unshakeable: the hope of heaven.

“But Tim,” you say, “are you inciting a revolution? Are you suggesting we engage in civil disobedience when it comes to things related to COVID and pending restrictions on when and how we can meet as believers? Shouldn’t we just go about our business and wait for all this to blow over?”

“Ah yes,” I reply, “I see and understand your reticence to go against the flow. But I am not suggesting revolt per se. Instead, I am trying to point to the roots of the Christian faith. And that, my friend, is Glory—the glory of God. Many have done good and ill things in the name of religion throughout history. I’m neither condoning nor criticizing at this point. Instead, I’m reminding: our heritage—yea, all of humanity’s really—is heaven. And when we live with the hope of heaven, we walk with Wisdom.”

Indeed, it is Wisdom we need in these times where it feels like our country is failing, our government is faltering, and the whole world seems to be teetering on revolution.

Remember Wisdom’s call: good judgment, understanding, truth, uncover deception, wholesomeness, common sense, and most importantly the fear of the Lord.

Only one thing cuts through the dross of our culture right now: the awe of God.

When we stand in awe, everything else falls into place. We gain wisdom, and the Spirit himself will guide us as we navigate the tempestuous waters of societal change. What is needed most right now?

An army of Daniels and Esthers. Ready and willing, even in the darkest of times, to stand for what is right. To rise up, in the face of overwhelming opposition and consequences, and remain undaunted in God’s sovereign grace.

Stay stoked my friends.

Sometimes, all you need is a fire.

The other day I went to the doctor for a routine check-up. The nurse and I chit-chatted about COVID and the crazy year we like to call 2020.

I told her about the bonfires we like to have in our cul-de-sac and the thought of it made her so happy.

“That’s so lovely,” she said. “I think we’re going to do the same thing with our cul-de-sac on Thanksgiving.”

Then, she went on to explain how if COVID has done anything positive for our society, it’s brought neighbours closer. She told of how her neighbours are meeting up like never before, sending notes, and doing projects together.

Of course, I nodded and agreed with everything she said.

Bonfires are like a balm to the soul. If I’m having a downer of a week, a fire under late autumn skies will lift me up quicker than almost anything.

John Muir said, "The glories of a mountain campfire are far greater than may be guessed."

The bonfire draws you out of yourself. It gets you a little uncomfortable. It forces you to split wood and work to build the foundation of something that will burn and give warmth and pleasure. It gets you into the cold but places you within the warmth of good company. It’s like a magic enchantment for shattering your defenses—you almost feel compelled to share your heart.

“But Tim,” you say, “surely you can’t be seriously admonishing us to go outside, sit in the cold with people we hardly know—or at least know well enough to share the deepest part of ourselves—and strike up random conversations in the hopes that it will brighten our spirits. I mean, doesn’t that sound a bit pedantic—as if you’re making to great of a cerebral point about something so droll as the building of and sitting around burning wood.”

“Ah yes,” I reply. “I say, dear friend, on this occasion I don’t see your point whatsoever. But one thing you do get right, I suppose, is the value of striking up random conversations. Do you remember, when we were children, how talking about everything and anything on deep levels came naturally to us? Don’t you recall how easy it was to befriend another child? It was a simple as asking them if they wanted to be your friend. I do believe the bonfire ring possesses this kind of wonderful magic.”

I think about it often: when did we get so old and stodgy; when did we get so house-bound, unable to sit in the dirt with friends and share the goodness of something like.

If you want to turn the cold months of the COVID year into a blessing for yourself and for others. Build a fire ring in the backyard. Buy one at Lowes. Find some rocks in the woods and make a circle out of them. Gather some wood—you can even buy wood at the grocery store! Grab some kindling, build a fire, and invite your neighbours to sit with you in the cold. And then watch the fire ring do its magic.

Stay stoked my friends!

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If you and I want to contribute to making the world a better place, a more beautiful place, then we must learn to give up our self. This is a requirement of beauty—the kind of beauty we understand and see with the eyes of the heart.

But beauty doesn’t seem to be on the minds of the public right now. It seems like the thing people love to do at the moment is to tell others who to vote for or how much of a bad person they are if they hold to certain views or embrace certain values. We enjoy shouting one another down.

I remember, as a young boy, my dad telling me that the kids who fight the most are the ones most in need of a friend. And I seem to remember some grunge lyric from back in the day saying that the empty can rattles the most.

Our culture sounds like a host of rattling cans.

“But Tim,” you say, “Isn’t it a reduction of the problem to suggest that all we need to do is befriend someone as we did in grade school? I meant aren’t our social problems much deeper and more nuanced than that? We need real systemic change, don’t we? We need to understand cultural tropes and engage with new ideologies and so on and so forth.”

“Ah yes,” I reply. “I did not mean to reduce our social ills to such a simple solution. I mean, far be it from me to suggest that beneath the yelling and the name-calling, beneath the pious virtue signaling is really just a person who needs someone else to give of themselves and be a friend to someone even if they don’t know they need it. You’re right. I suppose that kind of giving up of the self is simply too easy. We should move on.”

But the truth is, friendship is not easy. And the giving up of one’s self is difficult. At the heart of everyone human being is really the desire to be called son or daughter. Welcomed in and loved for who we are right at that moment. Not for what we’ve been or done or for what we might become but for who we are underneath it all.

The world feels so big at moments. Too big most times. How can there be any room for me, my needs, my pain? This is what despair whispers to us.

Happiness, the so-called dream of the west, isn’t the goal of life. We’re just too hurt to admit it. It’s acceptance. It’s being told, “Come in, sit for a while. Tell me your story.”

It’s being told, “You don’t need to run anymore.”

It’s being told, “It’s not your fault.”

It’s being told, “I saw what you did—I’m proud of you.”

Meanwhile, the quiet suffering of the lonely plays on. It forms in our mouths as bitterness and anger and no amount of running away or shouting down brings us any closer to the place we want to be … which is with someone.

Being needed by someone.

Needing someone to listen to us, to hold us up, to bear the burden.

Think about this …

What if our hearts broke for one another?

What if we embraced each other like when a brother or sister returns from war?

What if my shoulder was yours for whatever and whenever? What if your hand was mine when I needed it most?

What if we never let the moment escape—the moment to say, “I love you …” or “I’m there for you …” or “I’ve missed you …” or “I forgive you …”

I remember what forgiveness feels like. It feels like being called, son.

I remember what being missed feels like. It feels like your hand in mine.

I remember what love feels like. It feels like your embrace … an embrace just because.

Well dear friends, here is my promise to you …

I won’t let you forget. That you’re a son. That you’re a daughter. That you don’t need to run. That I’m proud of you. That I need you. That you’re home.

Stay stoked my friends.

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Want to keep up with inspirational posts like this? Consider signing up for my Further Up newsletter (look in the sidebar to the right). Want to know why I call this post “The Saturday Stoke?” Read this.

Don’t Fear Being an Outsider

In our culture, the loudest voices win. At least that’s what we think. And that’s what we’re told.

How are we told? Through the constant rewarding of those who self-promote, who tell the public what we should think, how to live and act, what to believe and who to believe in.

Fall in line, keep the status quo. And, since so many of us desire to be in the ‘in crowd’ we listen.

But there is another way. The way of the outsider.

“But Tim,” you say, “It’s okay to desire acceptance. Surely you’re not suggesting we drift out of the cultural discussion, live as hermits and eschew acceptance by others.

“Ah yes,” I reply. “Indeed, our desire for acceptance is good. But if we feed our desire on the popular and end up changing our true selves in order to be accepted, then I’m afraid we’ve drifted from our intended purpose as created beings. We should always remain ourselves even in the face of pressure to be accepted.”

C.S. Lewis said, “Until you conquer the fear of being an outsider, an outsider you will remain.” Lewis, speaking to undergraduates at King’s College London in 1944 warned the students about the temptation to get on the inside, to be well-liked by the people who seem to "matter most" in society. Lewis himself was considered by some as an outsider in the Oxford world.

Lewis’s exhortation came with marching orders, as it were: stay busy honing your craft, become great in your own fields and care less for what the so-called "Inner Ring" is up to, and care more about your own work and your own friends. 

I reread this little address quite often as a reminder to keep my head down, do "the work" before me, and to surround myself with the people I really like, rather than the people I'm supposed to like.

We all want to be included; we all want to feel appreciated. But you and I can end up sacrificing precious things if we blindly pursue this Inner Ring. Things like:

1. Sound thinking for pop-theology

2. True spiritual affection for cause crusading

3. Our integrity ransomed to gain influence

4. Loving relationships for transactional ones

5. Diverse relationships for relationships with people who only think like us

It's the desire to be included that drives us towards the Inner Ring. And that drive can wreck us. Being an outsider, for Lewis, is a matter of perspective.

Lewis's perspective is, "Hang it all, I'll do my own thing, rather than give up whatever it takes to get in with the Inner Ring.”

Here’s a quick hack for living life as an outsider: realize that God appreciates us. When we realize that we possess a certain glory before him, then the desire to be included with the so-called popular crowd fades.

In front of God all that matters, then, is to get to work, find good friends, and have at it.

When we live like this, we become like another who lived his life as an outsider; a man who, though on the outside of society, created his own Inner Ring. Jesus was the original outsider. 

Lewis reminds us that when we pursue friendship and happiness in this way, we end up creating our own Inner Ring. I’ll close with Lewis’s encouragement:

The quest for the inner ring will break your hearts unless you break it. But if you break it, a surprising result will follow. If in your working hours you make the work your end, you will presently find yourself all unawares inside the only circle in your profession that really matters.

You will be one of the sound craftsmen, and other sound craftsmen will know it. This group of craftsmen will by no means coincide with the Inner Ring or the Important People or the People in the Know.

But it will do those things which that profession exists to do and will in the long run be responsible for all the respect which that profession in fact enjoys and which the speeches and advertisements cannot maintain.

And if in your spare time you consort simply with the people you like, you will again find that you have come unawares to a real inside, that you are indeed sung and safe at the centre of something which, seen from without, would look exactly like an Inner Ring.

But the difference is that its secrecy is accidental, and its exclusiveness a by-product, and no one was led thither by the lure of the esoteric, for it is only four or five people who like one another meeting to do things they like. This is friendship.

Stay stoked my friends.

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A battle rages for your soul. The powers that be vie for your attention and when they seize your attention, they have your eyes, and your eyes are the portals to your heart. They know that if they can flood your attention with sugary sweet images, cliche stories, and the quick-fix that is the train wreck of reality television, they have you.

Every person deals with it. And every person makes a decision: I will either put this into my heart, or I will seek something else, something better for me, something that actually nourishes my soul.

Just like sugary foods and drinks give nothing to our bodies but a desire for more, a lust for the sugar rush, so to does the junk food we consume with our eyes and ears render nothing to our souls. The problem is, we’ve stopped asking questions about the amusements with which we fill our hearts. We’ve stopped considering their long-term affect on our souls.

“But Tim,” you say, “so what if I like to sit back and take a load off and watch something that, well, you know, that is quite mindless. There’s no unwritten rule that says I can’t relax my mind.”

“Ah yes,” I reply, “quite right. And far be it from me to yoke you with guilt. Of course you can relax your body and mind. Indeed, I do this myself. All I’m really saying—and I am more lecturing myself than anyone, here—is to live aware of this battle and to remind all of us, myself included, to fill our hearts with visuals, sounds, and actions that nourish our souls.”

Spiritual malnourishment can creep up on us. We must be vigilant so that we can be people of gentle and humble heart, as C.S. Lewis liked to say.

Here’s a quick hack for nourishing our souls

Flood your life with beauty; your eyes with nourishment that touches your soul. Listen for the transcendent, the lovely, the pure. Don’t use the world’s moment—this pandemic and perceived unrest—to give up on all that is good and true and wonderful to behold.

Read a classic novel. Listen to Bach. Gaze upon a Turner, read Wordsworth out loud with family and friends. Dive into a hard book, take music lessons, learn a new language. Join heaven in the rejoicing, the hallelujah of life of logos of wonder.

Take a walk in the rain, laugh at something silly, tickle your kids, tickle your spouse, dance, sing, wake with the dawn and sing by yourself in the woods, on a field, in your car.

Beauty will indeed save the world. And you and I can live as Beauty’s ambassadors, participating in the holy tapestry God has created and called us to.

Stay stoked, my friends.

What is the stoke, you ask?

Read where the the name comes from, and the intent of these short posts.

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Time never stops moving. It clips off pieces of eternity by the second, minute, hour, day, week. We travel through time. But we cannot go back in time.

Here are three hacks to help us be better time travelers?

First, DON'T STEP ON THE SUNSHINE

“Ah yes,” you say, “I was just thinking about this very thing for some time but didn't want to say anything. But do give your thoughts on why we shouldn’t step on the sunshine.”

“I see,” I reply, “and you wonder why we’re such good friends. Well, dear friend, each morning when we wake up, sunshine lays in the back yard, on the fence posts, and even in our bedrooms. And without thinking about it, you and I dash off, trampling the sunshine without thinking.”

There it is, the day, spread all over our floor. From heaven to our carpet. And, over there, our smartphone sits, dormant on the counter. If we could just get there before we brush our teeth.

But what if we hopscotched the sunshine, bouncing from shadow to shadow, following the rays until we reached the back yard?

And, once there, what if walked the shadows; around the lawn, into the bushes, beneath the trees? All the while roaming the darker pieces of light, chasing the sunshine?

What if we noticed the light coming through and into the trees and grass, spreading among the patio furniture? There, the light moves, even while resting on the boughs of my gum tree.

"That must be what they call wind,” you say, “moving the limbs from shadow to shine. And what’s this? Time, it seems to be moving less quickly.”

"I still have time for another French press, maybe read that passage the pastor talked about yesterday—what was it again?"

We must be close to a black hole or something. The years are passing all around me, but here I am nearly standing still in the shadows.

“But wait, wouldn't this moment last longer if I INSTAGRAM'D it. Yes of course!" you say to yourself.

But no! There we go, dashing off cutting through shadows across the sunshine, warping our time travel continuum!

You see how it works. It's quite obvious, really. Don't step on the sunshine.

Second, DON'T FEED THE SPACE TROLLS!

You know, those demons that strip out the intricacies and uniqueness of everything beautiful, which is quite nearly everything.

It's common knowledge that Space Trolls love to dupe us into thinking more is better, big is better, better is better, mass-produced is better.

They embed annihilation in their tongue whips. They are the time pragmatists. Don't waste it. Use it. Utilize, utilize, utilize. If it takes more time than an Amazon I-Click Buy gesture, it takes too long.

The English poet Gerard Manly Hopkins said these brutes employ "strokes of havoc." Hopkins proposed we tune our lives to the creative energy that binds things together. He called this "intress," the opposite of distress or coinherence—where everything falls apart.

Hopkins said if we see the world as held together by this kind of magic energy from God then we will see a unique pattern in everything.

Some call this ... "WONDER."

And, number three, CHASE THE WINDHOVERS

Hopkins wrote a poem called “The Windhover.” It’s about him catching a glimpse of a kestrel hovering on the wind. The windhover is a metaphor for the wonder-filled moments in your life you miss if you’re too busy.

You know, like when you notice something almost by accident. Like hummingbirds taking turns on some petunias as you wait for your friends at a rest area somewhere along Route 1 up the California coast.

Those crazy little figure-eight-wing-flappers; bobbing and weaving together in some kind of spiritual flight for the sweet honey water just inside that pink flower's petals.

"How beautiful," we whisper.

In Time Travel, the Windhovers are quite nearly angels. Except they're not. They are timeless moments, swept up in rapture; bits and bobs of eternity too easily missed. But when seen. When attended too. They connect us to God. They are the intresses of this nose-to-the-grind world.

Time Travel is dangerous. We need our wits about us. But if we follow these three simple tips, we’ll experience the Eternal in every moment.

Stay stoked my friends.

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If you ever have the chance, do yourself a favor and explore the Four Corners area where New Mexico, Colorado, Utah, and Arizona all meet. It’s the kind of place that feels like God took extra care to create.

In New Mexico, you can drive a hundred miles in any direction, stop the car, and step out into the resounding silence of a mesa desert where the quiet hovers, permeating the entire region.

The Durango silence differs; there, Colorado’s San Juan Mountains rifle up toward the sky, thick with bristle cone pine and aspens. Creeks and rivers knife down and through the mountains, splashing liquid white upon the outdoor canvas.

And then there’s the sound. At 4:00 a.m. on a clear June night, you can see just enough of your surroundings to feel uneasy. All is still, except for the air whistling ever so gently through the pines while the aspen leaves rustle their approval. And when you look up, through the trees, the stars jump out of the darkness like millions of surfacing whales, majestic and fearsome.

Beneath the canopy, you can barely see your campsite. If not for the whale stars, all would be black. As you stand outside your tent, you can hear your heart beating, but just barely. The silence has a rhythm—the cadence of the leaves, the flow of the rushing water, and the crackle of a neighboring fire. These are the sounds of the San Juan silence, and they are wonderfully deafening.

Next, head west, just over the mountains, to Moab, Utah. Grab some java at Mondo Coffee and hit the Porcupine Rim trail on your mountain bike or take a jeep tour of the red desert. Then, continue northwest and spend the night in Bryce Canyon.

In Bryce, another kind of silence awaits, the brilliant kind. Camp near the rim of the canyon if you can. There are plenty of sites. Do your best to wake up well before dawn. Hike over to Sunrise Point and set up your camp chair facing east over the canyon. And wait. If you have coffee, bring it; you may also want your journal.

From this vantage point, you will be able to see more stars than you ever thought possible. They are not the same whale stars from Durango; these are the minions of God — the infinite army of light soldiers, their shields shimmering like a pirate’s treasure. They’re a spectacle so vivid you can decipher them by color and size.

But this is not why you’re sitting here.

As the sun gets closer to the horizon, the stars fade and the canyon begins to wake and the valley stretches out before you. The thin mountain air crystallizes the view.

And then it happens: the first peek of sunlight shouts past the horizon like a growling giant. The canyon explodes with color. The sky bleeds into a rainbow while the canyon dances in shadows and light.

The sound is brilliant, painted with color and majesty and wonder, and a touch of magic.

“But Tim,” you say, “color and majesty, wonder? They don’t produce sounds. Do you expect us to sit here and listen to you pontificate about abstract concepts that supposedly ring the sound of silence? I mean, it’s logically impossible.”

“Ah yes,” I reply. “I do see your point. But can it be that within the vision of beauty you and I experience a kind of silence? That is to say, the weight or fullness silence posseses—especially when discovered in a place of solitude?”

Perhaps what I’m getting at is more along the lines of finding places and opportunities with which to hush ourselves before God so that we can take in the beauty of creation without distractions.

And don’t worry. We don’t need the Four Corners to experience this kind of silence. Just the will to get away for a moment or a morning or an overnight campout, to listen for the sweet breathing of God in the hushed moments of life gives us.

Stay stoked my friends.

Photo by Ken Cheung on Unsplash - Bryce Canyon, Utah

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Potential.

Potential surrounds us.

The day giving way to night, the night filling with sounds and shadows. Every movement of time carries the potential for something else whether it’s sunrise or sunset.

Clouds form, winds gather, and there is potential for a storm.

Our very existence as human beings is defined by this movement of act and potential.

If you think about it this means that the things we see each day, the people we meet, all possess some kind of charge that moves them into time itself. And this makes life feel dynamic, rather than static.

Join with this movement the emotions of human beings, and we are constantly moving in and out of happiness and sadness, love and despair, but always moving.

Think about the movement of light; how it ignites the skies with a kind of luminous dancing.

Think about how when we whisper the word “beautiful” upon the moment, we are witnessing and describing beauty’s movement and we are observing the potential of the day moving from the night.

Potential is movement. And movement defines life.

“But Tim,” you say, “why this goblet-goop philosophical mumbo-jumbo? After all, it is a Saturday and I just want to stir my tea and relax. Can it be that perhaps you’re a bit too excited for nothing really?”

“Ah yes,” I reply, “every now and again, I do wake up and sip my tea while watching the wind move through the trees, and the hummingbirds zoom through the boughs of the beech and oak, and the raindrops puddle up in my driveway, and you are quite right that I do get excited. But it is not for nothing. Because of the potential I see in the gathering clouds and the hummingbirds, I see in you and me. And that my friend, brings me great peace.”

You see, sometimes we need to encourage ourselves because we won’t always have someone in our corner, cheering us on. Indeed, it’s recorded in the book of 1 Samuel that King David encouraged himself in the Lord.

David’s men were upset because they’d lost their families, and they thought about stoning David. No one was there for David in his distress. His own men reviled him. And yet, he looked to God for encouragement.

And this is where the potential in everything comes into play. Days come and go, and despair and joy follow. We find moments of quiet joy but we also encounter times of quiet despair, and it can feel alone. But that’s when I remember to lift my eyes and look to the heavens.

And what do they show me? Potential. The movement of beauty. The steadfastness of a God alive and working in every aspect of my life.

The oaks don’t just sway and the rain doesn’t just fall. It carries a kind of heartbeat. A cadence from heaven. The very mind of the Father.

And when I for a moment, sipping my tea, reflect on this truth. I think of the God who gives me my own breath—in him, I live and breathe and have my being. I am his potential. And that potential is more than enough to carry on. Indeed, it is what pushes me from the grey times to the movement times of morning glory, and lightning bug nights.

I am his potential. I am his work of art. And I am moving in him—moving from one glory to the next.

Take heart! You and I? We carry the potential of heaven. So let’s get moving.

Stay stoked my friends.

"Whoever listens to me will live in safety and be at ease, without fear or harm." (Proverbs 1:33, ESV)

Theologians say the earth was formed from wisdom, from the logos or Word of God. There is in everything we see and hear and taste and experience, the wisdom of God. In the Scriptures, King Solomon urges us to seek the wisdom of God—this life-giving, life-sustaining wisdom.

Wisdom should be a daily pursuit for us. And I don’t mean a pursuit in which we range about on the internet looking for information. The world fills up daily with more information than we can ever hope to know. And much of it comes from suspect sources and will do little to feed your soul.

The wisdom we should pursue, writes Solomon, begins with the fear of God.

“But Tim,” you say, “what does this ‘fear of God’ mean for us? Am I suppose to walk around in my house afraid of God? Is he some distant deity throwing thunderbolts at us humans? Is this the fear King Solomon is speaking of? I mean, why would I want to pursue such a God?”

“Ah yes,” I reply. “This idea of the fear of God can sound a bit odd for us in the modern world. But the idea of fearing God means that we should respect and honor God in reverence and awe. This is also the heart of worship. Such worship cultivates intimacy with the Almighty and we grow in him and in his wisdom.”

We find this same idea of the fear of God strewn all about the Scriptures: several times in the book of Proverbs (9:10; 15:33) and in the Psalms (110:10) and the book of Job (28:28)

The pursuit of wisdom looks like cultivating your relationship with God.

I used to think wisdom was life's secret sauce, and that only the really smart people were wise. I also used to buy into the false notion that wisdom is attained only through experience; we try, we fail, we wise-up.

I still think wisdom is life's secret sauce, but that other stuff? Well, it’s complete rubbish. Wisdom is available to all who pursue and ask for it. Because wisdom is God himself. In fact, for the ancient peoples, the proverbs were often taught early in life, in schools, and in the home. The saucey tangy-ness of wisdom is there for us all, young and old alike, so let's go after it.

Here’s a quick hack for attaining some of this tangy-ness:

Seek practical know-how, chase virtue and live in obedience.

Know-how (1:2 - “… to know wisdom and instruction, to understand words of insight.”

In Proverbs chapter 1 verse 2, Wisdom means practical and clever—like good ole fashioned "know-how." Why are we reading Proverbs? To gain know-how, practical knowledge of life so we can navigate it better. The word "discipline" reminds us that getting wisdom requires surrender, rigour, and persistence.

The wise live life like Michael Jordan practiced basketball: with daily tenacity. They're given to the task of "getting wisdom."

In our instant world of blogs, news feeds, and tweets, we perhaps read more, but comprehend less. Proverbs help us gain "understanding," which requires a certain level of depth. We must analyze, dig deep, read between the lines, spend time reflecting on the Proverbs in order to "get wisdom."

Virtue (1:3 - “ …to receive instruction in wise dealing, in righteousness, justice, and equity …”)

Prudence marks the wise. The practical person must also be a moral person. In the Proverbs the word "fool" can carry a moral element. A fool is morally deficient; someone who doesn't have a moral compass—they're prone to evil. The wise, on the other hand, are morally submitted to The Way of God.

Obedience (1:4 - “ … to give prudence to the simple, knowledge and discretion to the youth.”

When we give knowledge and discretion to the young, we impart our own knowledge of God to them. Knowledge here refers less to our "personal experience" with God and more to our obedience to God. We can't teach virtuous know-how to the young unless we ourselves live in obedience to God, to his ways, his ethics, his desires.

Let's model wisdom rather than foolishness to our kids. Put another way, let's model a fair and practical way of life, one that chases after God, submits to God's desires, one that never stops growing, one that sees room for growth, rather than a life marked by the morally questionable, the morally lost. One that does not accept or live by the information overload in the world.

Use the discernment and wisdom given to you by God. Fear him and walk the line of virtue.

And remember, stay stoked my friends.

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We live in a time in which cultural pressures make it hard to know when to speak up and when to be quiet.

Sadly, social media and other channels of the world wide web make it all too easy for anyone to say anything. You do not need to be kind or patient, you do not need to possess knowledge of the topic on which you speak, you do not need to care for another person’s feelings or career and you do not need to express the dignity of humanity that we all of us possess.

You just need to fire up your phone, tap some nonsense with your thumbs, and press send.

But this is not not true for all people. Many remain silent because they are afraid to share a dissenting view or another perspective. They fear they will be delegitimized by someone on Facebook. It feels like the happy middle does not exist anymore. That place of openness where people can discuss their views without the harsh judgement of being cancelled as a friend or colleague or fired from their job.

“But Tim,” you say, “this is simply the way of it in our culture. It is best, especially for the Christian to keep quiet, like Peter said, and go about their work—don’t rock the boat as it were. You know, pursue peace by keeping our mouths shut. After all this world is not our home.”

“Ah yes,” I reply, “quite right. Indeed, this world is not our home. But dare I say we should not forget that although as good old Jack says, we were made for a different place, we must still inhabit these lands and act as ambassadors for our our true home. And the work of an ambassador demands the use of our mouths and hearts and souls. We must live here for quite some time before we head off for glory. And so it seems that we should work for the prosperity of this realm, as Jeremiah reminds us, and to let our faith be known not only by our hard work, but by our actual words.”

Here’s a quick hack for how to talk with your words in our culture: humility.

But here’s the catch. Do not mistake humility for passivity. Humility begins as a posture toward God. It does not close our mouths. Instead, it guides our words. It does not silence us. Rather, it enables us to choose our words with wisdom.

Humility is a gaze beyond our own selves—one resting upon God. It sees God and worships him in wisdom and in truth.

Humility manifests in serving others.

Humility combines with meekness in that allows a person to be guided by God, not by selfish ambition.

Richard Foster reminds us that humility “does not mean groveling or finding the worst possible things to say about ourselves.” He says that humility means living “as close to the truth as possible: the truth about ourselves, the truth about others, the truth about the world in which we live.”

When I think about pursuing the humble life in this world, I think it looks like living in such a way as to bring heaven-culture into our own bent culture.

The humble person finds the strength to stand in silence before the judging crowds, like Jesus before Pilate and the throngs shouting for his execution.

The humble person finds the wisdom to speak with conviction and clarity about the truth of the Gospel before critical crowds who desire nothing else but to mock God and live for themselves, like Paul did at the Areopagus.

The humble person finds the courage to see God’s glory upon the mountain shrouded with storm cloud and fire, like Moses did at Sinai.

I can only guess what Moses felt like on his approach to the holy mountain: afraid, anxious, excited. But remember the wonder and beauty Moses encountered, and the boldness it gave him to lead the people of Israel with the rules for heaven culture.

God wants us to live humbly in this world. But he also wants our humility to lead us to the mountain so that we can sit in his presence and then give our Sinai experience to the world with courage and steadfastness.

I’ll see you on the mountain.

Stay stoked my friends.

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Sitting with friends we heard them. Out there in the night, amid the terrible and beautiful sounds of a pounding summer storm cell passing through the piedmont.

“Storms are strange here,” my friend Jo lines to say. “It will flood in one area while another remains untouched.”

But not so on this night. I know as much because Jo had texted my wife and me about the storm and mentioned that her husband was driving in it. And there we sat, mid the flashing sky, dark, then lightning white, and thunder peeling off in the distance like a Titan shredding oak trees.

The wind pushed the treetops into a fury.

Clack, then clack-boom!

The woods felt alive out behind our house.

And as we talked quietly about the state of our union and the state of our souls, we heard it: Ow-ooooooo!

Over and over. One calling to another. One scout, followed by the pack, they carried on behind our house near the creek.

They chased their prey on the tumult of wind and crashing sky—ranging along the creek plain, and on the single track trail, I walk with the girls. For us, the trail represents a family hike in the dappled afternoon wood-shaded sunshine. For them, a heated chase for survival. A chase to kill and to eat.

They cried out as the thunder clapped, hollering like teenagers in a frenzy.

And then, they were gone. Shadows in the storm.

We all of us walk the storm-laden path. Some days it’s dappled with the sunlight of hope. The next, it’s overwhelmed with the darkness of a mid-summer storm.

And our natural inclination is to keep an eye out for dangerous beasts along the way. The bobcats and coyotes that linger along life’s path. We walk as aliens in a wood that is not our home.

But as true as that might be, for we are none of us wild animals, do we miss something of the soul of the woods when we view ourselves as visitors and not citizens of the wild-ness all around us?

“But Tim,” you say, “are you suggesting some modern form of paganism? I mean, aren’t we bombarded enough with gnostic ideas about the world and God and life.”

“Ah yes,” I reply, “I do beg you pardon, but this is not some strange progressive Christian pantheism I speak of. Think of it more like a listening heart for the soul of Creation. There, now. How does that sound?”

The storm-laden path we like to call life feels insecure when we walk in the fear of beasts.

But what if we adopted the heart of the creek-ranging coyotes? What if we roamed the dark woods of the stormy night unafraid of the cracking air and vein-streaked thunderheads above?

I am trying to teach my daughters the beauty of storms. The elegance of the wilds. The holiness of creation. I’m not teaching them naive disregard for danger. But a courage that produces a kind of fearlessness. I want them to walk unafraid in these lands, both wooded and of the soul. It’s a type of courage that when seen by outsiders looks like fearlessness. But in reality, it’s a quiet confidence—a knowledge and respect of the wood and storm and beasts.

Be strong and courageous, the saying goes. Given to us by God himself to his beloved Joshua. Joshua, who knew the God of the mountain because he was with Moses in the tent of meeting. And yet he still needed reminding by the God of the thunder mountain.

The fear of God is the beginning of wisdom. And I am beginning to understand. And that understanding, I hope to pass along to my girls.

This is the courage that looks like fearlessness. But in reality, it is a holy reverence for the Maker of the Wilds, the holder of the storms, the Creator of the path.

So let us walk in the storms. Let us walk along the fear-laden paths of the dark woods. And let us give it our best howl. For the coyotes are close. And they will show us the way.

Stay stoked my friends.

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During term time for our girls, once a week they pack in the old rover with their mom and head off to their Classical Conversations co-op. The fun and frantic morning fills up with feet running up and down stairs, with lunches being made, with arguments and laughter and finally kisses and good-byes.

I like to walk them out to the garage and kiss them and hug them multiple times.

And my favorite thing to say to them is, “I love you my sweet love. Remember, do your best work as unto the Lord.”

I invariably get their sweet eyes turned up towards my chin, and a lovely grin spreading across their cheeks when I say this. And I always say it. They’re ready for it. Sometimes, I will forget to say it to them individually, and will say it tot he rover as they are backing out with the windows down. And they wave and finish the sentence for me.

“Yes daddy … as unto the Lord!”

And I also like to invade their little school sessions during the week upstairs. I’ll walk up the stairs and peep around the corner and find one them doing some work in a journal or practicing piano or painting or doing math.

I like to come up behind them, and wrap my arms around them and remind them, “as unto the Lord.” I can sense their love for this notion. They, as children often do, inherently “get it.” They understand that God watches them and delights in their work. He delights to see them use their gifts and abilities for him, their heavenly Father.

And incidentally, they love reminding me how I’m the second best father in the world. Runner up to God. Well, I’ll take it. When the girls move through their day with a focus that comes to them straight from heaven, they glow with it’s aura. The Apostle Paul like to remind the early church folks to keep their eyes and hearts focused on heaven.

I find it interesting that when we focus on the eternal, it makes the finite echo with a most uncommon beauty. When we do our work as unto the Lord, every potential distraction dims.

In his wonderful short essay, “Learning During Wartime,” C.S. Lewis says, “Happy work is best done by the man who takes his long-term plans somewhat lightly and works from moment to moment. It is only our daily bread that we are encouraged to ask for. The present is the only time in which any duty can be done or any grace received.”

I know it’s easy to lose sight of the glory of our moment to moment-ness in this life. So much can frustrate and distract us. A pandemic, riots, the growing unrest in our nation. But it doesn’t need to be this way.

I don’t ever want my girls to get caught up in this very popular and rather unfortunate business of calling our moment-to-momentness the “mundane.” Instead, I want them to see their work done right here and now as glory-laden. Whether it’s Latin translation, or history, whether it’s cleaning the table or staining the deck. When done unto the Lord, our moment-to-moments glisten with a heavenly residue.

When I find myself down in the dumps or feeling anxious or frustrated or distracted by calamity, I get to work at something. I do the work right in front of me. I paint, I write, I mow the lawn, I clean the house.

And when I do, I find heaven waiting for me.

As unto the Lord!

Stay stoked my friends.

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Thoreau said, “All good things are wild and free.” His now-famous statement comes at the end of a rather lengthy but well-wrought and important essay on the value of “Nature,” walking, and wildness.

In the essay, Thoreau notices how all great founders of nations and empires did so after being weened on wilderness. Romulus and Remus, the mythical founders of Rome, for example, were suckled and reared by a wolf. And ironically that great empire fell at the hands of other children of the wolf—the northern barbarians. Why did Rome fall? Because the children of the wolf-brothers became fat and sophisticated and soft—they traded their wolf-ness for the tameness of “proper” society.

I wonder too if we, as Christians and the Church, haven’t lost our own wolf-ness. And by wolf-ness I mean our innate wildness. Think for a moment about how we view the wilderness in today’s world of luxury. We understand wilderness in this way: the wilderness we see and experience is rugged yet beautiful; remote yet accessible; dangerous yet Instagram-worthy. We can visit the wilderness when we want to, keeping it at arm’s length. Wilderness in today’s world has almost become a commodity; something we control, something used for branding, something we consume rather than experience in deep ways that speak to and minister to our spirits.

But the idea of wilderness takes different forms and expresses varied meanings. We need only turn to the Scriptures to find another kind of wilderness.

In the Bible, wilderness can take on negative hues; it’s a place of evil, it is uninhabitable, fraught with danger and demons, a place of chaos, a place devoid of beauty.

But wilderness in the Bible is also, paradoxically, a place of refuge, deliverance and preparation.

I think of Jesus, who often retreated to the wilderness to seek the will of his Father. I recall how, after he shouted into death and brought Lazarus back to life, he retreated to the wilderness area with his disciples and stayed away from the Jews until he was ready to return to Jerusalem to meet his fate.

Have you ever thought about what Jesus was doing during those days before he returned to Bethany? Did he struggle in the nights with fervent prayer, knowing the path that lay before him? Did he try to spend just a few more carefree evenings by the fire with his brothers, talking about his “kingdom” and the place his father was preparing?

Did he walk into the wilderness where angels met him to minister to him? Did he and John, the disciple he loved, peel off from the group for a heart to heart talk—the kind intimate friends have before one of them must endure something hard, like a surgery, or months away from family, or going off to war?

Perhaps for Jesus, wilderness represented that place of utter dependence upon his Father. There, he found spiritual sustenance even in a place of desolation. Remember, it was Elijah who wandered off into the wilderness and made an eight day journey into a pilgrimage of forty days and forty nights, all the while completely reliant upon food from heaven. It was the angel of the Lord who fed him this food, sustaining him.

There, he remained, abiding in the awe of heaven. Remember it was Moses who met God on Mt. Sinai, not once but twice, both times for forty days and forty nights. And in that time, he abided in the cloud of God’s glory and radiance. And remember, it was this radiance that he took with him, back to the Israelites. They feared the radiance, didn’t understand it. But it gave Moses life itself and changed him.

In the epoch of COVID-19, with long stretches of wilderness-feeling time now experienced, with more on the horizon, what can we learn from the biblical image of wilderness? How can we join this view with our Enlightenment-infused perspective of wilderness as a commodity?

The Christian Church has a long history with wilderness. Our forebears wandered there, our Savior was tempted but also refreshed there, and God appeared to his prophets there.

Due to COVID-19, we find ourselves in a time of wilderness. And so many of us are not comfortable. We feel unsettled in the isolation. We thirst for the normalcy of speed and pace and bustle. We feed ourselves by bingeing the nights away. We gorge ourselves on whatever is simple and easy. Why?

Because we’ve lost the ability to rest and retreat. We’ve lost the grit needed to spend days in isolation from society. We’re not content with a walk in the woods. We’ve not trained ourselves in the childlike art of marvelling at the simple wonders of the world—like the full moon in the late evening, or Venus striding the western heavens, or the noble blue bird dipping and diving up and over branches to her little ones.

John Muir, the famous naturalist philosopher said, “The mountains are fountains of men as well as of rivers, of glaciers, of fertile soil. The great poets, philosophers, prophets, able men whose thoughts and deeds have moved the world, have come down from the mountains – mountain dwellers who have grown strong there with the forest trees in Nature’s workshops.”

We should seek out the workshop of the wilderness, and learn and grow.

But sometimes the metaphorical wilderness finds us in this life at inopportune times. Instead, they come unexpectedly. Other times, we’re driven into them. But no matter how we find ourselves caught in the wilderness, we must learn to embrace it, to learn from it, and to allow God to teach us the hard things of faith like: the giving up of self, the letting go of material things, the thirst for holy fire, the simple rugged beauty of a starry night, the time of days passing with us, not in control of anything.

Friends, the journey before us calls for a new mindset.

One not beset with all that we can’t do. But one with eyes to the horizon.

This journey calls for the wild woman, the wild man, to take up dreams and see them through. To run with the horses across the plains in untamed holy ambition. We need to forge new paths. Wild paths that demand a strength not of our own. Paths that require our reliance upon a wild God, an untamed God, a good God.

Feed your soul today with the light of life, like Moses did as he stood in the awful wonderful presence of God. And give your dreams their due diligence. For we may stay low for some time, but remember, we rise on eagle’s wings, for ours is the wild beyond.

Stay stoked my friends.

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Today I want us to take a few minutes to think about the power of words. How do we use them? What good are they?

But even more than words, I want us to think about where we find words.

We find words on a page. Before the internet—yes, I know, can we even think that far back to the dark ages?—the almighty page ruled. People read real books they held in their hands. I feel like I have to tell my twelve-year-old daughter, Lyric, that there actually was a time in the not so distant past in which Instagram and iPhones did not exist. And it was a beautiful world!

But I digress. So, words on a page. The time before the internet. Real books.

Now let’s go one step further. When you break down a book, you get a bunch of pages glued together between two hardy pieces of cardboard: a hardbound book. Before a writer makes her mark on the page, the page is bare.

The empty page. For some people, an empty page is hell on earth. They can’t stand it. The empty page intimidates because it’s on you, the writer, to make the mark on the page. And please, let it be good. Let it be compelling, right?

The almighty page! Full of death or possibility. Which will it be?

Writers have been filling empty pages for a long time. Have you ever thought about what makes the act of writing words down on paper that is powerful? We’ve been doing it now for millennia.

Before books, scribes wrote on scrolls made from the hide of an animal. Then scrolls made out of paper. Some experts ascribe the explosion of the codex, which is the Roman word for “book,” to the early church writers. The codex, unlike scrolls, was convenient to travel with. Think about it, you could just throw your codex in your pack and off you went, able to record your daily life in a kind of early travelers journal.

Can you see Jesus’ band of vagabond travelers sitting at night by the fire discussing what Jesus taught that day, and taking notes, writing out the dialog in their traveler’s journal?

C.S. Lewis considered the invention and perfection of the codex as one of the chief accomplishments of the Dark Ages, almost as important as the printing press itself.

Printing was developed in China in the third century using woodblocks. And the technology was developed into movable type in the early eleventh century.

Then a goldsmith named Johannes Gutenberg developed the printing press around 1440. It was the Renaissance that brought about the age of mass communication.

And then Al Gore created the internet and we all know the rest is ancient history—literally.

Think about how far we’ve come since the printing press. Now we print with the click of a button and the message is sent around the globe in mere seconds!   

Writers in today’s world possess the amazing potential to have their messages magnified to incalculable audiences. Think of the responsibility! And yet, how easily and frequently writers abuse this responsibility and privilege.

Today words are typed on screens and sent like lightning into the ether. And sadly, we’re quicker to write and publish than we are to think and consider. We’ve cheapened words, and choked the page. We use both for our own selfish purposes.

What does a page containing words do—what do we use it for? Since history could be chronicled, we have used words on pages to tell stories, make peace, incite war, announce a feast or festival or wedding. Leaders have used words on the page for selfish reasons, to propagandize and coerce, to inspire, to tell the truth, to tell lies, to manipulate, to encourage.

In our day, truth with a capital “T” finds itself under assault due to the abuse of lies on the page. Some seek to retell history through the use of the page, still others seek to inspire with the hope of something not of this world. Sure, it’s not necessarily a real page anymore—now, it’s a glowing rectangle in your hand. But every person now possesses the ability to fill the empty page with words.

What about you? What if I handed you a piece of paper. Nothing on it, just the white from the page ... what would you write. 

“But Tim,” you say. “I am no writer. I can’t stand looking at a blank page. It makes me feel uneasy. It stresses me out. You get what I’m saying, right?”

“Ah yes,” I reply. “The blank page does possess a certain intimidating power, as I’ve said—quite right. But what if we flipped the stress on its head and looked at it from a different angle. What if instead of pressure we saw possibility?

What if I told you that you and I were given a new piece of paper each day? And that each day affords us the opportunity to write the lines of our lives upon it.

Imagine it. Each day you have the chance to write your own chronicle, and tell the world the story of your life. What story would you tell? What story are telling?

I want you to do something for me. Grab an old journal or legal pad and rip out a blank page. Or go snag a piece of printing paper from your office.  Set it before you and stare at it for a minute. And then, before you begin shaking from a panic attack, remind yourself of this truth: 

Today starts brand new. Like this page it contains no lines. But it waits for ME, not anyone else, to fill it up with all that I will think about today and all that I will do.

And what’s more, I hold infinite possibility in my hands. I hold the full potential of hope.

What will my chronicle say. What story will the world read?

And if viewing each day as possessing infinite possibility wasn’t enough, think about our Editor-in-Chief, our foremost poet, our Nobel Prize-Winning writer of all life, God himself. Ages ago he stared at a blank page and penned the masterpiece of the cosmos. His thesis? Love. His supporting cast of characters? You and me.

He filled the page and is still filling the page with the power of our lives—the ones we live each day. And each day he presents you and I with a new page of our own. And says to us,

“Go, write something extraordinary with your life. Forget about yesterday’s mishaps, forget that you messed up at work. Forget that you blew it with your kids,” he says. “Forget that you botched that project at work. Forget that you got looked over for the promotion.

“Today you get another page. And, like my love, it’s new every morning. And it’s new for you—not for anyone else, just you. Like a blank page, my love possesses the hope of all that could be. And like my love, your life possesses the hope of all that could be. Now, get out there and write your adventure and change the world.

Stay stoked my friends.

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“I don’t want to forget what I love when I get older.”

That’s what my daughter, Brielle—who is ten years old—said to me the other day. She observed how grown-ups, as she called them, stop doing the things they love to do.

“Why do they do that, Daddy?” she asked. And it’s a good question.

Why do adults stop singing and playing? Why do adults stop using their imaginations? Why do they stop listening to music?

I remember years ago a friend of mine, who was a mentor of sorts, told me that he couldn’t remember when it happened, but he had stopped listening to music—the kind he grew up listening to.

“Tim,” he said, “I don’t listen to music now. Ever.”

I was stunned. And I vowed right then and there that was never going to happen to me.

I told Brielle that it was because adults start to listen to the cranky voices of the world that whisper lies to them about what it means to grow up and what is expected of you as a quote-unquote older person.

But this theme of adults fading away and becoming very unlike children—yea, unlike humans at all—continued at dinner.

All three girls debated the behaviour of their friends and some new kids they were playing with that day. They struggled to find common ground in their “game”—which is their word for playing pretend in the woods with forts and clans and rules and a whole sub-world. You know, really fun stuff we all wish we were still doing.

When they asked my advice, I told them to take care to learn how to empathize with people and to observe how they resolved their issues because many of the problems they’re encountering now, don’t change or go away when they get older.

“When you get older,” I said, “you will argue, debate and even fight with your friends and your not-quite-friends over the same basic things: acceptance, popularity, being excluded, hurting someone’s feelings, and on and on.

“But the difference,” I said, “is that grown-ups stop talking to each other. When one gets offended, they will more likely hold a grudge or just stop talking to you than seek to work things out right there on the spot. And if things get really debased, they’ll post something about you on social media.

The girls did not understand this. They did not understand why adults, having a quote- unquote-grown up, would not have figured out how to be good friends to one another and not fight and be kind and accepting.

“Why do adults not care about each other,” they asked.

I didn’t have a good answer. But I gave it a shot.

“Adults,” I replied, “just like kids, want to be accepted. They want to feel “cool,” and they want others to care for their feelings. But something sad happens when you age. You lose that kid-power that allows you to not hear that voice of fear that keeps you from confrontation.

“When you’re a kid, there’s a beauty and simplicity to fighting and getting over it. But when you’re an adult, new invisible rules apply to relationships. And these rules are founded upon selfishness, fear, and pride.

“So,” I said to them, “if you can figure this stuff out now, and be aware of how you work things out and how deeply you care for others as well how badly you want others to care for you, then you’ll be ahead of the game when you get older.”

They nodded their heads in silence, finished their peas and rice, and dashed off for the woods with new hope for their most precious friendships.

“But Tim,” you say, “are you suggesting we all remain as little children, wearing our hearts on our sleeves, and fighting through our problems so that we can get back to playing in the woods?”

“Ah yes,” I reply. “That’s precisely what I’m saying.”

Stay stoked my friends.