One of the impulses of all art is to give a name to the cosmos we see despite all the chaos (A Light So Lovely: The Spiritual Legacy of Madeleine L’Engle, Sarah Arthur)

I came across a descriptive the other day of what it looks like to navigate the 40’s (not the decade, but the age), This individual suggested that one of the most bizarre tendencies of this stated “phase” of life is the way the years start to officially blend together. Ultimately marked by the inevitable feeling that one is officially creeping past that point of no return, where there are, taking in the average lifespan, less potential years ahead than years left behind.

Thus one of the continued and persistent mantras of our engagement with the 40’s becomes simply this- I don’t know where I am precisely (it could be 43, or it might be 48), I just know that I’m not yet 50.

And oh how we cling to that mantra as though our life depends on it.

And lest someone think I’m being overly dire or negative, perusing the comments in response to this individual revealed a kind of irreverent sense of humorous affinity to this basic observation. In a “it’s funny because it’s true” kind of way. Which of course most of life seems to be.

10 years ago I started this blog as a place to flesh out my anxiety over approaching 40. I have vivid memories still of my struggle over this milestone. It was bad. If I could categorize it in this way; it felt like I was entering into unfamliar territory. In other words, it felt like I was utterly and completely lost and that the whole world was caving in on me all at once. I did not know what it looked like or felt llike to actually occupy that inevitable transition into a decade which would gradually bring me in to the second half of life. Now being in my 49th year, it’s a different kind of struggle. My feet are firmly planted in the soil of the second half of life. For the first time in my life I found myself sitting down at the bank and renewing our mortgage with an end in sight. I’ve made a job transition that, save for unforeseen cirucmstances or things going badly, qualifies as my path to retirement. Likely the last true transition I will face of its kind.

Turning 50, in definition, is not so much treading through unfamiliar soil as it is reinforcing the gradual march through the all too familiar terrain of the past 50 years with an emphasize on bookmarking. I am here. There is no going back. There is no holding on.

Seems timely and fitting then that this past year has been reinforcing the investment I’ve been making in my 40’s towards working through my life story. Trying to capture a sense of its narrative. Figuring out where all those memories have brought me. Where they have left me.

Where all the stories of my life, to borrow from the name I gave this blogspace, which I have long insisted point to the stories that have inspired and formed me through either art or encounters, come together with some sense of coherency.

These thoughts have been on my mind this month as I have been struggling to bear the weight of these latest certain transitions. They’ve been perculating this morning as I started a new book navigating the spiritual legacy of Madelein L’Engle called A Light So Lovely. A pivotal part of the stories of my own life given the way she inspired the wonder of my childhood imagination all those years ago. In the opening pages it becomes clear that this is not so much an attempt to lobby an outside perspective of who this person was, but rather to mine the memories for a sense of what framed her own sense of inspiration.

Which of course brings one to her art. And not just her art, but her convictions regarding the power of art to make sense of this world we all occupy together. I love how the above quote puts it: naming the cosmos despite the chaos. That resonates with one of the growing convictions that has gradually settled for me over this past decade, which is simply this- if we cannot name Death as that which opposes Life, we cannot name Life.

This growing conviction is compelled by my obvservation and experience of this world, and I have become more and more convinced that this basic truth is found in all places in all times in all the worlds stories, to borrow a phrasing from perhaps the most vocal adherent of this basic idea, J.R.R. Tolkien. There is a reason why the Lord of the Rings remains one of the most universasl and timeless and iconic stories ever written. It names Death, and thus frees us and liberates us to name Life, even if we don’t recognize it.

There is another truism that goes along with this: as I have become more and more vocal about this basic conviction, it has arguably led to some of the greatest resistance and pushback that I have ever faced in my 49 years of living. Something about naming Death as being antithetical to Life raises the defences. Which I find fascinating, as all indications seem to be that such a truism is intutiive to any act of living. So why do we fight against it? Why do we insist on romanticizing Death? Even spiritualizing it? Why do we insist on normalizing cycles of decay even as we spend our lives fighting its symptoms (sickness, suffering, opppression, violence, disorder)?

Perhaps, as L’Engle suggests, it’s because the chaos is what we know. Thus to name Death in opposition is to somehow take Life down with it. Perhaps it is because naming Death forces us to have to reconcile some sense of placing responsiblity for the “state” of things somehwere, and that makes us uncomfortable. Far better to ignore the problem of evil than have to attend for it on logical grounds.

Whatever it is, for me, I have settled in to this space where, despite the many questions that remain, I know this one thing to be true: if I cannot name Death in opposition to Life, I cannot name Life. And if I cannot name Life, I cannot name the symptoms of Death, be it suffering, oppression, violence decay, disorder. Without this basic truism the cosmos, for me, ceases to make logical sense.

In assessing L’Engle’s own spiritual legacy, author Sarah Arthur notes some of the inspirations that guided her own ability to occupy space between the chaos and the cosmos. One such note expresses an innate desire to “dig where it disturbs you, and see what God is doing.” After all, if we believe God is at work in all places, this should be our expectation regardless of our doubts and struggles.

And one of the most important tools we have available in doing this digging- we need someone “who can take our idols and smash them.” And what are idols but that which names this cosmos according to the lie that Death weaves. Idolatry is one of the biggest themes we find in the scriptures, and one of the most striking things about this image is precisely the way that idols image something that stands contrary to the Truth. In this way Death is not reducible to the modern conception of non-existance. Death in the ancient sense is an agency. A kind of Reality that stands in oppostion to the reality of God. It embodies disorder. It is the grounds of all suffering and oppression. It enslaves by binding us to a narrative that turns the chaos into a means of making ourselves into gods.

Only, when this happens we lose sight of our true image. Our true name. And as L’Engle’s own convictions led her to conclude, if your name isn’t known then it is a very lonely feeling (A Wind in the Door). Indeed, it becomes a very lonely world.

This sits at the heart of the spiritual quest, awakening us to the Truth that we have indeed been named according to Life, not Death. Naming is how we are known and seen in the world, not only by people but by the God who knows us. To be able to name Life is to be able to name God. And indeed, to name God is to find Life itself naming our own story as participants in the cosmos.

As I begin the slow march towards no longer being able to say “not yet 50,” I find comfort in this simple truth. I can name the cosmos despite all the chaos. And somewhere in that mix lies my own story acting in its own way in opposition to the chaos. Rather than my 40’s being the beginning of the end of a life lived in the necessary shadows of Death, it is a chance to make sense of why the cosmos awakens me to a different kind of Reality. To why that inherent need to name the cosmos sets our narratives in oppostion to the chaos. And in this, find my narrative in that mix.

There seems to be a common theme emerging for me this summer through conversations with people and with the things I am reading. Certainly some of it connects to the present state of politcs between Canada and America. The concerted movement to “reinvest” in Canada feels reminiscent of the Covid years where the shutdown was initially demonstrated as a bit of a strange novelty and perhaps even emraced with a tint of romance and aspiration (which is, of course, not noted at the expense of the real world tragedy of the virus). The present political landscape is drawing out different forms of social pressures and demands based on particular concerns and targeted responses. Part of the result, which is fascinating to parse through, has been a noted reclamation of the flag which, as one article I read put it, had been seen to be coopted during the pandemic by a certain faction of the political right. For some, which is a demonstrable statistic given the real world impact this response has had on both sides of the border, this present political state has been a wake up call and an attempt to recover that notoriously difficult question of what it means to be a Canadian.

Part of this discussion has of course spilled out into the question of people’s travels as well. The “buy Canadian” movement has trnaslated to an intentional commitment to avoid travel to the U.S.. This has inadvertently led to an increased sense of publicizing people’s travels to places not the U.S., be it in Canada or otherwise.

That’s where the book by Benjamin Valentin titled Touched By This Place: Theology, Community, and the Power of Place comes into the picture for me. It caps off a rich summer of reading filled with books wrestling with our relationship to home, be it Patti Henry’s The Story She Left Behind, a book that explores this mysterious connection between our main character’s life in America and an unknown history contained along England’s rural landscape. Or David Sodergren’s Summer of Monsters and Mary Lawson’s Crow Lake, two stories about struggling persona’s trying to reconcile the present state of their lives with the history that made them, both finding it rooted in their connection to the places they called home growing up. The Homemade God by Rachel Joyce, a book about the ways the interconnected characters of this estranged family have been shaped by the space that holds their histories (and their history) in its memory. Best of All Worlds by Kenneth Oppel, set in a dystopian future where the space is familiar but the place is not.

Destiny’s Past about an unknown connection to a place yet unknown that inspires a young woman to go on a journey to find herself across time. George Macdonalds Phantastes, about a felt home one knows but cannot see and seeks to find. Mark Allington’s Boogie Up the River about a journey to seek the meaning of the space (the Thames River) that has informed his life. Similar to Farley Mowat’s The Boat Who Wouldn’t Float and his journey up the coast of Newfoundland. Or Jerome K’s classic Three Men in a Boat, following their own journey up the Thames.

Or perhaps the non-fiction, be it The Golden Road, a book about a place (India) that transformed the world. Come Forth, a book about the power of a place to transform a life (Lazarus’ tomb). Ben Judah’s This is Europe, exploring how people are shaped by their sense of place. The First Ghosts, exploring the phenomena of spirits from an objective point of view in relationship to the places that appear to give these encounteres definition.

At one point Valentin cites Edward Said in his own attempts to explore this concept of place.

Is the beginning of a given work its real beginning, or is there some other secret point that more authentically starts the work off? (Edward Said)

This citation is meant to capture how who and what we are, and in this case what we do and create, is anchored to the spaces that shape us. He goes on to tie this to T.S. Elliot’s Little Gidding.

We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.

This then becomes a window into how it is we discover this place. To know a place truly is to know the ways it has shaped us. Thus we cannot know either apart from this necessary relationship. We need the journey of exploration that life represents to truly know both.

I’ve been thinking about this idea a lot over this past week. For me this isn’t so much about the question of what is Canada, although this is part of who I am. It’s about the question of where the different facets of who I am come from.

For example, I was having a conversation with a relative the other day who was commenting on the public onslaught of people on vacation and declaring their vacation plans and obsessing over travel. As someone who, to quote “has never been anywhere” beyond the two places they call home- where they presently live and where they grew up, they called the need to travel an “addiction,” and suggested that they “have no need or desire to go anywhere.” After all, when they can walk out of their front door and be at the riverfront, and when they can walk out of their cabin door and be at the lakefront, what’s the point of doing the same thing somewhere else.

This got me thinking about our different upbringings. They grew up in a place where people did not go anywhere (the GTA). In fact, my whole family except for us (my immediate family) did. I was born in Winnipeg. If the thought of travelling more than 3 hours was foreign to my Toronto kinfolk, in Winnipeg it was nothing to pick up and make a quick weekend out of a trip to Minneapolis 6 and a half hours away. This was commonplace when the next nearest Canadian center of significance was 14 hours away (sorry Regina). It’s just what we did. To be formed by Winnipeg was to be a traveller, even when it came to annual trips to the GTA over summer or Christmas growing up.

This relative moved to Winnipeg later in life, but retained the formation of his own sense of place back home. Which gives me a decent case study into how it is that we are products of where we are. As Valentin puts it, we are shaped by the places we inhabit through their “multidimensionality.” Places are nade up of both “physical realities and drenched in cultural meaning.” (p107) Thus, “Places gather human and non-human materialities….( becoming) potent epistemic catalysts (and) influencing all our ways of knowing.” (p108) Or epistemic agency of place, as it is described later.

Even further, he notes that the places in which we dwell and through which we move contribute something to the knowledge and truth claims we make. Knowledge doesn’t just emerge from the mind or “biological brain.” Knowledge is never just information. Knowledge is “in the world” as an act of contextualization, anazlyzed through the different facets of reality, be it historical, sociological, cultural and material.

Places are embedded in memory and as a practice of memory. Meaning, to return to a place is to be reminded both of what it is and therefore who we are in relationship to it. It is to know it as truth.

And this doesn’t just connect to where we live. It connects to places we visit, places we occupy for brief moments. Our memories are attached to the whole collection of spaces/places that make up the scope of our lives.

To drive by our first home is to occupy that space where my wife and I navigated the early years of our marriage. There I can see the intersection of so many different aspects of our lives, be it our decision to move into a cheap north end home while everyone else we knew was navigating to the more upper class neighborhoods East of the river. I can see the two dogs and lifelong companions that rescued us during some rough moments. I can see the busy nature of our lives in this time, fleshing out the shapes of our careers amidst working 6 different jobs between the two of us. I can see establishing  routines, first “do it yourself” renos. I can picture the connections between the different faces and places in our lives and those commutes. I can imagine the decisions and choices, the trips, the smells of our routine meals.

Or there is the routine trips across the border to Grand Forks or Fargo, or weekends in Minneapolis, all places that hold our memories in their grip. To return to these places is to have those parts of ourselves come alive through those parts of that place that formed us, that awaken that sense of familiarity. Same with New York City, which became a significant part of our marriage story over the years.

There are also the endless places that we likely will never return to. Certain neighborhood spots that are no longer there. Faded memories of downtown Winnipeg from the eighties where we would head for everything from shopping to movies to restaurants. Spots that hold the memories of life shaping encounters and the formation of big, life altering ideas.

And of course the countless roads we have travelled to unfamiliar places in that effort to keep the push and pull of routine and investment in check by shaking up our senses, if for a moment.

A final short story to this end. In his younger years our son Sash hated travelling. He resisted it with a fervent passion. Having been adopted from Ukraine at 12 years old, the only world he knew before coming to Canada with us was the orphanage, And so we made a concerted effort to try and fill his years here with the sort of memory shaping endeavors that had been important to us, or at least to me, growing up, building into our routines a willingness to pick up and explore at a moments notice.

For the longest time we assumed this had been a complete failure, because from our point of view none of it had worked. Every memory seemed to be met with a miserable reaction. To be fair, part of that was keeping ourselves in check, as perhaps moving from one country to another was more than enough to occupy his sense of self in that moment in time.

And then he suprised us. Having been at his job for long enouigh to have a decent amount of vacation time, he had decided to book some time off. He is now almost 24. Out of nowhere he decided he was going to plan a trip to Banff. For him, he wanted to return to a place that was in his memory. A last minute sidetrip we had attached to a roadtrip to Edmonton and Calgary years back. For him this space reflected something signficant for him in terms of his story. And so he went. And he loved the experience of returning to a place he had been before. Like the T.S. Eliott quote above, discovering what that was all about by coming full ciricle.

Which is to say, whether we recognize it or not, we are touched by the places that inform our lives. The joy of living is the exploration of what these places are, as that’s where we find ourselves. And not only find ourelves, but find ourselves in connection to the world.

I was listening to an episode of the podcast It Means What it Means, titled “Scripting the Son with Kyle Hughes,” episode 86. Here Hughes discusses what is called “prosopological exegesis,” which reflects an interpretive approach which seeks to bring together appropriate criticisms and the role of Tradition. Put simply, “prosopon” means faces or persons, and exegesis means “interpretation of a text.” Thus it is a method that emphasises the persons evident within a text as the means to accessing what that text is saying. By persons this means taking all of the intersecting voices together when making sense of any given passage. This includes the audience, the compositers, the references to characters contained within, the writers, preexisting traditions that the compositers are working with, ect..

This might sound intuitive, but its often far less intuitive than we might think, largely due to the ways we bring in different competing allegiances and motivations to our readings of the scriptures. If this approach, which its worth mentioning is the subject of Hughe’s new book Scripting the Son: Scriptural Exegesis and the Making of Early Christology, can be summed up in one phrase, it could be “employing a necessary humility.” And it is this humility, Hughes argues, that we find in the practice of early interpretation, both within the Jewish framework that precedes Jesus (and that allows us to locate and make sense of Jesus) and in the early Church that follows Jesus.

It’s an observation that undestands and recognizes that what we find in the NT’s use of the OT is in fact a holistic and consistent practice that emerges from the OT itself (a recent episode of the Onscript podcast also delves into this with an interview with Gary Schittjer regarding how to study the Bible’s use of the Bible (the author of How to Sudy the Bible’s use of the Bible: Seven Hermeneutical Choices for the Old and New Testaments).

What brought this observation to light even further for me this morning was digging into a commentary on the book of Numbers by Peter Altmann and Caio Peres. Here Altmann and Peres argue in the opening pages that Numbers, more accurately or naturally translated from the Hebrews as “In the Desert,” is a vital portion of the OT narrative precisely because of the ways in which it parallels and connects the journey’s of distinct generations. On a macro level, we can connect the story of Israel “in the desert” on their way to the Promised Land with the story of the Church “in the desert” on its way to the fullness of time, or the new creation reality.

A journey that reflects our occupying that inbetween space.

And yet, this doesn’t mean being stagnant or stuck. The authors note how Numbers reflects a people who are on the move both geographically and spiritually. They are invested in this space and they see it as integral to the larger narrative of expectation. The fact that it depicts this as a “transition between generations” is what it makes it particularly powerful. Much in the same way that reading Deuteronomy from the perspective of a people in exile (understanding Deuteronomy as a temple text) looking back on a generation standing on one side of the Jordan reflecting on the previous generation that had come to the other side of the Jordan. Three generation in conversation, all bound by the same narrative.

Here Altmann and Peres note, “Because God’s people are always in the process of being formed afresh, Numbers contains many texts that update commands given by God in the previous biblical textst.” This might sound like heresy to some. but that would be unforunate. As the authors suggest, “(this) sets a model of how to interpret, adapt and apply God’s word to a braoder variety of communities throughout time and variable geographies.”

Sounds a lot like prosopological exegesis.

Hughes said something too that has really been sticking with me. He takes some misapplications of the word “fulfillment” to task, cautioning against writing a narrative that sees a beginning and an end. The minute we write the story as one in which they went through the desert so that we don’t, we’ve lost that central componant that binds one generation to another- the invitation to enter into and participate in the patterns of history. Part of the pattern, as the commentary on Numbers points out, is this constant act of centralization leading to decentralization. This is why we see embedded even in the liteary patterns of Leviticus, a literary design within the encampments that signifies this portrait of this ever expanding and distributing nature of the priesthood. Always reaching outwards with the tabernacle/temple (the presence of God) at its center.

And yet, as Numbers also expressly outlines, this patterned history is one in which we find both Life and Death at play. Thus what accompanies this distribution is a needed transformation. The continued act of recentralization if you will. This is what the promise hinges on. This transformation is found in the expectation of the fullness of time, not as an end but as a new beginning. it is one thing for transformation to occur from Death to Life, it is another for this transformation to continue and persist in a reality where Death has been defeated. Both of these things are held together within the narrative. This is where the generations intersect.

I’ve been pondering, or perhaps praying over what this means for my own desert space. The commentary offers a helpful inroad to this end. Noting the confusing and often frustrating lack of a clear beginning and end in Numbers, they suggest that often readers are “less clear on how to read it because we do not know what to expect.” They go on to suggest thinking about Numbers as one might a “human life.” We build the narrative of our lives by “omitting many parts.” Arguably we need to do this in order for our lives to make coherent sense. A book like Numbers however disorients us precisely because it tries to life to the cover of that narrative up momentarily in order to explore some of the less than linear parts. It’s a reminder that life is less orderly, less structured, less coherent in the space we occupy in the moment. And yet that’s precisely where things are moving and being shaped and being transformed. This is the shape of our experience. Yes, there is need for that narrative appraoch. This is just as important for our understanding of a life. For our understanding of the Christian story. And yet sometimes that need can get in the way of the living. It can lead to us stopping moving. To a failure to participate. To take off the narrative cover means encountering something that feels chaotic and incoherent and confusing and hard, perhaps even to the point of feeling like perhaps we had the wrong narrative. Maybe God isn’t in this.

That is however, to borrow from a formative voice in my life, Micheal Gorman, why participation matters. This is why participation matters to the narrative. We can describe the narrative of our lives in certain terms. Without that participation, which describes faith in the truer sense of the word as “lived conviction,” we can never truly know that narrative. This is the necessary act of trust that the promise requires. This is the invitation placed before the generations of Israel. It is the invatiion placed before the life of the priesthood that makes up the Church. This is where we find the pattern. In the faces and persons occupying our lives.

Why Oklahoma?

Why Mackinack Island?

Why Birmingham?

Why Duluth?

Why Sault Ste Marie?

These questions reflect the shared response to my choice of destinations over the last three summers. While each destination has its own unique reasons and context concerning why I travelled to these particular places, each invokes that same seemingly essential degree of collective  puzzlement. They don’t exactly scream tourist destination.

Each shares another characteristic in common- my decision to visit all three are connected to an item that is on my list (my bucket list if you will, although I prefer the phrase “life list”).

But that’s probably just doubling down on the puzzlement and restating the same question- why are they on my list to begin with?

While the relevant place for me right now is Sault Ste Marie, having just returned less than a week ago from a visit, let me start with a previous destination in order to dive deeper into that why question:

Birmingham, Alabama

Two summers ago I found myself hitting the road for my first solo road trip to Birmingham, Alabama. Now, to be clear Birmingham was not on my list. The mid-sized southern American city is iconic of course for both its bright culture and dark past, but for me the only real awareness I had of the place was in rhetoric or footnotes to conversations about larger topics. It’s never described as a destination for the restless wanderer or the interested tourist.

In this case, part of the why is incidental and practical- what put it on my radar, aside from being a budget friendly option to spend those short summer months on (I’m on the school system, so those months are a sort of routine rite of passage between seasons for me), was the simple fact that I was in the middle of reading the newly released King biography. Thus, I suddenly had a reason to put it on my radar, and decided that traversing this space in tandem with the words on the page was a compelling option. It didn’t hurt that the destination put me in relative proximity to a place that had been high on my list for a while- Charelston, South Carolina. So with Birmingham as my central hub, I set off on an adventure which could more accurately have cited Charleston as my main point of interest. That likely would have led to less puzzlement.

Ironcially, it turned out that my least favorite place to visit on that trip was Charleston. I loved Birmingham. I even ended up loving another place that was neither on my list or on my radar- Savannah, Georgia, which I traded some of my time in Charleston for.

Duluth, Minnesota

A second example: Last summer my already low budget was especially affected by a job change which had sliced my income in half. Why Duluth? Again, bring in the budget friendly destination. Nice and close to my hometown of Winnipeg. To be clear though, Duluth was simply a central hub that allowed me to check off another item on my life list: the Apostle Islands. Admittedly the islands were far down that list, but nevertheless they were on it. And the time seemed ripe to finally take the plunge given my limited resources.

Turns out the islands were fine, but what I really loved was the chance to dig underneath the surface of Duluth. In this case, I had been there enough for the layout and the streets to feel familiar, but I gained a different kind of delight and joy from that trip- crossing that line between being a tourist to being a visitor. It’s kind of magical you move from familiar to routine. That’s when the nuances and the hidden spaces and captured moments are able to emerge with a new kind of veracity and power. The space feels, in part, yours. The chance to just settle in and experience the mix of culture, waterfront and trails and lifestyle from a completely different vantage point blends with mornings sunrise walks at the downtown waterfront, coffee with the now known baristas at Dulth Coffee Company, repeat visits to try different things local institutions like The Duluth Grill and At Sara’s Table, weekend trips up the North Shore, hikes through the popular parks., evening movies, and plays. The kind of stuff you often miss when being a tourist.

Three Essential Observations About Travel

These two examples underscore for me three essential observations about travel:

• Often times its the unexpected places and moments, not the antcipated and planned ones, that prove to be the most cherished.
• Any place can be a destination for the curious, and curiousity, or investing in that curiousity, is what makes any destination a worthwhile one.
• Taking the opportunity to invest opens up more oppporunity, such as a trip to check off the Apostle Islands leading to a chance to dive deep into the life and culture of Duluth, which then lead to a further opportunity to check off the lower mississippi GRR, which takes you to the headwaters. I had even forgotten that this was on my list, a holdover from a trip up the GRR from Minneapolis to Memphis, leaving the final part of the upper portion (Memphis to New Orleans) and the the lower portion (Minneapolis to the headwaters) on my TBT (to be travelled) list.

Which brings me to this summer: why Sault Ste Marie? A barely 90,000 large (or small) populated northern Ontario city seemingly in the middle of nowhere. A place boasting a reputation as a drug-hub given its proximity to the American border and its isolation from any significant center.

Sault Ste Marie

Let me backtrack for a bit. It starts with the once lofty asperations of maybe, just maybe, finally getting to England this summer. A destination residing at the top of my list that seems to forever come and go as a failed endeavor with each passing year. With my expceptionally depleted budget this was going to take some creativity, but it seems like its always my starting point any time I’m approaching the years travel plans. This is a story for another time, but a near comical mix of conflicts and failed and upended plans left us heading into summer with nothing on our plate and a very limited list of potentials, compounded by the fact that this year I don’t have the luxury of August with the demands of my new position as Transit Manager for my school (August is typically the one and only haven for anything remotely nearing budget friendly options in the summer, relatively speaking, with prices droppping the closer one gets to September).

So I find myself moving from the top of my list (England) down to the bottom. That’s where I noticed a tiny, seemingly insignificant mention of the Agawa Canyon Tour Train I had jotted down years ago. 

Why is this train on my list? Someone suggested that the simple fact I’m using train and vacation in the same sentence means I’m old. And I mean, that’s never been more true than turning 49 this past week (which is a digression needing its own space to flesh out as well). But there is another reason why its there: its association with the infamous “Group of Seven.”

If America had its decisive break from Europe through its now infamous stated rebellion, it could be argued that Canada gained its true distinctivness through the emergence of the Group of Seven, who’s paintings come to light between 1920 and 1933 and go on to shape the fabric of Canadian culture at large. Their unique blend of emphasis on a mix of urban, landscape, and person, all brought together against the backdrop of this rugged wilderness of the northern locale, becomes a way of speaking to that necessary fusion of populution density and the sheer vastness of the country’s geographical space. The Agawa Canyon Train traverses the original inspiration and repeated pathways that helped foster the unique vision of these artists, accented by a local museum and artists center designed to continue their influence by connecting this history to the ever emerging voices of fresh generations.

Which is to say, tor a “middle of nowhere” part of Canada, this small city packs a significant punch in terms of cultural relevance. And in true self-depreciating fashion, which I am more and more convinced is found in all places big or small, may be a punch it delivers without the knowledge of some of its local residents, a note I make given some of my interactions during my stay. As one person put it, the goal of education in Sault Ste Marie is to enable people to leave. I’ll come back to that sentiment later, as there is many ways in which this misses the mark, but as a born and raised resident of Winnipeg, Manitoba, I know this kind of self depreciating attitude well. You don’t earn a spot on the Simpsons and the moniker “I was born here, what’s your excuse,” without it being in the air. For the record, I am invested in and love my hometown.

Back to the Soo: what is true of the Agawa Railroad and the Canada Seven could be equally applied to its other most recognizable attraction- the Soo Locks.

What I learned about the Locks:

1. These locks represent the last and final piece of the puzzle that connects Lake Superior to the other Great Lakes, and thus the ocean.
2. The locks are so important to the now developed economy of both the U.S. and Canada, that any intentional targeting which leaves them unusable for even a matter of months would cripple the country (hence the persisting lore of secret underground bunkers).
3. While it costs upwards of hundreds of thousands of dollars to use the Panama locks/canal (beginning with a whopping $800 for vessels under 50 feet), using the Soo locks is free.

Funny enough, the significance of the locks plays directly into that reflection on self depreciating attitudes about a place. Here we have, nearly in the center of these two Countries, a fact that is symbollically recognized by the international bridge and the twin cities occupying both sides of the border (Soo Michigan and Soo Ontario), a transit coridor that functions as a waterway to somewhere else. What I discovered through conversations and podcasts and online discourse (some of the ways I like to immerse myself in a place), is that part of the identity crisis of the Soo connects to the question of why the city is not in fact bigger than it is. Given the beauty of its backyard, given its economic importance (including the massive Agawa steel plant), why did it not grow into a major city center? Part of the answer, at least in appearance, is the fact that its not bolstered by large access to self sustaining farm land. And perhaps its northern winters, but as a Winnipeger I find such critiques difficult to take seriously- winters are something we embrace. I don’t know. It likely just boils down to the ebb and flow of history. Sort of like why Winnipeg stole the once ambitions dreams of becoming Manitobas capital and largest center from Selkirk. What I can say is, its place and position as one of three most populated centers along the North Shore of the Great Lakes Region should not be measured by its relative population. It should be measured by its character and function. And, something else I’ve become more and more convinced of over the years, the best way to get ato know the character of a place is not through the dissenters, but through those who are passionately invested in the place itself. That’s what I wanted to seek out from this place I had driven through and by many times without really stopping to wonder and notice and experience.

So, how would I describe Sault Ste. Marie? First off, it’s defined by a very concentrated mix of the city’s connected hub trails, its wilderness backdrop, and its waterfront canal.

The popular moniker here is that everything is a 15 minute commute. What I discovered is that this is almost and nearly literaly true. This concentration is also defined by an interconnecteness between these three things. Hobbies, recreation and past times are spent in the citiy’s backyard, while all trails lead back to the waterfront and its canal where, when not meeting up at a select Tim Hortons, one finds the local hang out spots (Station Mall retaining a visible presence).

Full disclosure: I’m the kind of traveler that is always looking for that marriage of culture and landscape, as that’s what I think truly defines a sense of place. I admit, on the surface and at first glance the Soo appears shockingly, and even strikingly devoid of that cultural imprint. Save for the small Coles in the city’s lone mall (Station Mall), and an even smaller used booked store  tucked away inside an antique shop (The Skeleton Key, which I recommend), the city has no bookstores, a lone and somewhat antiquated cineplex that plays the few current blockbusters of interest, and doesn’t have a single coffeeshop (once you set aside Tim Hortons and the much bandied about Starbucks in the local Pino’s grocer).

Shocking for a city which is, at to least to one degree, built around the identity of Canada’s most famous artists.

As I dug underneath the surface however, I found a real and authentic Soo identity waiting to be uncovered. Perhaps less conditioned for tourists like me, and much more the holistic product of those who have made this slice of Canadiana their home, the center piece of course being the Algoma Arts Museum.

And what I discovered is that what makes this artistic interest so unique to this area is the way it frames the Soo identity around the visual senses. Here faces and landscape blend together. Further yet, to understand the Soo is to understand that which surrounds it. You can’t get to the Soo apart from going through the Algoma region, and certainly not apart from the rich indigenous culture and heritage that  gives it its historic foundations (known as the Bawating to the Anishinaabe, and marked by the emergence of the Metis communtiy that would help shape this area around a distinct French influence).  

Equally significant is the areas Italian influences and migration, representing the city’s true era as a boomtown in the 1940’s and 50’s, giving the city its post war identity. What’s shocking is how these roots have managed to remain, representing a quarter of the city’s 90,000 and giving it one of its most exciting characteristics- the ongoing pizza wars (I recommend Fratelli’s). In fact, this microcosm of Italian presence offers a good way into another distinct element that you’ll find in Sault St Marie, the common practice of self sustained food sourcing on a micro level (fueled by goats milk and cheese and maple syrup from the nearby St Joseph’s island). You’ll find many places get their food directly from their own backyard gardens

Feeding Your Soul Cafe, a wonderful gem of a spot on the northwestern side of that 15 minute commute, is a great example of this. You walk straight through these quintessential gardens that lead you straight to its localy inspired cousine waiting inside. Including a whole host of gluten free options for those who are celiac like me. And sure, while the city lacks a coffee shop, part of the culture of the Soo is lingering instead in these local institutions, in true Italian fashion. This is not a hurry up and go culture, which is refreshing since you will find that culture coming starkly into view the minute you hit Sudbury and begin that journey to southeastern Ontario. And bonus: the coffee comes straight from St. Josephs island, another local instituion that has made its home in this unsuspecting corner of our country. You can take the short but worth it trip to visit the roastery buried deep in the islands own remote forests,

The bottom line: a true Soo experience, at least of a leisurely day off, is a morning hike to the top of the Robertson Cliffs

Or biking the Hiawatha/Voyageur trails

Followed by breakfast at the famed Breakfast Pig, an afternoon grocery shopping at Pino’s or hanging at Tim Hortons (or perhaps trade any of those for hanging out and dialoging with the locals at the aformentioned Feed Your Soul which closes at three, and then taking one of the paths to the St. Mary’s River to occupy an evening with sunsets and pizza (I would recommend the road through Bellevue Park).

Other recommends: Cafe 4 Good (love their integrated approach to helping underserved portions of the poputlation), Ernies Cafe for a retro vibe, And O Cafe (paired with the Soo Market on Saturdays, since its right around the corner, is perfect).

This identity becomes even more clarified once I started to gain a sense of the stated rivalries between the isolated northern locales that bookend this stretch of the Canadian landscape, the (slightly) more populous center of Thunder Bay on the northern end, and the stronger economic engine of Sudbury, the city built on a rock, on the southern end. Here the descriptions of the banter get fun, all sides slinging zingers at each other with a sense of glee indicative of a place needing a solid past time to fill those conversations at Tim Hortons. If Sudbury has the money and the innovation in the techs/medical care department, a product of its direct connection to the GTA, the Soo has affordability, a down to earth presence, the locks, and isn’t built on a rock. Interpretation: the Soo isn’t one dimensional

Yes, Sudbury has a coffee shop, but the Soo don’t actually care.

And let’s not get into the sports rivalry.

If you’re getting the sense that Thunder Bay tends to be the odd one out, it’s sort of true. That feud is more ammicable, given that the two cities are more interconnected in terms of shared and deeply embedded economic interests (they all know that despite the ongoing competition, what’s good for one is good for both), although Thunder Bay’s noted and elevated isolation is certainly a point any Soo apparently loves to make. That relationship tends to be ingrained more in history than the present, with the Soo and Sudbury rivalry being less dependent and enjoying the benefits of those centralized differences as adversaries.

Nevertheless, its all very much involved in helping to locate these distinct communities in their particular space and time. One of the strengths of the Soo, something that contrasts with the singular presence of Sudbury as a more defined economic engine, is its freedom and ability to reinvent itself. Here perceptions and articles documenting the recent history of rapid decline, relative of course to its small population, are met by articles of optimistic growth. Headlines in 2022 outline a unique city initiative that uses the city’s size as a strength by implementing green hydrogen infrastructure. The Algoma Steel industry is in the middle of a revolutionary overhaul towards the same ends, An emphasis on reducing car dependency through a visible active transportation hub. Making space for temporary residents.

While a 2023 report by a real estate company made headlines for advertising Soo residents as some of the least happy people in Canada (which kind of goes against its slogan of the friendliest city in the Algoma region), numerous studies over the years have indicated that it is one of the best places to start an independent business. I found this tidbit of information interesting, because part of my own experience visiting the city is that the visible lack of culture actually disguises the authentic experience of discovering unique shops littered throughout different sections of the city. Meaning, it hasn’t sprawled. In fact, I don’t know that it could really sprawl. Which leads to reinvention of existing neighborhoods and the preservation of its roots. While certainly a section like Queen’s Street is especially unique, or the recently developed Machine District,

the sense that I got from the Soo is that it’s all seen as one big neighborhood with the canal as its shared backyard. As mentioned earlier, all roads lead to the St. Mary’s River. In fact, at one point as I was driving around and exploring, I found myself in an obviously low income area noted by its housing units. What stood out to me about this area was how it seemed that the way of life for this neighborhood was connected directly to the city’s biggest park, a central facet of the hub trail which circles the city as a functional perimeter for active transit. Coming from Winnipeg where our neighborhoods are defined by their historic divides dictated by the railroad and marked by sprawl, this to me stood out as a significant feature of the landscape- these public spaces are trutly shared by everyone regardless of class.

While I was travelling to the Soo, I was reading a book by one of the areas most celebrated authors- Mary Lawson.

The book is called Crow Lake. It was the top recommendation for anyone looking to pair a literary voice with their exploration of the area. Lawson’s locations and people are technically fictional, but the story itself captures so much of what I’ve been talking about above. It’s about a family growing up in a place like the Soo, a humble, sparsely populated northern Ontario community. While the story is shaped by a certain tragedy that sits at the heart of its slow meandering plot, framed by the narration of the older sister in a family of four siblings, there is another theme or thread that sits in the background before ultimately becoming the central point of the journey and the questions the journey wants to evoke. As the initial chapters establish, this revolves around a great grandmother whom the siblings only know vicariously. The great grandmother symbolizes this tension that exists between those who stay and those who don’t. Between the need to preserve the integrity of this space by becoming part of its ethos and the need to escape it for the sake of opportunity, all shaped by the sort of judgment that social hierarchies can create. For the great grandmother this is about prioritizing education in an effort to escape the lower rungs. One of the morals or lessons that the book ultimately leaves us with then is the power of perception to this end. In a world where education is made out to be a singular conception and where progress and growth is made out to be a singular measure, perhaps there are different ways for one to be “educated,” different ways for one to be experienced and to grow, to have true character.

Which is to say, there are good reasons to immerse oneself in ones space. And there are many ways in which a space gives back. This is why, as it is for anyone who invests in the art of living, faces and places are one in the same. Perhaps this is one of the great gifts of the Soo’s deep connections with its indigenous roots, something that hasn’t been covered over by a certain kind of progress in this area.

Which brings me back to that Train. I ultimately decided to pass on the train, despite it occupying space on my list for so long. After reading a bunch of reviews, I came to the conclusion that it might be better to shift my focus. It’s a pricey endeavor, and the train is iconic enough for people to shape their entire vacations around, which might be why some of the reaction exists. But the sentiment seemed to read loud and clear- great idea, poor execution. That and the long train ride with stories of poorly maintained and gross bathrooms awaiting at the remote canyon not accessible by cars weirded me out. My phobia of public washrooms kicked in and made the final decision. As a number of the voices stated, they believed you can get a similar taste for the place without the train.

Thus I made a shift. I traded the train for a day in nearby Manitou Island. Which of course deserves its own story as an integral piece of that Soo identity. The island I can happily recommend as one of canada’s best kept secrets, a sentiment a recent article I came across expressed.

I’m grateful for all the faces and places I found and met immersed in this destination I chose to tour. Why Sault St. Marie? I came for the Art, I stayed for the context. Next time I anticipate crossing that line from tourist to visitor.

And make sure to enjoy the journey. The north shore is amazing

 

 

 

I was listening to the latest sermon from Bridgetown Church on my morning walk, titled Genesis: Cain and Abel. They have been going step by step, or more accurately section by section, through the Genesis text emphasising the narrative that it is both establishing and evoking. In this particular section the teacher/preacher tasked with bringing this to life narrows in on the importance of the geneaolgy. Bypassing this means missing the story.

The insights he brings regarding the nature of the geneaology (or geneaologies) here is not new, especially for anyone familiar with the work of the Bible Project (Tim Mackie attends this church), but there was a particular insight that stood out for me. He notes the way the narrative is established against two broad reaching, parallel geneaologies- that of the serpents seed and that of the woman’s seed. Much more can be said about how this frames the overaching story the scriptures are looking to tell, but for the purpose of this sermon he narrows in on the connection between Cain and Lamech as a literary device establishing the line of the serpent within the larger narrative.

Many will be familiar with the line from Genesis 4 which depicts sin as crouching at Cain’s “door.”. Much more than metaphor, this phrasing is taken seriously in depicting Cain’s active transformation into an image of the serpent. “It will have you,” God says, if you image the serpent rather than me. Not inconsequentially, Cain is also established as the father of the nations as he builds the cities that define them. This sets the stage for the conflict that will confront the formation of Israel as one set apart among the nations in order to image Yahweh to the world.

And don’t let that pass by unnoticed- the nations are associated with the seed of the Serpent. Important to the story- Egypt, Pharoah, Babylon, Rome, Ceasar, all associated with the seed of the serpent.

The Bible Project does a good job of unpacking the narrative hperlinks between God’s creation of Adam and Eve, Eve’s creation of Cain, and Cain’s creation of the city, all of which use the same word with contrasting emphasis between “I have made” and “God has made.” We are already meant to be immersed in this necessary tension between these parallel lines that are unfolding. In fact, the stark contrast is found at the end of chapter 4 where, instead of the phrase “I have made” in relationship to Cain, we get the phrase “God has granted me” in relatinship to Seth. Here Seth (rendered “appointed one”) is established as the answer to Chapter 4’s poignant commentary on the state of things in which the serpents seed is filling the earth with perpetual vengance.

And here is what I thought was truly interesting. Leading up to Seth is this lineage that connects Cain to Lamech, bookmarked by these two phrasings- “anyone who kills Cain will suffer vengeance seven times over,” (4:15) and Lamech’s reiteration and recasting of this phrase, “If Cain is avenged seven times, then Lamech seventy-seven times.”

Common readings have a tendency of racing past these phrasings with the assumption that this is about God enacting vengeance on those who kill Cain or Lamech. This misplaces the phrasing. First, the narrative is emphasizing the two seeds that we have in view from Chapter 3. One is going to be crushed, the other is going to liberate. Second, the contrast that we find in Chapter 4 is between Cain and Seth.

The teacher/preacher at Bridgetown notes the unfortunate translation of punishment in vs 13 as perhaps fueling certain approaches to this text, a word that should be translated as “visiting.” Or in this case, “the visiting of Sin’s curse through the subsequent encounters with its vengeance. The same curse of the land that we find in Chapter 3 now being applied to Cain. In 4:14 it actively defines this as seperation from God under this cursed land (or occupying this cursed reality). The vengeance in mind here is not God’s doing, rather it is giving us a portrait of how Sin is fruitful (the picture of the seed). Vengeance breeds more venganeace. That’s the only way it can seek justice in a world where the presence of God is absent.

The mark God applies to Cain “so that no one who found him would kill him” (vs 15) is in fact tied to God’s redemptive work in stopping this cycle. We find this in Seth. More importantly, we find this in the portrait of Cain’s giving birth to the nations, out of which God is going to preserve a people in line with the woman’s seed by coming to dwell in the temple (a micorcosm of Eden).

This is in contrast to Cain’s seed, which we find culminating in this passage about Lamech. Thus it is not about greater punishment being enacted on Lamech by God. That makes no sense of the literary flow. In fact, the number 7, applied as it is to Cain, would represent a mark of completion, fulfillment, or wholeness. Meaning, what this should be awakening readers to is God’s promise to crush the head of the serpent in Chapter 3. It should awaken not to perpetual punishment, but to the promise to do something about the problem. The problem here is not Cain, or people, it is a creation under the curse of the serpent. The same serpent that is defined according to this statment in 4:23 where, instead of Cain being targeted it is Cain’s seed, a fact that hands us these competing realities- in a world bearing the fruit of the serpents seed and where the head is not crushed what we get is endless cycles of vengeance that fill the earth with something other than God’s glory (presence). In order for God’s presence to fill the earth, it must be made new, meaning, it must be liberated from the serpent itself. That’s the problem.

Thus God gives a child. A child that, in the broader scope of this narrative, is appointed to bear the weight of this cycle of vengeance but mark it by bringing about this image of the 7 days (the bringing about of the new creation by curshing the serpents head). This is precisely what we find in Jesus who contrasts the image of Ceasar by ushering in the Kingdom of God through His resurrection.

The Bridgetown teacher/preacher notes Jesus’ evoking of this phrase that ties Cain and Lamech together, only reframing it as “forgiveness.” How many times should I forgive? Jesus speaks to Lamech’s concern. Why? Because this is the reality, the world, that we know. It is only in Jesus that we can know the true Sabbath. It is only through the mark that we can reframe the world as it is (seventy times seven, a number that is never complete) within the proper narrative of God’s restorative work (the same 7 day creation imagery that marks the temple inaugeration).

There’s one last important contrast to note here. At the end of chapter 4 we get this phrase- “at that time people began to call on the name of the Lord.” This is in response to the birth of Seth. Fast foward through the geneaologies of the next two chapters, and in chapter 6 we get this phrase bringing us into the story of Noah- “The Lord saw how great the wickedness of the human race had become on the earth, and that every inclination of the thoughts of the human heart was only evil all the time.” Readers here are meant to carry the story of Adam and Even/Cain and Abel forward into the story of Noah. Noah’s story mirrors these narratives with an intentional literary design, Where the serpent is at Cains door, here we get the story of the “sons of god” coming down and seeding the women. Noah is ultimatley cast as an Adam figure, with his sons estbalishing this equal picture of two lines that lead to the formation of the nations and ultimately the formation of Israel. We have intentional interplay woven all the way through, including hyperlinked terms that tie Noah’s drunkenness to the eating of the fruit of the garden and the fruit. Which is to say- the same story but told from a different vantage point.

But that phrase, at that time, is meant to catch us with a particular kind of hopeful echo and refrain. At that time frames the hopeful expectation that will follow a story defined by the reality of Lamech. If the fulfilllment is not yet seen, the work of God, or the faithfulness of God can be found in His specific responsiveness, always pointing us not just an ambigious or distant entity unanmed and undefined, but one who is named, who is encountered, who is found in his persistant movement from heaven to earth. One who can be known and who has not abandoned creation to the curse of Sin and Death. One who’s revelatory nature is made fully known in Jesus whom bears the weight of Sin and Death itself. Not some punishment meted out by God, but a stated and responsive act which stops the cycle of Sins continued visiting in its tracks. Announcing a different way, a different kind of Kingdom based on a different kind of needed justice. A justice bent on forgivness, a forgiveness which reclaims and restores by replacing vengeance (the presence of the serpent and its seed) with Love (the presence of God).

“When someone dies or disappears, we can tell stories about only what might have been the case or what might have happened next. And perhaps it is simply a question of control, but it is easier to imagine the very worst than to allow a space in which several things might be true at once.” (The Homemade God, Rachel Joyce)

Joyce’s recently released novel follows a disjointed and entirely dysfunctional family (aren’t we all) on a journey to deal with the sudden passing of their father. At the heart of this story lies two great mysteries- what happened to their father’s allusive and non-existent final painting, a project that was intended to define his legacy, and who is this much younger woman he recently married. As this cast of siblings comes together, these two essential mysteries begin to pull at the fabric of their collective and seperate pasts in the way the loss of a parental figure often does. As the story progresses, it becomes more and more clear that the grater mystery is in fact not this enigmatic figure that was their father, but whether they themselves can be reconciled both to him and one another against the push and pull of their individual stories.

It’s a book that is largely about the shifting nature of our perspectives, especially where these differing vantage points are brought into conversation. Who their father was to each of them matters to who he was as a singular entity to the whole. In many ways these are competing stories, competing stories that, as the above quote suggests, wrestle with how it is we imagine our perspective within the framework of past hopes and regrets. Is my perspective true? In one sense yes. This is the story we bring to the table, a fact that demonstrates the simple observation that all of us then are beholden in some way, shape or form to the perception and memory of others. This is something we cannot ultimatley control. It does however underscore the immense responsibility we hold in having the power to define and shape the story of others.

Here in lies an important facet of the novel, contained within the above quote. It is always easier to imagine the worst, especially where relationships are stained, estranged or distanced. This is precisely where imagination becomes our most powerful tool. Not because we are imagining something that isn’t true, but because our imaginations open us up to greater possibilities, challenging the limiting nature of our individual perspectives. It hands us an ultimate and necessary irony- we shape who others are, but it is the collective that shapes how we are able to see who others are. In the language of Joyce’s novel, this same notion applies to the creative or participatory acts we put out into the world as expressions of our selves and our limiting perspectives.

As I’ve been thinking about this idea over the last couple of days, I’ve actually found myself thinking more about the people in my life who are alive rather than the ones who are no longer around. I mean yes, in many ways this process is shaped by those legacies that get left behind. Legacies that are less defined by what we accomplish and more by the simple fact of our existence. But the only way to have a legacy is for that thing to exist in relationship to the world in the first place. In many ways this feels like a freeing thought. A liberating thought. I am free to embrace this experience in the moment for what it is while also knowing that this story is not bound to the moment. To feel bound, or to bind something to a given moment is where we are failing to engage that imagination.

The power of this thought, for me, is that this applies not to how I shape my life necessarily, but to the responsibility I have for shaping the stories of others. To learn to live this way is to learn how to see beyond myself, and to see beyond myself is to be free to see myself as a necessary part of this collective picture. This doesn’t dilute and devalue how it is we live in the experience of a given moment, as though what we do doesn’t matter or have an impact. It actually liberates those moments to be wrestled with and therofore eventually transformed. It makes space for several things to be true at once. Which of course flows from that necessary foundation- that which we can say is inherently true about this reality that we all share.

This probably needs its own seperate thread, but I can’t help but think about the ways I find this best expressed in the Judeo-Christian narrative. The idea of the homemade god is always seen and understood to be an image, a shadow, a representation. Where this is defined as worship of something inherently false (idolatry), leads to stories that are bound to a given moment. In the biblical narrative this is the language of exile- the dysfunctional and estranged family. Where this is defined as worship of something inherently true, this leads to stories that are liberated by the language of fulfillment. This is the language of new creation. The language of Jesus. It is this christological lens that allows the writers to re-imagine the story of exile-new creation in the sense of several things being true at once. In the language of Paul, evoking the already-not yet nature of telling our stories in the light of the risen Christ.

Now, this is where my imagination not only participates in the stories of those still here and shapes the stories of those who have passed, but entrusts these stories to the reality of the resurrection. The ultimate vantage point.

I was listening to an interview with author and scholar Donna Freitas this morning, where she was speaking about her upbringing and her faith journey. Having grown up Catholic, and having long since found herself wrestling with the tensions present between between the problems she could percieve and experience within the institutional church and the intuitions and longings that seemed to poke and prod at that inner desire to seek and find soemthing true, she eventually found herself falling headfirst into the field of philosophy and religion. Somewhat with that familiar story of contrasting figures in her father and her mother in tow. This is what continues to shape her journey both as a woman and as a seeker.

At one point she said something that caught me in an unexpected way. She described how one of the things that feels like it define her relationship to faith is that she seems to find these glimpses of God through the experiences of other people rather than her own. If she has never had that prototypical direct encounter that makes God so real for the mystics and the many, she consistently finds a connection to the transcendent through exploring the stories and lives and actions of others that have. Here she refuses to allow her own skepticism to invalidate the witness of the diverse world that surrounds her.

There’s a subsequent part to this as well that struck me. If one of the ways these mystics and many commune with God is through the practice of prayer, she describes the freedom that came from recognizing that its possible that her writing could be considered an act of praying. These two things really resonated with me and my own journey. While I can point to different experiences in my life as being a particular harbinger of my own wrestling with faith in God, one of the constants that contintues to sustain me is that so many of my life’s most important moments have come from those whom have that apparent gift of direct communion with the Divine. So much so that their own witness tendsd to become my own.

It’s also not suprising to think back on my life and the figures and encounters that I find contained within and note that these same ones who seem to have that privileged connection and gifting are also often dedicated prayers as well. This might be why part of my wrestling has seen this persistant fascination with prayer. A subject I seem to keep coming back to over the years in different seasons and different moments. Partly because I feel like I suck at prayer. Partly because those who are gifted at it occupy such a powerful place in my life, even ast times directly on my behalf.

I’ve long had this intuition that perhaps I have misplaced my understanding of what prayer is. Perhaps the particular gifting that I so cherish in the lives of others isn’t prayer, but a particular characteristic that I lack which opens them up to and sustains their belief. Perhaps what I have long felt terrible at is not prayer, but that particular characteristic that fills in the gaps of that thing I lack and struggle with. More importantly, if this is true, perhaps there is room to say I can pray. In fact, maybe I do pray in ways I don’t realize. And further, maybe my own particular characterstic reflects an equal strength that somehow fills gaps in others. If so, there is motivation to recognize what that is on both fronts, in what I lack and in what I have.

A difficult thought indeed. But when she described her prayer life as the act of writing, something she suggests “is speaking to something or someone,” a light bulb went on in my mind. That’s exactly what my intuition keeps telling me, even as I constantly dismiss it and distrust it.  I’m not a writer like her, but this space is an example of a similar act of praying. Perhaps more readily is my love of reading, something she also describes as being fundamental to her own life and wrestling. To read is, for me, to be engaged in an act of prayer. To wrestle with big ideas and big thoughts is an act of prayer. To travel, even to the smallest of places (which seems to be norm for me these days) is an act of prayer. It is in these actions, these spaces, that I would say my spirit is most awaken to that necessary conversation that awakens me to God’s reality.

Which is where it hits me- all of these spaces, these actions, are finding God through the experiences of others. Through things external to my own self and in ways that fill in the gaps that my own character lacks. This is, in fact, seemingly also part of my own strength and gifting as well.

It’s kind of funny actually, because this intuition meets the rational part of my brain that says, but prayer is found in things like quiet and detaching and nature and contemptlation and meditation. I’ve long since read and encountered persistant critique of occupying our minds with other voices. But I know, for me those things do the opposite. I feel furthest from God in nature where the only thing I have is myself and the suppposed awarness of the Divine its supposed to evoke. I feel disconnected in the quiet and the contemplation where I have no access to the thoughts of others. Where do I come most alive? Through encountering the thoughts and experiences of others in books and ideas and encounters, and bringing that into conversation whereever it is I find myself.

Yes, I know this makes me the awkward one at parties. It is typically seconds before I’ve forced any and all conversations underneath the surface. I don’t do well with superficialities and practicalities, largely because if we aren’t discussing why it matters then, for me, it doesn’t matter. And part of what makes this particular characterstic what it is, for me, is that I do not fear the questions. I do not fear the wrestling. Those things actually enliven my faith. I do not fear, as Freitas describes the common burden of the existentialist (she’s a fellow lover of Kierkegaard) being one who is able to stare into the abyss and keep on living.

I’ve also lived long enough to know that somehow this quirk has, in different moments with different people, filled in the gaps that those others lack. My whole self resists such acknowledgments, but that witness exists and persists nonetheless in the notes and memories packed away in totes and those deep recesses of my brain. I know that there exists those whom do fear staring into the abyss, or whom find themselves in a space where they feel it but can’t articulate it, and for whom faith itself hangs in that incoherent and precarious balance. I know that in some cases what I am good at meets those gaps. Perhaps strength is as much recognizing what I lack as it is what I have. And sometimes, or maybe often is the case, the same people with whom I find my persistant existential crisis meaning something important, my connection to their own strenghts equally feeds my own soul.

“It was cold, and the servants and officials stood around a charcoal fire they had made to keep them warm. Peter was also standing with them, warming himself.” (John 18:18)

“When they landed, they saw a fire of burning charcoal there with fish on it, and some bread.” (John 21:9)

I came across this thought in a recent sermon from Darrell Johnson titled Jesus the Healer: He Gives Us a New Past. It’s a well documented observation concerning the literary design of John’s Gospel, in this case narrowing in on the explicit use of the term “anthrakia” (the Greek word for “charcoal fire.”). As Johnson states, wherever John is specifically naming a person or thing we are supposed to take notice.

There are only two places in the NT where this word is used, both in the Gospel according to John (see the above verses) and both in relationship to Peter. Both instances are framed by the pattern of 3, in chapter 18 Peter denying his association and friendship with Jesus 3 times, and in chapter 21 Peter affirming his love for Jesus 3 times.

Reading through these chapters this morning, I was struck by another set of three that bridges these two scenes in chapter 20. It concerns the initial question raised following the discovery of the empty tomb-

‘They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we don’t know where they have put him.” (20:2).

he text tells us both that the proper burial practices relating to Jewish Law remained important;, but equally states that they had no sense that they might encounter their resurrected Lord instead. The assumption upon encountering an empty tomb is that the body was taken and that they desired to recover it, something that meets the urgency of Mary Magdalene running to find the disciples.

It is here where we then get three seperate responses to encountering the appearance of a resurrected Jesus. The first is the beloved disciple, whom I argued in my recent blog post (A Fresh Perspective on the Beloved Disciple) is a resurrected Lazarus. The text states that upon finding the burial cloth, the same burial cloth that we find mentioned one other time in relationship to the raising of Lazarus, that the beloved disciple “believes.” The second account is of Mary. Here Mary believes upon hearing her Lord “speak her name.” The familiarity of a voice that, when placed within this specific narrative, calls us back to earlier chapters which establish this notion of “listening” as central to her relationship to Jesus. The third account is Thomas, whom, the text describes, will only believe when we he has been given tangible and physical evidence of Jesus’ scars and holes. Being given this evidence, he then believes.

Three very different ways in which three very different people come to believe that the resurrection of Jesus is indeed true. This reflects the different ways each of us encounters such a truth, even where we might remain unaware of precisely what we need and require to believe in such a truth.

It’s also significant to find  that Chapter 20 ends with the summarizing statement, “these (words) are written so that YOU may believe.” (20:31) An invitation to see and encounter the same truth from the vantage point of our differences. It could be said that the question itself taps into something universal: “where is God.” And yet the ways we engage this truth contains a certain dynamism and particularity. We engage this truth with our own and full distinct selves in tow, and what leads one person to believe will look completely different than the next.

Which brings me back to Peter’s story in chapters 18 and 21. By the time we reach chapter 21 Peter believes the resurrected Jesus to be true. So much so that upon hearing his Lord’s voice echoing from the shoreline he jumps in the water fully clothed (let’s not bypass the apparent customary practice of being in the book completely naked- different times) and swam to him. A powerful picture that conjures up the story of Peter both walking on the water and similtaneously sinking, the image of Jesus reaching out His hands to grab Peter now being set within a larger and more comprehensive picture of Jesus’ denial and now restoration.

Not inconsequetionally, this is stated to be the third time Jesus has appeared to His disciples.

The important observation here- the question doesn’t stop at a matter of “belief.” Here it pushes further to the necessary question that follows an encounter with the resurrected Jesus- “do you love me.” This question of love sits at the heart of the Gospel according to John, and however it is that we find ourselves coming face to face with the truth of Jesus, this is the much more difficult thing to grapple with.

As Jesus’ repeated question posed to Peter around this charcoal fire indicates, it is difficult precisely because of the demands belief makes to actually live in and take up faithful residence in this reality that sits between the two polarizing forces at play in creation- death and resurrection. While Peter’s three denials of knowing Jesus comes in the face of Jesus’ own crucifixion, Jesus pointedly sets Peter’s three repeated confessions of love against the reality of Peter’s own death. I wrote about this in my previous post regarding the beloved disciple being Lazarus, but once again that basic observation helps to illuminate this particular text and give it a fresh relevance. What is Peter’s response to Jesus’ claim that he will die? He points to Lazarus and asks, “but what about him?” Jesus’ reply: this is about you, not him. You, Jesus says, must follow me.

What struck me about Peter’s reaction is two essential things, both of which speak into my own life in very particular ways. First, we, or I, often see belief as the hardest part of faith. Perhaps this is born from a modern context that has now reduced belief to scientific knowledge. Since, as the sentiment often goes, there is no scientific evidence for God’s existence, belief must be relegated to the arena of faith. This is even valorized to a degree: to believe is to have faith in the absence of evidence. This is the core purpose of the Christian Tradition. To be otherwise would mean it is not faith.

And yet, not only does the 3 fold witness of different paths to belief in chapter 20 undercut this, but Peter’s own story challenges this notion by saying actually, belief is a doorway into the much more difficult part called faith- living our beliefs. This is, it would seem, a truer understanding of what faith was to the world behind the text. To believe is something we cannot help. We cannot force ourselves to believe or not to believe. It is a result of a truth intersecting with that part of ourselves that then reformulates this from an uncertain question into basic intuition.

In the case of chapter 20: I know this cloth. I know this voice. I know these holes and these scars.

To love though is something entirely different. To love is to follow. It is to live that belief in the space between those two realized tensions- death and resurrection.

I can’t help but think of this now through the lens of Peter and Lazarus- the statment that these words are written so that WE might believe becomes the invitation to live between the tension of Peter (death) and Lazarus (resurrection). How? By following Jesus, the one who embodies both of these things as the resurrected one who also ascends to the throne. The one who participates in both of these things to their fullest ends, and whom brings about the promised transformation and the coming kingdom. What Jesus inaugerates in his death, resurrection and ascencion is, according to the Gospel of John, the express invitation to live (or to love) in the overlap of the ages. The inbetween space. How? Through the powerful truth that Jesus has sent His Spirit to dwell with us in this tension filled space.

The second essential thing is simply this. The raising of Lazarus is commonly seen and cited as Jesus’ greatest miracle. Certainly in the Gospel of John it stands at the center of this narrative about the Word made flesh. How often do we, or I, want to exchange our present reality for such a miracle? When asking that dangerous question, “do you love me,’ confronts the nature of my own belief, is my tendency to retreat back into that belief where such tensions can be shoved under the rug, to keep on asking the same questions over and over again (Paul uses the analogy of milk instead of solid food), or is it to step into a life of faith where the tension can and must be embraced? 

I admit, for me I do the former far more readily than the latter.

Further yet, how much more difficult is this quesiton when I’m looking acrosss the room at someone elses evidenced miracle and asking “but what about them?” Why do they get that miracle and I don’t? Here’s the irony of such a tendency, which is only far too real- but of course, such a question quickly forgets what brought us to believe in the first place.

Here’s where my thought process is at in this- belief is challenged not by the lack of whatever it is that we need to believe, rather it is challenged by the subsquent call to love in that space where the tension between death and resurrection becomes all too real. I am reminded of those words, “What is that to you? YOU must follow me.” I can imagine the words “where you are” helping to capture the weight of this sentiment.

To imagine Peter looking across that fire into the face of Jesus’ death is, in the narrative interest of John, to equally find himself looking across that fire into the face of His resurrection. In this space inbetween, one of the most powerful things that emerges from these two contrasting portraits is the way the first is framed by retreat and fear of judgment and the latter is framed by liberation and grace. Which is to say, the tension is real, the tension is difficult, but love is more powerful precisely because it liberates us from the trappings of belief apart from a life of participation. As Johnson so articulately puts it, love does not judge our belief for its natural resistance to the tensions of life, rather it is the thing that always makes another fire no matter what and continues to persist in posing that fresh question.

We find this in our participation in the eucharist as well. The memory that calls us back to that place of belief, but which never leaves us there. The culmination is always found in the sending, in the charge. Go in love. Go in the freedom to love.

One of the reasons I love to spend time in the scriptures is their ability to continually suprise me. Given that my own vantage point is always changing with time and context, the ability to speak in new ways. Or perhaps for me to hear in new ways.

One of the reasons I love to spend time with the scriptures in community with others is because it ensures that my old paradigms have the ability to be constantly challenged. Not only by academics and scholars, but by fellow sourjernors on this spiritual journey.

At times, the revelatory moments have the power to stop me in my tracks. This morning was one of those moments. A fresh revelation that has the potential to completely transform a familiar assumption.

This particular insight comes from a book by James Martin called Come Forth: The Promise of Jesus’s Greatest Miracle. And for what its worth, if you have never read his book Jesus: A Pilgrimage, you need to. Here it concerns the chapter titled He Whom You Love: Jesus Friendship and the Beloved Disciple. Or more specifically, the question of who the beloved disciple is, a long debated question in scholarship.

Now, this insight may be more obvious to some than it is to me. Perhaps this is something I should have been aware of a long time ago. In any case, this is my first time encountering this theory, and the theory is so persuasive that I find myself wondering why its not leading the way as the majority view in scholarship. Perhaps old paradigms are harder to let go of than many of us would care to admit?

In any case, the one leading the way in developing this theory is bliblical scholar Ben Witherington III. And the theory is simply this: the beloved disciple in John’s Gospel is in fact Lazarus.

Consider the following points:

• Not only is the Gospel of John the only Gospel to contain this story, Lazarus is the only one to be called “the beloved.” So much so that the raising of Lazarus goes out of its way to exclaim this as the most significant element of the miracle- “see how he loved him.” A climatic exclamation point of what is seemingly an intentional movement on the part of Jesus to return to Bethany against great danger for this very purpose
• The Gospel of John picks up the phrase “the Beloved Disciple” only and directly after the raising of Lazarus
• The raising of Lazarus forms the thematic and dramatic center of the Gospel
• The narrative structure, with chapter 12 and 13 being framed around dinners, both which lead up to the Passover, Martin cites Witherington unpacking how the original hearers would have heard this story orally, showing how the connecting point between the meal at Lazarus’ house (chapter 12) and the meal in chapter 13 is designed to bring Lazarus to the forefront, particularly as the customary “reclining with or next to the chief guest” of the host
• If this is the case, this would make sense of why every mention of the beloved disciple has him (its a masculine reference) residing within the vicinity of Jersusalem- the host of the house, being able to take Jesus’ mother in at the crucifixion, beating Peter to the grave, having access to places that only a Judean would, ect.
• If Lazarus is the beloved disciple, this makes sense of the seeming contrast between Peter and the “other” or “beloved” disciple that we find in John (think of the beloved disciple beating Peter to the tomb, and instead of Peter we hear only from beloved disciple)
• The burial clothe is mentioned two times in John’s Gospel, once with Lazarus and another with Jesus, and it is tied directly to the beloved disciple “seeing and believing.” Narratively the cloth is used to trigger a direct memory for the beloved disciple.

If all of that wasn’t enough, this is the one point that really got me. Why does Peter respond to Jesus at the end of John’s Gospel by asking “what about him” in response to the question “do you love me.” Even more striking- why does Jesus respond to Peter by saying “If it is my will that he remain until I come, what is that to you?” What does John record this saying as bringing about? A rumour within the community that the disciples would not die.

This has long puzzled readers and scholars alike. Why would this exchange culminate in this rumour? If the beloved disciple is indeed Lazarus, a disciple whom was resurrected, this would make complete sense of such a rumour. This makes sense of why Peter would be singling the beloved disciple out, and why it would be attached to this concern. After all, what do you do with a resurrected individual?

One last point on this front: this also makes sense of why the Gospel of John is composed, or at least portions of it (scholars seem to note three distinct layers of composition within the Gospel itself, meaning, it contains a portion that could very well be one of the earliest written testimonies that we have of the life of Jesus, connected directly to the named eye witness). It is entirely plausible to imagine a community whom had elevated Lazarus within their circle (perhaps in the same way others had elevated Peter?) having this Gospel recenter the real focus on the incarnate, crucified and raised Christ.

And hey, just because I can, why not throw out this tantalizing question for as ludicrous as it sounds- is t possible that Lazarus never died? “What is that to you” is indeed a startling phrase. A good reminder as well regarding our own awareness of our own “Peter” type reactions over and against the work of God.

So why does this matter for me? First, and this feels like stating the obvious, but if this theory is true it adds a whole new layer not just to Mark’s Gospel, which is commonly associated with Peter (what a wonderful exercise to read these two side by side- Mark’s Gospel which leaves the impact of the resurrection cloaked in the mystery of the women fleeing the empty tomb speechless and terrified, paired with the stated witness of Lazarus alongide Peter), but to Peter’s role in Acts and Paul’s writings.

Second, the window it gives us into the imtinate friendship between Lazarus and Jesus becomes a powerful portrait of the ways in which God works for the sake of His creation. That it gives such a flesh and blood context to the Gospel narrative is one of scriptures great gifts. This isn’t simple accounting, its a love letter.

Lastly, I find myself reading the Gospels final chapter with a new fervor and weight. Written so that they (his hearers) might believe. How often do I play this against my modern conception of faith and doubt “in God.” What does it add to read this from the vantage point of a people wrestling with connecting the meaning of two resurrections with the singular work of God’s taking on flesh for the love of the world?

On the most recent episode of The Good Fight podcast, host Yascha Mounk interviews author Dean Spears on the subject of population. Or more specifically, the subject of his new book (After the Spike: Population, Progress, and the Case for People), the problem of depopulation.

A few times throughout the interview the word “math” was evoked to define their particular approach to the subject. I’m always fascinated by such conversations. Reducing the laws that govern our existence to a math equation certainly fits for the physicist in the room. Somehow though, once we get into the complex workings of existence itself, or our experience of it, reducing such an experience to a math equation feels like it betrays the emptiness of such an approach.

What makes this more problematic is that, in this case the numbers apply to the authors desire to uphold a kind of unspoken and undefined value statement, something you can hear him subtly slipping in and out of as he moves to justify certain concerns using reductionist terms.

The concerns can essentailly be summarized as fleshing out the relationship between population growth and progress. As the analysis goes, the spike that we saw in human population, which has brought us to 8 billiion people in a relatively short amount of time, is masking what is most likely an inevitable shift towards depopulation. Here its a simple numbers game- the trend of any progressive society is decreased childbirth. We can note this in the most progressed societies in which child birth is below the magic number of 2 children per 2 adults. We can also see it in less progressed societies which are still above that number and presently sustaining our global population, as even a shift from 5 to 4, or 4 to 3 reflects the same inevitable trend moving at a striking speed. It’s a quick moving trend precisely because any decrease in numbers has an immediate and direct impact on the next generation. Less people in a given generation means less ability to increase the population.

There are numerous observations and questions that go along with this, all of which eventually lead to that bigger concern: what is the relationship between this and progress, and how do the two impact one another. For example, progress is often seen to correlate with education, and it would appear that one of the biggest things that fuels a generation that has less kids is education, especially for women. Why? This can be debated, but one liklihood is that education prioritizes numerous other things above systems that encourage and support birthrates. In Western culture, it also tends to correlate with the rise of individualism and the decline of things that grow and develop family systems. Without even making a value statement, the rational observation suggests that any culture which is predominated by declines in marriage, long term relationships, non-nuclear family structures, results in a drastic decline in population growth. It simply is what it is.

Here is where things get really interesting though. The author is very clear about seeing the decline of progress as a bad thing. He also sees depopuluation as a bad thing. What becomes clear the more he speaks to both of these things is that they are far more interconnected than first appearances might allow. To the point where, what starts to emerge is a kind of cyclical pattern, Progress leads to depopulation. But population is needed for progress. At this point I kept wondering whether the real crisis point here is an incoherent value system.

To underscore this point he pushes back on anyone who thinks over-population is the cause of our worlds problems. It is not over-population, rather it is people living wrongly that is the problem. Here again though he kind of muddles his way through an incoherent point of perspective and smuggles in undefined value statements. He wants to state that the problems emerge from populations living wrongly (defined as living in ways that do harm to the environment), but he also wants to state that the growth in population is what creates the pockets that have come up with solutions to the problems, something he sees progress as enabling. You can see how this starts to trip over itself on logical grounds, trying to get from one to the other and back again every time it runs into an apparent contradiction. Kind of like trying to make a case that the advancements progress handed us which allow for unrestricted sex without concern for pregnancy have played a significant role in the seemingly inevitable depopulation problem, but that overpopulation is what handed us the necessary progress to have those advancements in the first place.

Welcome to a world reduced to a math equation.

Welcome to a world that has bound itself to the myth of progress.

It’s the same problem he attaches to the rising rates of life expectancy around the world, a key factor in disguising the trend of depopulation from numbers that might suggest the opposite. The reason for the illusion of an increase in population trend is the simple fact that more kids are being had that not only survive past infancy and into childhood, but that adults are also sticking around at the same time. When you add 30/40/50 years to a lifespan, the numbers will go up expanentially in the short term even as birthrates decline. But there again, you come back to progress as the thing that enables something that then brings its own set of problems that progress has to solve (aging). Which of course is the number one thing that impedes progress in other areas (inherent concern for all persons of all ages).

So here’s my thought process on this. And as I was thinking about it, I was thinking back to that period of our life where we found out we could not have kids (we being my wife and I). It’s odd for me to think that this had such an impact on our lives. When you think about the socieity that we actually live in this shouldn’t be the case. Finding out that we couldn’t have kids should have been the thing that handed us the world progress promised us. The liberated individual who can make the world whatever we want it to be. That’s not at all what it felt like though. It felt like we lost our place in the world. The liberated individual that the myth of progress hands us is a lonely life to inhabit. Which might be why its so effective in pushing people to instead sink their lives into the aims of progress.

There’s another outcome of this that might be even worse though. That’s the notion that the world this myth of progress hands us is one in which overpopulation is necessary precisely because it hands you that necessary pool of potential exceptional persons and collaborations that bring progress about. That simply means that while all of these people are required for those pockets and persons to emerge, the vast majority are in a way sacrificial lambs. We are only needed as part of a numbers game. Which is what makes the fact that progress is similtaneously inhibited by those numbers and its supposed moral and ethical obligation to extend energy and attention in attending to them so ironic. This is precisely what we find though in such a view. The push and pull that the disparity between forms of affluence and forms of poverty cause (or the strong and the weak, the exceptional minority and the greater majority).

This is precisely why I see the role of the cynic as so necessary. Sure, on some level we can locate functional societies in which all of these realities are equally necessary, and then satisfy our point of persepctive by looking at the world progress has handed us and convincing ourselves that this is an end and an aim in and of itself. After all, we would never want to revert that way things were, right. We wouldn’t want to be like those lesser backwards people and societies. So we reinforce our convictions by creating those necessary scapegoats. All while we see history hurtling forwards towards who knows where and who knows why. Every advancement creating its whole new set of pains and problems, all while selling us on the idea that we could not live or thrive without it.

And then we get confronted by this data. Progress has created a problem of depopulation. We in the progressive West cannot sustain it because future generations won’t have the numbers. And all those other countries that we insisted needed to become like us, well the more they become like us the less childeren they have. Raise the alarm bells. Except lets be clear about what those alarms are for: a fear of losing hold of the privileged position western exceptionalism hands us.

To return to my own observations regarding our experience of not being able to have kids. There is something that happens when you lose your sense of place in this world. Something else happens though when you become aware of the fact that this is both because of the way the cultural conssruct (marriage, family) judges you, AND because of the way the myth of progress judges you. That’s what the proper cynic is analyziing. Except, a proper cynic is also not embracing defeatism and nihilism. Rather, it is a seeking after what it is that actually matters, what is actually true. A true value. What is it precisely that all of these cultural constructs are responding to, and do our social constructs reflect that or not. Perhaps thats the real crisis at hand. And here’s the most revealing thing. When we are looking at less progressive socities and saying both that they have something we value (higher birth rates, which is essential to progress) and that we have something they value (progress, which leads to our depopulized societies), perhaps the obvious muddledness of that whole equation should be the first thing leading us to question our foundations.