“The pursuit of truth and beauty is a sphere of activity in which we are permitted to remain children all our lives.” – Albert Einstein

“Wonder is the beginning of wisdom.” – Socrates

“We are an impossibility in an impossible universe.” – Ray Bradbury

“The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.” – W.B. Yeats

“We wake, if ever at all, to mystery.” – Annie Dillard

I’ve been thinking a lot about the concept of wonder this week.

An interview with Ken Follet about his upcoming book Circle of Days, a book about the creation of Stonehenge (which, coincidentally, has long been a source of wonder and fascination), found him musing about his recent and previous work on the history of cathedrals (Notre Dame: A Short History of the Meaning of Cathedrals).

He has been quite public about how, as an atheist, he has found new life, a new kind of spirituality if you will, in the wonder of these buildings. Which had me thinking about the ways he reconciles these two things- his atheism and his need for a constructed spirituality to infuse his atheism with meaning.

This past weekend being Easter, I was thinking a lot about the resurrection of Jesus as well. A story in Luke where the act of wondering, a word rooted in a search for “wonder,” leads the women whom arrive at the tomb to be “frightened” by what they find (two angels instead of a body), to bow down in response (reverance), and to “remember” as a result. It’s this last one that is most curious to me, as the indication is that in their wondering they encounter wonder, and it is this wonder that leads them to remember what they already intuitively know to be true. A truth that being mired in the grief of the moment and the routine act of burial has led them to forget.

Both of these things seem to beg a question. Is Follet’s need to wonder, and the women at the tomb’s need to wonder, are these both things that point to something true? Is the word wonder, rooted in the dual postures of amazement and curiosity, revealing that which we are drawn to or towards? That which we intuitively know to be true but which life in this world muddles and clouds and obscures? Is there is a sense of movement in the word wonder that reflects a necessary shift in perspective, a way of seeing something in a truer way than our present way of seeing allows?

Does Ken Follet’s seeking after wonder in the cathedrals illuminating something true in the face of his atheism? Is being drawn to consider the grave as a threat to their hope rooted in something true in the face of their grief?

Here’s another thought. While the words wander and wonder do have two completely different roots and origins, it’s a fun exercise to think about whether these two words crossed paths at one point, as where else do we need and find wonder more than when we are wandering, and is the invitation to wonder, the act of “wonderiung”, indeed an invitation to wander into the unclear spaces, to unsettle ourselves and to walk into the unexpected, towards the great unknown. Or perhaps, is this especially true when we are lost, like the women lost in the failed shadows cast by the cross, walking aimlessly through routine in the face of an uncertain hope and future. Or Follet’s deconstructed catholic turned atheist searching after a neeeded renewal of his sense of meaning.

I’m in the middle of reading two book’s right now. One is called Oceans: A History of the Atlantic Before Columbus by John Haywood. A few chapters in at the moment, I’ve been stuck on the Forward, which present a theme that, thus far, has been running through the book. The Forward is titled with the phrase “wonder grows where knowledge fails.” Exploring this storied part of the world, a space that holds the cradle of human civilization and history in its hands, he notes that all of civilization hinges on this central idea- wonder. Wonder is what moves the human to eventually cross the sea and discover what’s on the other side, reshaping one’s perspective of the world.

But there is another side to this, which perhaps challenges the notion that this wonder is rooted merely in a pursuit of more “information.” The elightenment, an eventual outcroppijng of the West crossing the Atlantic first,  took this inate and intuitive sense of wonder and reduced it to scientific “knowledge.” This is not, however, where wonder started, anchored as it was in a necessary center of meaning. Looking out at the world from the ocean shore once fueled a need to enter into a world soaked in the transcendent, in the imagination. What happens upon reaching the otherside is, knowledge, in its reduced form, becomes the aim rather than wonder. Why? Because a reductionist viewpoint, a view that reduces the world to its basic functional and material properties, is about power and control. A world reduced to this kind of knowledge is a world we can remake in our image. Which is exactly what we find in the formation of the modern West, leaving the center of our imagination behind in the soils that gave it birth. The West was forward, the quickly forgotten and eventually purged shores of humanity turned into resource that marked the stepping stone to East, was backwards.

The problem being, such “forward” thinking logically and practically demands a world stripped of wonder. Part of Haywood’s thesis is bringing this tension to the surface, a tension that runs rampant through the art and act of western civilization. If wonder is about seeking the resource of more scientific data, reductionism can be the only true aim. All this knowledcge circles back to the same definable place. What gets lost behind is the roots of science itself- a means of stepping into wonder. If science is a window into wonder, then the aim is transcendence, not reductionism, seeking to expand our understanding of what is true by anchoring our pursuits in something authoratative and governing.

In Haywood’s portrait of Atlantic “prehistory,” part of the curious and ironic nature of wonder is that it depends on challenging the limitations of our “knowledge.” It challenges the modern conception of knowledge as “knowing more data” by changing it to “knowing more truly.” This is inuitive to the way human persons and human societies work, to how it is that we know anything at all. And yet, the opposoing nature of these two drastically different approaches also rings equally true in our collective consciousness.

A book I just finished called Circles and the Cross: Cosmos, Consciousness, Christ and the Human Place in Creation by Loren Wilkinson, makes this same point. He does a masterful job of outlining the development of the modern West within the larger history of the cosmos, drawing out a similar observation about the inevitable “tension” we find within humanity’s development. He notes how science has had this inention and trajectory of pulling us more and more out of nature. even as it similtaneously reduces nature to a “resource” which it can mine and contol. To what end, becomes the necessary question, and further, on what logical grounds. There is a weird dichotomy at play here that muddles how it is that we are part of this same natural order and world, reduced as we’ve made it, defining the world and all it contains according to the same basic material properties. And yet the very foundation, and the very premise of this way of thinking, necessarily needs humanity to be a part of this same reductionist version of nature in order to make any coherent sense. We are equally resourcing “ourselves” in the process.

Wilkinson takes this point further, outlining how the same world Haywood is bringing to the surface that is shaped by the “myth of progress” hinges on something that actually acts contrary and antithetical to what we find in the natural world. Here is the damning truth: Such progress is not needed for the survival of a species. It is, in fact, wholly its own thing, its own category. And without proper defintion, it quickly becomes its own aim, which is, logically speaking, aimless. Which is to say, it quickly becomes an illogical demonstraiton of the rationalism it wants to adhere to as an ideal. It’s a dead end, cycling around until all of its constructions has been, once again, reduced. It cannot set humanity back in nature because it seeks, desires and craves this progress, this sense of power and control. And yet, it must set humanity back in nature for progress to have any coherency, betraying the fact that the very thing we have made our center is the thing that leaves us lost and aimless.

In a profound exposition of humanity’s philosophical movement, Wilkinson notes numerous figures important to this evolution, including William Woodsworth. The childhood longing of William Woodsworth is filled with wonder of this world, a wonder that was said to be lost by “growing up.” And yet this is the enlightenment view- that we gain truer knowledge of the world by growing up. In fact, what he found is that the world becomes obscured by the inadequacy and failures of it’s reductionism to make sense of the world we experience. It becomes inevitably smaller, restricted, whittled down to something we can use. The question for him was, how do we logically escape this? Do we need to? Can we? And where, pray tell, does the need to escape this come from? What does it reveal about the true nature of this world?

Here Wilkinson is also seeeking a positive way forward. He notes that the word “sci” means knowledge. This is also found in the words conscience and consciousness. These two words have been pulled apart by the whole modernist enterprise, but in proper conceptions of knoweldge, what it means to know anything at all, they belong together. They are words that set us in necessary relationship to the world we observe and experience. As he writes,

“Scientific explanations can reduce the cosmos and its creatures (including ourselves) to numbers and laws, but they can also return us to wonder and empathy.”

Thus, it’s a question of what we are being drawn towards, and whether the thing we are being drawn towards can be said to be true.

I mentioned a second book I’m presently reading. Almost finished. A book I’ve fallen absolutely in love with over this past week called Water Moon by Samantha Sotto Yambao. Avoiding spoilers, I’ll keep this brief, but the themes in this book are centered on the exact same tension I’ve been unpacking above. At the center of the story, set in Tokyo, is a pawnshop. Not many can find this pawnshop- most see a Ramen Noodle shop in its place- but for those who do it represents a chance to rewrite their lives by tradiing a choice, a regret, for a different path. It defines those who find it as “the chosen” ones, or the ones who are lost. In other words, those who are wandering are driven by this intuitive need to wonder about whether there is more to this life than its reductionist POV, and this wonder reveals this pawnshop and its promise of meaning.

At the heart of the story is a daugher and her father, the daughter set to take over the pawnshop from her father. On her first day as “owner’, she enounters a stranger whom wanders into the shop and, instead of her changing his perspective, he changes her own perspective on the world, opening her up to a wonder she didn’t know she had or needed. A crucial part of this subtext is the stranger’s profession as a scientist, a fact that becomes more important as the story goes on. Suffice to say that at the heart of the tension the book is exploring is the way wonder challenges the limits of our scientific knowledge by reframing it within a different narrative. It reclaims this science by defining its aims within something true and real, a knowlege of the world that is not reduced to the properties that science can observe, but in a source that this science reveals. A source that has the authority to give these puruits meaning and worth. It’s a profound journey that reminds us that this world is full of mystery, but that this world is also knowable. An invitation to step into a different kind of tension where these things can sit in necessary conversation to the whole. This is what knowledge is. This is what it means to know truth. This is what it means to know Wonder.

One last example, since I’m fresh off a viewing from last night. Isaiah Saxon’s debut film The Legend of Ochi. On my list of most anticipated films. I knew this film wasn’t going to necessarily be a 4/5 star effort. I also knew it probably wasn’t going to make my top 10 list at the end of the year. But I intuitively suspected that it would be among my “favorite” films of the year. And I wasn’t wrong. It checks so many of my boxes, taking me back to the sorts of films that captivated and informed my perspective of the world as a child. It’s simple, but in that simplicity it is equally profound. Most notably in the way that it seeks to broaden our perception of the world, not by setting us back into nature as reductionism demands, but by bringing nature back to the the forefront as part of a larger conversation regarding wonder in relationship.

This concept of “relationship” is equally important to Wilkinson in his above book. Rather than seeking an aged pantheism or panentheism, Wilkinson wonders about the resistance movement that we find emerging with the Romantics pushing back on the enlightenment perspective, a movement that eventually becomes the precursor to the modern environmentalist movement. There is something wanting in what is arguable little more than the appearance of an expressly new kind of “religiousity” built for a modern age disoriented and disatisfied with where its own ambitions have brought it. Here nature becomes God, and environmentalism its holy text. While holding echos of something true, Wilkinson maintains it doesn’t go far enough in detaching itself from the trappings of reductionism. It is simply granting authority to something that cannot actually claim that authority in and of itself. It is granting authority to something that has been reduced to properties that contain no authority at all beyond the laws we supposedly still want to circumvent.

Rather, what we find by setting all things in relationship is the ability to locate and preserve the holiness of particularity without sacrificing a necessary singularity- all things in relationship means all things can logically make sense of diversity and diversity precisely by sharing the same authorative source to which all diversity seeks and wonders after. In this view all things have a cause because all things have a beginning. Which of course, when we think about the universe, scientifically that is, binds us equally to the logical necesssity and reality of things having an aim- finding the source of our life in that necessary singularity which holds wonder and meaning in its coherent grip. We don’t know need to know it in order to reduce it to truth, we need the act of wondering for that which we wonder after to be shown to exist. Rather than reductionism being the necessary end, that singularity which informs our ability to wonder is the necessary end. A true authority. that invites us into knowledge of its existence through the act of seeeking.

The Legend of Ochi is set in the Carpathian Mountains, a setting that took me back to my own privileged opportunity to have travelled there back in 2015. It’s really that magical. The film borrows from the old world slavic myths, creating a historical fantasy out of the common motifs these myths help preserve, namely tle conception of darkness and light in contest. Here the evils plaguing this fictional village in the island of “carpathia” lurk in the shadows of the night, opening up the journey of its protagonist to wonder about whether light exists at all.

The curious foundation of this wonder though is an uncovering and illuminating of the natural world they inhabit, not in its reduction but through an adventure, a journey, that broadens their perspective regarding what this world is. The movement is sparked by an encounter of wonder, this young girls encounter of a world she was taught to fear offering a foundation upon which to imagine the light, then motivating this foward movement in the face of a world shaped by her personal pains and tragedies. In discovering a truer perception of the world, she is able to recast her own life within the shared significance of this miracle she observes and experiences. Here wonder is not a false construction or an illusion, it breaks in and transforms precisely because it is awakening her to something true and authoratative- all things in relationship. Thus truth allows her to reconcile the tension the darkness creates, and gives power to the light to redefine things according to that singularity.

Here a true perception of the world has a chance to emerge, locating wonder where knowledge fails. Inviting us into the transcendent rather than reducing it to material resource. The true wonder of the Ochi is that what once was perceived to be a threat to their family and community, their lives, is actually the thing that gives their particularity a shared meaning as stewards of a greater hope. Here this awakened perception flows two ways, inviting its human characters into an act of revelation regarding the truth they intuitively understand and seek and long for, and setting this in relationship to the particularness of the creatures that reveal this truth to the humans. This becomes a powerful portrait of that bilbical notion of stewardship as “stewards of worship.” Bearing out and reflecting the true nature of God to creation, while expressly bringing the worship of creation to God.

This is how wonder awakens us to the truth of this world, and how the this world finds its true knowledge in acts of wonder.

“On the first day of the week, very early in the morning, the women took the spices they had prepared and went to the tomb.” (Luke 24:1)

As was the case with Christian celebrations around the world, my church spent this past Sunday in the resurrection narrative. Being in the Gospel of Luke (each year we read through one of the Gospels, beginning in Advent), my pastor touched on an important aspect of Luke’s literary movement- missing from some translations (but included in many) is the word “but.” Why is this important? Because it sets the aims of chapter 24 as a direct response to the crucifixion narrative of chapter 23. There Jesus is killed, buried, leading to the crisis- the need to honor the day or preparation and the encroaching sabbath. Some translations include the word “but” in verse 56, to read “But, on the sabbath, they rested according to the commandment,” a move that shifts the tension towards the question of whether they would honor the sabbath or break it. The “but” at the beginning of Luke 24 lends a slightly different inference to the text. Wheras the assumed obedience to the sabbath in chapter 23 leaves the death as both the necessary conclusion and question of the story (as in, where do we go from here except back into necessary creation cycle of waiting for God to act), Luke 24 turns the page, exclaiming, “But, on the first day of the week, at early dawn, they went to the tomb…” Here the resolve of the tension is placed on the preparation, not the sabbath obedience.

The story continues. And in this light brings about not an end, but a new beginning. In theological terms, this reflects the resurrection as the mark of the beginning of the new creation story, a story that begins with the proclamation “they did not find the body.”

To which we come to perhaps the Gospel’s most poignant words, spoken to the perplexed and terrified woman standing on the precipice of this sudden turn of plot- “why do you look for the living among the dead?”

Is there any more poignant and striking descriptive of hope? The narrative feels like its reshaping the untold and unspoken expectations of the women, quietly taking what feels like resolve and illuminating something that they already know to be true, something the text says they then “remembered.” Why do they go to the grave the next day? Because they believe God has acted in Jesus. They are being drawn towards something that has been buried in the shadows with their grief, hidden in the reality that pervades their experience before the “but” turns the narrative in the direction of their desires, their longings, their intuitive conviction regarding the true story.

This is an invitation handed to all us on Easter morning. Where the reality of Sin and Death shapes our perspective in the present, the narrative movement to which we belong reminds us of the greater story to which the movement of creation belongs. As it says in Psalm 19,

“The heavens are telling the glory of God… in the heavens he has set a tent for the sun, which comes out like a bridegroom from his wedding canopy, and like a strong man runs its course with joy. It’s rising is from the end of the heavens and its circuit to the end of them, and nothing is hid from its heat.”

This is the “speech” of the heavens going out to the end of the world- Christ is risen. The Kingdom has come, on earth as it is in heaven. The sun arises on this Monday for the beginning of a new creation, bringing with it the promise that in Christ all things are being made new. As Elizabeth Caldwell helps remind us in her book Pause: Spending Lent With the Psalms, where we see the Law (the need to be obedient to the Sabbath), the Torah proclaims “a template for exodus living.” By which she means, quoting scholar Mark Stranger, “a pattern of life” in which God’s free and faithful people are invited to live within the covenant promise. This is how God is known in creation, through participation in the world, the sort of participation that draws creation into a different narrative, one that creation itself remembers and longs for even in its groaning. This, then, is where Christ and Law intersect, with participation in Christ drawing the world into the narrative of new creation.

Easter is not an end, anymore than the death of Jesus in Luke 23 is an end. There is a “but,” and that but continues into the new creation story that extends Easter into the cycle that follows. “On the first day of the week…” we awaken to a new resurrected reality.

“I’ll keep the promises I made to the Lord in the presence of all God’s people, in the courtyards of the Lord’s house, which is in the center of Jerusalem.” (Psalm 116:18)

“My God, My God, why have you forsaken me? Why are you so far from helping me, from the words of my groaning… I am poured out like water, and all of my bones are out of joint; my heart is like wax; it is melted within my breast; my mouth is dried up like a postherd, and my tonque sticks to my jaws; you lay me in the dust of death.” (Psalm 22:1-2, 14-15)

The Friday they call good.

How many times have I heard this phrase uttered over the years, usually contained within a sermon parsing out why it is good. It’s even written right into my calender.

I have been pondering this Easter season as I’ve been spending time in the Psalms, whether “good” is in fact the right word. One of the reasons its often called good is because the “death” is seen as the necessary work. Jesus’ death is singled defined as the good “gift.” And yet, as writers like David Moffit (Rethinking The Atonement) have been underscoring as of late, this doesn’t actually make sense of what the sacrificial system actually was and how it is applied to Jesus. In the sacrificial system of Judea, and indeed ancient Israel, death was never seen as a necessary sacrifice, the sacrifice was actually described as the necessary response to death. Meaning, the sacririce is not the death, but the blood. Death, as many have  helpfully articulated, always took place outside of the temple, not within it. It is never ritualized, and it is always presented as the problem the good gift (the blood) was meant to address. The blood actually did the work of “purifying” and transforming the temple space, meaning ridding it of the polution of death, which is seen as the mark of Sin/sin (the enslaving powers and ones particicpation in the enslaving powers). Further yet, the blood, which was understood to be where the life of the creature resides, is deemed to go up to reside with God. This is the gift.

From this vantage point, yes, there is something very good to be found in the Friday on which we remember the death of Christ. But that “good” is not the death. The good is the transformation that comes through the blood, crying out with the spilt blood that covers history, crying out for what is wrong in this world to be made right.

The good is in fact the act of the blood reconstituting death as life.

I’ve also heard it said, usually from those whom are explicitly or implicitly challenging the whole “God killed Jesus” motif that logically flows from certain theological assumptions, that the death is good because it was “necessary” to bring about the resurrection. At the very least I think this moves in a better or more truthful direction- the death is not the point in this case, it is simply a necessary byproduct of God entering into this world. But it still, I think, misses a central point- Jesus didn’t come to die, Jesus came to establish the kingdom on earth as it is in heaven. To usher in the new creation reality. Death is not necessary, it is what the blood is acting in response to- Death is what happened in response to the arrival of the King.

Why does this matter? Because if we lose the ability to name Death, we lose the ability to name Life. If we lose the ability to name the bad, we lose the ability to name the good. The central tenant of the Christian narrative is that God opposes Death (or its proper name, Sin and Death, or the Powers, or Empire). The central claim of the Easter story is that God defeated Sin and Death in Jesus. Not in the “death”, but in the blood, which reconstitutes death as life. This is the necessary transformation. The necessary work.

So what about the Psalms cited above? I’ve been sitting with these two Psalms, finding in them a challenging contrast of expressed sentiments. In Psalm 116 the author intently proclaims that they will “complete” what they promised to do. As Elizabeth Caldwell points out in her book Pause: Spending Lent With the Psalms, we aren’t told what this promise is, we can only speculate. All we know is that it is made within and in front of a community, that the place it is made (the temple) holds significance for its worth and meaning, and that this author is stengthened and determined to act in the face of contrary circumstances.

Psalm 22 gives us a window into the backdrop of many of these Psalms, a backdrop that sees a coming exile, a word that was made synonymous with complete abandonment by God, or death, as an all encompassing and defining truth of their reality. The words are striking, all the way to its final image- being layed in the dust of death.

So how do we reconcile these two things? What is invigorating the Psalmist to press forward in the face of this lament? Why continue? Why push to complete what you promised to do when it appears God has abandoned you and this world to death? Two crucial notes here that have been percualting for me. First, there is no question about what is being opposed (Death, or exile). This is the problem. Second, N.T. Wright, along with many others, have long been finding in the language of the cross the language of Passover. This is the dominant picture those stories are evoking, far more dominant than the other facet- the Day of Atonment. Why does this matter? Because the Passover Lamb, the one that does the saving work by way of purifying the space, is not the one bringing Death. To read the story of the Exodus, and indeed to step into its long history of tradition and midrash, is to pick out the subtle notes of a different Power at work, one which is called the Destroyer and is set at odds with God’s (Yahweh) saving work. I recognize that the nature of Exodus 12 has long been debated given that it states “God” Himself will “passover” and strike the firstborn, but there is little doubt in Exodus 12 that the text depicts God restraining and preventing and allowing a seperate Power from bringing destruction. Even less doubt that Passover is connected with the saving work of God whom liberates His people FROM Death. One take I found helpful was suggesting that “strike” is a word that can denote “marking”, meaning God marked whom the Destroyer could or could not have access to.

In any case, the central point here is that death is NOT the work of God, Death is that which God opposes. In the narrative movement of the Passover,. God is giving or handing over a people to a making of their own destructive, something that that is expressly imagined by paralleling the Egyptian killing of the firstnorn as something that comes back on them (in fact, this is how the whole of the Plagues narrative is designed and imagined). Pharoah is described in the language of the serpent, and the serpent is expressely defined in the language of Sin and Death. God’s work, then, both acts and imagines a different kind of kingdom way, one that contrasts with Death and which opposes it (as the story goes, God will crush the head of the Serpent, or Death itself). And this is crucial to me, because I can’t imagine the promise of of the Psalmist in 116 mattering unless they held this conviction- God opposes that which is deemed wrong. I can’t imagine the lament of Psalm 22 making any sense unless they held this same conviction- God has proclaimed Himself to oppose that which is deemed wrong, not participating in it. This is why the lament asks “why!”

When Jesus utters these same words- God, why have you forsaken me- they are caught up into the whole of this hopeful narrative of God’s own covenental assurances- this contrast between Life and Death. Thus, on the Friday we call good, this goodness stands with both Psalms held in full view. We lament over what is (Death), we rejoice over what is becomming (Death reconsituted as Life). In this movement, this Passover story, the blood of Jesus is now covering the whole of creation. Thus we come to this story the same way one approached the Day of Atonment- with the Exodus front of mind. Just as a new people has been formed in this act, a new creation space has now been formed in Jesus. This is what brings us once again to the lasting image of Sinai, where we find the invitation to participate in this covenant. To be freed to lament with the Psalmist, “My God, My God, why have you foresaken me,” and to be freed through the Gospel of this new Exodus to say, even then, “I’ll keep the promises I’ve made.” I will remain faithful, because, as the fuller breath of Psalm 116 utters, I believe God does listen and that God is near and that God has liberated this world from the Death that holds it enslaved. This is the good news.

“By this gospel you are saved… For what I received I passed on to you as of first importance- that Christ died for our sins according to the Scriptures, that he was buried, that he was raised on the third day according to the Scriptures… If there is no resurrection of the dead, then not even Christ has been raised. And if Christ has not been raised, our preaching is useless and so is your faith.”
– 1 Corinthians 15

It’s hard not to imagine this films release coinciding with Holy Week being somewhat intentional. While the animated film King of Kings appears to still be doing well, I might argue that Coogler’s film digs even deeper into the themes of the season with its emphasis on sin and death, longing and desire, resurrection and redemption. This stunning work, with its incredible sense of place and immersive cinematography is a powerful reminder of why narrative matters when it comes to making sense of this world. The story we tell shapes the way we grapple with reality, and the way we find redemption within it.

At the core of this films layered and contemplative approach is the idea of sin as a cyclical reality. Sin as an enslaving reality that holds individuals and families, generations, cultures and societies in its grip, binding together the whole within competing narratives. Everyone in this film is running from something, from a past that holds them hostage to failure, loss, oppression, suffering, fear, hurt. And it all culminates in the eventual question that follows- what is one running towards? Is there even anything to run towards?

One of the most powerful contrasts within the film, which it explores through its vampire laden premise, is the notion of resurrection. The tension here becomes one of desired redemption, and yet what haunts these desires is the question of what this hoped for resurrection represents. Does it bring the promise of the defeat of the enslaving Powers of Sin and Death, or does it simply bind us to the same destructive force that has shaped their reality?

Music plays a huge role in telling this story, with a specific emphasis on the old spirituals and the blues. The film describes the power of song as having the ability to blur the lines between past, present, and future, and indeed the overarching realities of life and death. It represents those thin places, if you will. But the dueling forces at war here suggest that in these spaces we let in both life and death, the devil and God. It becomes a question then of allegiance. Do we allow the cycles of sin to consume us, or do we break the cycle by trusting in a different way forward. The only to do this is to come to know where it is that we running towards. What it is our hope is resting in. Where it is we can find this hope. All else lead to the same reality- a world still enslaved to sin and death.

Coogler is brave enough to bring us towards notes of redemption without disguising the darkness as something other than it is. He is willing to dance with the devil in the moonlight so as to imagine, and indeed taste and see the sunrise. He has described this as his most personal and invested film to date, and what more powerful weekend to consider this narrative movement than the movement from death to life in the Easter story.

I’ve gotten busy at work (not a bad thing), and realized that this space was very much neglected over this past week.

Which means I’ve got an endless stream of thoughts and stories running through my mind at the moment. This is the shape of life. I’m reminded of why this space is important, as not only do these thoughts end up cluttering my mind and my spirit when I’m not writing them down, they start to get lost and muddled and confusing as they continue to wrestle for my attention.

Figured, what better place to really put my Lenten read to practice. It is called Pause: Spending Lent With the Psalms after all (by author Elizabeth Caldwell). For Palm Sunday and Holy Week, the reflection is on the traditional 118th Psalm. As she points out, this Psalm, or indeed song, was sung and used in processions to the temple, beginning and culminating with the phrasing “O give thanks.” It is the last of a series of interconnected Psalms beginning with Psalm 113 and ending with this song of thanksgiving.

Caldwell encourages us to see this as more than simply a Psalm of Thanksgiving. In context it is meant to bind the individual to the whole. The person to the shared community, and the shared community to the story of God’s faithfulness. This becomes especially aware and powerful when considered against the backdrop of the Exodus, which the refrain in verse 14 calls us back to directly- “The Lord is my strenth and my might, He has become my salvation.”

I’ve been compelled by this word “become.” This Psalm is littered with intentional contrasts between what is and what becomes:

• “Out of my distress” becomes “The Lord answered me and set me in a broad place.” (verse 5)
• “With the Lord on my side” becomes “The Lord is on my side.”
• “All nations surround me” becomes “I cut them off.”
• “I was falling” becomes “The Lord… has become my salvation.”
• “The Lord has punished” becomes “He did not give me over to death.”
• “Open to me the gates of righteousness” becomes “this is the gate of the Lord.”
• “The stone the builders rejected” becomes “the chief cornerstone.”
• “Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord” becomes “We bless you from the house of the Lord.”

Here’s the thing about becomming that stuck out for me- it rings with the notes of an invitation. An invitation to move forward in the midst of  the contrary voices and forces and experiences, into this becomming. God becomming our salvation is shaped both by our story and our participation in this story- we participate IN this salvation. That’s what the Easter story is about. That’s what shapes it according to the primary distinctives of the Gospel- transformation and life.

This past Sunday my Church walked through Luke 19:28-48, a passage Scot Mcknight calls “Redemptions Arrival.” My pastor noted the curious absence of the many elements we commonly associate with Palm Sunday, and instead hightlighted the intended direction and eventual arrival- Jerusalem. Or more specifically, “the house of God”, or the temple, which Jesus specifically defines as being “a house of prayer” which has BECOME a den of robbers.

In this the house will be transformed through the story of Jesus, and in so doing the house will dwell in the lives of the people (in Christ we are the temple of God). Thus, it becomes interesting to consider that for the ancient Israelites making this journey, this progression, this Psalm is a prayer that carries them forwards. That frames the transforamtion that would come through this progression and eventual arrival. Here the invitation meets with God’s promise to move out into the whole of the world by way of the transformed people of God. This is the story.

One last thought, looking back at verse 5. What does it mean to be set on a broad place? Is this imagining a shift in physical space? A shift in spiritual and mental space? Both? However one imagines this, the becoming in this passage reflects a shift from a narrow space to a broad one. A space that is no longer restrricted to the reality that is, but is free to become. A space that is no longer restricted to narrow sightlines, but to broad perspectives and points of view. A space where we are free to move and live and breathe in the freedom that Christ brings- the invitaiton to experience the transformed life.

Waiting is an act of hope, a way of being present with expectant anticipation of God’s redemptive and immaninent life, always with us and waiting to emerge again and again. – Elizabeth Caldwell (Pause: Spending Lent with the Psalms)

In the fifth week of Lent, Caldwell invites her readers to reflect on the idea of pilgrimage, this ancient practice of moving towards the temple, the sacred and holy destination which frames the hopes and expectations of second temple Judea.

A journey framed, in context of the larger story, by waiting. For the ancient peoples of the second temple era, the temple is juxtaposed against the backdrop of exile, a reality that frames waiting as a longing for the people of God to be restored, and within this anticipated restoration finally mark the arrival of the promised king/kingdom as liberaton for the whole of creation.

As pilgrims then, this waiting is not simply an exercise of personal growth and fulfilmment, but of cosmic need. This reality we presently occupy is reflective of what is not right about our world. Creation itself is enslaved, and this enslavement is the Sin (and Death) that Israel needs to be liberated from. This is the necessary language of exile, otherwise understood as enslavement to the Powers of Sin and Death. The freedom to name death is the crucial point here, which frames the pilgrimage as a movement “in sin and death” towards something other- a new creation reality in which what is wrong about our world is made right. The movement for a pilgrim was about being actively purified from sin and death on the way to the place where God is said to dwell in their midst. it is here, at the temple, that they would then  be rewnewed by the promise of transformation.

A new reality breaking in. A reclamation of the whole. The naming of Life in a world defined by Death.

Growing up I always saw the whole Easter season as an uncomfortably sombre affair. So much focus on sin and death. What’s strange about this is, the older I got the more aware I became of a specific critique of Christianity that accused it of ignoring the reality of death in favor of its illusions of religious hope, reward and heaven. Even stranger that what I’ve come to find on this side of my own journey  is quite the opposite- it’s the only place where I find Sin and Death actually being taken seriously.

The only place where one is free to truly name Death, and thus become able to name Life.

In Psalm 130, one of the Psalms Caldwell notes would have been memorized and sung on the pilgrimage to the temple, it reads in verse 7,

Israel, wait for the Lord!  Because faithful love is with the Lord; because great redemption is with our God. He is the one who will redeem Israel from all its sin

Caldwell notes that the phrase “wait for the Lord” (Hebrew: yachal) is not simply waiting, but hoping. It is the call of the Psalmist to the whole  (Israel) to wait and hope. Hence why the pilgrimage is shaped by two things similtaneously- reflection/purification and forward movement towards this hoped for transformation. Reflection on that which strips this world of hope, but still moving forward in the face of this contrary word in expectation of what has been promised in God’s faithfulness. Thus as we journey, our vision of this world begins to be reshaped by an invitation to participate not according to the language of Death, but according to the language of Life. Our view of the world is being reshaped, and thus we are being reshaped by this new vision of the world.

Lent of course brings a new dynamic into this concept of the pilgrimage- Jesus. The Gospel writers depict Jesus as the raised temple which, by way of the Spirit, defeats the Powers of Sin and Death and comes to dwell in the whole. Jesus is the raised cosmic temple (creation) in whom and by whom we participate in the promised new reality having broken in, to borrow from N.T. Wright, to the middle of history. Thus we wait and hope now as new creation people. Lent becomes not simply a necessary reflection on the way reality is, but it becomes an invitation to live out this new reality in the here and now as a “realized” hope. This is the tension of Paul’s already-not yet theology. Lent is the marriage of the journey (the pilgrimage) and the destination (the arrival of the kingdom) expressing itself in the present through the risen Christ. The overlap of the ages making itself know in the practice of the Christian life as the resurrected people of God.

Which, unlike the experience of my young self, while needing the story of exile to name Death, need not be languishing in the sombre realities Easter brings to the surface. Where the Psalmist sings “faithful love is with the Lord” and “great redemption is with our God,” the Easter refrain joins the hopeful expression by answering the declaration “He is the one who WILL redeem Israel from all its sin” with the proclomation “Jesus HAS redeemed Israel from all its sin.” God’s faithful love is now dwelling with us AS the answer to the problem of exile, a word that was made synonymous with Sin and Death in the ancient world. God’s redemption is now realized with and in us. In this hope we journey forwards towards the fullness of time, bringing the redeemed story of Israel forward into this new creation reality as the definite expression of God’s saving work in our present.

We’ve reached the end of the first quarter. I recently took the time to reflect on my reading journey thus far in 2025. You can find that in a recent post in this space. I thought I would do the same thing for my journey in film.

The Oscar Films

As is true every year, January is generally devoted to catching up with the Oscar nominated films, most of which are not released wide until January and February. This year’s slate included the innovative cinematic epic The Brutalist, a film that I appreciated more than I connected with it on an emotional level.

It’s an impressive feat on a technical level, boasting some incredibly inventive camera work and cinematography for a film of this budget. The on location shots, especially in the second half, are brilliantly marked by the functionality of its raw, unfiltered approach, including its use of widescale shots and an incredible score. The story of this architect fills the breadth of is 3 and a half hour run time, beckoning back to a bygone era of storytelling methods, intermission and all. My one critique is that I struggled to connect with Brody’s character, That’s where I felt the emotional distance. His character is someone whom embodies an arc which feels bound to a singular experience. I have read some reviews expressing an appreciation for the arc’s subteties, finding the depth in the smaller details, and that leaves me curious about revisiting this one down the road. But as an initial experience I was struggling to find a way in to his personal viewpoint, which was seemingly absent of any real transformation.

On the other side of that coin is Nickel Boys, a film that is every bit as impressive in terms of its cinematic approach, filmed through the fascinating lens of its first person perspective. While this is a restrained approach that stands in contrast to the epic nature of The Brutalist, noted in the narrowed use of its aspect ratio as well, the narrative and character arc was far more evident and profound. This is a film that is all about the transformation. Its about seeing the same scene from different perspectives, allowing us to pick up details we might of have missed. This becomes even more powerful as it brings in a secondary perspective, exploring the overlap of these shared experiences and these different vantage points in relationship. One of the most powerful films of the year, to be sure. It’s still deeply sad that it remains so underseen.

Equally powerful was the white knuckle nature of now award winning international film I’m Still Here’s exploration of the pains of trauma and the healing power of familial bonds.

Or the deeply hopeful narrative of All We Imagine as Light, a story about what it is to see the world, to see ourselves in the world, in this tapestry of rain and light. It is the beauty of the spaces we occupy, both ones we have arrived at and are simultaneously beginning from.

Then there is the deceptively alluring nature of the since crowned Oscar winner Anora, a film which uses the intense plot of its story, filmed in a way that is energized and deeply entertaining, to ask big questions about how it is we judge ourselves when we are similtaneously being judged by the outside world. This judgment has the power to dictate how it is we belong, and it brings up deep philsophical questions regarding how it is that our identity is shaped. There is the external crisis of her place in the world, with its social constructions, and there is the internal crisis grappling with how it is she exists this world, naviating who she is in what is a morally and ethically complex existence.

There is a similar moral and ethical crisis running through two of the other international contenders, The Girl With the Needle, one of the most shocking and oppressive viewing experiences of 2024, and The Seed of the Sacred Fig, of which the final 60 minutes of this film represent what is probably ranking among the most intense things I saw in 2024, bringing its vulnerability and real world horrors to bear in its captivating climax.

A shout out to the documentary, Blink. Some saw it as a bit too sentimentally drawn, following what is in measure an affluent family dealing with a crisis by way of their privileged ability to drop everything and travel the world while things are still intact. I can get that, but there’s little question that it nevertheless works on an emotional level all the same.

And then there is the riveting September 5^th, which plays like 2024’s Saturday Night Live with its fever pitched pacing and precision like filmmaking that is constantly moving with the characters and the unfolding events. It got the short of the end of the stick in the whole Oscars conversation, as its genuinely very good.

The Best of the Rest: Honorable Mentions

In my yearly resolutions tradition, which I call Rosebud, I reflected on the present state of the movie industry (or more specifically the American film industry, which tends to impact things here in Canada whether we want it to or not). As someone who’s love for film and visual storytelling is rooted way back in their childhood, for whom the classic theaters of the 80’s and 90’s led me to become a life long cinephile, I confessed that in all that time I have never experienced the level of cynicism and constant vitriol that has been dominating the landscape over the last couple years. Every week there is another controversy and crisis, and every week there is another compaign going after another film. As the calendar turned over, I lamented the loss of that simple joy of being able to see and appreciate films together.

Arriving at the end of the first quarter things have only gotten worse. Certainly this years Oscars plays into this with the whole debacle of Emilia Perez followed up by the contrarians launching a vile campaign against Anora’s record breaking night. But it is not contained to that. It’s either a story of films not getting seen, or it’s a story of terrible people doing and saying terrible things to whatever film they have in their sights in the present moment.

It’s exhausting. To the point where it sucks the life out of what makes cinema meaningful- the anticipation, the conversation, the collective experience, the investment. It feels like the entire thing has become so devalued at this point, little more than a politicized commodity, that finding reasons to care feels too difficult to even know where to start reclaiming some of that passion.

And yet, I persist. I continue to support the films. I continue to go to the cinema. I continue to try and keep this passion alive. And if nothing else it’s a way of holding on to that which matters- the power of story. The power of transformation. And maybe that’s enough to break through the noise.

Certainly there’s a fair deal to celebrate in the first quarter. In a landscape that has left theaters struggling to find successful ventures, horror remains a hot ticket item. 2025 has given us two Soderberg films thus far. One of those is what I would call the best horror film to release in the first quarter, Presence. A film that tells its story from the vantage point of the ghost, leaning into its small cast of characters, its single setting (a house), a distinct and developed sense of atmosphere and tension, and just the right amount of twists and turns to create its arc.

If Presence was kind of ignored at the box office, Heart Eyes and Companion both performed better, leaning into their crowd pleasing nature and fun characters. They are the sort of middle of the road horror fare that can connect with a diverse crowd, making them a fun night out at the movies.

As a big, big fan of Paul Schraeder, I was both excited and a little dismayed to find his latest release, the introspective and contemplative O Canada, quietly get dropped wide on Kanopy of all places, the free library borrowing system. Nowhere else, just Kanopy. It just might be his most personal film to date, with the story of an aging and sick filmmaker looking back on his career intersecting with elements of Schraeder’s own life and story. Although he’s not sick, he’s clearly using this as a way to look back on his own legacy and ask some big and important questions about its meaning and worth, especially where who he is remains to intimately tied to the films he has made. It’s not his best film, but it is a return to some of his most classic tendencies following the previous trilogy that has consumed him over the last number of years. Given the nature of its wide release I imagine its not likely to get an audience, but at the very least I finally got to catch up with it.

There were two underrepresented films that are worth noting here too, the first an effective and memorable romantic comedy-drama called Young Werther. I loved the back and forth of the film’s central relationship, playing as a kind of contest between characters that is less about the ultimate outcome and more about navigating the internal crisis and growth that these events inspire. It’s funny, entertaining, and also filled with charming moments.

The other is Last Breath, the dramatized take of the previously released documentary. It doesn’t add any details to the story, but as a dramatic retelling its extremely effective. Short, intense, and delivers an emotional punch (albeit in a kind of nihilistic cage, but that’s a whole other discussion).

And then there’s Mickey 17 and Snow White, two high profile films, both in their own ways massive victims of the prevailing cynicism and vitriol. Both movie’s claim to fame at this point is the weaponized headlines concerning their failed box office performance, the first ironically boasting numbers that should, in all respects, be a resounding success for an international, indie filmmaker, the second showcasing how out of touch box office expectations are with reality, naming a nearly 100 million dollar opening weekend as somehow a colossal failure. Both, in their way own way, are very good films with mixed elements.

Mickey 17 is noted for its biting satire on big budget hollywood, not to mention the present state of American culture and society. It uses its own unnecessarily bloated budget (which is what happens in Hollywood when your little indie that could, a small film called Parasite, becomes an Oscar winning cultural phenomenon- they give you the money to waste) to lean into its own brand of lunacy. It never loses touch of its commentary though, grounding it in the story’s central character, Mickey. That is part of its brilliance. Its own absurdity as a film, which throws plot points and third acts and ideas at the wall with a sense of unhinged glee, is the blinding force of superficiality that covers up and/or reveals the real substance underneath. Thus is not just a satire that critiques Hollywood, it’s an invitation for those willing to do the work to locate and experience the real themes waiting to be unearthed, actively resisting the trappings of big budget Hollywood.

Snow White is in some ways the counter opposite. It genuinely leans into its blockbuster status and takes it seriously. While the film and its star have been forced to contend with one of the most vile attacks on a character and film in recent history, it is better for its unapologetic commitment to sincerity and authenticity. Its one of the more hopeful cinematic experiences I’ve had in a good while, appealing to the truth and power of togetherness and love and kindness as a way forward.

My Top 10 Films of the First Quarter

Now for my current top 10 films at the end of the first quarter in 2025:

10. Hard Truths

A showcase role for Marianne Jean-Baptiste, featuring a case study in self destructive behavior. What makes it so powerful is that it simultaneously challenges the idea that what we see on the surface is what is really there, driving all of this destruction towards a pointed message about grace.

9. The Day The Earth Blew Up: A Looney Tunes Movie

I had no idea this film existed, let alone was releasing, until I saw the sign on my way to a different theater. Colour me intrigued. Bought a ticket. It’s delightful. A throwback to the classics, but also fittingly modernized in a way that blends into that nostalgia.

8. Paddington in Peru

New director, same delightful nature. The playground here is bigger, given the international stage, and that leads to a greater degree of creativity in the staging of the different set pieces. That’s where it gets the most mileage. It admittedly does not match the magic of the first two (which would be difficult to do), but it certainly manages to make a case for its existence, which is a definite success story given the change of guard.

7. The Order

The third biggest surprise of the first quarter. A genuinely intelligent thriller based on a true story with a stylish, recreated period piece setting providing the foundation for a patient but driving edge of your seat story.

6. Bridget Jones: Mad About The Boy

My second biggest surprise of the first quarter. Like seriously, where did this one come from. Zero expectations. I could appreciate the first one, but wasn’t attached to it in any way. And yet this new chapter comes out swinging, ultimately proving to be an incredibly powerful exploration of grief and a celebration of life.

5. Grand Theft Hamlet

Far and away my number one biggest surprise of the first quarter. A documentary about a pair of filmmakers whom use the pandemic as a chance to make a film adaptation of Hamlet set inside the game Grand Theft Auto. You’d think this would be dumb and ridiculous. It’s the furthest thing from that. It’s a deeply human, deeply felt and often very funny journey of exploration, much of which emerges in real time as they indulge this experiment. It’s unlike anything else you’ll see this year, and its destined to still be lingering around my list at the end of this year.

4. Universal Language

Took a while for this Canadian made movie set in Winnipeg to get its official first screenings here in Winnipeg. But I can testify to it taking our city by storm. While the humor is decidedly built on insider language, both as a Canadian and as a Winnipegger, it’s the commentary on Iranian cinema that is the real unsung hero of this story. Which is to say, if it’s a difficult film to get ones hands and minds around in the moment, it rewards through the subsequent digging and research that helps bring clarity to its vision. It’s an extremely coherent film ONCE you know what it is doing and what it is talking about. For the moment however, it still managed to be one of the funniest movies I’ve seen in a long, long time. And one of the best Winnipeg centered films.

3. Better Man
Shocker- another film no one saw. Which is a shame, because this one’s a banger. Tells the story of Robbie William’s journey from young kid to rising star to the constant rise and fall that marks his journey to and through fame. He might not be immediately recognizable to those of us this side of the pond (North America), but that doesn’t prevent this biopic from standing on its own. It’s creative. It’s entertaining. It’s a bonafide musical that defies genre conventions and forges its own path, ultimately resulting in a film that is a genuine crowd pleaser.

2. Exhibiting Forgiveness

A debut film that explores the idea of forgiveness through the parallel stories of son and father, father and son, standing on both sides of the generational line of shared trauma. Here it distinguishes between forgiveness and justice, or forgiveness and restitution/reconciliation. Acts of forgiveness are located in a world where justice and reconciliation is not yet realized. Therefore it can only ever acknowledge that which is wrong. It is a recognition of loss. What we attach forgiveness to- the hoped for justice or reconciliation that will one day come, is its own separate thing. Forgiveness is rooted in the promise of the reconciliation of all things, but it is not the thing that brings it about, nor does it require reconciliation to be realized. It is simply the removal of an obstacle to the free participation in that awaited reconciliation.

There is some real, understated filmmaking on display here, using different shooting choices to bring its emphasis on art and music, to the forefront of the story as well. Thus it’s a very visual film, and those visuals go a long ways in evoking the necessary emotions that give this film its power. The performances then compliment this vision by bringing their own imaginings of these characters, husband and wife, sons and fathers, to the table. An exceptional film, and one that is sure to foster discussion and dialogue.

1. Black Bag

It’s struggled to get the audience it deserves (surprise, surprise), but this slick, sexy, ridiculously entertaining relationship thriller is one of the best things Soderberg has done in a while. And he has been consistently churning out good and inventive films. It’s a dialogue driven film with twists and turns that afford it that prestigious and distinguished air befitting its perfectly sculpted cast.

  

 

 

 

 

Reaching the end of the first quarter, I thought I’d take a look at where I am in my reading journey thus far in 2025. Note some relevant threads, some hightlights/lowlights:

As has been the case in previous years, I started things off with the next book in Toshikazu Kawaguchi’s Before the Coffee Gets Cold series, titled Before We Say Goodbye. Each book is built around a similar structure (a series of stories connected by shared themes, all intersecting at this coffee shop where its possible to travel back in time to any moment that occured in this coffee shop), while also advancing the larger overarchcing themes of the reoccuring characters whom run and operate this coffee shop. For me this is comfort food, with this book dealing with buried and lost moments of regret. Given that one of the rules of the travel is that one cannot actually use the past to change the present, it is always interesting to see why different people choose to travel. By its nature, it relates to changing something in onesself- a perspective, a letting a go, a knowing, a sense of closure. These are the questions that make this series compelling.

Why would I choose to go? Where would I choose to go? The interesting element of this queston centers on the notion that our memories are deeply tied to our sense of place. The moments they are revisiting are tied to experiences at this coffee shop. Thus, for me to think of when I would go back to is to think of where I would go back to, which is both a specific time and a specific place.

This is an idea that travel writer Frances Mayes explores in her book A Place in the World: Finding The Meaning of Home. This was a highly anticipated backlist read that I finally managed to get to this past January. While its also one of my biggest letdowns of the year for me thus far (a great concept marred by a lack of vision when it comes to execution), the idea, the reason I was drawn to it in the first place, is what remains compelling. What is it that ties us to our sense of place if not the memories that give these places their sense of meaning. We cannot conceive of the moments that shape us apart from the power of the places that hold them in our consciousness.

It’s interesting the follow the thread of this idea through some subsequent reads that seem to give this notion a transcendent and metaphysical presence. Such as Christopher Alexander’s fascinating and illuminating The Timeless Way of Building. A book for architects, interested n giving architecture a philosophical foundation, Alexander explores how acts of building, creative acts, bring about something that takes on its own creative possibilities- in other words, a life of its own. This philosophy is drawn from nature, looking at how nature functions, with each act of creation bringing about something that creates in and of itself. This is similar to how Kawaguchi imagines this coffee house, with a singular moment giving life to consecutive moments, all of which have the power to create their own threads of historical narrattive while being bound to this shared, singular point in space and time. Meaning, if something different had been created in this singular moment, what emerges from this moment would create subsequent moments all with different creations of their own. This is the complex web that reads against temptations for linear readings of space and time.

Or Walker Percy’s Signposts In a Strange Land, a book that uses the specific context of the American south, or the even more specific context of his hometown as a bridge or dividing line between the south and the larger framework of America, to explore the larger truths of our existence. All are signposts pointing to something true at the heart of things.

Taken together with David Bentley Hart’s magisterial All Things Are Full of Gods: The Mysteries of Mind and Life (a must read for anyone interested in these big ideas, and a truly revolutionary work that should advance the field of philosophy and metaphysics), or Spencer Klaven’s Light of the Mind, Light of the World: Illuminating Science Through Faith, a book that, similar to Hart, deconstructs materialism in favor of finding those necessary metaphysical truths which give reality its definition, grounding the creative process in a necessary foundation. This suggests that the ebb and flow of life as a creative movement is always anchored in something true.

A shared foundation, and yet one that gives life to the specifics that shape our unique stories. This becomes the ebb and flow of all philosophical and theological exercises. This is how we bind observation/experience to our sense of meaning.

Perhaps one of the most profound exercises to this end was checking off the now iconic classic work, The Sacred and the Profane by Mircea Eliade, one of the strongest arguments for the existence of a God that I’ve encountered in a long while. Which is not to say that this is what the book sets out to do, rather it is the implications of its examination of two central truths regarding the nature of this existence- our observation and experience of the sacred and the profane, and the way these two things shape both our understanding of all things and our participation in all things. Indeed, all things are full of gods, which for Hart is reflective of that singular foundation for all truth- God.

Intuitively, this is what shapes books like Brother Lawrence’s The Practice of The Presence of God (finding God’s presence in all places and as the formative, driving force of all things), or Barbara Anne Taylor’s popular An Alter in the World: A Geography of Faith.

Faith rooted in our sense of place.

It’s even found in something like Evan Friss’s The Bookshop: A History of the American Bookstore. Like The Timeless Way of Building, bookshops are defined by the relationship between a building or a space and the people that occupy them. The meaning of a place intersects with our experience of something real and true. While a bit inconsistent in its structure, I found Friss’ examination of the life of the bookshop endlessly fasciunating and engaging.

I had shelved a book by Canadian author Rice Waubgeshig titled Moon of the Crusted Snow, specifically waiting to read it in the winter months (seasonal mood reading for the win). Picked it up this past January. It’s breezy but not shallow, it has horror notes, but it’s not overtly scary (haunting perhaps). Those notes are grounded in its commentary about indigenous history here in Canada, using an apocalyptic type setting to parallel the horrors and confusion of a people ousted from their land and forced to relocate to the remote north with full expectation that they would not survive. It’s not super complicated in terms of allegory, but I thought it was creative. What makes it one of my favorite works of fiction that I’ve read in 2025 is the way it connects real historical realities to an examination of the profane, or the horrors that shape our experiences of this world. This is equally important to pulling out the sacred, that which reaches beyond acts of survival to the preservation or seeking of that which has meaning. All of this packaged in an entertaining narrative.

One of the masters of holding this tension within the framework of a propulsive blockbuster level entertaining narrative is T.J. Newman, and his newest effort, Worst Case Scenario does not disappoint.

Playing on a different wavelength, which is to say short, sweet, lovely and simple, is Sipsworth by Simon Van Booy. This had been making its rounds in the booktalk world since its release a couple years ago, winning people over with its story about an old, aging woman spending the final quarter of her life in the absence of the stuff that has afforded her an identity and meaning, forming this bond and friendship with an unsuspecting mouse. It’s not earth shattering, but it does live up to the selling point of its promised charm.

If I had to choose my top three fiction reads of the first quarter, they would be the following:

Impossible Creatures by Katherine Rundell
This one hit plenty of checkmarks for me. One of the things I loved about this teen fantasy, chalked full of magical realism, is the way it imagines, or perhaps more correctly describes, the central crisis of our world, at least here in the modern West, as a persistant neglect of our connection to the spiritual dynamics of this reality. In the world of Impossible Creatures this perceived separation of the material and spiritual world has left the spiritual world unseen and forgotten, despite these two worlds overlapping. It is the ones living in proximity to this spiritual reality that have the eyes to see, and it is the embrace of, and more important participation in this reality, this world as it truly is that can awaken us to its suffering.

There is an eternal truth that we all seek, whether we know it or not, something that is as illusive as it is present within the joys and struggles of this existence. It is this intersection where we find what is most needed- hope. A hope that stories like this, steeped in relevance as well as fun and adventure, can reawaken us to.

Aurelia by Stephen Lawhead
Lawhead is a favorite author of mine. A definite auto-buy. It has been too long since he wrapped up his previous series, and this one is actually a prequel of one of his most famous- his King Arthur series. Of course, if I had my way I would have wanted a brand new series, but as a prequel it delivers exactly what I would hope for. It’s scaled back, focused on setting the stage for the grand and epic narrative which is to follow, and can absolutely stand on its own. That and one of the great joys of my life is the opportunity to spend time with his stories and his writing, so I am just grateful to have something new that allows me to do just that. It was far and away among my most anticipated new releases of the year, so it’s not surprising at all that it would be topping my list of favorite reads thus far

Sunrise on the Reaping by Suzanne Collins
Also on my most anticipated list. Because, well, it’s a new addition to the Hunger Games series. A prequel to be exact. And a near perfect bridge between the previous prequel, documenting the rise of Snow, and the first Hunger Games book, documenting the rise of Katniss. That bridge is, of course, the story of Haymitch. This doesn’t just feel necessary, it feels essential, filling in the gaps and completing the series in a way that elevates it to greater heights

My biggest surprise of the year? Probably Eliot Stein’s Custodians of Wonder: Ancient Customs, Profound Traditions, And the Last People Keeping Them Alive. Biggest surprise if only because I had never heard of it before stumbling across it on the Rick Steves podcast. Maybe if I had been aware of the author’s career as a journalist prior to reading it, especially since over half of the book is taken from journal pieces he had previously published, it might have been less surprising, but going in blind I was absolutely taken in, not just by his writing style but by his deep affection for the human stories he is capturing, the deep questions they are posing, and the ability these stories have to recover wonder in what has become a cold and calculated world. I love it when books force me to slow down and appreciate the moment when I’m in it. This is one of those books.

A close second would be My Roman History by Alizah Holstein. This was a blind buy straight off the shelf. I was intrigued by the synopsis, using the memoir as a way into reflecting on the power of Rome as a place. What I found was so much more. Deeply philosophical. Often moving. Shaped by a genuine and real love of history, but in a way that reads this history through a boots on the ground awareness for its real life and real world impact. It is history through her eyes manifested in the present, formulated as parallel narratives working side by side- her story and the story of Rome.

My most formative or paradigm shifting reads? I’ve already mentioned David Bentley Hart’s All Things Are Full of Gods- essential reading on philosophy and metaphysics. I would toss four more into the mix, two of which have been slow reads (reading them in bits over a longer period of time). The first is the book How To Write Your Own Life Story: The Classic Guide For the Nonprofessional Writer by Lois Daniels.

This book is actually based off of a course she teaches, but what makes it paradigm shifting for me relates both to the central idea, and to the way it intersected with my own life in the present moment. On the former, it argues that this process is not self centered, but rather something everyone in any stage of life can and should do. It’s not meant only for those looking to tackle something like this, but to encourage people to consider doing it, precisely because there is great worth in doing it. On the latter front, this was something I had been trying to do for the past 3 years without success. This not only gave me the tools, it gave me the inspiration to do it. I am now three quarters of the way done in finishing that project.

The second slow read was the classic book How To Read a Film by James Monaco. This was a Christmas gift, and it’s a hefty one. No small task. And yet as a cinephile, and as someone who has a deep love for the art of story and filmmaking, it absolutely transformed how I see the form. It gave me the language and opened my eyes to the artform on a technical, historical and philosophical level. Thus why I say it was paradigm shifting.

And then there was Brant Pitre’s Jesus and Divine Christology. In terms of theological trends, this is a game changer. It resets the entire field of discussion relating to the question, who did Jesus claim he was. Not who did the Gospel writers say he was, but what, based on an objective, critical approach, did Jesus claim he was. Did he see himself as human, or did he actually claim himself as divine? Pitre takes the long standing divide between liberal and conservative scholarship and leaves little to no doubt (and that’s not hyperbolic) that not only do the Gospels claim Jesus thought he was divine, but the best explanation for why the Gospels claim this is that Jesus claimed this himself. Going forward, that classic debate should be laid to rest, and anyone grappling with the question in either theological or historical terms will have to go through Pitre’s work first.

Lastly, Shai Held’s Judaism Is About Love: Recovering the Heart of Jewish Life. In a world where the long standing divide between Christian and Jewish thought sits alongside some wrong headed assumptions about Jewish life in secularist academics and popular ideologies, Held’s book is an invitation for the seeker to reconsider what the Jewish story actually is and what it actually says. It’s the sort of book I want to hand to everyone. It’s also the sort of book that I will be revisiting many times over. And I say that as a Christian. It was a reminder of the ways Christianity cannot make sense apart from this story, and it was also one of the most helpful analysis of its distinctives, meaning how Christianity continues to tell that story in distinctively different ways than Rabbinic Judaism. One thing remains true- without a proper understanding of Judaism we cannot understand Christianity.

An honorable mention in this category- The Last Romantic: C.S. Lewis, English Literature, and Modern Theology by Jeffery Barbeau. There’s not shortage of academic works on Lewis. It’s rare for any new work to really set itself apart, rather what tends to happen is repeated engagement across disagreements, usually with pioneering works (such as Allister McGrath’s biography) as representatives of those sides. The Last Romantic cuts through that noise by narrowing in on an underrepresented period and facet of Lewis’s life, namely the influence of the English romantics, particularly on Lewis’ autobiographical approach. It’s short but dense, structured in a call and response (article and critique) by select conversation partners. It’s also a powerful reminder of why Lewis’ central convictions regarding myth and truth matter across disciplines today.

Every year my Church walks through a Gospel, beginning with Advent and ending after Easter. This year we are in the Gospel according to Luke

This mornings passage was on Luke 18, which Scott Mcknight’s commentary titles the “Two Redemption Parables.” I was struck by the ways this passage connected with this weeks reflections for the fourth week of Lent in Elizabeth Caldwell’s book Pause: Spending Lent With the Psalms. Here she reflects on Psalm 23.

First, some context for Luke 18:

It starts with Jesus speaking to his disciples. The reason he is speaking to the disciples is in order “to show them that they should always pray and not give up.” (18:1) Give up on what? Here you need to back up and read Luke 17, where Luke documents Jesus being asked by the Pharisees “when the kingdom of God would come.” This sparks a lengthy discourse by Jesus where he is speaking about what it looks like to anticipate the kingdom of God in the form of justice in the face of exile (the renewal of Israel). Jesus states,

“The coming of God is not something that can be observed, nor will people say, ‘Here is is,’ or ‘There it is,’ becuase the kingdom of God is in your midst (17:20-21)

This notion of the Kingdom of God coming sits at the heart of the Judeo-Christian narrative. Indeed, it sits at the heart of the Gospel, anchoring our own hoped for expectation of God making right what is wrong in this world in the story of Israel. The Kingdom of God coming is Jewish language expresssing a Jewish story regarding Jewish expectations of the fullness of time- the day in which Israel’s renewal marks the inauguration of creation’s renewal- through Israel God’s glory fills the earth.

The true power of Jesus’ words then lie in this- the kingdom of God is not a time or a place, it is in fact the person and work of Jesus. This is what it means for it to be “in their midst.”

Thus we come to Jesus’ words in 18:1. Always pray. Don’t give up. This is followed by the first parable about an unjust judge who gives in to a widows persistant plea to “grant me justice” against her adversary, or enemy.

Jesus’ ensuing question to the pharisees rings sharp- “Will not God bring about justice for Israel? (18:7). Followed by a noted proclamation- “God WILL see that justice comes. However, there is a more important question than the one we find in Chapter 17. Rather than asking “when will the kingdom come”, otherwise rendered as “God’s justice,” the better question is “will the Son of Man find faith on the earth.” (18:8)

The response from the disciples is varied. Jesus singles out one in particular-  those who “were confident” of their own righteousness, and in this confidence “looked down on everyone else.” (18:9).

Just a quick note to make sure the proper progression of this thought is being followed-

• the initial question is, when will the kingom of God come
• the kingom of God coming relates to “Israel’s” renewal
• the initial parable is about a widow and her adversary, inidicating that this is about Israel and exile
• The proclamation is that God will bring justice to Israel’s story

Jesus now follows up with a second parable, this time indicating that he is speaking to a more specific portion of this crowd of disciples- the ones who were confident.

Confident in what? That God will find faith on earth when the kingdom arrives.

Yes, of course God will. How do I know this? Because I am faithful. Unlike “those” people over there.

To which Jesus tells a parable about two men who went up to the temple to pray, a Pharisee and a tax collector. The Pharisee is described as the ones who fast and give and live a faithful life. The tax collector is seen as a Judean whom has sold out to Rome, hence being lumped in with the broad label “robbers, evildoers, adulterers.” He is a picture of the assimilation if the new dead tribes of Israel.  Read: the faithless on earth. The exiled nations.

The Pharisee’s prayer is noted- He stood by himself (proper posture for someone concerned with purity laws, meaning they stood away from those “others” who would bring impurity while at the temple). He thanks God that he is “not like them.” By contrast, “the tax collector stood at a distance,” most likely indicating distance from the Pharisee and the temple. He could not look to God directly. Rather, he “beat his breast” and prays the words “God, have mercy on me, a sinner?

Now, what struck me reading through this passage is how quickly the tendency here is for modern readers to align themselves with the “right” person, as Scot Mcknight suggests, while acting like the person they think is in the wrong. Meaning, they use the tax collector as license to demonize the Pharisee. But, considering the progression of the passage above, look at what comes next in 18:14:

I tell you that this man, rather than the other, went home justified before God. For ALL those who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted?

Here’s what’s important, in my eyes, about that. If this is indeed a passage about Israel’s renewal, and if this renewal is found in Jesus, this is a passage about how that renewal will come about. Or more specifically, it is a pssage about the nature of this kingdom that marks this renewal. These are both Judeans. The exile is about a divided and scatterd Israel in the face of Judea being the sole surviving tribe returning from exile. That scattering is directly related to Israel’s failure to be faithful to God in the face of the surrounding nations, doubting that what God promised to do (make all things new, and make right what is wrong in this world through the story of Israel) was going to come about.

Remember Jesus’ question- will I find faith on the earth. This is directed to the disciples. It would stand to follow that the seemingly correct answer would be, yes, I will be faithful. To be otherwise is to delay the expecting coming of the Kingdom, or even to throw it into question.

And yet, what is the mark of the Kingdom’s arrival? That this tax collector is being exalted in light of his unfaithfulness. This is the sign that it is in their midst. This is the sign of Israel’s renewal. This is how Israel’s renewal comes about. It comes about through Gods faithfulness. Thus, the call to pray is in response to this, not the thing that brings it about. The measure of the Pharisee only leads to us versus them, Judea versus the dead tribes of Israel. The faithful versus their enemies.

Hence why using the tax collector as license to “look down” on the Pharisees misses and muddles the point. The passage is about dismantling such notions of the Kingdom of the God. Remember when the widow asks for justice against her enemy? Taken together with this second parable, the portrait here seems to be one of dismantling the concept of the enemy. That’s how liberation will come about through Jesus’ Kingdom. What we find instead is the humility of Jesus’ way. The humility of the cross, in which we find the power of the resurrection- the arrival of the kingdom of God in their midst.

In fact, rather than the usual tendency to render passages like this to be about the saved versus the unsaved, what we get is a parable about how God’s justice sits external to our need to build it on such paradigms. This has more to do with an internal crisis and an internal conflict between two people going to the same temple to do the same thing, both in anticipation of the promised story coming to its climatic moment. It is, in some ways, about the modern theological battles waged in our modern day temples, leaving Jesus’ question ringing through the noise of such divides- will I find faith on earth? The story of Israel tells us the right answer to this question- God is faithful in Jesus in the midst of our divide. That’s what we cling to, precisely because this is what Israel’s hopes clinged to.

Caldwell brings Psalm 23 into this discussion by noting three important things about passage

• There are 55 words in the Hebrew, placing the singular phrase “you (God) are with me” at its center
• Two uses of the word Lord frame the beginning and ending of this passage, connecting God as Shepherd, or king, to God’s house/ dwelling place, or kingdom.
• The passage contrasts the pursuit of our percieved enemies with the pursuit of God’s goodness and mercy, suggesting that we don’t chase these things, these things seek us.

Caldwell cites Robert Alter’s translation, reading the phrase “even though I walk through the darkest valley” as, more accurately, “even though I walk in complete darkness.” This has more to do then with not being able to see. Hence the “leading” of the first portion of this passage.

Most important to the question at hand regarding Luke 18 is Psalm 23:5. “You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies.” In the presence. Caldwell connects this to the communion table, where enemies come together unified in Jesus. To say, as the Psalmist concludes, “I will dwell in the house of the Lord (the kingdom of God)” forever, is to say I will dwell in the presence of my enemies. This is how the kingom of God restores creation. This is how the kingdom of God proclaims justice to the earth. This is what we pray for.

Caldwell ends her reflection with a potent question- who would be on God’s guest list at your table?

(Major spoiler warning for Jaume Collet-Serra’s 2025 release The Woman In The Yard)

“It’s tough, you know, being a person.”

(Fran, Sometimes I Think About Dying)

I’ve been working through Lois Daniel’s book, How To Write Your Own Life Story: The Classic Guide for the Nonprofessional Writer in 2025. I had just finished writing a segment on a time in my life when I was wrestling with thoughts of suicide.

Which is not to say those thoughts ever go away. I think anyone who understands this space understands it is a tension we learn to live with. In Rachel Lambert’s 2024 film Sometimes I Think About Dying, she astutely captures and comments on the art of feeling trapped inside one’s own mind. The way she shoots the film allows her to reposition us within different vantage points, sometimes seeing from the main character’s POV (Fran, who is wrestling with the stuff of life and the idea of death), while other times seeing from the outside looking in at her, be it from the POV of the cast of characters that surround her or the camera itself.

While Sometimes I Think About Dying is more about the anxiety and depression that is sometimes running underneath thoughts of death, the recent release of Jaume Collet-Serra’s 2025 film The Woman in the Window dives head first into the subject of suicide itself. Interestingly, this is a film that is also very much about POV, however in this case it focuses on the contrasting perspectives at war inside our main character’s own mind as she wrestles with the world and its tensions,

It’s a messy film, to be sure. So much hinges on the film’s ending reshaping our understanding of the journey, which leaves the journey itself, at least in the moment, feeling disparte and disjointed. It is however the reshaping that has stuck with me, leading me to consider its perspective over and against my own.

To touch on my own story: I grew up in a prototypical evangelical Christian home. On the surface I played out the equally prototypical story of young kid adopting the faith of their parents, only to question it down the road. However, as it is with any prototypical story, dig underneath the surface and one will find the necessary nuance needed to understand that every story is in fact offering its own vantage point on the same shared reality. Part of the process of writing my life story is doing precisely that.

What I have uncovered is a thread, stemming from my childhood, as young as 5 years old if I stick with my active memories, of someone who, for whatever reason, felt drawn to the bigger questions of life. As soon as I gained the ability to look at life and say something about it, I felt this inate need to understand it.

And the more I sought to understand it, the more atune I became to its tensions. In many ways this manifested as fear. Not fear of death. At least that’s not what my story seems to be suggesting. But fear that I will fail to understand this world rightly, and the deep rooted anxiety that seeks some level of integrity between what I believe to be true and how I actually live. And perhaps more profoundly, this would translate into a deep rooted fear of being misunderstood. There is nothing more powerful in this world than the thought and realization that you are what the world, what others, say you are. This is what has ultimate power over your story in the end. Thus, it is far more necessary to ensure that this world, those others, understand how and what you see, as that’s the only way to locate your perspective in tangible relationship to and conversation with the world, or with a reality that is true.

This would follow me through the different phrases of my life. As a introverted kid, or what I would come to call in my adult years, an introverted extrovert (big gatherings or crowds lead to immense anxiety, however I also find that I do not do well being alone), I tried to stay on the boundaries of the whole church world thing. It was part of my family routine, but I was content to live it out in the context of my own carved out space, much of that devoted to my early love of reading. Books were my way of doing Church.

I did eventually find my way into the whole physical church circle thing when I was 16, somewhat ironically through what was at the time one of the biggest youth groups in Winnipeg. Here I had to figure out how to carve out space in that social setting that could allow me to co-exist as my introverted self, something I managed to do by sticking to the fringes. This entry point would go on to shape the next 15 years of my life, including a church split that spawned a house church, which grew into what would now be considered a mega-church, and my eventual departure from this community. In that time my story travelled a similar path- one foot in the middle of the tradition, another foot anchored in the fringes. It is here where that childhood tendency to constantly wrestle with the questions and the tensions was held afloat. And while I had become adept at holding this in balance, a series of life events and transformations in the church world itself eventually led me to a place where I ultimately decided to leave the whole faith in God thing behind (fast track to a different part of my story: I eventually returned to faith, albeit one that had a different shape and context).

There I was. Floundering in this new space, trying to figure out how to proceed in a world where I was losing all of the defining markers of my life. Where do I go? What do I believe? How do I establish new relationships within the framework of a new worldview, using a different paradigm to seek after that stubborn and persistant need for integrity?

However I moved forward, it needed to match up with what I believed to be true about this world and about myself. Thus I set out in efforts to figure this out. As I did so I digged deeper into the atheist circles and forums that were available to me.

This went on for a while until I started to notice some cracks in these spaces. Having come from what I would call fundamentalist Christian roots, I was beginning to notice more and more some similar fundamentalist notes in the brand of atheism I had adopted. Famously called the “new atheists”, it was led by a primary collective of thinkers and scientists and academics leading the way into this brave new world of anti-religious secularism. The power of that old paradigm, built on an over allegiance to facts, certainty and apologetics, came crashing back in, simply with its new secularist mantra in tow.

The first time I noticed this was when I started to find in my atheist circles a deep resistance to some of the challenges I was posing to some commonly held beliefs. I had thought this new community was supposed to be open to the questioning. And yet I was finding more of the same- appeals to illusion over truth, a refusal to examine the tightly guarded beliefs that hold our certain convinctions intact, a heavy set commitment to indoctrination. I knew all of this only too well.

Thus, the more I pressed this community, the more I found myself once again alone. Not retreating back to God. Just alone in my questions and my pursuit of integrity. The one thing that made sense to me at this time in terms of a worldview was materialism, and yet the implications of materialism appeared to be the thing the vast majority of humans most resisted. It was that tension that fascinated me. Or maybe that tormented me.

Things eventually came to a climax, or a focal point. for me over this one, single question that I kept returning to over and over again- is there a good reason why I shouldn’t commit suicide. Not that I was necessarily suicidal at the time. Rather it was part of the logical process I was appealing to in order to make sense of this world, my life. Here’s what I knew ,

• Life has far more suffering than good. Suffering far outweighs any experience of the good
• The simple act of living/existing does far more harm than good regardless of intent

Thus its extremely difficult to make a logical case for why I shouldn’t commit suicide on either beneifical grounds or on moral grounds. Thus the only way to answer the question with an appeal to the positive is to appeal to something illogical or irrational when weighed against a materialist POV. What I found is that this most often emerges in approaches that seek to romanticize the suffering. And yet, where materialism is concerned, its all based on an illusion. Everything in this view of reality is an emergent property, and yet at the same time it is necessarily deconstructed into the same basic properties- it is all construction that can be reduced to the simple truth that meaning doesn’t truly exist. It is manufactured. Thus, any view that attempts to build a case for life, for living, is necessarily bound to the expectations of privilge and success. It is not true that I have any inherent worth and value, it can only be true that worth and value are afforded based on grounds that do not have a logical or consistent foundation. Worse yet, its logically impossible for me to say that my choices, my actions, my investments actually make this world better, actually make someone elses life better. It’s equally possible that my presence, my choices, my actions, my investments make someones life worse, make the world worse, if its even possible to measure such a thing in the first place. In fact, this is most likely to be the case in a materialist POV. Thus the only justification is to be able to say, in light of that fact I still find this investment/choice/action to be valuable in the moment. in and of itself. Which is appealing to an illusion, not something true.

And then there is the additional defining point- if this was true, it undercut any moral grounds for answering the question with an appeal to integrity. Morality would, and could, be shaped by an appeal to the greater good. To this end I can logically argue that my existence is not only negligible and expendable, but wrong.

So if there was no good answer as to why I shouldn’t commit suicide, what prevents me from doing it? Why do I not do it?

This is the question I found sitting at the heart of The Woman in the Yard.

Here I think i need to delve deeper into why that is in order to truly capture, from my perspective, what this film is doing (spoiler warning again).

First off, I think it’s wrong to interpret this film as a metaphor for grief. That might be part of the picture, but its not the point of the story.

This is a metaphor for suicide.

Why is that important? It is important because, if you aren’t someone who has wrestled with thoughts of suicide on a personal level, reducing  it to grief becomes a way of categorizing the struggle in terms of shame or guilt or regret or failure. Or the bigger label- crazy. In fact, one of the biggest and most relevant threads in this film reflects the complete opposite- one of the great struggles of suicidal thoughts and tendencies is that it is in fact seeking to be logical and rational as a conceit.

Again, my opinion, but if we miss suicide as the central point of the metaphor, we miss what it wants to say about the subject. We end up reducing thoughts òf suicide to a wrong headed response to circumstance, which of course misplaces it as delusion or craziness. The tragic outcome of someone thinking wrongly.

Just to underscore this, note the way the film depicts the memory of the tragic car accident that took the life of the main characters husband. Throughout the dinner scene she is depicted as someone who is wrestling with the incongruities and cognitive dissonance that life tends to create. We then get the resulting image of the car crash, now with her behind the wheel, being rooted in the image of this woman in the mirror before driving head on into an oncoming vehicle.

Which means it is a suicide attempt.

When we arrive at this family absent now of a father, the injured and recovering mother spends her days praying for strength. The reveal is, not strength to face her grief, but strength to take her life. But here is the thing. I do not think this is depicted as a desire born out of remorse or guilt or shame or delusion. Rather, it is born out of what she deems to be the logical conclusion of her existence. Just as her existence harms her husband, her existence threatens to harm her children (hence the dualing images of over protection and outright harm, something she responds to by employing intentional distance).

As someone who has wrestled with suicidal tendencies and struggles, I can say this is one of its most potent expressions and commitments. Suicide is, at its heart, a question of logic and reason, as in, it seeks for a logical reason not to take ones life. And one of the deepest and most difficult aspects of wrestling with this logic is that it often comes back with an answer that says, there isn’t one. For every moment that says, I need to live for this, that same moment can be undercut by the very real reality that my living for this thing will most likely result in more harm than good. And no matter how much one tries to find reasons that suggest otherwise, reality keeps betraying these attempts to justify living as illusions. As irrational. As illogical. As romanticizing the brute facts of existence. We don’t like what it is, so we reframe it as something different, and when this false realty comes crashing back in- cognitive dissonance

That’s the biggest struggle with suicide. Far from being a mark of craziness or shame or guilt, it is in fact, seemingly, the most logical conclusion we can arrive at. This is, I believe, what we find in the main character.

This is also how the film arrives at its necessary appeal to ambiguity. This allows it to carry what is a difficult tension. As we arrive at the ending, it becomes clear that what is framing the main characters struggle is two competing images of the world, of her life. In the mirror image everything is backwards to what it is in reality. The proper R is a backwards R. She is stuck living through both worlds, but living them in tension, from two different vantage points or perspectives which keep getting more and more disillusioned as the story pushes forward. It all culminates with a final moment- her struggle finally committing to the logic of her situation. Her sitting in the chair with gun aimed at her chin, precisely because it’s the most rational conclusion she can come to.

 And then the camera fades away. We don’t hear the gun. We don’t see the gun. So what really happened? Here we are left with different possibilities. Different interpretations concerning what is real and what is the illusion. Was she already dead and the whole movie is in fact an illusion? Was she dead because of the car accident, and this is her mind playing out an outcome of that suicide? Or is the movie playing out in real time, with the ending imagining the different outcomes of suicide or survival? Is the romanticized life and house that emerges from her potentially setting down the gun and walking away the illusion or the reality? Is it the letting go of the romanticized illusion in the face of a successful suicide attempt? Or embracing a greater truth, however illogical it might be? In many ways the image of that ending is both an image of her enslavement and her salvation.

There is so much here to consider, and so much of it lands for me in a big way, leading me to reflect more deeply on my own journey. This uncertainty is so real to the process of wrestling with suicide. In some sense the tension will always exist, if simply because life can’t be made sense of on a purely logical and rational level. To think rationally and logically, and to consider where this leads with integrity and honesty, would force certain implications to hold true. To find a reason not to commit suicide is to seek, and indeed trust in something irrational- a stuffed animal that has been made into an imaginary friend for example.

I live with this tension all the time. I know the dark places this film is willing to go to only far too well. That’s where I found its gut punch to be so effective. It feels true. It feels real. That’s where I found it compelling. Its rare to find a film dealing with this subject so honestly in this way. Usually films that deal with suicide are looking to balance that with appeals to manufactured hope or redemption, or use it as grounds to say something about life and its worth apart from any real, concrete foundation. This film takes a different path, one that perhaps might feel more difficult to process, and thus easier to dismiss, but one that is more authentic to the struggle of living with the tension. It’s a reminder too, for those who have never experienced the struggle, to recognize the importance of honest approaches. The last thing that satisfies suicidal thoughts are appeals to illusions, to fabricated answers that tell us the experience of this tension is illogical or a harmful delusion. That only leaves us feeling more out of control.

To echo another phrase from Sometimes I Think About Dying, “The more I think about the movie, the more I like it.” Precisely because it validates my desire to live with integrity. It validates the fact that my experience of this tension appears to be true.