John's Blog
Journals We Think Are Particularly Cool
A secret fishing hole. A hidden point break. The best carnitas tacos in town. There’s nothing like a good tip from somebody you have at least marginal confidence in. So, in a spirit of generosity towards what might be viewed as “competitors,” we thought we’d turn you on to some of our favorite (other) journals. One, because we love finding great reads, and Two, because we remain confident that even if we tell you about the other guys, no one is doing anything close to what we’re doing. So, here we go; this is what’s on our nightstand or in our bathroom… Overland Journal A quarterly gem on some of the coolest vehicular adventures and the requisite gear for them (thus, over land journal). Put out by some guys who self-describe as, “Adventurers. Constantly traveling. Testing and using gear in real-world situations. Gaining experience, which we readily share.” It is an understatement. By adventures they mean stuff like (in the Spring 2015 issue) four dudes who drive—yes, drive—across Antarctica in specially equipped Toyota Hilux trucks. Some of our earlier favorites were a single gal in her 30s who rode a revved-up moped across Vietnam in search of the infamous Ho Chi Minh Trail, and, a bit closer to reality, great BMW GS bike trips across Death Valley. Fabulous photography, good adventure writing, truly helpful gear reviews. And the ads alone are worth it, because they are on some of the coolest adventure gear on the planet. In fact, it was this journal that sealed our plans to make our second film series about a GS bike adventure through the backcountry of Colorado this August (stay tuned!). I was on a return flight home from some business trip I didn’t really want to be on, dog tired, crammed in the middle seat between two robust Ukrainians, and I took out this journal for a little medication. I opened to a review of “dual sport” adventure bikes, and as I read, that wonderful “still small voice” whispered inside, You should do it. We now have six used GS bikes in hand and plans are under way. Good proof for the inspirational power of any read. The Drake There are fly fishing magazines and then there is The Drake—a hip and stubborn departure from the fish-porn of most mags, featuring, yes, great articles on where the good fishing is—all around the world. (Fly fishing in India? You betcha. Tiger fish in Tanzania? Just mind the crocs.) But also great features closer to home, like Yellowstone cuts and Adirondack brookies and Olympic Peninsula steelhead and the bass in your local pond. Thoughtful essays on protecting the creation we love, new developments in gear and also fisheries management, good book and trend reviews, all done in a rather sassy “canned beer” sort of culture (like the recent article on how to find killer carp on the fly ten minutes from your own downtown, while sleeping out of your car). Again, the ads are almost worth the price (“Five dollars. Ten for bait fisherman.”) The advertisers got the groove and the ads are funny, irreverent and feature some very cool gear. Articles are all written to fit a very specific time slot—about the time it takes to take care of…business, if you catch our meaning. Very Drake. Backpacker Hang on—if you do anything outdoors, this magazine is worth your nickel. Yes, it is obviously on hiking, trekking and backpacking. But it also features phenomenal intel on good wilderness and great beauty not far from your door, with maps and websites offering more. Regular features on first aid, survival, gourmet camp cooking, physical training, outdoor photography techniques and more give you an idea of why even non-backpackers will dig this rag. And yes, even if you simply want great beta on day hikes, this is the place to look. Now, we don’t particularly appreciate it when they run a feature on some of our favorite “hidden spots” (now hidden no more), but hey—we are generous enough to recognize that the more people love the outdoors, the more they are going to care for it and frankly, we think being outdoors is really good for human beings and does all sorts of wonderful things for the soul. Dreaming of backpacking through Scotland? They got you covered. Jordan? No problem (well, other than armed conflict, which is outside the magazine’s responsibilities). We love their regular “off the beaten path” info on the National Parks. Plus, their gear reviews are famous. Like, they really go out and test all sorts of stuff in all sorts of climates and conditions and tell you what works and what doesn’t and where the really good deals are. Sunglasses, headlamps, running shoes, knives, rain gear, stoves, UPF clothing, camp showers, tents…you get the idea. These guys have been around forever, and we’re really glad they survived the widespread magazine collapse of the late ‘90s. Eastman’s Bowhunting Journal Okay, okay—this is no doubt a highly specialized niche. However, if you hunt at all or have even considered hunting, this is a great place to get an education. Lots of “DIY” stories each month on regular guys out there trying to make it happen on public land (as opposed to, for example, Safari Journal, which we also enjoy but frankly has a pretty high bar when it comes to the kind of adventures they feature). We like the blue-collar culture of the journal, which positions itself as “The Original Resource for Hardcore Western Bowhunting.” Look—even if you don’t hunt, there is a part of your soul that needs something to break the malaise of those 42 hours in your cubicle each week, and the features in this mag will take you to those places vicariously. Plus, the beta they provide on how, where and when to apply for hunting tags across the Western states, by species and units and trends, is a staggering amount of research you could never pull off for yourself. Give the Robin Hood in you a treat. Cigar Aficionado Put out by the guys that do Wine Spectator (let’s not forget Cana!). Look, we’ll be honest—both magazines have their serious faults. They are high-gloss, slightly arrogant, utterly worldly and definitely trying to give you the “you just got welcomed into the back room of a very cool bar” vibe. Leather chairs and all. We admit that right up front. But both rags are worth the reviews—here, regular cigar reviews, and we really appreciate the fact that while they flaunt their Cuban connections they also reveal where the killer smokes are for under $10, which is, well, wonderful. We learned about Brick House here, and Flor de Las Antillas, along with a bunch of our other faves. Good articles on famous “smokers,” including a recent fascinating interview with Liam Neeson, who we also happen to love. (Did you know his nose got broken in a former boxing “career” attempt, and that’s why he has that tough-guy look? I mean, c’mon. That’s just, well, cool.) We take the whole James Bond affectation tongue in cheek. Think of this one as plundering the Egyptians. Mars Hill Audio Journal Yep, time for a curveball. No bows, winches, reels or Honduran wrappers here. This is a very insightful audio journal bringing some of the best Christian thought on the arts, culture, science, politics—stuff that actually matters in the world. (Not that this other stuff doesn’t matter, but there is a hierarchy of importance, yes.) Ken Myers was an up-and-coming NPR reporter, bright guy, perfect radio persona. NPR came to him, knowing he was an intelligent and reflective Christian, along the lines of a C.S. Lewis, and they offered him his own show helping explain the Church to the world. He went and thought about the offer, came back and said, “No. My calling, I now realize, is the opposite—I want to explain the world to the Church.” So he started his own thing. And explain he does, via interviews with leading thinkers on everything from genetic engineering to Tolkien’s mythic writing to the imagination of our aforementioned hero, C.S. Lewis. Great, great stuff. Perfect for your car or your iPod. Your brain will grow. Your soul will, too. Okay, we’ll stop there. For now. Holding off on our desire to rave about Rock and Ice or Surfing or some other goodies that maybe we’ll come around to next time. Meanwhile, if you’ve got a great recommend, post it on And Sons social! Share the joy. After all, we only come out once a month, and we know you promptly devour And Sons, and then what? Here are some great additions to your water closet. As seen in And Sons Magazine, our online magazine for men.
John Eldredge
Western heART
I want to ride to the ridge where the West commences I can’t look at hobbles and I can’t stand fences Don’t fence me in. -Cole Porter The places we love call to us because they are, in fact, “the landscape of our soul.” I don’t mean the landscape of our childhood or of some special memory. The landscapes we love speak powerfully to us, they call to us, because the country corresponds to the actual terrain of our interior world, the landscape of our soul. That is why one man feels such a deep connection to the deserts of the Southwest, while another feels it with the ocean, or hardwood forests, or the high country above timberline. When we go there, we feel as if we have come home. I find the same thing to be true of art—when you find a painter or a style that you really love, you’re also encountering something that speaks to the geography of your own soul. For me, it has always been Western art. Not the cheesy John Wayne-on-black-velvet stuff you see at swap meets. I’m talking especially about the early classics—Remington, Russell, Moran, Runguis—painters who captured the heart of the West in the late 1800s. Their work expresses the ethos of the landscape and lifestyle that have a mythic place in my heart. The more I looked into their lives, the more I loved the story they lived. Runguis’s biography is entitled Fifty Years with Brush and Rifle. I bought it for the title alone, partly because I thought, That is a fabulous life, and partly because of a conversation I had recently had. “You’re the first thoughtful, artistic person I’ve ever met who also hunts.” The comment was made with wonder and confusion by a very reflective man, a student of human nature. The surprise he felt in the apparent “obvious” contradiction of “artistic” and “hunter” is a reflection of assumptions held by many thoughtful people in the 21st Century, whose lives have become almost completely separated from wild places and from the sources of their food. But it would have been foreign to the people who lived before the age of TV dinners and frozen burritos. Runguis was a hunter and painter; he lived out in the woods for months at a time, in the Wind River Range in Wyoming, pursuing big game, drawing sketches, and studying the wildlife that he would become so famous for. Whereas many so-called “western artists” stayed in the East and painted their horses using as models the ones you see on children’s carousels. Born and trained in Germany, Runguis cut all ties with the Old World after his first hunting trip to the Rocky Mountain west. “My heart is in the West,” he explained. I know exactly what he meant—he found the landscape of his soul. Charlie Russell is another fascinating story—he came out West to work as a cowboy and live among the hard characters he would so powerfully portray. Born in then a rather tame Missouri, he dreamed about the Wild West and like many boys after him read every story about it he could lay his hands on. The call of the West seized him at sixteen, so he dropped out of school and went to work on a ranch in Montana. Like Runguis, he never looked back, moving from ranch to ranch as a hired hand. In 1888 he lived with the Blackfeet Indians, and much of his work portrays an intimate knowledge of the Native American way of life. What I love about these guys is that they plunged into the world they would eventually paint. Their knowledge was firsthand; it was hard-earned, and it gives me a respect for their work. Russell’s painting “Loops and Swift Horses” seems incredible—except to the men who lived in the saddle, and yes, did this very thing. (I know some old cowboys who would chase down bull elk and lasso them.) Remington spent a lot of time living and painting among the U.S. Cavalry, and many of his works are based on true stories he heard from officers. Unlike Russell, who lived among the Indians and was welcomed as one of their own, Remington was influenced with an “anti-red man” bias from the soldiers he hung out with, and some of his work romanticizes the accounts from a Cavalry point of view. But overall, his paintings and sculptures are worthy to have become iconic, mythic, nearly synonymous with the Old West. Thomas Moran paints in the style of the “Hudson River School” he was a part of, but his work out West is what earned him a national reputation. I love his “Cliffs of the Green River” (above). What’s really cool about Moran’s story is that his work helped establish Yellowstone as a National Park. He came west with the Hayden expedition in 1871, and painted both the Yellowstone and Teton regions. It was those images that helped win national support for the protection of Yellowstone. (Mt Moran, named after him, is our favorite peak in the Tetons). But I’ve been writing on the landscape of my heart. The real question is, what is yours? Has it occurred to you that the geography you love is a mirror image of the landscape of your soul? It might be good to go back and look at photographs, or visit the place again, and let that thought take you deeper. I would do the same with art—don’t just put up any old image in your home or office. Find those works that call to and feed your soul. There is a terrain in you that needs to find its counterpart in the world.
John Eldredge
It's Not What You Think It Is
Many men go fishing all of their lives without knowing that it is not fish they are after. — Henry David Thoreau If you’ve watched any sports television in the last few months—the Super Bowl, or twenty minutes of March Madness—you’ve seen at least one of the commercials for Game of War. You saw the buxom blonde bombshell striding or galloping on horseback through battlefields, urging and taunting timid soldiers on to great and daring feats. Challenging rulers to rule, or be forgotten. Calling boys to be men. I loathe those ads. I loathe them because they brilliantly play upon the masculine heart, without the masculine heart knowing what exactly it is they are playing upon. Most of the Game of War ads end with the seductress looking straight at the viewer with a provocative invitation that also feels like a challenge: “Want to come and play?” I guarantee you that the viewer isn’t thinking about a smartphone game in that moment. Deceptive as it is, that’s actually not where the real deception lies. To understand the cynical brilliance of the advertising campaign, you must remember that every day of his life, every man searches for validation. Every man is haunted by the question of whether or not he is a man, whether or not he has what it takes. This is the driving force of the masculine soul, whether he’s eight or 80. The famished craving for validation fuels just about everything a man does. Everything you do. Why do men sell their souls to the corporate world, working late hours, starving their family for time and affection? Because they’re looking for validation in that arena. They have either found it, and now can’t dare let it go, or they haven’t and are desperate to secure validation through even harder work. It’s the very same reason some guys ritually head down to the gym while others stay away: there in the arena of physical fitness, some latch onto validation, while others fear they don’t have what it takes. Work and sports are the modern “battlefields” on which many a man is taunted. Viagra has seized on this famished craving with the similar cunning as did Game of War. Surely you’ve seen the ads: “This is the age of taking action.” A guy out camping can’t get his fire lit; a cowboy gets his truck stuck in the mud; some guy out in the middle of nowhere has the hood of his muscle car up—something needs fixing. Isn’t it fascinating that the Viagra commercials don’t focus on sex? They typically don’t even mention sex at all. Rather, they aim straight at the heart of men when they focus on the issue of strength, competency, and being the guy who comes through in the end. “This is the age of taking action,” or, “This is the age of knowing who you are,” or, “This is the age of knowing what you’re made of.” Do you see it? The guy whose lighter broke while trying to light his campfire goes to his toolkit, pulls out a pocket knife, strikes that knife against a rock and voila—he makes fire like his barbarian ancestors. The cowboy whose truck gets stuck in the mud pulls a team of horses from his trailer, and the next shot is him driving the team with reins in his left hand as he steers his truck out of the quagmire with his right. Manly men. Competent men. Guys who clearly have what it takes. The Viagra ads are required by law to go on and state the medical warnings—about 37 of them—including the fact that your heart could explode or your eyeballs fall out or your skin may burst into flames. But 20 million men don’t give a @#$% because the ad has grabbed that yearning to feel like a man, and boy did it get their attention. Fellas—none of this is about sex. Really. This is about validation; it’s about feeling like a man. And yes—having a beautiful woman tell you that she’s all yours if you’re man enough can sure make you feel like a man. For a few minutes. But you can never get a lasting validation there. It’s a dry well when it comes to that need. Oh, yes—the famished craving must be met. But Eve and all her daughters cannot settle that issue for you. This is where most guys get sideways in their relationships with women. Unaware of what compels them (far less aware than the creators of those ads), they make the fatal mistake of taking their need for validation to the Beauty. Either they feel intimidated by the girl—most men fear their wives—and they can’t step up and play the man because it feels like she holds the report card on their masculinity, or, they get obsessed with the girl—real, or imagined, or online—and keep going there for the momentary relief that seems to touch the ache but never heals it. Let’s seize clarity where we can. A video game you play on your cellphone has absolutely no capacity to validate your masculine soul. If the Game of War advertisers pulled the buxom bombshell and simply showed a guy sitting in his cubicle playing a game on his phone, they’d never sell the product. But that is in fact what they’re selling. Nor would the Viagra ads work if they simply showed a guy standing there, glass of water in one hand, pill in the other, while the narrator says in his husky-manly growl, “This is the age of knowing what you’re made of.” You can swallow a pill? So what. They have to substitute making fire like Bear Grylls or handling a team of horses like John Wayne. It’s all bait-and-switch. Because this (what they are selling) can’t do that (bring validation). Neither can Eve. She is wonderful in so many ways, but only God can tell a man who he is. Only a Father can validate his son. The more we keep this front and center, the better it is going to go when it comes to loving a woman.
John Eldredge
We Must Be
Certain stories come into your life, and because of the way they come, or the timing of the moment, or because of what they speak to you when they do arrive, they become a part of your soul-library—books that both shape and reflect who you are as a man. One of those stories for me is Norman Maclean’s A River Runs Through It. “In our family,” the tale begins, “there was no clear line between religion and fly fishing.” It is part memoir, part celebration of fly fishing and wild places, part tragedy, set in rough-and-tumble Missoula Montana in the 1920s. Norman and his younger brother Paul have a Huck Finn-like childhood, coming of age at a time when lumberjacks still used two-handed whipsaws and Indians would sometimes walk the downtown streets, still made of dirt. The story centers on how Paul’s family tries to come to terms with his unruly life and untimely death as a young man when they find his body dumped in an alley. Sometime later, Norman and his father are talking about Paul. It seems their father is grasping for more to hold onto as he presses Norman for every fragment of information the police provided: “I’ve told you all I know. If you push me far enough all I really know is that he was a fine fisherman.” “You know more than that,” my father said. “He was beautiful.” “Yes,” I said, “he was beautiful.” photo by matt bennett It is not an expression often used for men, but it ought to be. The older philosophers and saints evaluated the universe using three categories: the Good, the True, and the Beautiful. To get the idea of what they meant by the last, let me refer to a story from the Gospels: While Jesus was in Bethany in the home of a man known as Simon the Leper, a woman came to him with an alabaster jar of very expensive perfume, which she poured on his head as he was reclining at the table. When the disciples saw this, they were indignant. "Why this waste?" they asked. "This perfume could have been sold at a high price and the money given to the poor." Aware of this, Jesus said to them, "Why are you bothering this woman? She has done a beautiful thing to me.” (Matthew 26:6-10). Jesus describes the act as more than simply good, more than merely truthful. He says it transcended those categories into the beautiful. But though the Master named it as one of the best things ever done to him—thus exalting the beautiful forever—we find that Christians have lost the longing for the quality Christ saw here, the quality Paul’s father and brother saw in him. As truth all but vanishes from cultural value, some corners fight for what is true; others want to be more relevant and commit themselves to “doing good.” Both are important, but both can fall short of a better way. photo by matt bennett Francis Schaeffer—a pastor, missionary, writer, a man many thought to be the greatest “common philosopher” of the 20th Century—wept over the bitter taste of many theological debates and church factions turned sour. He saw the devastation done when Christians fight for the truth in an ugly way or cling to a moral good but in a repulsive manner. It isn’t enough to be right, he felt—there are many who might in fact be in the right, or on the right side of a position, but their lives are so unattractive that they do damage to the very truth they defend. Worse, the manner in which they were right—the pride, the arrogance, the severity, the judgment—made the very morality they fought for repulsive to the watching world. “We must not only be True,” he said. “We must be Beautiful.” There are simpler ways to catch fish than with a fly rod. A century ago fishmongers from Denver would dynamite the South Platte and bring home wagonloads of wild trout. But the beauty of a dry fly cast with grace to a rising trout is in a league by itself. Certainly not as efficient, but if you think efficiency is the point then you won’t understand this article. In fact, the disciples were upset by the alabaster jar broken for Jesus; they saw a better way to use it for social justice. Jesus said they missed the point entirely and even rebuked them for their righteous indignation. I know men whose lives are far from perfect. In no way could they be called efficient or “maximizers.” Yet there’s something in the way they love, in what they love. Something in the manner in which they tell a story. Their devotion to an art or a place or a person. The grace they extend to others. The joy they get in a good joke, a dog, a good book, a day on the river. Oh, they love the True, and the Good, but they love the Beautiful even more, and in doing so, their lives have become beautiful. As we thought about this column for March—the column where we celebrate Beauty in many ways—we felt it was time to let the category speak to our own lives. As a reminder that we must not only be true, we must be beautiful.
John Eldredge
Taking Refuge
I didn't know if I could outrun the hornets, but with every fiber of my being I sure hoped I could. It was about a sixty-yard dash to the pickup across open pasture. But the terror of the swarm filled my adolescent heart with determination to make that truck before they came upon me. I had been out cutting thistles for my grandfather. The technique involved driving the blade of the shovel down into the ground along the edge of the root ball with a good hard stomp of the boot, then popping it up and out, leaving the fallen stalk to die in the sun. I was moving along through acres of pasture felling thistles on a hot August day. You didn't need a driver’s license to take the pickup out in the fields, and I knew I'd left the door swung open when I stopped to walk the latest patch of ground. That open door became my one and only hope. I had driven my shovel blade swift and severe down alongside a thistle when I heard a whining sound beneath me. The sound was like the one made by those small, gas-powered airplanes you see hobbyists sometimes flying at the park, or along the bluffs at the beach—a high and frenetic buzz, and when it’s attached to something living, it’s terrifying. Soon as that sound hit a fever pitch beneath me, I knew I'd shoved my blade straight into a hornets’ nest. They were mad as hell and about to find a way out of the wreckage I'd just made of their home. I left the shovel in the ground, hoping to buy myself a few seconds, and took off at a full run for the truck. About halfway across the field I could hear the swarm gaining on me, the drone of their wings like Japanese Zeros diving Pearl Harbor. The vanguard had just caught me when I threw myself into the cab and slammed the door shut. Three or four of the swiftest yellow jackets had swung in with me and stung me multiple times on my bare chest before I could swat them all down (unlike bees, hornets can sting over and over because they don’t leave their stinger in their victim). The pain was terrible, but I didn't care—the mass of the swarm pelted the outside of the window like a hailstorm, and I was safe inside. That was all that mattered. Refuge. There’s nothing like refuge when you need it. And we need it. I think you know by now that this world is filling with darkness. Evil swarms all around us. Sometimes we must resist that evil, or it will overcome us. Other times we do better to take refuge. It’s a manly thing to do. The best warriors know that there’s a time to fight and a time to run for cover. One of the surprising elements that stands out among the remarkable exploits of King David's life, is how often he is described as taking refuge. The man was a fierce warrior, legendary, feared and hunted by his enemies. And not just because of the Goliath episode, though that hurled him into stardom as a teenager. It served as the beginning of a career filled with victories in battle, building the legend: "Saul has slain his thousands, and David his tens of thousands" (1 Samuel 18:7). And yet, despite his indisputable bravery, his skill in combat, and the many stories that built his reputation, the man knows something we would do well to pay attention to: he knows there is a time to take refuge and he isn't a fool to ignore that fact. David left Gath and escaped to the cave of Adullum... David was in the stronghold... David left and went to the forest of Hereth (1 Samuel 22:1-5) David stayed in the wilderness strongholds and in the hills of the Desert of Ziph… And David went up from there and lived in the strongholds of En Gedi. (1 Samuel 23:14,29) We pass through a variety of stages as men. Choosing to become a warrior is one of the most defining forks in the road. When a man chooses this, he accesses a whole new way of living, and a much higher chance that he will prevail in every other area of his life. He chooses to fight for what he holds dear. There’s a reason "American Sniper" became a box office phenomenon, not only in the U.S. but also around the world. The warrior is so deeply hardwired into the masculine soul, even the most numb man stills feels its call. But the warrior cannot, must not always live at war. Your enemy will first try to prevent you from embracing the warrior within. If he fails at that, he will then try to bait you into battles that you should not take on or bury you in battle after battle. There is a time to take refuge. It begins with a choice, a turning; we choose to find our refuge in God. We pray to give ourselves into him as our refuge. "I give myself to you, Father. I consecrate my life into you again, body, soul and spirit. I take refuge in you. I take refuge in your love." As we pray that, we do more than simply say words; we bring reality into being. God is ever-present to be our refuge, but he never forces it upon anyone. As soon as our heart turns his direction as refuge, he is there to become so to us. Let the morning bring me word of your unfailing love, for I have put my trust in you. Show me the way I should go, for to you I entrust my life. Rescue me from my enemies, Lord, for I hide myself in you. (Psalm 143:8-9) David wrote that, by the way—the man who could often be found hiding in the desert, the forest, on the mountain, in the wastelands. He was no coward. And he was no fool. Nor was Jesus, who practically begged us to hide ourselves in him. Six times in the opening lines of John chapter fifteen he urges us to “remain in me,” and then caps it off a seventh time with “Remain in my love’ (vs 9). It’s a choice, a posture of heart, a prayer, and a practice that we would do well to add to our repertoire as warriors in a fierce battle. I’m willing to take my stand, but sometimes I just need to run for the truck and slam the door.
John Eldredge
The Way Things Work
A boy with a bb gun on his grandfather’s ranch and the entire summer before him is the richest man in the world. I was eight years old. My grandfather bought me a pump-model rifle and one of those milk cartons full of bb’s, and I had endless acres of irrigation ditches to explore, hunting frogs. They’re naturally camouflaged little buggers—all green and brown blotches just the color of muddy water and moss—and they’re smart enough to lie very still until you’re almost upon them. They know if they move they’ll reveal their location (a lesson learned by many a lost frog thanks to the herons that have hunted them since time gone by). My early successes were minimal. I tried sneaking up, but the little amphibians would remain hidden in the reeds and mossy bays, lying stock-still, and my untrained eyes couldn’t pick them out. The technique involved walking slowly along the banks, intentionally disturbing the frogs but not scaring the bejesus out of them, so that they would dive or hop or swish and catch my eye, and then I could stand still as the heron and wait for them to re-surface and take my shot. It was the beginning of a boy’s education in one of the fundamental lessons of life: There is a way things work. You can’t ignore the oil level in your truck and expect it to run forever. You can’t go out and run a marathon without training. If you try to put a stalk on a whitetail, you’d better be downwind. If that canoe you overloaded turns sideways in the current, you’re all going for a swim. There is a way things work. I learned a lot of that glorious lesson at Pop’s ranch over the years. You can’t forget your gloves when you’re out fixing the fence or you’ll have blisters for a week. You can’t run up to the horses feeding at the trough or they’ll spook (keep repeating that trick and they won’t feel safe around you). The magpie is a smart fellow—a genius compared to a pigeon—and you can’t just stroll out the back porch swinging your rifle or he’ll be gone in a whiff. You’ve got to hide that rifle in your pant leg and act as if you aren’t hunting at all. There is a way things work. This is one of the essential lessons in every boy’s life. Every man’s as well. The brand new thought for most of us is that the very same thing holds true for the spiritual life—there is a way things work. You can’t walk around with heaps of guilt on your heart and expect to be a joyful person. Confession does wonders for the soul. You can’t just blast out into your day without first dialing into God—not if you want his help. The relationship needs maintenance, like any other. If you move into a new apartment and start having nightmares, maybe you should have cleaned the place out first. There is a way things work. Jesus acted like this in all his teaching. In fact, his fundamental lesson wasn’t so much about “salvation” but what he called the ways of the Kingdom of God: Jesus went throughout Galilee teaching in their synagogues, preaching the good news of the Kingdom... (Matthew 4:23). Jesus went through all the towns and villages teaching in their synagogues, preaching the good news of the Kingdom… (Matthew 9:35). The Kingdom of heaven is like a man who sowed good seed in his field...like a mustard seed which a man took and planted in his field…like yeast that a woman took and mixed into a large amount of flour...the Kingdom of heaven is like treasure hidden in a field. He even called his message “the gospel of the kingdom:” “And this Gospel of the Kingdom will be preached in the whole world as a testimony to all nations and then the end will come.” (Matthew 24:14) Now, just like you have to learn the ways ranch-life works, you have to learn the way God’s Kingdom works. Apparently, Jesus was so committed to teaching his followers how things work in the Kingdom of God (there is a way things work), he actually hung around for more than a month after his resurrection so he could make sure they got it right: After his suffering, he showed himself to these men and gave many convincing proofs that he was alive. He appeared to them over a period of forty days and spoke about the Kingdom of God. (Acts 1:3) That’s a mind-blower—he lingered for forty days simply to finish their instruction in the ways of Kingdom living. He must have thought it was important. A boy-becoming-a-man—and a man-who-is-still-two-thirds-boy—has a journey to take. Not only must he learn that there is a way things work, he must also learn to adapt himself and his way of living to that fact—from the frog, to the oil, to the job, to the heart of a woman. This is how wisdom enters the soul. The next frontier is one most men never venture into, to their everlasting regret. It’s learning how things work in the Kingdom of God and learning to adapt themselves and their way of life to accommodate for those realities. That man gets to reap the harvest of the greatest adventures, the greatest victories, and the greatest amount of happiness. Christianity is not about a few things like “heaven” and “salvation” and “sin.” It’s a Kingdom we’ve been invited into, an entire realm of wonder and danger and joy unspeakable—if we will commit ourselves to learn its ways.
John Eldredge
Will you come with me?
January 2015 Dear Friends, I am among the millions who have fallen in love with the Chronicles of Narnia. We shared them as a family when our boys were young, and we continue to love them as adults. In fact, Stasi and I are currently reading aloud book six, The Silver Chair to each other in the evenings. I’m struck this time around by how just how dangerous an adventure the children are tasked with. In chapter two, they meet Aslan on his own mountain, and Jill is told why he has summoned them: And now hear your task. Far from here in the land of Narnia there lives an aged king who is sad because he has no prince of his blood to be king after him. He has no heir because his only son was stolen from him many years ago, and no one in Narnia knows where that prince went or whether he is still alive. But he is. I lay on you this command, that you seek this lost prince until either you have found him and brought him to his father’s house, or else died in the attempt, or else gone back into your own world. Wait—that second piece: died in the attempt?! My goodness. These are grave orders for a couple of ten-year-olds. Aslan is the best, kindest, most Jesus-like figure you’ll ever meet in literature. This is the sort of story he has for them? Would you send your fifth-grader off to Somalia? And yet, I think Lewis was onto something very true about the character of God. The children are being called up. You see a similar theme in The Hobbit. Gandalf arranges for young Bilbo Baggins to join a company of dwarves on their quest to recover the Lonely Mountain, and the treasure that lies buried in its halls. The young hobbit has never held a sword, never slept outdoors, never even been beyond the borders of the Shire. He loves books, tea time, his armchair, and he always carries a handkerchief. Furthermore, Gandalf does not know for certain whether or not the dragon Smaug—“chiefest and greatest of all calamities”—is lying there in dreadful malice. Now remember, Gandalf loves Bilbo, loves him dearly, yet he is sending him on a very dangerous adventure. He says to Bilbo that if he does return, “You will not be the same.” Which brings me to one of the most important truths we can hold onto as we try and interpret our lives: God is growing us all up. “…until we all reach unity in the faith and in the knowledge of the Son of God and become mature…” (Ephesians 4:13). As George McDonald assured us, “What father is not pleased with the first tottering attempt of his little one to walk?” And, God is absolutely committed to your growing up: “What father would be satisfied with anything but the manly step of the full-grown son or daughter?” It helps us to understand why Jesus keeps changing the picture in our lives; he keeps introducing “new frontiers” to each of us. Just when you think you’ve got parenting down, your kids enter into a new stage; just when you think you’ve got a pretty good grasp on your inner world, Jesus shows you something that needs healing. Relationships are always changing; church life changes; your body, your income—my goodness, can you think of anything that doesn’t change? And have you wondered why—why does God arrange for new frontiers to always be cropping up in our lives? Because God is growing us all up. But here is the problem—most of us do not share God’s fervent passion for our maturity. Really, now, if you stopped ten people at random on their way out of church next Sunday and polled them, I doubt very much that you would find one in ten who said, “Oh, my first and greatest commitment this afternoon is to mature!” Our natural investments lie in other things—lunch, a nap, the game, our general comfort. Like Bilbo. God is growing me up changes your expectations. When you show up at the gym, you are not surprised or irritated that the trainer pushes you into a drenching sweat; it’s what you came for. But you’d be furious if your housemate expected this of you when you flop home on the couch after a long day’s work. Bilbo hesitates; he’s not sure he wants this new frontier being offered him. I think we can all relate. And that is why, as I was praying for you, and asking Jesus what he wanted to say, he said this: Will you come with me? God almost always has some “new frontier” for us—something he is inviting us into, new ground he wants us to take, or a new realm of understanding; maybe a move in our external world, or a shift in our internal world; might be a new “spiritual” frontier. Sometimes those new frontiers are thrust upon us; sometimes we choose them willingly. Either way, God is taking us into new frontiers because he is growing us up. This will help you interpret what’s going on. Where is Jesus inviting you here in 2015? Have you asked him? Maybe he’s already put it on your heart—what new realm would you like to grown into? We are finishing a four-part series on “New Frontiers” on our podcast this month; I think you’ll find it very helpful as you (perhaps reluctantly) accept yours. Now for a word of hope: towards the end of their adventure, Jill is brought to tears by the redemption that unfolds. And the next line in the book brought me to tears: “Their quest had been worth all the pains it cost.” That will help you answer Jesus when he says to you, Will you come with me? Offered in hope and love, John
John Eldredge
Remember the Dragon
The news reports this fall on the execution of children by Isis guerrillas left us all speechless. We received a number of desperate emails crying out for prayer. It was—and remains—horrible. All this lingers in my mind as I re-read an often-overlooked portion of the Christmas story: Herod was furious when he learned that the wise men had outwitted him. He sent soldiers to kill all the boys in and around Bethlehem who were two years old and under, because the wise men had told him the star first appeared to them about two years earlier. Herod's brutal action fulfilled the prophecy of Jeremiah: "A cry of anguish is heard in Ramah—weeping and mourning unrestrained. Rachel weeps for her children, refusing to be comforted—for they are dead." (Matthew 2:16-18) The parallel is so stark I almost want to ask for a moment of silence. I have never seen this part of the story portrayed in any pageant or manger scene. For those of us raised in middle America, this genocide was completely left out of our Christmas understanding. Our visions of the nativity were shaped by classic Christmas cards and by the lovely crèche displays in parks, on church lawns, and on many coffee tables. And while I still love those tableaus very much, I am convinced they are an almost total re-write of the story. On the night before the military “massacre of the innocents,” as it has come to be called, another urgent moment took place: After the wise men were gone, an angel of the Lord appeared to Joseph in a dream. "Get up and flee to Egypt with the child and his mother," the angel said. "Stay there until I tell you to return, because Herod is going to try to kill the child." That night Joseph left for Egypt with the child and Mary, his mother, and they stayed there until Herod's death. (Matthew 2:13-15) This, too, seems right out of the devastation in the Middle East—refugees fleeing for their lives, taking cover in a foreign country. But I haven’t seen this portrayed in the lovely imagery surrounding Christmastime either. I understand, the imagery is dear to many of us, but it is also profoundly deceiving; it creates all sorts of warm feelings, associations and expectations—many quite subconscious—of what the nature of the Christian life is going to be like for us. The omissions are, in fact, dangerous—the equivalent of ignoring the movements of Isis. Contrast your associations with Christmas night to this description given to us from heaven’s point of view: I saw a woman…She was pregnant, and she cried out in the pain of labor as she awaited her delivery. Suddenly, I witnessed in heaven another significant event. I saw a large red dragon with seven heads and ten horns, with seven crowns on his heads. His tail dragged down one-third of the stars, which he threw to the earth. He stood before the woman as she was about to give birth to her child, ready to devour the baby as soon as it was born. She gave birth to a boy who was to rule all nations with an iron rod… Then there was war in heaven. Michael and the angels under his command fought the dragon and his angels. And the dragon lost the battle and was forced out of heaven. This great dragon—the ancient serpent called the Devil, or Satan, the one deceiving the whole world—was thrown down to the earth with all his angels…And when the dragon realized that he had been thrown down to the earth, he pursued the woman who had given birth to the child. But she was given two wings like those of a great eagle. This allowed her to fly to a place prepared for her in the wilderness, where she would be cared for and protected from the dragon for a time, times, and half a time…Then the dragon…declared war against the rest of her children—all who keep God's commandments and confess that they belong to Jesus. (Revelation 12) Startling. Vivid. Disturbing for sure. And an essential part of the story. I would pay good money to have a nativity scene with this included. Not only would it capture our imagination, I think, but it would also better prepare us to celebrate the holidays and to go on to live the story Christmas invites us into. Yes—Christmas is the glow of candlelight on golden straw, and a baby sleeping in a manger. It is starlight, shepherds in a field, and the visit of magi from the East. But Christmas is also an invasion. The kingdom of God striking at the heart of the kingdom of darkness with violent repercussions. I think if this had informed our understanding of the birth of Christ, it would have better prepared us for our own lives, and the events unfolding in the world today. I think far fewer of us would be so… puzzled by the way things are going. For as JRR Tolkien warned, “It does not do to leave a live dragon out of your calculations, if you live near him.”
John Eldredge
We're Going In
Happiness is having a large, loving, caring, close-knit family…in another city. George Burns The holidays are racing toward us now, and with them comes those sober adventure/survival trips mistakenly called “visiting family.” Make no mistake, these can be calamitous. Think Meet the Parents or Home for the Holidays—maybe even Bates Motel. These festive gatherings can feel especially foreboding when it is your girl’s family territory you are venturing into. With that in mind—and for the sake of preserving love—we thought we’d offer a Survival Guide to Family Visits. Begin with situational awareness. There are two realities you must—must—keep in mind when dropping into potentially volatile terrain: Family is kryptonite. Not always, and not in every situation. Some family gatherings are rich and beautiful; may it ever be so. However, in this broken world filled with broken family cultures, “going home” can have a kryptonite effect. Don’t be surprised when she suddenly turns ten years old again, slips into family-speak, falling like Alice down the rabbit hole. That dazed look, that surrender to pressure and performance, the sudden loss of all ground gained in the last several years = kryptonite. Comments from you in the vein of, “Hey—what gives?” will not prove helpful. You must treat her as you would treat someone under a powerful spell. You are not on vacation. No matter how excited she is about going home, you must—must—keep in mind what our friend Dan helped us to name: “A visit is not a vacation.” Vacations involve things like tents and the utter freedom of the backcountry, or beach chairs and umbrella drinks. You can drop your guard on vacations; you must never drop your guard on a family visit. If you keep these two things in mind—that family is often kryptonite and a visit is not a vacation—you are much more likely to come out of it with love intact. Now, given these realities, what follows is some counsel for navigating the jungles of Vietnam… Pray beforehand. This seems so utterly obvious, but very few people do it. You want to lay down some covering fire before you get into the fog of war. This is especially true for your girl who may well fall under the spell once she sets foot back in her old haunts. Ask her, “Hon—what are you hoping for in this visit? How would you like to live? What do you fear? How can I help you while we’re there?” And then, pray into those things. Try and disarm as many booby traps ahead of time as you can. Do not get baited. Because once you are in the realm of the “visit,” you've got to be on your toes so as not to get suckered into one of those booby traps. Especially with your girl. This isn't the time to sort through what you think of her family, or how her relationship with her sister bugs you. The posture you need to take with one another is, we will sort it out later. Those backroom conversations that start with, “Your mom is so weird” never, ever go well. Before the two of you make the jump, agree to sort out any conflicts after the ordeal is over. Meanwhile, it’s I love you. We’re good. (And don't try to process as soon as you get out the door. In the early years of our marriage, after a visit, Stasi and I would inevitably get into an argument before we even left her family’s street—usually because I would want to start unpacking family issues and we weren't yet clear of the warfare of it. I was young and naive.) Stay engaged. Do not abandon her to the family sacrifice. The pull to check out is going to be very strong. Once her dad kicks in with the crass jokes or her aunt starts on with the man-hating thing, everything in you will want to join Uncle Ed at the clam dip or little brother downstairs playing Halo. Do not give in. Stay by her side. She needs you, even if she isn’t acting like it. Refrain from looking at your watch, laughing at stupid political statements made by anyone present, and alcohol in significant amounts—the internal editor goes on a break and you’ll say things you later regret (however true they might be). Fake it. Yes, you love Jell-O mold with marshmallows in it. Yes, you’d love to see the spoon collection. No, the cat on your lap doing that lost-kitten-kneading-drooling thing isn’t bothering you at all. If your team is crushing her family’s alma mater in the game currently on TV, do not openly rejoice. Fake it. Her father is always brilliant, her mother is always beautiful, you love her siblings, and you're having a wonderful time. Now yes—much of this advice is given with a touch of cynical humor, but it was bought through painful experience and the truth of the matter is this: You never simply marry a woman—you marry a family. They are now, or soon will be, your family too (!). And no matter how much damage they may have done to your beloved over the years, she will always want things to be better. She wants relationship with them. So you want to build relational capital over time, with the view that eventually the two of you can have a redemptive influence there. Bite your tongue, stay engaged, fake it. For love. However—if it does get ugly, if you see your girl going down for the count because her mom or dad keep saying such devastating things, then you need to get her out of there. Eject. Pull her aside and tell her you have massive stomach pains and diarrhea and you need to go. Give her an excuse to use with her family, and get out of Dodge. Develop a few code words beforehand which the two of you can employ with one another. This tactic is only for dire circumstances; in lesser calamities, when you can sense that the little family canoe is about to go over the waterfall like that scene from The Mission, it’s time to intervene with… Distraction. Break out your best stories: “Hey—did I ever tell you guys about the time I almost burned down the house?” Or the trip to Nicaragua (pre-load your phone with photos you can use to further distract the family). Juggling. Opera. Handstands. Make a fool of yourself, like David before the king of Gath. Better still, ask her grandpa to tell that story (again) about the time he was a gold miner. Ask her brother to break out the video from his recent ballet performance. People love to talk about themselves and it's a fabulous means of distraction. So you lost some dignity. At least you avoided a disaster. Above all else, be charming. No matter how much you loathe the meal/conversation/humor/culture, break out the charm. Win them over. You are building capital. This is about long-term redemption. And this is about loving your girl and offering your strength on her behalf. Because visits are not vacations.
John Eldredge
Whispers
Yet hints come to me from the realm unknown; Airs drift across the twilight border land, …whispers to my heart are blown That fill me with a joy I cannot speak —George MacDonald, Diary of an Old Soul I’ll come right out and say it—I have a love-hate relationship with fall. I know, I know—I have friends for whom autumn is their most favorite time of year. They text me photos of leaves and trees in glorious colors. They break out their sweaters with relish, like the best thing in the world is about to unfold. I get it—it’s a gorgeous time of year. And I do love the cottonwoods turning golden along the rivers. I love the crisp mornings and surprisingly warm days, the air clear as a diamond, the aromas of the earth itself like bread in the oven. Nature bursting into flame like a thousand burning bushes. But I know that in fact nature is flaming out, like Icarus, who fell from the sky like a falling leaf. Does this bother anybody else? The glory is so fleeting; it never, ever stays. That is the part I have had to come to terms with—the loss—feeling towards it the same emotions I have towards Robert Frost’s poem Nothing Gold Can Stay: Nature's first green is gold, Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf's a flower; But only so an hour. Then leaf subsides to leaf. So Eden sank to grief, So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay. He is of course referring to spring, but with all respect to Mr. Frost I’d like to point out that nature’s last green is gold as well—a gold that also fades away. Too soon the glories will all be gone, dead leaves in the gutter, frozen earth, barren trees, and winter will descend. What are we supposed to do with fall? I mean, other than take long walks, head to the fields for cider and apple-picking, grab the 20 gauge and go in search of pheasant. What are we supposed to do with piercing beauty that haunts with its stunning brilliance—then drops away before you can fully take it in? If all nature is a kind of tutor, what then is the lesson of the sudden, shimmering, ephemeral glory of fall? Which brings me back to the poem. I’ve had a profound ambivalence toward it for many years, since about the time my best friend was killed in a climbing accident. Brent loved this poem, knew it by heart. He knew it held a secret—like autumn holds a secret—and what he believed was that fall is whispering the same story sunrise and sunset tell every day: the glory will return. To stay. Which of course would change everything. A few weeks ago Stasi and I were walking in an aspen grove. The ground was covered with a thousand golden leaves, heart-shaped, a whimsical mosaic of exquisite sun-colored beauty. “If this is something of what it means to have streets of gold, then I’m good with that. It will be wonderful!” she said. I am slowly, finally, reconciling to fall. If the message is not glory-then-loss, but glory-that-is-about-to-come-forever, my heart can accept that. I can allow the piercing beauty because I see in it a promise, captured in the last lines of George MacDonald’s Phantastes: A great good is coming, is coming, is coming to thee. This article was originally posted on And Sons Magazine.
John Eldredge
Adventure with a Purpose
Seven miles off the rugged west coast of Ireland a wild fang of an island juts out of the sea. Its sheer flanks are uninhabited for all sane reasons. Only seabirds live here, and only in summer, when the fierce North Atlantic storms have subsided. But to thirteen men this was just the place. Sometime in the late 6th century, after Rome fell and the continent plunged into a barbarous age, a band of Irish brothers paddled for five hours in a small handmade boat to reach this island. They ascended the eastern slope, and near the brink, on the leeward side, they built stone huts and called the place home. They were monks and they seemed struck with madness. That is, until you understand the wild, wonderful blend of Christianity and the Celtic warrior. The Celts of ancient Ireland—like their brothers and sisters in Wales and on the continent—were a fierce and heroic people. They scared the bejesus out of the Roman legions because they would strip buck naked before battle and rush the field screaming and singing. They practiced slavery and human sacrifice and they often warred with the clans next door. They thought the earth itself was sacred, and nature filled with spirit. So when Christianity reached these wild Celts, they took to it like a duck to water because they already understood the need for a heroic story in which to live. They loved the earth which this Creator God had made, and they were ready for an epic battle against evil. However, these warriors quickly ran into a dilemma: having given up raiding the coast of England for slaves, and their own internal wars, they needed something to satisfy the need for the epic within them. They needed something heroic for God. Taking the model of Jesus and his disciples, they set off in groups of thirteen men to remote outposts like the outcrop called Skellig Michael, which they named after the great warrior-angel Michael (a very Celtic act—they did not choose Gabriel, the annunciation angel; they chose for their outpost the name of the greatest warrior they could find). In these untamed places on the edge of the known world they founded little communities of warrior monks, who through their prayers and discipleship felt they were doing their part to battle the dark forces bent on the destruction of mankind. Think of a sort of self-imposed exile into Siberia or the Australian outback—but for spiritual purposes. Sort of YWAM meets Man vs. Wild. Here on the Island of the Archangel they harvested sea birds and their eggs, fished the ocean when the storms weren't raging, and even tended small gardens in the milder seasons. They built stairways up the steep slopes, hewed rock with hand tools, and laid stone steps that have endured for more than 1400 years. When the gales blew outside, they took refuge in their stone huts, studied the scriptures, and practically saved civilization (according to Thomas Cahill) by copying manuscripts and preserving learning while the barbarians pretty much burned down every library in Europe. Here, on this remote outpost, a community of brothers lived out a fierce kind of faith for more than five hundred years. (The Incan empire, by contrast, lasted about three hundred years.) It was full-blown adventure—survival skills and all—but with a purpose. Something heroic for God. We came to Skellig Michael on a sort of pilgrimage last month to see for ourselves the life and faith with which we feel such deep kinship. We climbed the 600 steps up to their little monastery and drank in the deep, enduring holiness of the place. A wild holiness. A brave choice (who would live like this?!). We felt a kind of continuity with these Celtic Christians. Though the ages have passed, the story remains very much the same: the world has been hurled into paganism, the battle with darkness rages, God can still be found in the wild places, and there are still epic things to be undertaken for the kingdom. Editor’s note: For more on these warrior monks and Celtic Christianity, read Thomas Cahill’s How the Irish Saved Civilization.
John Eldredge
Experiencing the Fullness of God—Really
A number of folks I know and love are chasing hard after God these days. I think the times are demanding it. The draining nature of the pace of life combined with the spiritual battles that seem to be hitting everyone are creating in us a deeper need and hunger for more of God. Just this week a dear friend said to me, "I just need more of God." I sure need more of God. I bet you do, too. How do we find "more of God"? Where do we look? Folks seem to be looking to the latest cool conference, the new worship CD, the prophetic teacher, churches and experiences promising "encounters." Some of it delivers. But it doesn't seem to last. So you've got to find the next new conference, the next breakthrough worship CD, the next "encounter." I don't think love works like that. I don't think God plays hide and seek, bait and switch, running from this city to that speaker to this next promise of an encounter. That doesn't sound like love to me. How do we find fullness in you, Father??? I re-read Ephesians 3 this week, which climaxes in this promise: "that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God." What??!! That's it—that's it! How do we find that? For this reason I kneel before the Father, from whom his whole family in heaven and on earth derives its name. I pray that out of his glorious riches he may strengthen you with power through his Spirit in your inner being, so that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith. And I pray that you, being rooted and established in love, may have power, together with all the saints, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge--that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God (vs 14-19). There it is—that we might be filled to all the fullness of God! That's what we yearn for, what we are chasing, what we so desperately need! Wouldn't it be incredible to be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God???!!!! And God is showing us the way to that fullness. Pay careful attention to the progression Paul walks us through, prays us through: 1. That God our Father would strengthen us with power through his Spirit in our inmost being. That's Step 1. I think that alone would change my life. But it is only the beginning of this incredible progression. Having that, we are able to move to Step 2... 2. That Jesus might really fill and dwell in our hearts. Wonderful. Yes! If our hearts were really filled with the presence of Jesus??! From there we can move into Step 3... 3. That we might be rooted and grounded in love. Wouldn't that be incredible? Who do you even know that is rooted and grounded in love? It is the widespread weariness and unsettledness that is causing us to need more of God. We can be rooted and grounded in love?! Step 4 builds on this... 4. That we might have power to grasp the full height, depth, length, and breadth of Jesus's love. Oh yes, Father—we need this! I know it would transform our lives. But there's more... 5. Paul prays that we would KNOW this love (experience it—deep, personal "knowing"). And from this place we get to the goal, Step 6... 6. That we might be filled to all the fullness of God! Oh, friends—there is a treasure here for us. There is a rescue here for us. A path is laid out for us. I think great conferences, CDs, and "encounters" are all good and have their place. But the truth is, they don't last, and honestly, much of them don't really deliver on the promises being made. Here is a far deeper, truer, and sure-er path—one given to us by God himself. He wants us to find fullness in him. Try this—pray through this progression for yourself. Chase this. Stay in this for awhile. You don't even have to leave your house. I bet the fruit will be wonderful, just what we are looking for. There is a way to fullness in God, but it's different than what most people are chasing. Yes, yes, yes to more of God! And here is the path he has given to find it. I think this is going to be revolutionary, and an incredible relief.
John Eldredge
But Don't You Long For It?
Stasi and I were having dinner last night with some dear friends, leaders of a ministry and seminary. At one point in the conversation the husband said something to the effect of, "I am praying daily for the return of Jesus." And it stopped me in my tracks - because I can't recall the last time I heard anyone say that. Can you? I stopped the conversation to ask him, "Is that common in your circles? Do you know a number of Christians who are praying for the return of Jesus?" He paused, and then said, "Actually, no. No one." His wife added, "No one talks about it. Our church has never preached on it that I can remember." That's my experience, too, and it feels very revealing to me. The return of Christ to the earth, and his ushering in the Kingdom of God feels like a pretty central part of our faith. Kind of crucial, really. But as I have attempted in various conversations with Christians to bring up the imminent return of Jesus, the mood turned awkward - like I wanted to talk about UFOs. Pushing into the subject, that I believe the return of Jesus is very near at hand, their mood turns foreboding, like I wanted to talk about their likelihood of getting cancer. I don't get it. Are we afraid of the second coming? Is this not something we are looking forward to?! Two ideas are absolutely basic to a Christian understanding of this world: First, that you are created for happiness and second, that you will not truly be happy until Jesus returns and brings into fullness the Kingdom of God. So what's with the awkwardness of Christians taking about his return, and, more fascinating (and troubling) what's with no none really praying for it? I want to venture an observation: If you are not personally longing for and praying for the return of Jesus, you are still committed to making life work here and now. Our prayers reveal what we are after. So if you are not praying for the return of Jesus, you are not banking on it or looking forward to it much. But...you are created for happiness, and you are not going to truly find it until the kingdom is yours. At the end of the book of Revelation, which is the end of the entire Bible narrative, the church is longing for and praying for the return of Jesus: "The Spirit and the bride say, 'Come!'" Note the exclamation point. As in, "Please come! Come now! We want you to come!" This isn't UFOs or a fear of dying. This is hopeful, eager expectation of every dream you ever had coming true. This is the expectation of life coming to you in all its fullness. Not to mention your Jesus coming to you. And never ever losing it again. Of course my friend is praying for it daily! Let's join him!
John Eldredge
Hope
I was sitting at my desk this morning catching up on email, and noticed the December Wild at Heart letter lying nearby. I picked it up, and read it...and knew I had to share it with you (even if you read the hard copy)... Dearest Friends, The year is quickly drawing to a close. As I sit in my office on this cold and snowy morning, I am praying over this letter… What do you have for us, Jesus? What do you want for your people this month? I am reluctant to write you on a Christmas theme. Not because I don’t like Christmas; I love it. I love all of Christmastide. My reluctance comes because by now you are inundated with everyone’s holiday thoughts, wishes, commercials, muzac, schemes, sales, catalogs, blogs, sermons, tweets. It tends to blur into a drone of holiday noise, overloading us at the very time of year we sing, “Silent Night.” Typically there’s not much silence to it. But then Jesus replied, “I want to restore hope.” He wants to restore our hope – and that would be a very, very good thing. You might not even know that you need your hope restored – till it happens! Whatever else Christmas might be, it is a demonstration beyond all doubt that God keeps his word – he intervenes. He promised he would come…and he came. On a cold night in Bethlehem, in a far corner of the Roman Empire, when his people had pretty much figured the Kingdom would never come, he came. We have to push back all the other holiday messages for a moment and simply let the reality of the Incarnation hit us fresh again: He said he would come, and he did. A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices, For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn. (“O Holy Night”) A thrill of hope. I think it’s been quite sometime since my heart felt a thrill of hope. I’ve certainly had a nudge or two of hope, maybe even a stirring of hope. But wouldn’t it be wonderful to feel a thrill of hope, perhaps to feel it in some new way for the first time? Let’s see if we can find that, open our hearts to it’s coming, just as Mary opened herself to the coming of Jesus… Christmas is more than God simply “coming.” It is a dramatic intervention the likes of which the world had never seen before. O yes – God had intervened for his people in many ways down through the centuries, sometimes in stupendous ways. The creation itself was quite an intervention – dazzling beauty and life out of what had been “formless and void.” But all of those were…able to be lost. Fragile. Here, in Christmas, in the Incarnation, God intervenes permanently. This is no manna for today, no one-time parting of the sea. It is not merely an answer to a prayer, a miraculous provision for a moment’s need. He comes to ransom, he comes to restore, he comes to save – forever. It is a permanent provision, an “ongoing and unstoppable miracle” if you will, because the effects of it are present and everlasting. You are everlastingly his now; you are everlastingly secure; you are everlastingly taken care of. It was an intervention that opened the door to a multitude of interventions. For he keeps on coming. I will not leave you as orphans; I will come to you (John 14:18). Jesus comes to us now, and his coming is our greatest need. O Jesus come to me; I need you now, I need you here – in this. Above and beyond whatever else I need, I need you, God. Come to me again. It is now. And it is also imminent. He is coming, soon, once-and-for-all. Yonder breaks a new and glorious morn. If you haven’t spent time in the woods through the last hours of the night, you might be surprised to know that it tends to get very cold right before the dawn. It can be a bit disheartening for the uninitiated, if you do not know that the bitter chill is merely a sign that thing are finally turning, and the night is about to fade away. Dawn is coming, warmth and light and beauty are coming even though it just got colder than it had been all night. The world is like that; human history is like that. Jesus himself told us it would be so – that things would get coldest right before the dawn. These dark days tempt us in exactly the wrong direction; our hearts begin to succumb to the feeling that Jesus is still a long ways off. Not at all. Quite the opposite – this is the very sign that our glorious morn is rapidly approaching from the east. Life is finally about to be ours. Everything you have ever dreamed of is about to be yours. That will bring a thrill of hope, if you’ll let it. O Jesus – forgive my failing heart. I have lost this almost entirely. I pray you would restore to me the sure and immovable hope in your imminent return. Restore to me the most genuine hope of all – that my life is about to come true, that everything I ever longed for is about to be mine, forever. Grant to me this Christmastide a thrill of hope. We love being your friends and allies here at Christmas, here at the end of the age. We love this great and noble fight as we stoke the fires and wait for the dawn. Thank you for being our friends. Love John (for us all)
John Eldredge
One Christmas Thought: It Worked!
A Merry Christmas to all our dear friends and allies! As I reflect upon the mystery of the incarnation, and the great invasion of the Kingdom that began under cover of darkness in a remote village in the Middle East, so many wonders flood my heart. The wild plan of God to come the way he did, where he did, when he did, as he did. The great battle in the heavens. The immense cost. The staggering series of events that began to unfold. It really is breathtaking, more than any other story ever told. But above all, what I wanted to offer you this Christmas is this one simple thought: It worked. God came for us, and all that he planned and all he intended in Jesus Christ has come true. The rule of Evil has been broken. We are ransomed. Our lives are now filled with the life of God. The Kingdom of God has broken through. Redemption is unfolding all over the earth, and will come to a glorious climax with the return of Jesus. Sin no longer reigns over us. Restoration is ours now. And so many other glories. It worked. That is what I am holding onto this Christmas. It worked!
John Eldredge
Yearning for Great Leadership
I'm not sure if it is the pace of my life, or something to do with forgetfulness, perhaps even modesty, but I hardly ever listen to our own materials once we've recorded them. Especially our podcasts. My loss. Because yesterday, after receiving a number of heartfelt and profound responses to our recent series, I decied to tune in myself, as a listener. I was blown away. Really - God has this unique ability to invade somewhere between words spoken, files edited and the listening experience. He comes, he indwells, he inhabits, taking something that seems so obvious and making it resonate with the Kingdom. We are in the midst of a series on Leadership - which in itself is a God thing. I mean...yawn. Boring. At least to me. I would never have suggested to the gang here, "Hey - let's do a series on leadership!" But during a time of listening prayer, back in September, we asked Jesus what he wanted to bring to his people through our podcasts and he said, "talk about leadership." So we did...for ten podcasts. We've talked about good experiences and bad, talked about our longing for leaders in the church, explored why they seem so rare and what we typically substitute for godly leadership. Most of all, we've talked about God's longing to unite his scattered people under spiritual fathers and mothers, what they look like and how to find them. It has been a very rich experience and the feedback is off the charts. Guess Jesus struck a nerve. If you haven't listened to the Wild at Heart podcast in a while (or ever), I think you'll find yourself intrigued, drawn in and spoken to in very rich ways. Come and join us. You can find our podcasts on our new app, or click on the "More" tab at the top of this page, and choose "podcast." It'll do your heart good.
John Eldredge