Buckle up! I ran into an image the other day that blew my mind. It may blow yours too. You may find yourself resisting the image at first, a bit too mystical perhaps, a little overblown, but stay with me. The question posed in the image is this: No matter where you are on your spiritual journey, is it possible to go so much deeper?

I was asked recently by a group to tell a story from childhood that continues to shape my spiritual life. I quickly thought of that moment, early one morning, when I heard a murmuring coming from beyond the cracked door to my parents’ bedroom. I nudged the door forward and peeked guiltily into the semi-darkness. I saw my father on his knees, beside the bed. Edging a little closer, I thought he was talking to himself. The speech seemed intense, earnest, calm but urgent. Suddenly it dawned on me that he had come into the presence of his Lord, his friend, his companion. The suspicion sunk deeply that he did this every morning.

I’ve changed my mind. In fact a lot of my life right now is sorting through the changes I’m going through. The changes in thinking are internal, but much of it is driven by the distressing things going on all around us. Sometimes I think the earth is shaking beneath our feet. We’re all reaching for the handrails, trying to find our balance. But how is it, as I begin this new year, I find myself full of new energy, leaning forward, in anticipation. How can it be when things seem so grim and dreadful? Well, I’m guessing it is a pretty complete readjustment, a kind of new conversion. I’m changing my mind about a lot of things. I actually believe a new sun is rising.

On this Christmas Eve morning, I cannot resist one more reflection. Somehow this year through Advent I’ve been trying hard to wrap my head around this amazing thing that is happening: Come, Lord Jesus, come. Come this very day. This is the light of the world we’re talking about. Our dark world, in which we are so engulfed, is not the final answer.

Early each morning I find myself watching out my study window for the sun to rise. There is a time of waiting, a time of expectation, a threshold time. I often grow quiet, a bit reverent. I have come to consider this event, so common as to be overlooked, a breathtaking announcement of new beginnings, a new start, a daily hint that new life is possible. We have gone to bed in darkness—perhaps even darkness in our souls, gripped by anxiety, surely with worries about our world, or fear, or grief for so many of our friends who suffer loss—but then the sun rises. Again. Can it be? New life is possible!

I’ve been in a number of conversations lately where folks are talking about things coming unglued. Things are out-of-whack. Nothing seems to be working as it used to, or sometimes just stops working altogether. You try replacing something that has worked for a longtime, and you can’t find the same brand. Brands proliferate, even though real innovation, as some scholars are suggesting, is hard to find. I went out online to get a flashdrive the other day, and there must have been fifty options. How do you know what’s best anymore?

I’ve been reading lately the amazing poet R. S. Thomas. I’ve been taking him slowly, almost devotionally—a poem a day is about all I can digest at one time. These poems require careful attention, lingering reflection. This poetry is rich, often surprising, sometimes impenetrable, sometimes as harsh and spare as the Welsh landscape where he lived.

Sharon and I heard a speaker at our church the other evening make this bold prediction: “Within the next decade, we will witness a spiritual revival.” I hear this kind of talk around these days. We sense we may have reached the depths of disillusionment. That’s when revival takes place. Maybe, from this nadir, it’s time we will open once again to a fresh sense of God’s presence in our midst. Could this be possible?

From my reading in the last week, I was startled into attention by this line from Psalm 22: “May you always be in good heart!” Notice the exclamation mark. This is a big declaration, apparently, of what the Psalmist thinks our lives can be, should be. I’ve been going around repeating this line: “May you always be in good heart!” Is that possible, especially in our day?

The other night Sharon and I went to the Tee Pee Tap Room, a restaurant that serves real Mexican food, the kind that teeters out there on the peak of perfection. We call it Phoenix Mex, and we know from living in so many places, it’s distinctive, special—it’s the best. And we’ve got a long history with this tiny restaurant. We used to go there, some fifty years ago, when I was in graduate school. On a student’s budget in those years, the Tee Pee Tap Room was always a big night out. This was just place the place for us. Still is.

I woke up this morning from another restless night. I am told there’s lots of anxiety out there, growing rapidly, causing a lot of harm. What’s going on? Our grandson Andrew may have summed it up the other night: “I went to a party last night. It was weird. Something’s happened to us, Grandad, something’s changed.” It’s not very clear what has happened, but we know a bunch of stuff is causing a lot of change. It’s just not the same.

I recently learned about Jiro Ono, a Japanese sushi chef, aged ninety-four, who is still “making sushi, better and ever better sushi.” Making sushi has “been his life’s work and sole ambition.” He “still continues to pursue perfection in the preparation and presentation of raw fish. He dreams about sushi, and said that he would like to die making it.”

So many of the people I read or hear from these days talk about longing for what is true. We seem to have lost a handle on anything we might agree on together. As I was watching one of our highest officials last night, I said, a little too loudly: “Just give me the truth. I can handle it. Stop framing these numbers to fit a narrative of your choice.”

For those of you who have been following, I’ve been thinking a lot about thresholds. We all cross over our personal thresholds, some small, some big. It seems right now our world is stuck on a prolonged threshold too. Maybe it’s Covid. Whatever it is, I know I’m ready to crossover. I think our world is also ready.

Sharon and I took a trip this summer from our home in Scottsdale to our family cabin in Oak Creek Canyon. It’s about two hours, through Sedona, then deep into the Canyon to reach our little place. There it rests, year after year, in a cradle of splendor, holding in its clutches so many memories from childhood, for me, my brothers and sister, now for the next generation.

Sharon and I crossed another threshold in our lives. We’ve moved. Again. Not without pain of leaving, as with every move, but full of excitement and wonderment for what lies ahead in a new place and for a new season.

I’ve been reflecting on how we begin to rebuild our lives in these times of so much brokenness, so much confusion and chaos and uncertainty. Last week I turned to the majestic voice of Ecclesiastes, who famously announces there is a season for everything, “a time to break down,” for example, “and a time to build up.”

Is there a hint of optimism in the air these days? The Covid numbers seem to be lifting a bit, even as the vaccine portends more relief out ahead. Perhaps things are a little more quiet out there, generally, in any number of ways. I hope so.

Well, it’s over, or close. We find ourselves either elated or discouraged, or just flatout exhausted. The real question for me is what now? As a nation sailing through all this turbulence; as individuals struggling to regain some balance; as institutions and businesses, schools and churches, valiantly seeking to step out from under the Covid cloud—where do we go from here? I find myself yearning as well to step away from all the hatred we’ve spread around.

The last post I wrote came from a deeply disturbed heart. As I look around our world, I am discouraged. Many people are discouraged. I fear for the future of my country. I am distrustful that an election will bring much resolve. I told Sharon I think that post was the gloomiest thing I have ever written. I am sorry. That’s not usually the way I sort through things.