Notes From The Tilt-A-Whirl: Wide-Eyed Wonder in God's Spoken World

by N.D. Wilson

And I move on, with the sun on my face. Clouds are growing in the west, glorious clouds piled up with rowdy care and sparked with electric life. I fill my lungs with the world, with this life, with this gift beyond containing. There is only one thing I can say. Thank you. And I must say it with my life. Through my life. To the end of my life. And after.

And I move on, with the sun on my face. Clouds are growing in the west, glorious clouds piled up with rowdy care and sparked with electric life. I fill my lungs with the world, with this life, with this gift beyond containing. There is only one thing I can say. Thank you. And I must say it with my life. Through my life. To the end of my life. And after.

When Christ rose, He rose in the flesh. He was no ghost, and yet He walked through walls. The walls were the ghosts, and so are we.

When Christ rose, He rose in the flesh. He was no ghost, and yet He walked through walls. The walls were the ghosts, and so are we.

Christianity is no longer about changing the world. Christianity is no longer about facing the darkness and walking into shadow with souls full of light. We don’t see evil as a thing to be conquered, we don’t see life as a story with any kind of arc. We don’t want our God to be the God of falcons and mole rats and skunk justice.

Christianity is no longer about changing the world. Christianity is no longer about facing the darkness and walking into shadow with souls full of light. We don’t see evil as a thing to be conquered, we don’t see life as a story with any kind of arc. We don’t want our God to be the God of falcons and mole rats and skunk justice.

C. S. Lewis: If the worst came to the worst, a Heaven for mosquitoes and a Hell for people could very conveniently be combined.

C. S. Lewis: If the worst came to the worst, a Heaven for mosquitoes and a Hell for people could very conveniently be combined.

But we cannot hope to reach the final chapter by dreaming, by holding our collective breath and staring at unshaded acrylic escape paintings. The only road to that final chapter began at the garden and led into the wilderness. It runs through these chapters. Live now. Relish the tensions, the challenges, and laugh at the petty pains.

But we cannot hope to reach the final chapter by dreaming, by holding our collective breath and staring at unshaded acrylic escape paintings. The only road to that final chapter began at the garden and led into the wilderness. It runs through these chapters. Live now. Relish the tensions, the challenges, and laugh at the petty pains.

Do not fear the shadowy places. You will never be the first one there. Another went ahead and down until He came out the other side.

The problem of evil brings its own strength. We do not need to strengthen it more by imagining perfection to be cross-stitch and cookies and uneaten, uneating kittens. The world is already more wonderful than we can imagine. Heaven will be better still.

The problem of evil brings its own strength. We do not need to strengthen it more by imagining perfection to be cross-stitch and cookies and uneaten, uneating kittens. The world is already more wonderful than we can imagine. Heaven will be better still. I do not doubt that whatever gates there may be, they will be pearly. But I know how pearls are made. Do you?

I do not doubt that whatever gates there may be, they will be pearly. But I know how...

Christ to the apostle Peter: Where I am going, you cannot follow. Christ to the thief: Come with me. We die together, a thief and the Maker of the world. Walk with the Infinite made flesh into the belly of the whale. Stand close while reality quakes. Watch while Death is taken by the throat. Today you will be with me in Paradise. Stories don’t end at death.

Look to Him for a heart capable of loving Him.

I know little, but I know this: When you have died and your leaves have been raked, when you have looked on the face of God and had your final conversation, exchanging words others may never know, you will be where you want to be. If you cannot let go of yourself, if you cling to the filth that you’ve loved for so long, stroking the cherished scabs that line your soul—hates and bitternesses that you cannot lay down, an imagined mirror picturing a glorious self—then He will push you away. You will be sent out into the darkness, far from His presence. You will not like the darkness, but the other option seems worse. You couldn’t bear to be without those scabs.

Would you go to Heaven? There is a sign you must stand beside where the man with the cigarette takes the tickets. There is a height you must achieve. You must be wretched. That is your ticket and your only qualification. It is an unexclusive ride, but wild, with weather you’ve never seen, and deafening light. Perhaps unsafe.

Gratitude for the whole story, from beginning to end, gratitude for the valleys and the shadows that lead us to the novel’s final page. Take a step and thank God, for He holds you in His hand. Never ask to be put down. Never struggle for separation or for worth apart from His gifts.

The angels knew what was going on even if no one else did. They grasped the bizarre reality of Shakespeare stepping onto the stage, of God making Himself vulnerable, dependent, and human—making Himself Adam. And so, in a more appropriate spirit, they arranged a concert and put on what was no doubt the greatest choral performance in planetary history. Were the kings gathered? Where were the people with the important hats? Where were the ushers, the corporate sponsors? The Heavenly Host, the souls and angels of stars, descended into our atmosphere and burst in harmonic joy above a field and some rather startled shepherds. But the crowd was bigger than that. The shepherds were a distinct minority. Mostly, the angels were just singing to sheep. I’m sure those animals paid attention, and not just because there was a baby in their food bowl.

Does this sound like something a human would make up? Does it sound like something a bunch of cult builders would create to impress potential tithers? And then the Holy One, the World-Maker, was born in a . . . in . . . uh . . . And the angels themselves descended, overflowing with jubilation and sang to a randomly selected flock of sheep and a couple of their unwashed, illiterate shepherds—the Lord Incarnate’s first worshippers.