Author: Kelly Keller

On Friday night, after the graduation events concluded, there was a street festival in town. Tents lined the sidewalks, peddling replacement windows and outdoor furniture. The food trucks were stacked alongside one another: empanadas, kabobs, and Carolina BBQ.

The street was jammed with people: people in camp chairs happily staking out their place as they waited for friends; children with sticky palms holding the last of their popsicles and chasing their siblings; dads holding babies wearing tiny noise-canceling headphones, shielding them from the sounds around them. Dogs happily greeted every passerby, hoping for handouts.

As we made our way toward the stage, the band continued with their set of 90s R&B favorites. That’s when I saw him: a lanky man, mid-20s, facing away from the stage, jerkily moving his bent arms in time with the bass. His eyes closed as his arms slowly moved up away from his sides and out into the atmosphere, still bent at the elbow and moving in rhythmic circles. As the evening went on, it was clear that he preferred Béyonce to BBD, and even more apparent that he wasn’t familiar with Shania Twain at all.

He was stimming to the music, the term clinicians use to define the repeated motions that autistic people need to cope with sensory overload. This young man was right in the thick of it; he was clearly enjoying the music, but needed some repetitive motion to help him stay in it. His family and friends took no notice, carrying on with their singing and conversation. They occasionally checked in with him, seeing if he needed anything or wanted a beverage. Other than that, he was one of them—just responding a little bit differently to the music than everyone else.

In his recent special Pete and Me, comedian Graham Kay introduces us to his brother, Pete, a severely autistic man with a penchant for superheroes, among other things. Pete is the younger of the two brothers. He calls Graham on the phone every day and impersonates Ernie from Sesame Street, expecting Graham to respond as Bert. He never tires of this. Graham admits begrudgingly that he does tire of it, and sometimes he doesn’t answer the phone.

I don’t often talk about it here, but one of the siblings in our group of five children is on the spectrum. This has obviously provided its own set of adjustments and trials as he has grown. He has had to learn the hard way; we have had to learn the hard way. We are all still learning, though I am grateful for the growth in all of us. As challenging as the late teen and early adulthood years are for every person, they are more challenging for the neurodiverse person. They are more challenging for the family of the neurodiverse person. We have attempted to weather all of this together and pray for good fruit.

We love his quirky obsessions and his brilliant memory. We all know that if we’ve forgotten a certain detail of a family story, he’s the one to ask. We have come to depend on him for it. He feels deeply, is passionate, and has tireless desires to do better in every arena of his life.

I see the reactions—the people who give one-word answers to him versus the ones who warmly take him in and ask him to say more. I feel the rejection on his behalf. I try not to judge the relative spirituality of the people interacting with him at church. He is a challenge conversationally; he gets a hold of a thread and doesn’t let it go. He might try asking you questions (he is learning), but he probably won’t hear your answer, because he’s preparing to say his next thing.

Some people learn this and navigate it with skill. They are the ones he returns to. Others struggle.

Late in his set, Graham Kay tells a story of his brother humiliating himself (and Graham) in a very vulnerable, very public way. Graham was thirteen at the time, and he was deeply ashamed. Instead of responding to help his brother, he hid. In that moment, he saw two friends come to Pete’s rescue instead. And then, he was even more ashamed that he had hidden.

Graham continues, “Maybe my brother does have a superpower. People like him teach society who the jerks are. They teach society, more importantly, who the helpers are.”

Having a child on the spectrum has taught me who the jerks are. It’s taught me who the helpers are. It’s also taught me how much jerk remains inside of me, versus how much helper. It often depends on the day.

Here’s more about Graham’s special. I recommend it, though there are portions not appropriate for the whole family.

All four Gospel accounts in Scripture—even brisk Mark’s—mention the casting of lots for Jesus’ clothing at the foot of the cross. The actions of the soldiers on the mount of crucifixion, playing a game of chance to obtain Jesus’ robe, were foretold in Psalm 22:18, “They divided my garments among themselves, and they cast lots for my clothing.” This was not the purple robe that was cast over his shoulders as they mocked him, but a seamless undergarment, as described by John.

This event is not the first time we hear about Jesus’ clothing. From birth, when he was wrapped in swaddling cloths by his mother, Mary, to the woman in Matthew 9 who cried out, “if I could just touch the hem of his garment, I will be well,” to this scene at the time of his impending death, Jesus’ clothes are a part of his earthly days, just like ours.

In the Old Testament, we are given a depiction of some other garments. These pieces belong to the Father, the righteous judge, carrying out the sentence on his enemies:

Who is this coming from Edom

in crimson-stained garments from Bozrah—

this one who is splendid in his apparel,

striding in his formidable might?

It is I, proclaiming vindication,

powerful to save.

Why are your clothes red,

and your garments like one who treads a winepress?

I trampled the winepress alone,

and no one from the nations was with me.

I trampled them in my anger

and ground them underfoot in my fury;

their blood spattered my garments,

and all my clothes were stained.

(Isaiah 63:1-3, CSB)

The depiction of God’s wrath here in the winepress of justice is comprehensive: bloody, splashing, soaking his garments with stains, and without restraint. Every bit of his clothing is saturated with the blood of his enemies. The sin that stains his garments is that of the world: his enemies are rightfully trodden upon as God pursues justice and fulfillment of his holy law.

In this picture of judgment against sin, we may be reminded of Aaron’s garments being sprinkled with blood in the dedication of the temple and priesthood by Moses (Exodus 29, Leviticus 8). The tabernacle, and later the temple, was a bloody place, a constant reminder that without the shedding of blood, there is no remission of sins (Hebrews 9:22).

But at Calvary, as the soldiers played games of chance at his feet, Jesus took the crushing weight of the winepress on our behalf. “Upon him was the chastisement that brought us peace.” (Is. 53:5) His scarlet blood flowed, but the result was the great reversal of the stain: we were made clean. Instead of deep crimson, our clothing was made white as snow. His bloody death removed the stain from our garments. Death was made to submit to greater life. The wrath has been satisfied; Christ’s blood does not stain, it cleanses. It is a bleaching crimson.

As Christ’s garments without a seam are gambled for; as our garments are made whiter than snow, the heavy woven curtain in the temple is torn top to bottom, never to be sewn again. Here also is a piece of cloth without a seam—because it needs no seam. It is permanently severed. Those whom the lamb’s blood has covered can enter the Holy of Holies.

Then one of the elders asked me, “Who are these people in white robes, and where did they come from?” I said to him, “Sir, you know.” Then he told me: These are the ones coming out of the great tribulation. They washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.”

Revelation 7:13-14

Love is that liquor sweet and most divine,

Which my God feels as blood; but I, as wine.

(George Herbert, “The Agony”)

One of the last songs Johnny Cash ever recorded in his life was called “The Wanderer.” It was a song written by U2, and it’s the only one they recorded that does not feature a band member as the lead singer. Once the song was written, the band agreed to seek out a voice that would properly capture the perspective of the song: that of the writer of Ecclesiastes, “The Preacher,” Qoheleth. They decided that Johnny Cash was the right pick.

Especially in his later years, Cash’s voice captures the troubador spirit of Ecclesiastes. What’s more, Johnny had certainly done his share of sampling prospective comforts in money, drugs, and women, among other things. Try these remedies as he might, he always came up empty. In fact, some of the ideas contained in Ecclesiastes are properly captured in Cash’s last music video and song, “Hurt.”

Ecclesiastes is tucked in just at the end of the poetry books. It’s my opinion that the book is a little bit poetry and a little bit wisdom literature. Scholars put it in the latter category, as it provides an outline of one man’s quest to find the meaning in life. His discovery is not as sweeping as one might hope — and yet it is settled in his mind, and he hopes, in the mind of the reader.

The word “vanity” recurs here, sometimes translated as “absurdity” or “meaninglessness.” The author tells us that in the usual places like work, knowledge, power, money, and pleasure, meaning is not to be found. Instead, the pursuit of these things only magnified their shortcomings as sources of meaning in our lives.

But as his perspective shifts over the course of the book, Qoheleth understands that even the fleeting things are sent from God. Put in their proper place—not as sources of meaning, but as gracious allowances from our Source—these present-day gifts may be beheld as a delight. We may enjoy them in the here and now, because they are gifts. Though they will pass away, the things of earth are present graces for the roads we walk.

Bobby Jamieson, from his book Everything is Never Enough:

If you hold that the nature of ultimate reality is impersonal and purposeless, you work hard not to think of such things while you try to construct meaning for your life. If you believe that there is no ultimate purpose, you must keep that thought at a safe distance from all the smaller, fragile purposes you are trying to cultivate. If you want a meaningful life, you must not let the universe’s meaninglessness ruin your party.

But if you believe that life is good because life is a gift, and life is a gift because God gives it, and life is full of good things because the creator is constantly flinging gifts at you faster than you can catch them, then any meaning you discover is catching up with the meaning that God has already built in. Any goodness you enjoy is scratching the surface of the goodness that life is. Any happiness you experience is a glimpse of the one who is happiness himself….The universe is one impossibly vast bell, struck by the hand that made it. The joy you feel in your best moments is a share of the joy of your maker.

Last fall, I helped facilitate a Bible study that worked its way through the books of 1, 2, and 3 John. We had a crowd of anywhere from six to twelve women early in the mornings, eager to settle in with a hot drink in hand and their Bibles and notebooks open on their laps.

I was struck as we went through the text at how pastoral these letters are. While the same man (John the Beloved) wrote our fourth gospel “that you may believe,” (John 20:30-31), this book is written to those who are already believers, so that they may know that they have eternal life (I John 5:13). The primary goal here is not convincing those who don’t believe, but reassuring those who do (I John 2:22).

A group has entered the church—most scholars agree that it was likely Gnostic teachers—who are making people question (I John 2:26). The congregation is afraid that the gospel John shared with them is not enough. The false teachers are causing them to feel nervous.

And how does John respond? He reminds them of some things. One, he says, “I was there.” John was one of the closest three disciples (along with James and Peter), and he saw Jesus’ ministry from a front-row seat. He was on the mountain when Christ was transfigured. He was at the base of the cross as Christ hung there, even being tasked with caring for Jesus’ mother, Mary. John uses a good many sensory words (“seen” and “heard” most often) to remind his readers that he spent time with a real, physical Jesus. (I John 1:2-4)

Second, he says, “Remember what I told you.” John has been with this church in person. He has spent time with them, caring for them and telling them what he saw and heard. Though it feels risky, those things are all the young church needs. They don’t need to fulfill the extras that the false teachers are giving them. Belief is enough.

In the middle of the letter, John provides three standards by which the congregants can evaluate the new teaching they are hearing. These tests are (1) love for God’s people (I John 2:10-11) ; (2) obedience to the teaching of the apostles (I John 2:3); and (3) belief in Jesus Christ (I John 2:22-23). These are good tests to apply to ourselves, but again, this is not John’s purpose. His purpose is to arm young believers with good standards by which they can evaluate teachers who might be leading them astray or causing them fear. “John’s purpose is to make us alert, not unsettled.” (Allberry, p. 60)

Too often, I’ve heard this letter applied harshly to those young believers, as though John was writing to them to make them question themselves. But he states his purpose obviously: he wants to reassure them. If the teaching of “extras” to the Gospel was making them nervous, his reminders should set them at ease and give them discernment as they evaluate what they’re hearing.

John reminds us to be careful that we remind people of the truth, not in a way that says “watch out! You might be falling away!” all the time, but rather in a way that says, “Remember the strength of the grace and testimony that brought you here! Don’t be afraid!” Naturally, a good old-fashioned parental warning is called for at times, but most of the time, people need solid Gospel-centered encouragement, not more incitement to fear. Remember I John 2:22: “I write to you, not because you do not know the truth, but because you know it, and because no lie is of the truth.”

John’s kind reassurance here is also mixed with a desire to be with his brothers and sisters in the faith. His pastoral heart is oriented towards the people; he longs to be with them:

• 2 John 1: “whom I love in truth.”
• 2 John 5: “dear lady.”
• 2 John 12 “I would rather not use paper and ink. Instead, I hope to come to you and talk face to face, so that our joy may be complete.”
• 3 John 1 “whom I love in truth.”
• 3 John 14 “I hope to see you soon, and we will talk face to face.”

Again, here we have experiential, sensory words. No amount of letter-writing would do for John. He knows the value of living alongside his people and growing together. This is the kind of hospitality we ought to offer one another, and it tempers any warning that might be given by John. He sees the people; he knows the people, and he loves the people. In modern terms, they hang out together. They can trust him. This is another reason not to give in to fear.

I loved tracing the themes through these books, and it’s wonderful to think of John—that same John beside Peter and James—growing, changing, leaning on Jesus, and eventually teaching others to do the same.

You need to persevere so that when you have done the will of God, you will receive what he has promised. (Hebrews 10:36)

In this New Testament passage, the writer of Hebrews exhorts the church to persevere in their faith, so that they may obtain the promised reward. You can read the full chapter here; the context is that of a church where some Christians were falling away or being persecuted for their faith. Christians historically (in the context of the letter to the Hebrews) needed perseverance to endure the period of suffering they were encountering. Christians today need perseverance as well.

But it’s not so much intense suffering that I wanted to consider today. It’s more a question of vocabulary, and how we might think well about little (or big) inconveniences.

The word “perseverance” stuck out to me here. In our current self-improvement-obsessed days, I don’t hear much about perseverance. I hear a great deal about “consistency” instead. If you want results in your workouts, you’ve got to hit the gym every day. If you want to excel in your job, you’ve got to show up every day and be consistently excellent. If you want to change your diet, you need to eat well every day.

This is all well and good, and for the most part, I agree! Annie Dillard reminds us that “the way we spend our days is…how we spend our lives.” Tiny daily efforts help us chip away at a larger goal. If we want to be a person who lives with intentionality towards good goals, we must take that identity up each day.

The only trouble is, the only truly consistent thing—especially when you have people in your life—is inconsistency. Once you get used to a sleep schedule, the baby will learn to crawl and wake up each night at 2 AM. Once you get the school-and-work schedule balanced, someone will get sick and need to be picked up. As soon as you’re in a routine with errands and exercise, your car will break down and need your attention.

What we need, then, is not consistency, but resilience; perseverance. We will inevitably encounter roadblocks, stumbling points, and obstacles. If we were hoping for consistency, we will immediately grow discouraged when we do. If we’re perfectionists, we can add in a healthy dose of shame when we don’t perform consistently as a result of circumstance.

On the other hand, if we are planning on upsets, detours, and the unplanned, we’ll not be surprised when they occur. It’s never pleasant when things don’t go according to plan, but if we maintain a resilient posture, we’ll bounce back a bit more quickly.

Remember what Mr. Lewis taught us about interruptions?

The great thing, if one can, is to stop regarding all the unpleasant things as interruptions of one’s ‘own,’ or ‘real’ life. The truth is of course that what one calls the interruptions are precisely one’s real life — the life God is sending one day by day.

The best argument for Christianity is Christians: their joy, their certainty, their completeness. But the strongest argument against Christianity is also Christians–when they are sombre and joyless, when they are self-righteous and smug in complacent consecration, when they are narrow and repressive, then Christianity dies a thousand deaths. But, though it is just to condemn some Christians for these things, perhaps, after all, it is not just, though very easy, to condemn Christianity itself for them. Indeed, there are impressive indications that the positive quality of joy is in Christianity–and possibly nowhere else. If that were certain, it would be proof of a very high order.

― Sheldon Vanauken, A Severe Mercy

At the beginning of the month, I wrapped up my summer book club with some friends from my church. We read A Severe Mercy together and discussed on a rainy Monday night a few weeks ago.

I gave a chance for people to read or highlight quotes that stuck out to them, and the one above was mentioned a few times. Indeed, this is a difficult truth: when Christians are complete and joyful, they are the best argument for their religion; when they are “self-righteous and smug,” they are the worst.

Vanauken and his wife, Davy, had the blessed fortune to encounter a circle of Christians at Oxford who were the former; they were joyful and certain. They were patient with Van and Davy as they explored questions about Christianity; they did not press too hard, even as they argued compellingly for their faith. Their lives and the stories in them convinced the young couple that there was something more to this faith.

If the Vanaukens had instead encountered believers who wanted to immediately press, or who wanted to draw further distinctions between themselves, or who were unnecessarily harsh, they would not have been compelled to explore the Christian faith any further. Instead, they were invited in, comfortable in expressing doubts and questions. Upon being invited, they were compelled.

Other observations made that night were confessions that this book is not a usual genre for some women, but they found it very affecting. The second half of the book includes letters to and from C. S. Lewis as Van works through issues with his faith and his wife’s mortality.

What struck one reader was Lewis’s use of illustrations—she found his teaching so easy to understand (even the sticky stuff) because he explains so clearly. The man was a master of metaphor and explanation. Though many think him hard to understand, in reality, he is a brilliant teacher if you give him time to paint a picture for you.

I am always left with the final picture of Lewis given to us by Vanauken: on the afternoon that they last shared a pint in a pub, they bid each other goodbye on the sidewalk, except—not quite. Lewis said that he wouldn’t say goodbye, as he was convinced that he and Van would see each other again.

Then he crossed the busy street, pausing on the other side, and yelled jovially over the traffic, “After all! Christians never say goodbye!”

“Aslan,” said Lucy, “you’re bigger.”

“That is because you are older, little one,” answered he.

“Not because you are?”

“I am not. But every year you grow, you will find me bigger.”

C.S. Lewis, Prince Caspian

I first encountered Peter, Susan, Edmund, and Lucy in elementary school. I fell in love with the creaky old country house, the abandoned dusty rooms, and the magical wardrobe. At the time, I found kinship in the adventurous crowd of kids, ramming around in the rain inside a drafty country home, desperate for something to do. The house reminded me of my paternal grandparents’ home in the farm country of upstate New York. That house had once been a small hotel. It was drafty and cold. I slept in room number four at the top of the stairs.

At the time of my childhood, Lucy seemed like someone I’d like to be friends with. She was earnest, brave, and truthful. She loved doing, going, and experiencing. She couldn’t sit around. Susan seemed unrelatable to me: she was elegant and polite—so unlike me, who was clumsy and insecure. I wanted to run around the attics with Lucy, wearing knee socks and Mary Janes, opening doors and finding things out. She was someone I could follow into adventure.

And what younger sibling didn’t feel the pinprick of bitterness alongside Lucy when her older siblings didn’t believe her about her tea with Mr. Tumnus? The injustice of it all was familiar. My heart broke for her when she was dismissed and mocked. When Edmund has a chance to redeem her, he turns a deaf ear and exposes her to scorn. Later, my heart soared as she was proven right, and Peter, her brother-hero, confessed that he should have listened to her.

Imagine my surprise when years later, on a return to The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe as an adult, I found it to be a story about Edmund. Edmund the terrible—the traitor. We spend chapters alongside him, filling up on hot chocolate and Turkish delight while he commits his villainy. Who could have guessed that this was not a story about Lucy?!

And yet, in my return, I found myself there as well: in Edmund, and not so much in Lucy. In greater self-awareness, I understood that I, too, had the capability to betray and fall short of the mark. Time and again, I would mix up service to others with service to self; I would pursue my agenda and forget others. It would take a surprisingly small amount of sweets to cave in my will toward evil.

In my return to Narnia in adulthood, Lucy was the ideal, but Edmund was my reality.

In my travels on the internet recently, I was searching for something about Edmund Pevensie. I noticed that the first selection of a “question people ask” Google is “Why is Edmund such a nasty brother?” I hope that this question is asked by people who haven’t yet “returned” to Narnia—perhaps they still have a childlike understanding of Edmund (and of themselves). Or maybe they just saw a bad movie portrayal of Edmund. Or maybe they haven’t read far enough yet.

Lewis tells us that the first time Edmund feels sorry for anyone but himself is when he sees the tiny dinner party turned to stone by the White Witch. Standing in the mud, he ponders the fate of the little animals, once joyfully feasting and full of life, now mute statues, frozen in time. Edmund finally feels a bit of empathy for another. It’s not sadness for his own betrayal of his siblings, but it’s a start. It’s not a coincidence that this is also the chapter when the snow is melting; the spell is breaking, and Aslan is nearer.

As the story of Narnia progresses and Edmund lives out the years beyond Aslan’s sacrifice on his behalf, he is named Edmund the Just. Perhaps Aslan understands that Edmund, of all the children, grasps justice better than anyone. Edmund would understand that justice is required, but it is best tempered by mercy. As we are told in James 2, “mercy triumphs over judgment.” We understand that in his later years, Edmund was “a graver and quieter man than Peter, and great in council and judgment.”

In subsequent stories, when it’s required, he is the first to believe Lucy, not the last. He is kind and understanding to Eustace as his cousin recovers from his dragonish exploits. Most poignantly, when the monarchs are prompted to execute Rabadash in The Horse and His Boy, it is King Edmund who first makes a case for mercy, saying “… even a traitor may mend. I have known one that did.”

So it would seem that for me, a return to Narnia meant not only that Aslan was bigger, but that I myself was smaller—more than that, that I was “right-sized.” More than when I was ready to tumble along behind Lucy, I had a sense that I was as frail, and as prone to wander, as Edmund. Edmund is the story of Romans 3:26, where God is shown to “be just and the justifier of the one who has faith in Jesus.” A traitor made new, Edmund rightly perceives the Just and Justifier, the One Who makes the wrong into right whenever He comes in sight.

Originally published by Cultivating Oaks Press, 2024. Republished here with permission.

You probably aren’t getting enough protein or fiber.
One of those polyps was precancerous. Do you have a family history?
How do I know when to get my car inspected?
I think my car got stolen. 
We’re engaged! Hope you can be here for the wedding.
The EMTs didn’t think he was able to stay home safely, so they transported him to the hospital.
Did you take your magnesium today? If you don’t, you might not sleep tonight.
Can you edit this paper?
Have you had enough protein today? How about fiber?
Walking can only do so much. You should be lifting, and lifting heavy.
The car smells weird. Did you leave something in it?
The dog is acting strange. Did something happen while I was gone?
That limb finally fell out of the tree.
My car wasn’t stolen -- it’s only towed because I forgot to register it with the parking people.
How are your grades so far?
Everything is so dry. I hope it rains soon.
Take a deep breath, and try to relax. It’ll be over before you know it.
Can you quiz me on biology?
I’m retiring! You’ll have a new doctor come fall. I know you’ll like her.
I think the trip conflicts with her dentist appointment.
Are you driving safely?
Did you send them a thank-you?
Does the recycling go out today?
What do you want to major in?
The bees are dying. No wait, they're not.
The earth is so warm.
Do you have enough money?
The scan was inconclusive, so we’ll need you back in two months.
I got fired.
Have you had enough fiber today? What about protein?
The weeds are taking over that bed. It’s going to be worse next year.
I think his friends are using him, and he doesn’t see it.
Did you make your loan payment?
We don’t care about your grades. We love you no matter what.
I think the dishwasher is leaking. Look at the floor.
Maybe you need more bloodwork.
Drive safely.

When David and I moved to Northern California we attended a church plant that met in a synagogue. We made fast friends with a few young couples there, and the men were beginning to pass around CDs they’d burned of sermons from a pastor in New York City. His name was Tim Keller.

I think the first teaching I heard from Tim was about emotions. Most reformed teachers I’d heard up until that point were generally allergic to human emotion; strong emotions were one tick off from outright sin, and they ought to always be controlled by the intellect. (I’m exaggerating, but you get the idea.) Rather than letting emotions drive us up and down, or refusing to interact with emotions, Tim saw a third way (stop me if you’ve heard this one before).

I picked up his book A Reason for God as a potential resource for doubting friends; what I didn’t expect was that it deeply ministered to my own soul. I’ve already told you of the influence of his book The Prodigal God. We have a shelf full of his work, ranging from vocation to prayer to suffering.

I saw Tim speak a few times — once at Redeemer, where I was struck by his casual way of sidling up to the standup microphone and talking to a huge room of people as though he was sitting next to each of us. Kathy and Tim did the pre-conference at an event I went to once. He clearly delighted in his wife — such a fierce, intelligent, and funny woman. 

We got to meet him once. He did a book signing here in Charlotte when A Reason for God came out. We waited in line and confessed to him that occasionally we referred to him as “Uncle Tim.” He chuckled and said, “Well, that’s alright. We’re probably related somehow.” Then he proceeded to unfold a brief Keller family history, tracing his family roots through the mid-Atlantic, until we had to gently call him to a halt and awkwardly excuse ourselves for holding up the line.

One thing I admired about him was his curiosity about the world and about people. In the five minutes we spoke to him, he wanted to know more about us — not because he was expected to, or because it was good manners, but because he was genuinely interested. When he heard Kathy talk, he wanted to know more about something she said or thought. The pattern continues in recorded conversations and interviews; he wanted to learn. His deep well of illustrations for preaching sprung from an unending desire to know more about God’s word, God’s world, or God’s people.

I was emotional the Sunday after he passed away. In church, we sang about Heaven, and I pictured him there, realizing what he’d clearly longed for his entire life. His teaching on vocation always included Tolkien’s story “Leaf by Niggle,” a story that has ministered deeply to my heart as I’ve tried and failed to accomplish so many things here on this fallen earth. When Niggle, the main character, reaches Heaven, he realizes that his work on Earth, though artistically frustrating, was not in vain. None of it was lost or wasted. 

Before him stood the Tree, his Tree, finished. If you could say that of a Tree that was alive, its leaves opening, its branches growing and bending in the wind that Niggle had so often felt or guessed, and had so often failed to catch. He gazed at the Tree, and slowly he lifted his arms and opened them wide. “It’s a gift!” he said. He was referring to his art, and also to the result; but he was using the word quite literally. He went on looking at the Tree. All the leaves he had ever laboured at were there, as he had imagined them rather than as he had made them; and there were others that had only budded in his mind, and many that might have budded, if only he had had time.

Keller wrote in reflection:

Once or twice in your life you may feel like you have finally “gotten a leaf out.” Whatever your work, you need to know this: There really is a tree. Whatever you are seeking in your work—the city of justice and peace, the world of brilliance and beauty, the story, the order, the healing—it is there. There is a God, there is a future healed world that he will bring about, and your work is showing it (in part) to others. Your work will be only partially successful, on your best days, in bringing that world about. But inevitably the whole tree that you seek—the beauty, harmony, justice, comfort, joy, and community—will come to fruition. If you know all this, you won’t be despondent because you can get only a leaf or two out in this life. You will work with satisfaction and joy. You will not be puffed up by success or devastated by setbacks.

(from Every Good Endeavor)

I’m thankful for the good endeavors of Tim Keller’s life. I pray that I and others will have the same curiosity and joy in our earthly work and play until our race is run.