“Home, is it just a word? Or is it something you carry within you?”

In the opening minutes of Chloe Zhao’s film Nomadland, we see these words inked on the arm of an Amazon employee named Angela, who is showing off tattoos to her new friend, Fern. It’s a quick scene that may not seem particularly noteworthy. However, nothing in this movie is extraneous or insignificant. The words of this tattoo present us with both a portent of what’s to come and the central tension of the entire film. Fern (played by Frances McDormand) has recently endured back-to-back tragedies: the death of her husband and the closing of her longtime job at a gypsum plant in Empire, Nevada. Very soon, she will swap her belongings for a van and adopt the life of a nomad, crisscrossing the western United States in search of work and roadside community. As she meets other nomads, she will face questions that are at once timely and timeless: Where in this rapidly-changing world do I belong? How do I put down roots when all that was familiar has washed away? Can home be found on the edges of the maps?

If you haven’t seen Nomadland yet, I heartily recommend it. The movie was named Best Picture at the 2021 Oscars, where McDormand and Zhao also won awards for acting and directing, respectively. I saw the film months ago, but I’m still thinking about it. Primarily, this is because it reminds me of someone who, on the surface, has little in common with the oddball wanderers of modern America: C.S. Lewis.

Shortly after seeing Nomadland, I started reading Lewis’s autobiography, Surprised by Joy. In that book, Lewis recounts his decades-long journey to faith in Christ, tracing the impact of a mysterious sensation that he calls “Joy.” Lewis compares Joy to the German word Sehnsucht, defining it as an “inconsolable longing” in the human heart for “we know not what.” What do the nomads of Zhao’s film have to do with Lewis’s Joy? I believe that Nomadland is packed with echoes of that bewildering, bittersweet desire. If we listen closely to those echoes, we can learn some profound things about both the nature of Joy and humanity’s search for that elusive destination: home.

Shaken Loose

According to C.S. Lewis, Joy is dynamic. It’s an elusive desire, which appears unexpectedly and vanishes far more quickly than we want it to. While it may be sparked by familiar things – an illustration in a book, the smell of morning mist, or a glimpse of distant hills – it always surprises and unsettles us, compelling us to find it again. This is because of both its fleeting nature and its unique intensity. Joy carries with it a sense of what Lewis calls “incalculable importance,” a transcendent spark that feels otherworldly and makes all other pursuits seem “insignificant in comparison.” Unlike other desires, we can’t manufacture or control it. As Lewis says, Joy “is never a possession, always a desire for something longer ago or further away or still ‘about to be.’” Joy is on the move, and it gets us moving, too. Once we’ve encountered it, we are never quite the same.

The characters in Nomadland (many of them played by real-life nomads) have varied reasons for leaving society behind. Like Fern, some are bereaved and unemployed. Others are battling depression, chronic illnesses, or symptoms of PTSD. Still others are pursuing adventure and a deeper, richer way of life. Despite their differences, all of them have been shaken loose from what was familiar, launched into uncharted territory by experiences that changed them, rendering them unable or unwilling to thrive in traditional settings. Chloe Zhao highlights their uniqueness with close-up camera shots that dwell on weathered skin, lines etched in faces, and the glow of restless eyes. At the same time, she invites us to empathize with them by lingering on numerous scenes of everyday life, work, and play. These mundane moments are punctuated here and there with scenes of astonishing beauty: buffalo rustling through a sea of tall grass, hundreds of birds wheeling in the air beside a cave wall, sunset blazing over the Badlands, and a desert sky splashed with starlight. Like our own stories, the lives of Zhao’s characters are multifaceted – slow and meandering and chock-full of ordinariness, yet also riven by glory.

Like Fern and her companions, those of us who have experienced what Lewis calls “the stab of Joy” and committed ourselves to pursuing its source are square pegs in round holes – what the Bible calls “sojourners and exiles” (1 Peter 2:11). Having tasted a desire that no earthly comfort can assuage, we are compelled into motion. Our starting points may be different, but our quest is the same. We are drawn inexorably onward, lured by a high and holy wind that fills us with longing for something else, something more, and something beyond. We have no hope of controlling that wind, but if we allow it to carry us, we may find ourselves swept to places and people we may never have expected to encounter. Like Fern, we may find ourselves shedding old goals, old entanglements, and old coping mechanisms in our efforts to track down that peculiar spark, yet also discovering new joys along the way. We may traverse the highways and byways of the world, but we are no longer “of the world” (John 17:6). We have been displaced.

On the Outside Looking In

In Surprised by Joy, C.S. Lewis describes Joy as an ache – a desire that, while pleasurable, is tinged with bitterness. This melancholy strain is not only a consequence of Joy’s absence, but is also an intrinsic part of Joy itself. Reflecting on his own experience of Sehnsucht, Lewis identifies the feeling as something “almost like heartbreak.” Elsewhere, he calls it “a single, unendurable sense of desire and loss.” Joy as Lewis defines it is interwoven with grief.

While Chloe Zhao’s film explores the appeals of life on the road, it refuses to romanticize the experiences of its subjects. Fern and her friends are vulnerable to many hardships, from difficulties finding stable work to the vicissitudes of the natural environment. Cinematographer Joshua James Richards underscores these struggles with camera shots that expose the vast, silent barrenness of the Badlands and the Arizona Desert. In such places, a broken van becomes a terrifying prospect. Fern’s relationships are laced with the sorrow of inevitable goodbyes. During one raw scene, her sister tells her, “I would have loved having you around all these years. You left a big hole by leaving.” Throughout the film, we see Fern repeatedly gravitating toward the firm beams and warm embers of family. Yet again and again, that old itch that Joni Mitchell dubbed “the urge for going” sends her retreating back into the wilderness. Frances McDormand’s performance here is masterful, betraying the depths of Fern’s yearning and grief in quiet, subtle expressions and the fires of a relentlessly searching gaze.

In the pages of Scripture, we learn that suffering is part and parcel of our journeys toward Joy. 1 Chronicles 29:15 connects life as a sojourner with the ache of continual transience: “Our days on the earth are like a shadow, and there is no abiding.” In his letter to the Jewish exiles, the Apostle Peter describes the Christian sojourn as a battleground, which is fraught with temptation and peril: “Beloved, I urge you as sojourners and exiles to abstain from the passions of the flesh, which wage war against your soul” (1 Peter 2:11). Like the characters of Zhao’s film, those of us who chase Joy into the wild must eventually confront the fact that our best efforts to achieve happiness are imperfect. Beauty crumbles away, the fires of longing fade with time, and our thirst for lasting fulfillment collides with the reality that this world isn’t as it should be. The bitter aftertaste of Joy reminds us that despite its glories, our road is a hard one, and we are far more distant than we thought from the source of our longing. Like Fern, who thumps against the glowing windows of home with the persistence of a wayward moth, we find ourselves on the outside looking in.

Called Home

Musing on the strange character of Joy, C.S. Lewis describes the desire as something akin to memory: “All Joy reminds.” On the final page of his autobiography, he elaborates this idea by comparing Joy to a signpost. Unlike other desires, Joy doesn’t merely lead us to the physical object or experience that inspired it. Instead, it points beyond itself to something that is farther off and more difficult to name. What does Joy remind us of, and where is it pointing us? Lewis answers these questions in his book Mere Christianity: “If I find in myself desires which nothing in this world can satisfy, the only logical explanation is that I was made for another world.”

There is a reason why our encounters with Sehnsucht feel otherworldly. That ache is a memory of another time and place – an echo of the Eden that was lost when humanity disavowed its creator and a seismic evil sundered the cosmos, fracturing everything in its wake. It is also a signpost pointing us to a time and place yet to come – to Eden regained, healed of all the sin and sickness and sorrow that ravaged it. The Joy that Lewis writes about is a both a remnant of paradise lost and an invitation from the God who is making all things new again. In the last analysis, it’s a call to come home.

Near the beginning of Nomadland, a girl asks Fern if she is homeless. “No, I’m not homeless,” Fern replies. “I’m just houseless. Not the same thing, right?” Throughout the film, as we watch Fern roam from place to place, we’re invited to ask ourselves that very question. Is home a physical place, or is it something that we take with us? Can those without roots ever truly be at home in this world? While a lesser film would slap simplistic answers on those questions, Zhao’s movie challenges us to linger in spaces of tension, inviting us into the physical and existential wilderness that Fern and her friends must navigate. We’re encouraged to walk a mile in their shoes – to see ourselves as fellow sojourners, set adrift between the things we’ve left behind and the future we’re longing to participate in. As we read in Hebrews 13:14, those of us who await God’s new creation “do not have an enduring city, but we are looking for the city that is to come.” Like Fern, we’re still on the road.

Yet for those with eyes to see and ears to hear, there is profound consolation to be glimpsed in Nomadland, tattooed on an Amazon worker’s arm. In the Apostle John’s depiction of the New Jerusalem, we witness the ultimate balm for our homesickness: our savior, Jesus, dwelling among the people he has redeemed by his blood. He, more than any physical space, is our truest home – the source of our Joy and the satisfaction of our longings. What comfort does this vision offer us in our wilderness wanderings today? Elsewhere in the New Testament, Christians are told that the same savior who will one day welcome us home now lives within each of us by the power of the Holy Spirit. Faced with the questions posed by Angela’s tattoo, we can honestly answer, “Yes and amen.”Yes, home is just a word; more specifically, it is a name. And yes, it is also something we carry within us – a fellow traveler, who has promised to be with us “to the very end of the age” (Matthew 28:20). Reflecting on Nomadland and its resonances to Lewis’s Joy, we might find ourselves agreeing with the words of George MacDonald: “Yea, no home at last will do, but the home of God’s heart.”

It was almost the best day of his life. Joe Gardner, a resident of New York City, had spent most of his years teaching jazz band classes for middle-schoolers. The work had its own peculiar charm. Sure, the racket cooked up by distracted brains, untrained ears, and clumsy fingers could be grating. But there were moments of magic along the way: flickers of musical progress, sessions when the students caught some of Joe’s infectious enthusiasm for jazz, and a young prodigy named Connie whose soulful trombone playing reminded Joe of the day he first fell in love with music. However, despite those perks, the work remained a chore which competed for time and energy with Joe’s true passion: playing jazz piano. Year after year, Joe’s dream of lighting up the stage seemed increasingly unattainable, dwindling into the darkness like a missed subway car. But that all changed when a smooth audition landed him a gig with Dorothea Williams, the legendary trumpet virtuoso. Before the audition, life had been mundane and monotonous – a melody that puttered along and circled back with all the predictability of a broken record. The gig with Dorothea was a key change, infusing the melody with new colors and possibilities. “I was born to play,” Joe had told his students. At long last, he was finally on the brink of doing so. 

Then, on his way home from the audition, he fell into a manhole. 

In a sick twist, Joe found his soul on a cosmic conveyor belt, moving with countless other souls toward the blinding light of the “Great Beyond.” Desperate to escape his fate, Joe leaped off the belt and plummeted into the void, only to find himself landing with a thud in the “Great Before.” Here, new souls were mentored and given their traits before heading to earth. Mistaken for a mentor, Joe was tasked with training a notoriously difficult soul named 22, who had zero interest in life on earth. The job presented Joe with the makings of an escape plan. He would take 22 to earth to help her find her “spark,” the missing piece of her palette. In exchange, he would get a chance to locate and rejoin his body. It was almost too good to be true: for one, a chance to witness life firsthand before committing to it, and for the other, a second chance at a life snuffed out by bad luck. However, in their undercover journey to earth, both Joe and 22 would get far more than they bargained for. 

I’m a huge fan of Pixar’s latest film, Soul. While it may sound like heresy to you animated movie lovers out there, I must confess that I liked it even more than Pixar classics like Up, Inside Out, The Incredibles, Finding Nemo, and Toy Story (Now, before you hunt me down and burn me at the stake, hear me out). Sure, there are plot flaws and corny bits. Sure, the spirituality of the film is a hodgepodge of the sincere, the strange, and the schmaltzy. However, more than any other Disney or Pixar film that I’ve seen, Soul hit me in the heartstrings and swept me into its propulsive, wonderfully outlandish plot. It also did what the best art does, prompting me to pause and reevaluate my life with fresh eyes. As a follower of Jesus Christ, I was delighted to find echoes of the Gospel in the storyline. Specifically, I believe that Soul has some profound and deeply countercultural things to say about a topic that is frequently overlooked in modern storytelling: the magic (or, in this case, the music) of the mundane. 

Make Me Interruptible 

Despite his commitment to helping 22 find her spark, Joe Gardner’s journey to Earth is really motivated by one goal: find and rejoin his body at any cost. It’s a race against the clock, made all the more pressing by the Accountant who hunts the escaped souls in an effort to return them to the Great Before. However, as a newcomer to Earth, 22 is arrested by the strangeness of New York City – the stew of sights, smells, and sounds that flavors its hustle and bustle. Throughout the film, she stops to appreciate things that Joe hurries past in his frantic quest: seeds spinning down from the branches of trees, the aroma of fresh pizza, a busker singing on a subway platform, and the rush of air through a sidewalk grate. To Joe, these interruptions are both bewildering and irritating. To 22, they’re burning bushes: moments of astonishing beauty that demand her full attention. 

Like the streets of NYC, our society is characterized by relentless momentum. Efficiency is the name of the game. Whether by TV commercials and touchless technology, freeways and fast food, or sound bites and cellphone upgrades, we’re trained to expect results that fit neatly into our accelerating timetables. The quicker and more streamlined the path to our goals, the better. We plug in earbuds to drown out distractions, use GPS to avoid detours, and fill our spare hours with activity to minimize downtime. Unlike 22, we rarely pause to notice our surroundings, because slowing down is missing out. “Adventure is out there,” we tell ourselves, and we chase after it with everything we’ve got, hurdling over anything that threatens to waste our valuable time. Like Joe Gardner, our eyes are on the clock. 

During the summer and fall of 2017, I had the opportunity to live, work, and study with residents of a slum in a Southeast Asian megacity. While there, I was frequently surprised by my neighbors’ attitudes toward privacy. I’m an extrovert. I draw energy from being with people and get stir-crazy if I’m alone for too long. Nevertheless, I found myself getting annoyed when kids pounded on my door and poked their heads in during homework sessions, when neighbors sidled over to strike up chats while I was trying to read, or when late-night karaoke music came rumbling like thunder through the walls of my house. My neighbors in the slum used almost all of their spare time to do one thing: visit their neighbors. By contrast, I found myself coveting alone time like toilet paper in the spring of 2020. 

Early in my stay, I recall sitting with two of my Kiwi teammates before our weekly prayer time. One of them confessed her frustration with neighbors who showed up uninvited in her house at all hours of the day, seeking conversation or help or nothing in particular. Then, as our prayer time began, my teammate prayed this prayer: “Lord, help me be interruptible.” Listening to her, I was convicted and humbled. She wasn’t asking God for a break from interruptions. She was asking him for fresh perspective – for the grace to see these disruptions of her plans and projects as opportunities for relationship-building.

My teammate’s attitude was remarkably Christ-like. During his three-year ministry on Earth, Jesus was a busy man. There were disciples to train, crowds to teach, sick people to heal, religious leaders to infuriate, and many, many miles to travel (not to mention a world-saving mission that needed some attending to). Yet, in the Gospel of Mark, we see Jesus not only allowing himself to be interrupted, but even encouraging disruptions of his agenda. When his disciples shooed away a group of kids, dismissing them as an unnecessary distraction, Jesus called the children back and turned their interruption into a teaching moment (Mark 10:13-16). When some folks interrupted Jesus’s sermon by lowering their crippled friend through the roof, Jesus put his lesson on hold and took time to heal the man (Mark 2:1-12). When a woman interrupted Jesus’ meal to anoint his feet with perfume, Jesus defended her unusual action in front of his companions (Mark 14:1-9). And when a penniless, chronically ill woman tugged his robe in a crowded street, Jesus forced his disciples to stop and made time to chat with the woman, despite the fact that he’d been hurrying to the home of a wealthy dignitary (Mark 5:25-34). Jesus operated on a different timetable than the people around him. Like 22, he saw interruptions not as cause for irritation, but as moments of profound beauty and possibility. In his eyes, each and every moment was worthy of attention. 

Slowing down can be much harder than speeding up. I resonate with the lyrics of Half Alive’s song “Arrow”: “This heart is afraid to beat slowly / Miss a chance at what I could become / I know that I can’t run forever / But I can’t stand still for too long.” Life hurtles forward, and we’ve got to keep up. Yet, if we spent more time looking out our windows, bringing into focus the blur of colors and shapes rushing by outside them, I wonder what we’d see. Perhaps, we would glimpse some of the truth that Jesus tapped into: the reality that, as John Lennon sang, “Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans” (or, as Vanessa Redgrave so eloquently put it in Letters to Juliet, “Life is the messy bits”). Pausing in our rush to adventure, we might start to wonder whether the interruptions around us might actually be adventures in disguise – an unexpected party of dwarves in our kitchen, summoning us into a quest for dragon gold. We might find ourselves agreeing with the words of C.S. Lewis, penned in a 1943 letter: 

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. What one calls one’s ‘real life’ is a phantom of one’s own imagination.

Small Things Matter

As Joe and 22 travel through New York City, 22 ponders what her “spark” might be. Enraptured by her surroundings, she suggests that it might be eating pizza, or listening to music, or talking to strangers. Joe shoots these ideas down quickly. A spark is something extraordinary, he tells her – a purpose or passion that directs the course of one’s life. By contrast, the things that delight 22 are small, which makes them trivial. 

“Bigger is better” is a maxim that’s widely accepted in American society. We see it everywhere we look: in our multi-million dollar sports stadiums, in the lavish spectacles of our entertainment industry, in the frenetic calculations of our stock markets, and even in the products that we purchase from our local grocery stores (Costco, anyone?). It isn’t necessary for something to be physically big to fit the bill. If there’s anything cellphones have taught us, it’s that a shocking amount of stuff (most of which we never knew we needed or wanted) can be crammed into a tiny space. In addition to efficiency, our culture prizes productivity, influence, and recognition, values exemplified by the soaring skyscrapers of our urban centers and the ceaseless scrolling of our social media feeds. We’re trained to tabulate costs and benefits in our pursuit of maximized results. If an activity can’t be chalked up to a specific career goal, turned into profit, or shared with our Instagram followers, then it’s probably a waste of our time.

By contrast, when we examine the life of Christ, we meet a man who, by all earthly accounts, wasted a whole lot of time on a whole lot of trivial things. The Son of God could have chosen any form he wanted for his entrance into our world. Instead of racing to start his mission, as most of us would have done, he chose to spend thirty years living in the backwater town of Nazareth (Luke 2:39-40,52; 3:23). During those years, he followed in his father’s footsteps and learned carpentry (Mark 6:3), a blue-collar vocation that had no direct relevance to his future work of teaching and healing. Throughout his ministry, Jesus spent numerous days visiting homes, sharing meals, and attending festivities with common folk (Luke 7:36, 10:38-42, 22:7-13; John 2:1-2). He did this so often that the influential people of the day called him “a glutton and a drunkard” (Matthew 11:19). And while he could have commandeered chariots (of the regular or angelic variety) to spread his message as fast as possible, Jesus walked everywhere he went (which, unless he was an Olympic-level speed walker, took a considerable amount of time). If ever anyone had reason to hurry through life, it was Jesus. Yet, the Savior of the world moved at what many today would consider a snail’s pace, investing huge amounts of time in small-scale activities that produced no grand or even substantive results.

Earlier this year, one of my favorite artists made national news headlines for a very odd reason. Andy Gullahorn, a singer-songwriter based in Nashville, was interviewed by The Atlantic and CBS News regarding a high-five tradition that he started with his friend and fellow musician, Gabe Scott. Once a week, Andy and Gabe walk thirty minutes to give each other a high-five, which includes a unique snap and clap routine that they developed together. After high-fiving one another, they usually keep walking and make their way back home. They’ve been doing this for seven years. At first glance, the ritual seems silly and a bit superfluous. However, for the two friends, it has become deeply meaningful over time. Gabe was hospitalized recently with a severe form of encephalitis, which ravaged his brain and caused him to forget his entire life. Andy visited his buddy regularly in the hospital. Amazingly, while Gabe couldn’t recall anything about who he was, his body remembered the high-five ritual that he’d shared with his friend – snap, clap, and all. Gabe’s memory has returned slowly, filling in the gaps left by his brain infection. In a bizarre twist of fate, something as silly and superfluous as a weekly high-five became both a step toward recovery and the glue binding two friends together through a season of intense suffering. 

Why did Jesus devote so much time and energy to small things? Like Andy and Gabe, he knew that small things have a way of adding up over time, becoming meaningful in surprising ways. He knew that there is no hierarchy of events – that a human life is the sum of billions of individual moments, each one every bit as precious and meaningful as the one before. Like 22, Jesus rejoiced in simple things like good food, beautiful music, and conversations with strangers, not because these things were instrumentally valuable as a means to an end, but because they were intrinsically valuable as God-given gifts. He invited his followers to ask themselves whether, in their hurry to get busy and get ahead, they had been missing the innumerable gifts woven into the fabric of their lives. The Apostle Paul echoed Jesus’ attitude toward small things in his letter to the Corinthians: “So whether you eat or drink or whatever you do, do it all for the glory of God” (1 Corinthians 10:31). Paul’s words remind us that all of life – the big stuff and the small – is an opportunity to worship the Giver of all good things. Andy Gullahorn makes a similar observation in his song “Small Things Matter,” which was inspired by his high-five tradition with Gabe Scott:

So take a walk with me on Monday morning
Through the same old small streets of our neighborhood
Oh, it’s no marathon that ends in glory
But it’s good

My Hometown

Near the beginning of Soul, on a conveyor belt bearing him toward the Great Beyond, Joe Garner vents his frustration at the accident that stole his longed-for gig with Dorothea Williams. “I’m due,” he says. “Heck, I’m overdue!…This can’t happen. I’m not dying today. Not when my life just started.” In Joe’s mind, everything before that fateful day had been a prelude. His “spark” had always been jazz piano. By contrast, his years in the classroom were a necessary evil – a tiresome stage of life that he’d always assumed would be temporary. Sure, the job had its moments. But it wasn’t living, not in the full-hearted, ravishing sense that Joe had anticipated a professional jazz gig would be. If his life ended before he could achieve his dream, then what had that life really amounted to?

I resonate deeply with Joe’s struggle. When I graduated from college several years ago, I was excited to find a job that I was passionate about. Aimless and yet eager to change the world for the better, I plunged into work in the foster care system. Very quickly, I learned that social work was a lot less glamorous than I had expected. There were endless stacks of documents to sign and file, countless conflicts to sort out, and dozens of days that left me feeling spent and discouraged. Soon after arriving, I started itching to move to greener grass. Yet, without clear alternatives, I found myself agreeing to stay for longer and longer periods of time. My restlessness intensified. Rather than pondering why God had given me the job, I fretted over skills I had that were going unused and imagined other vocations that would surely be more fulfilling. On TV, on Facebook, and in the streets around me, I saw people scrambling to escape the drudgery of their routines and to find jobs that they truly enjoyed (jobs which, according to Confucius, would keep them from ever having to work a day in their lives). Like Joe Gardner, I felt cheated, stuck in a monotone melody that was drowning out the strains of more promising tunes. Fulfillment was out there somewhere, and life was making me wait for it. The chorus of Half Alive’s “Arrow” captured my feelings perfectly: “The hardest place to be is right where you are / In the space between the finish and the start / It’s the arrow in your heart.” 

Joe Gardner is a nerdy fan of jazz. In the past several months, I’ve become a nerdy fan of Bruce Springsteen. Prior to 2018, I knew him only as the dude screaming “BORN IN THE USA,” who sounded like he’d had the dual misfortunes of swallowing a bucketful of gravel and setting his pants on fire. Then, I discovered his landmark album Born to Run, started reading his song lyrics, and burned through his 508-page autobiography. I’m currently working my way through his entire discography and thoroughly enjoying it. Springsteen is famous for writing songs that interrogate the American dream, exploring the tension between our country’s promises of a brighter tomorrow and the gritty realities of its streets, tenement halls, and factories. His songs are marked by a longing to escape the monotony of working class life and, at the very same time, a fascination with the mundane details of that life. Perhaps the best example of this paradox is his song “My Hometown.” The track opens with a tender father-son interaction:

I was eight years old and running with a dime in my hand
Into the bus stop to pick up a paper for my old man
I’d sit on his lap in that big old Buick and we’d steer as he drove through town
He’d tousle my hair, and say, “Son, take a good look around –
This is your hometown.” 

As the song progresses, Springsteen recounts the toll that changing times took on his hometown: the race riots that endangered innocent lives, the textile mill shutdown that stripped men of their jobs, and the gradual exodus of the town’s citizens. In the final verse, Springsteen confesses his longing to leave the town that has fallen so far short of his childhood dreams. Then, unexpectedly, he hits us with a twist:

Last night me and Kate, we laid in bed, talking about getting out
Packing up our bags, maybe heading south
I’m thirty-five, we’ve got a boy of our own now
Last night I sat him up behind the wheel and said, “Son, take a good look around – 
This is your hometown.” 

That final verse gets me every time I hear it, because the redemption in the lyrics is impossible to miss. Although thoroughly disenchanted with his hometown, Springsteen still feels an inexplicable loyalty to the place. He wills himself to see its landscape through new eyes: the eyes of his son. He seeks beauty in familiar streets. Ultimately, he recognizes that no hardship can sever the ties that bind him to his birthplace. Sure, it’s screwed up and run-down and a sorry excuse for what it was. But it’s home.

Springtseen reminds me of another storyteller who was fascinated by the mundane (Guess who?). During his time on Earth, Jesus spoke often about “the kingdom of God,” which he described as God’s reign in human hearts. To illustrate what this kingdom was like, he told stories called “parables.” These parables included many images that were familiar to Jesus’ listeners: birds in trees, farmers sowing seeds, wheat fields at harvesttime, yeast rising in dough, village markets, and fishermen casting their nets (Matthew 13:31-33, 45-50; Mark 4:26-29). According to Jesus, God’s redemptive work in the world was transformative, unpredictable, and mysterious. Yet, the images that he chose to depict it were remarkably commonplace. 

Why would Jesus describe a reality as lofty as God’s kingdom in such mundane terms? One reason is that Jesus himself was raised in a poor, rural context, so these scenes were familiar to him. However, I believe there’s a deeper answer. Jesus told tales about simple, monotonous, ordinary life because that is where the kingdom of God is built. To people who had been told that “important” things happened elsewhere, in cities and fortresses and halls of power, Jesus delivered a summons to God’s work in the here and now, wherever that happened to be: “…the kingdom of God is in your midst” (Luke 17:21). To those who dreamed of future exploits while griping about their present duties, he issued a challenge to glimpse God’s hand in the daily grind, whether that grind took place in a wheat field, in foster care, in an abandoned factory town, or in a middle-school jazz band classroom. Jesus wanted people to see that no location is devoid of God’s presence, that no soul is free from God’s purpose, and that no task, however menial, is exempt from God’s call to service and self-sacrifice. According to Christ, God’s kingdom isn’t nearly as noisy and self-important as the kingdoms of this world. It doesn’t have to be. Rather, as Jean Marc Ela writes in African Cry, the road to redemption is “gestated in the deeds of the everyday” – paved with countless quiet acts of humility and faithfulness, right where we are. 

The End of All Our Exploring

Have you ever wondered why “coming full circle” is an element of so many stories? Why do so many heroes and heroines set off on quests into the unknown, only to eventually find themselves right back where they started? While I’m no literary theorist, one possible explanation is that storytelling itself is a circular act. By yanking us out of our worlds for a little while and then plopping us back into them, stories invite us to reexamine our surroundings with fresh eyes. When we read about Harry Potter stepping off his train into King’s Cross Station, or about the Pevensie children tumbling out of the wardrobe into the Professor’s house, or about Frodo and his friends riding into the Shire, we aren’t meant to mourn the loss of these fantasy worlds. Rather, we’re meant to take another look at the world around us – that same old world that is shattered by sin and suffering and yet somehow still brimming with promise, if only we had eyes to see it. In tales like these, we’re reminded that the very places we so often yearn to escape from are the arena of God’s kingdom activity. Like J.K. Rowling, C.S. Lewis, and J.R.R. Tolkien, Christ whispers to our hearts in the language of story, inviting us to come full circle and rediscover the magic of ordinary life. Perhaps, as Frederick Buechner suggests in his book Wishful Thinking, that life was never really ordinary, after all: 

If you think you are seeing the same show all over again seven times a week, you’re crazy. Every morning you wake up to something that in all eternity never was before and never will be again. And the you that wakes up was never the same before and will never be the same again. 

This, in the end, is why I’m such a huge fan of Pixar’s Soul. As I watched the mind-bending, metaphysical quest of Joe Gardner and 22, I was filled with gratitude for the miraculous world that I inhabit and for the Savior who entered into that world. Like 22, Jesus took a crash course in what it means to be human. He embraced life on this planet with all its quirks and repetitiveness, its delights and heartaches. He chose to walk our streets – to share the drudgery that is part and parcel of our everyday existence. He made our hometown his hometown. In doing so, he taught us that each and every facet of our surroundings, from the starry heavens down to the grime of the soil, is steeped in glory. In Pixar’s Soul and Jesus’s humanity, we’re challenged to listen to the mundanity of our lives and to hear the music that’s always been going on there – in the interruptions, in the small things, and in the places we call home. As T.S. Eliot wrote in his poem The Four Quartets,

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring 
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time

With all the news and chaos surrounding the recent spread of the Coronavirus, you may have forgotten that today is St. Patrick’s day. I sure haven’t. March 17 is an opportunity for the people of the Emerald Isle to celebrate their history and cultural heritage. It’s also an opportunity for those of us who wish we were Irish to do the same thing vicariously. I’ve been a wannabe Irishman for a long, long time.

Where did this weird longing to be Irish come from? Part of it springs from a lifelong preference for the color green (which may spring from the fact that when my siblings and me were young, our parents color-coded the family’s plastic cups, and I got stuck with the green one). Another part of it springs from a love of rain, thunderstorms, and the sea. A big chunk of it springs from an appreciation of Irish music, which is one of my love languages. No other forms of music wake my heart up like Celtic reels, jigs, and ballads do. Come to think of it, a good seventy-five percent of my love for Irish culture is probably traceable to the bagpipes (I’m only slightly kidding). I’ve told my family and close friends that when I die, I want my body to be laid on a raft, set on fire, and pushed out into Lake Michigan in the traditional Viking fashion, preferably to the tune of bagpipes (I know that Nordic and Celtic cultures are pretty different, but they’re also linked in my mind because of the How to Train Your Dragon movies. Who knew that Vikings had Scottish accents?).

Despite my desires, I can’t claim to be bona-fide Irish. My grandpa on my mom’s side was raised in the Dutch culture of West Michigan, and he always used to joke that his family was “English, Irish, French, German, and one-hundred percent Dutch.” A relative of ours recently did the DNA tracking thing, and while it turns out that our biggest percentage is Irish (sorry, Grandpa), our ancestry is actually, as with most Americans, a hodgepodge. Nevertheless, the longing for deeply-rooted ties to a specific place and people runs deep. Whether or not most of my ancestors actually sailed across the stormy Atlantic from “Paddy’s Green Shamrock Shore,” I like to believe that they did, and I view Ireland as a kind of ancestral homeland.

The Story

Last week, my little sister and I watched my all-time favorite animated movie, The Secret of Kells. If you haven’t seen it yet, you need to. Set in medieval Ireland, the film is based on the true story of Catholic monks who preserved and illustrated sacred Christian texts during the Viking invasions of the 9th century. Its story follows Brendan, an orphan boy who lives in a monastery called the Abbey of Kells. Once, the land surrounding the abbey was a place of peace and beauty. Farmers tilled the soil, children played on the grass, and monks decorated their scriptures with breathtaking illuminations. But those days are gone. Viking tribesmen are wreaking havoc along the shores of Britain, pillaging and plundering wherever they go. With the threat of destruction looming nearer, the abbot of Kells – an imposing fellow named Cellach – has enlisted his people in a desperate project: the construction of a massive stone wall encircling the monastery and the surrounding farmlands. As the abbot’s nephew, Brendan is instructed to assist with the building of the wall.

However, another monk has recently arrived in Kells and captured Brendan’s attention: Brother Aidan, a spry and whiskery old scholar whose illuminations of Biblical texts are the stuff of legend. Fleeing from the ruins of his island home, which was ravaged by the Vikings, Brother Aidan has carried a treasure to Kells: a copy of the Gospels of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John that is called the Book of Iona. The wizened artist is working to finish the manuscript’s Chi-Ro page (Chi and Ro are the first two letters of Christ’s name in Latin), which is to be his masterpiece. He asks Brendan to help him by gathering ingredients for ink from the nearby forest. Dazzled by the beauty of the book, Brendan agrees to help, even though he has been forbidden to leave the abbey. When he ventures beyond the wall, Brendan discovers something incredible – a world of magic and mystery, of fairies and fantastical creatures, buried deep in the tangled heart of the woods.

You can probably guess where this is going. Conflict soon ensues between Abbot Cellach and Brother Aidan, both of whom feel responsible to care for Brendan. In Cellach’s mind, Aidan’s priorities are deeply misplaced. These are dark times. Many lives are at stake, and practical threats demand practical solutions. While they may have filled life with meaning in the past, things like artwork and leisure have no relevance to the present. In Aidan’s mind, Cellach’s priorities have been ensnared by fear. For the illuminator, the stuff that the abbot has chosen to ignore – things like art, wonder, and the appreciation of beauty – are just as relevant as they ever were, if not more so. As tensions rise, Brendan is forced to choose where his loyalties lie. If he continues to visit the forest and help Brother Aidan illuminate the Book of Iona, he risks facing his uncle’s wrath. All the while, the Viking invaders march steadily nearer.

As I reflected on The Secret of Kells, I couldn’t help thinking about its resonance to our current social climate. Like the Viking raids of medieval Europe, the spread of Coronavirus has caused a tidal wave of fear and sparked controversy regarding how people should respond to the threat. Should we brace ourselves for the epidemic, or should we continue life as usual? Is Abbot Cellach right, or is Brother Aidan? The conflict between these two characters is a deeply illuminating one. When examined closely, it has some important things to teach us about our responses to life’s threats and about the mysterious thing that Christians call “the Kingdom of God.”

The Abbot

Let’s start with Abbot Cellach. Underneath his grim exterior, the abbot is an easy man to sympathize with. As the social and spiritual leader of Kells, Cellach feels deeply responsible for the well-being of his parishioners, and he works tirelessly to protect them. Furthermore, the Vikings are a real and terrifying threat. If the people of Kells don’t take action, they’re likely to be slaughtered like those who live nearer to the coast. 

Like many others, I was quick to downplay the seriousness of Coronavirus and reluctant to change anything about my daily routine. However, regardless of what you or I may think about the actual scope and danger of the Coronavirus epidemic, the fact remains that many reasonable people are very concerned about it. Additionally, many well-trained medical personnel are urging caution out of concerns for the elderly, the immunodeficient, and the chronically ill, all of whom have a significantly higher risk of severe sickness. Several members of my family fall into the second and third categories, and our family knows several other chronically ill families who are both concerned about the virus and discouraged by Facebook posts and articles that downplay the threat as “only affecting old and immunodeficient people.” While the virus may be significantly less dangerous for those of us who are young and well, this is no excuse for us to minimize the fears or suffering of those who are not. Even if some of the dangers of the virus have been exaggerated by the media, are we praying for those who have been or could be deeply impacted by the virus? Are we choosing to ignore the headlines and continue life as usual out of a desire for normalcy, or are we taking time to consider how our actions (or inaction, in the case of social distancing) could contribute to the well-being of the vulnerable?

According to the Book of Ecclesiastes, “There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens” (Ecclesiastes 3:1). If this is true, then it follows that there are some times in our lives that require caution. Despite its beauty, our world is a dangerous and deeply broken place. Sometimes, caring for those we love requires carefulness, hard thinking, and a willingness to make some uncomfortable personal sacrifices. Abbot Cellach understands these things very well.

However, the abbot’s dispute with Brother Aidan sheds some light on the darker side of Cellach’s wall-building project. While leading his people, Cellach stands tall. Inside the seclusion of the monastery tower, where plans for Kells’ defenses are scribbled over the walls, Cellach’s shoulders are slumped. He carries a heavy burden. His remarks to his fellow monks are terse, and his willingness to listen to others is wearing thin. Once, the abbot was a gifted illuminator. Now, he has no time to spend with his nephew, no time to notice the remarkable book that Brother Aidan carries, no time to read the scriptures that once inspired him, and no time to glimpse the beauty of the trees beyond his wall. While his efforts to protect Kells are well-intentioned, it’s easy to see that they’re also driven by fear.

You and I have read enough news headlines, seen enough social media posts, and witnessed enough political and economic squabbles to know that our culture is saturated with worry. In times of peace and plenty, we’re told that life is short, that we have to “get ahead,” do something “important,” and insulate ourselves against any discomforts that could possibly come our way. In times of conflict and calamity, we’re told to protect ourselves, our belongings, and our way of life at any cost (even at the cost of a toilet-paper famine). While there’s nothing wrong with thoughtful preparation or stocking up on necessities, our constant stress and frenzied shopping sprees should prompt us to consider: Where have we placed our hope? When trouble comes, what do we instinctively turn to? If we’re relying on our own strength, our own brilliance, and our own resources, what do we do when these things aren’t enough?

Worry has a tendency to make us myopic, drawing our focus inward until all that we can see is our own problems. When we’re worried, we tend not to listen well to others. We tend not to notice the small moments of beauty and wonder that are woven throughout the fabric of our days. We tend to approach God as someone who can give us what we want, rather than someone to share life with. We also tend to devalue things that formerly filled us with gratitude – things like stories and songs. One of the reasons that I dropped my English major in college was the sinking feeling that it wasn’t useful or important – that the world had enough storytellers and that there were far more pressing things in the world which needed attending to. In some ways, my attitude mirrored Abbot Cellach’s: What use could pen and ink possibly have in a world that seemed to be falling apart everywhere I looked?

Like the fear-driven perspective of Abbot Cellach, my devaluing of the artist’s vocation was born out of a major blind spot. I had forgotten another truth in the Book of Ecclesiastes, one that Brother Aidan tells Brendan during a late-night conversation in the monastery – “There’s nothing in this world but mist, and we will only be alive for a short while.” Our short lives are, as the author of Ecclesiastes repeatedly puts it, “vapor” or “breath” (hebel in Hebrew). This applies not only to the tools of our trades, but also to the big things that we fix our hopes upon – to the achievements that the world applauds and to our most determined efforts to heal the world’s brokenness. We have far less control over our lives than we like to believe. In the end, nothing in this world lasts. The tide comes in, the Vikings arrive on our shores, and time lays waste to our best-laid plans and projects. We may be able to insulate ourselves from suffering and death now, but not forever. Even Brother Aidan knows that the peace of Kells is temporary. He tells Cellach regarding the Vikings: “When they come, all that we can do is run and hope that we are fast enough.”

The Illuminator

In contrast to Abbot Cellach, Brother Aidan is sharply incongruous with the somber atmosphere of Kells. Though he understands the weightiness of the times (many of his Christian brothers were killed by the invaders), he carries himself lightly. He cracks jokes, strikes up conversations, and cares for his cat, Pangur Ban. While most of the adults of Kells are far too busy to play with children, Aidan invites young Brendan to participate in his work of illumination. While everyone around him is focused on big things – Vikings, invasions, and a giant wall – Aidan challenges Brendan to notice small things – the emerald ink of a tiny berry and the lace-like pattern on a butterfly’s wing. In spite of his surroundings, Aidan has chosen to live in gratitude and contentment, savoring God’s simple gifts.

Aidan’s character reminds me of another person whose life and teachings were marked by an appreciation for small things: Jesus Christ. Jesus lived during a time of great turmoil. And yet, when his followers were busy with more pressing matters, Jesus spent time interacting with little children (Mark 10:13-16). Rather than treating these kids as second-class citizens (as most in his culture would have) or pushing them to grow up and make something of themselves, Jesus honored and celebrated them where they were at. In a temple where rich people were donating huge sums of money, Jesus called his followers’ attention to a poor widow who was giving a single coin, which was all the wealth that she had to offer (Mark 12:41-44). He saw beyond the size of the donation to the heart behind the gift. Jesus also made time to share meals and conversations with “little people” whom his society devalued: beggars, prostitutes, disabled people, the chronically ill, and even a literal little dude like Zaccheus. He did this so regularly that some people called him “a glutton and a drunkard” (Matthew 11:19). Unlike the religious elite of his day, Jesus recognized the value of everyday activities to relationship-building. Additionally, he taught that the Maker of the universe was interested not only in the big stuff that society defined as “important,” but also in tiny things like the meals of birds and the colors of flower petals.

How should we respond to the troubles that come our way? While Jesus never told people to ignore weighty matters, he often pushed them to look beyond the surface of things. He encouraged them to slow themselves down and notice God’s handiwork in the mundane. He challenged them to see the significance of the simple: the beauty of nature, the joy of childhood, and the power of fellowship around a table. In short, Jesus taught people that God cares just as much about small things as he does about big things. Why did he do this? Jesus understood our tendency to become myopic. He knew that in times of suffering, we would forget the fact that God’s gracious hand is continually at work in the world, that even now Christ is sustaining the smallest parts of creation, right down to their molecules – “in him all things hold together” (Colossians 1:17). Jesus reminded people about God’s interest in small things to emphasize God’s control over big things, and to comfort us in the midst of our struggles with worry:

“Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?… And why do you worry about clothes? See how the flowers of the field grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these. If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, will he not much more clothe you – you of little faith?” (Matthew 6:26-30).

While the verse about flowers outdoing “Solomon in all his splendor” might seem like a slam on King Solomon (How would you like it if someone said that some plants were cooler than your royal wardrobe?), Solomon himself acknowledged the fleeting nature of worldly pursuits in the Book of Ecclesiastes – the “vanity” of things like fame, knowledge, achievement, wealth, and material pleasure. Like Christ, Solomon urged people to “fear God” above worldly threats (Ecclesiastes 12:13). Like Christ, he encouraged people to savor the simple joys of life, which are God’s good gifts to humanity: “Go, eat your bread with joy, and drink your wine with a merry heart, for God has already approved what you do… Enjoy life with the wife whom you love…” (Ecclesiastes 9:7,8).

As we prepare for the arrival of Coronavirus, Jesus’ words should remind Christians that we’re called to live with trust, gratitude, and contentment. Even in chaotic and unsettling times, we have so much to be thankful for. This world remains far more beautiful than it needs to be. Additionally, Jesus’ treatment of vulnerable people should prompt us to ask ourselves: Are we considering those whom our society is neglecting? Many of the homeless folks in our neighborhoods have higher risks of severe illness due to things like old age, mental illness, and immunodeficiency (the latter of which can be exacerbated by drug abuse or lack of access to health care). In the midst of our shopping, are we thinking about these people? Are we praying for them and asking God how he may be calling us to support them? Is our worry causing us to become self-focused, or is our relationship with Christ turning our gaze outward to our neighbors?

Ultimately, in Abbot Cellach’s mind, the Book of Iona is a foolish project. However, to Brother Aidan, it is something of extraordinary importance – “the book that turned darkness into light.” Brother Aidan understands something that the abbot hasn’t yet grasped: the reality of the Kingdom of God. In a time of great darkness, the old illustrator sees the Book of Iona as a beacon of hope. Rather than forgetting the scriptures, he has dedicated his life to preserving and sharing their sacred glow.

Jesus talked a whole lot about the Kingdom of God, which he described as God’s reign in human hearts (Luke 17:21). Often, he did so through stories called “parables.” Jesus described the Kingdom as something that was both incredibly small and incredibly powerful, like a tiny mustard seed (“the smallest of all seeds”) which blossoms into a massive tree, or a tiny bit of yeast that leavens a huge lump of dough (Matthew 13:31-34). He also depicted the Kingdom as something that was both hidden and extremely precious, like a treasure buried in the dirt or a beautiful pearl in a marketplace (Matthew 13:44-45). These parables suggest that God’s Kingdom is often unnoticed and underappreciated by the kingdoms of this world. However, for those who take time to examine its light, it’s a thing of intense beauty and immeasurable value. In the same passage where he urged his followers not to worry, Jesus also instructed them to live with the Kingdom of God in mind:

“So do not worry, saying ‘What shall we eat?’ or ‘What shall we drink?’ or “What shall we wear?’… For pagans run after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them. But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well.” (Matthew 6:31-34)

To those outside the faith (and even sometimes to us within), the message that Christians preach can seem incredibly foolish. Christians have placed their eternal hope in a Jewish rabbi who was tortured and killed in 1st-century Palestine, in the befuddling notion that this man was God in human flesh, and in the similarly confounding claim that he walked out of his own grave on Easter morning. However, for those who follow Christ, the Christian message is good news unlike any other. This was the same message that St. Patrick, the first Christian missionary to Ireland, carried with him on his journey. It’s an offer of grace that we could never hope to earn and new life that we could never have imagined. We live in a world ravaged by death and despair, by sin and suffering, by Vikings and viruses. However, those who follow Christ cling to the promise that, through the cross of our Lord and Savior, each and every one of these things has been conquered. We may lose the battle, but we have won the war. Through what Mother Theresa called “little acts of great love,” or what Gandalf the Grey called “the small, everyday deeds of ordinary folk” (Gandalf and Mother Theresa were pals, if you didn’t know), God’s Kingdom will continue to spread and take root in human hearts, turning darkness into light. I continue to struggle with worry, and I often forget about the promise of the Kingdom. When that happens, I’m thankful that God has provided gifts like pen and ink, stories like The Secret of Kells, and holidays like St. Patrick’s day to help me remember.

The Dance

I’m still moved every time I hear the music of bagpipes. While the instrument’s mournful, wailing tune may not be your cup of tea (and may even remind you of an enraged goose), I happen to think it’s the most beautiful sound in the world. One of my favorite things about Celtic music is how it can sound joyful and sorrowful at the same time. I mentioned this to a good friend once (looking at you, AA-Ron), and he told me that Celtic songs are often written in a scale that’s neither major nor minor. This gives them a bittersweet tone, which is accentuated by the fact that sad lyrics are often set to the dancing rhythms of jigs and reels. 
Those who have placed their trust in Christ look forward to the day when the kingdom will come in its fullness. We yearn for the Great Dance – the restoration of all that has been broken by sin and death. However, Jesus’ teachings remind us that the dance has already begun – indeed, is going on all around us – in the beauty of birds and flower petals, in the transformation of human hearts, and in the deeds of the everyday. If we listen closely, we might just hear the distant echoes of its music, calling to us like a country across the sea.