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COVENANT

OUR MISSION

Bearings is a student-run journal of Christian thought at the University of Virginia that seeks to provide an interdenominational and interdisciplinary forum for spiritual conversation on Grounds.

COVER DESIGN

Lydia Kim Illustration

Dear Reader,

Becoming an adult brings a whole host of new experiences. For many, turning eighteen opens the floodgates of paperwork: there are medical documents, financial documents, leases, job contracts . . . the list never seems to stop growing. Though some of these we sign without much thought, others feel weighty. We are held accountable to what we sign, which shows us that our words hold power.

The Bible is full of contracts too. Especially throughout the Old Testament, God promises to bestow favor on His followers if they keep His commands. Instead of a signature on a piece of paper, these contracts are marked with a different symbol, often that of sacrificed animals. Though God makes agreements with certain individuals like Noah, Abraham, and David (to name a few) the benefits of such arrangements are for all His children—hence the name covenant, which denotes a special sort of contract. A covenant with God carries the lasting promise of His blessing.

While anticipating this ninth issue of Bearings, it seemed only fitting to consider what came after the Fall (the theme of our last issue) in the greatest story ever told, the story of God and His people. Reflecting on the brokenness that occurred as a result of Adam and Eve should naturally cause us to turn to God’s promise of redemption.

In the same moment that God declares the results of sin, He points to its defeat; He says

to the serpent, “I will put enmity between you and the woman and between your offspring and hers; he will crush your head and you will strike his heel” (Gen. 3:15). This verse is known as the protoevangelium , the first Gospel. It points to the coming of Jesus, Eve’s eventual offspring, who will destroy Satan.

And the story doesn’t end there. God doesn’t just make a promise, He keeps it. He doesn’t just uphold His word way back then, but even today. His commitment is not just to the people of the Bible, but to us. Moreover, all those covenants of the Old Testament were fulfilled with Jesus’ defeat of sin and death on the cross. Through Christ, God upholds both sides of the contract so that we can never forfeit His goodness.

As we navigate a world of broken promises, piles of papers to sign, and longing for justice, may we turn our hearts to the covenant of Christ, which redeems. We invite you, as you read, to consider your place in this story of redemption and the promises that God speaks over you.

Maddie Mislock, Editor-in-Chief

Grace Whitaker, Editor-in-Chief

The Team

EXECUTIVE TEAM

Grace Whitaker Editor-in-Chief

Maddie Mislock Editor-in-Chief

Peyton Rabb President Lauren Campbell Creative Director

EDITORS

Lillian Buchanan

Selby Ireland

DESIGNERS

Peyton Stallings | Pages 6–13

Olivia Haas | Pages 14–15

Lauren Campbell | Pages 17–21

Lydia Kim | Pages 22–23

Annelise Wolfe | Pages 24–25

Katie Mead Paola Mendez-Garcia

Maddie Mislock Peyton Rabb

Kelly Reardon Grace Whitaker

FEATURED ARTISTS

Lydia Kim | Illustration & Photography

Annelise Wolfe | Lithography

HESED

Reagan Stallings

THE DREAM OF THE KING

Timothy Graff

WINDOW PANES

Lauren Campbell

A PROFOUND MYSTERY

Grace Whitaker

Lydia Kim

AS IF

Rob Batton

Know therefore that the Lord your God is God; he is the faithful God, keeping his covenant of love to a thousand generations of those who love him and keep his commandments.

Deuteronomy 7:9–11

Hesed REAGAN STALLINGS

I think I live here now. Never changed my address, But it’s where I spend my time— I have made my bed in Sheol Now I must lie in it.

I feel my heart has changed. Not in an instant, Yet paths of pulse diverged— I don’t know if they’ll reconvene And settle my bloody dispute.

I reach for anything. A pen to cross out my sentence A letter to mark my repentance A knife to carve out shame, But I lack the gall to twist it— I try to salvage self, Yet my hands tremble.

References:

Romans 8

Isaiah 64:8

Jonah 2:2

Is that my name I hear? Ringing on Your lips, Piercing through my inward being To a part I never knew Until You called it.

My foreign features shake Consecrated clay Designated as a word My soul struggles to say: Beautiful.

I drop my knife and knees. Exposed I am entire. Shame falters in Your fire Burning eternal–Your covenant consumes.

The Dream of the King

TIMOTHY GRAFF

Hear this, a tale of Estercel, last of the High Kings of Arashtar.

Estercel knew that the crown was a gift, but it did not feel like one—the truth was that more than anything, it seemed heavy. He thought of his father, who had worn this crown for 50 long years and had died a shriveled husk of a man. Estercel shook his head; it was best not to dwell on his father, not when there were more pressing concerns. He drew his cloak around himself more tightly and crested the hill he was climbing. The cool morning wind rippled through his beard and hair, while drops of mist fell on the crags of his careworn face. His weary eyes look eastward into the light of daybreak.

The ground before him was open, full of long brown grasses and strewn with boulders. It sloped downward towards a narrow opening between two mountains, where the remnant of the valley of Arasval and the dark churning depths of the Gravemere lay beneath thick blankets of mist. Arasval was littered with the bones of his fathers; their tombs riddled the mountainside and filled the now-flooded valley floor. Estercel had never seen the other side of the valley, for that would have meant traveling through the marsh of sinking and sunken tombs and sailing across the ever-shifting waters of the Gravemere.

No one knew where the waters of Arasval came from, or what made them move, but very few men had ever dared to traverse the lake, and even fewer had survived. This was the very edge of his kingdom: the pass and its swirling depths served as a final warning of peril to eastbound travelers. Beyond it lay nothing but

wilderness, horrors beyond death itself. Yes, this was a place for the dead, and only fools came here to seek anything but burial. And yet, here he was.

Estercel hadn’t trod these paths since he had buried his father as a young man, not since he was crowned king and coronated in front of his father’s tomb. He closed his eyes, and the memory was upon him, drawing itself out of the mists of countless years gone by.

He could see the narrow grave in the mountain’s face where his father was laid to rest, could feel the wet snow seeping into his clothes, chilling his legs as he knelt. He could hear the low murmuring of the Gravemere as it rushed far below and smell the smoke of countless braziers and torches, but it was the Dream that he remembered most clearly. That Dream which dogged his every step, haunted his sleepless nights, drove him ever onward, molding him and beating his life into shape.

The Dream of the King.

He could see it once more, never as clear as when it first fell upon him, but the vision was there. He could see it: golden fields of wheat, wine-presses overflowing with deep red wine, a sword broken in two. The images continued to come, flowing over him with strange power. He could see a balanced pair of scales, and a crown. On a throne sat a king, massive and majestic, but faceless. The faceless king burned in Estercel’s mind, the darkness below the crown pulling at him, draining him. He expected the face to be his own, wanted the face to be his own. Why wasn’t the face his own? Why wasn’t…

“M’lord?”

With a start, Estercel returned from his reverie, his chest heaving as he gasped for air. The dream, the Dream of the King, was always there, even now. He turned wildly and found himself face to face with Gwydion, the captain of his knights. The skin around the old man’s eyes crinkled in a smile.

“What is it, Gwydion?” he asked kindly.

The young man bore a taciturn expression. “I’ve come to inform you that the last of Lord Myrddin’s men

arrived during the night, and that your host awaits your command to assemble, Sire.”

Estercel turned and looked westward. “What of Tumburand and his host? Surely my brother-in-law has either arrived himself or sent us tidings?”

Gwydion shook his head. “No sign of his army, but a rider arrived a few hours before dawn carrying this.” He handed Estercel a sealed envelope bearing Tumburand’s crest.

The king tore open the letter. He stood in silence for a long time before handing it back to Gwydion.

“Read,” he said. Gwydion took the parchment and read it, saying nothing. Estercel turned back towards the rising sun and Arasval. He spoke in a clear, yet weary, voice.

“Tell me Gwydion, of my under-kings, who have sworn fealty to me with ancient and powerful oaths, how many are down in that valley, sharpening their swords against me?”

“Two, Sire,” Gwydion replied. “Leofric and Avor.”

Estercel sighed. “And of my Vassals, Myrddin and Dordded ride with me, and the other, my own brotherin-law, is not coming.” He fixed Gwydion with a sharp look. “What say you to that?”

Gwydion’s calm expression did not falter. “I would say that we have been betrayed. That by refusing your summons, Tumburand commits the same treason as Leofric and Avor.”

Estercel nodded his head slowly, taking in the situation and turning it over in his mind. There was a long silence. He turned back to Gwydion. “What of my messenger and my offer of peace and mercy?”

Sir Gwydion waved to his squire, who set a large urn before the king. Estercel lifted the lid; the vessel was full of ash. “This was their answer to your offer, Sire.”

Shaking his head, Estercel replaced the vessel’s lid and

handed it back to Gwydion. “See that it is buried. And pray for us all.”

By the time Estercel reached the assembly field, his commanders and knights were already waiting for him. As he rode out from the camp and towards the dark entrance of Arasval, he busied himself counting the banners flying over the host. The army before him was smaller than he wished, a mere fraction of the force he had commanded some twenty years ago during the Wars of the North. Estercel thought it a shame that such a gathering of men should be used for such a terrible purpose.

The assembly of knights and soldiers had noticed him. Cries of “The High King” and “For Estercel” rung out as Estercel drew up his horse beside Lord Myrrddin and Lord Dordded. The two under-kings bowed in their saddles, but did not speak. Estercel was thankful for their silence.

He called out Gwydion, who was stroking his sword hilt with the three surviving fingers of his left hand.

“Silence the men for me,” he shouted over the din.

Gywdion nodded, his face calm, and urged his horse forward towards the army, blowing on his horns as he went. Between the horn-blasts, Estercel could hear the men shouting, “Gwydion Half-Hand!” Estercel smiled to himself, thinking of Gwydion’s missing fingers and how he had lost them. Yes, it was a fitting name.

Gradually the crowd fell into an ordered silence, and Gwydion’s horn fell silent. Estercel waited until he returned to begin speaking.

“If you think that I have called you here today to protect my claim to the throne, then you are mistaken.” The crowd began to murmur, and Dordded and Myrddin looked at him with confusion. “You are here not to uphold my crown. You are here to uphold justice, and to bring an end to the suffering of the weak.”

Estercel drew a breath and continued speaking. “Beyond that valley-mouth, within the mists of oncesacred Arasval, Leofric and Avor have drawn up their

hosts against us in proud defiance. For a full year they have rampaged across our kingdom, killing, looting, and dragging women and children into slavery. They have fed their appetites and slaked their thirst for blood for twelve long months, but we have chased them here. Their backs are against the Gravemere and the wasteland which lays beyond. There will be no flight for them.” The host roared at his words, their swords and spears thundered against their shields.

Estercel’s heart felt heavy. “I will tell you the truth: I wish that Leofric and Avor had accepted my offer of peace. I long for the day when our warring ceases, when we find what eluded us in our pursuit of valor. I wish that we could leave this place, leave this purpose, and return to our homes, our wives, and fruits of good labor and rich lands.”

Tears welled in Estercel’s eyes, and the men grew uneasy. Even his commanders began to whisper softly to one another and gaze at him with strange looks. Not Gwydion though. No, Gwydion had the same calm look that he always had, the same even gaze he wore in war or in peace. Oh, how thankful he was for Gwydion; he needed men that he could trust.

Steeling himself, Estercel spoke again with renewed vigor. “But it is not our lot to leave this place until our duty has been accomplished. As long as the strong oppress the weak and injustice runs rampant, our kingdom cannot know rest and it cannot know plenty. I have seen it. The throne I sit upon and my duties as High-King mean that I can stand aside no longer.”

He drew his sword Emblesse from his sheath and raised it heavenward. The army shouted in response. “So we fight this day not for glory or honor, but for the dream of peace. For the dream of a day when we need never draw our swords again!”

It was a slaughter. The traitors had been routed, tossed about like leaves in a storm’s path. Estercel found himself among the enemy’s tents, the center of an unfolding maelstrom of violence. The fog of the Gravemere and the din of battle fell upon him like a heavy veil. He was tired, oh so tired, but he drove himself onward, stumbling mechanically into the chaos.

Everywhere he looked, he saw his men stealing, carrying off women and children into bondage, meting out death instead of mercy. Everywhere, his azure banner and its silver heron rippled amidst the smoke of burning tents. His clarions rang out clamorously above the wailing and groaning of the dying and destitute. His nostrils were full of death, his tongue caked in the ash of the grave. His body ached; his head spun.

“Halt!” he cried. “Men of Estercel! Stay your hands! Stay your hands! It is finished, the day is won!” But no one stopped to heed his words. His knights continued their slaughter, chasing their fleeing enemies towards the water’s edge.

Estercel stumbled after them, watching in horror as the ragged remains of both armies slaughtered each other amidst the crumbling headstones and sinking crypts of the Gravemere, their bodies falling into the dark, everstirring waters. He opened his mouth to cry again, but his voice failed him. He was old. He felt hopeless.

Gwydion. Yes, if he just found Gwydion, he could set things right. Gwydion could help him, had to help him. Estercel lurched onward into the mist, picking his way between pools of water and dilapidating headstones. The closer he got to the Gravemere’s edge, the quieter and quieter the sounds of battle became, swallowed up as they were by the tumult of the dark water.

Estercel found Gwydion peering into the depths of the Gravemere. Around him lay the bodies of many men, some obviously cut down in the heat of battle, and others curiously soaked in water. Estercel heard yelling and cursing and looked to see two of his knights pinning Lord Avor to the ground. Gwydion waved at the two men, and they dragged Avor, screaming and struggling, to the water’s edge. Estercel’s heart thundered loudly in his head as he watched Gwydion place his boot upon Avor’s head and thrust it beneath the water. The traitor thrashed violently, and eventually the man went still.

Estercel could stand no more. “What is the meaning of this, Gwydion!” he shouted, rage boiling within him.

Gwydion turned to face him, fixing him with the same calm look that he always wore. He offered something in his hand to Estercel: Leofric and Avor’s crowns.

“Are you not thankful for my gifts, Sire? They were hard won.” Gwydion pointed to the corpse of a man in armor, his mail ripped apart. “Leofric died a good death. He fought with valor until the end, and even now he’s clutching his sword.”

A wistful smile appeared on Gwydion’s lips and he shook his head. “If only we all died as good of a death as Leofric’s sire. Avor did not have that fortune. He chose the path of a coward, and he died the death of

one.” Gwydion’s face returned to its icy façade. “The question, my liege, is what kind of death will you die?”

Above the sound of the far-off bloodshed and the rushing waters of the Gravemere, Estercel could hear the sharp rasp of countless swords being pulled from their scabbards. All around him, knights—his knights, wearing his silver heron on their blue surcoats— formed a circle and forced him towards Gwydion and the dark water. Gwydion drew his sword and pointed it at Estercel.

“For your kindness to me, I offer you an honorable death, and a chance to learn the only justice I have ever known, the only justice this land will ever know. Strength.”

Estercel’s eyes blazed with hatred. His sword flew from its scabbard with a great ringing. “They were right to call you Half-hand, Gwydion. But I will give you another name. Traitor I call you! Oath-breaker I name you! May there be no rest for your soul or your house as long as my memory still lives upon the lips of men!”

Gwydion’s face remained still. “You should be proud of the death you’ve chosen,” he said. The words hung in the air only for a moment, and then he lunged.

The blow missed Estercel by a hair’s breadth, and he barely had time to regain his balance before Gwydion’s sword flashed back towards him. It was all Estercel could do to stem the downpour of cuts and thrusts that rained down upon him. Gwydion pressed the attack with an infernal ferocity, driving Estercel back onto the sword points of his knights. They pushed the old king forward, and no sooner had he regained his balance than Gwydion renewed his assault. There was no time to think, no time to feel, only time to abandon himself completely to the merciless dance of parry and riposte.

Slowly yet surely, Gwydion circled around him, forcing the old king backwards towards the Gravemere. His lungs were screaming, and his arms were heavy; blood was dripping into his eyes from a gash on his forehead. He kept stepping backwards, narrowly deflecting or blocking each new stroke, but he was running out of ground, out of time. He stepped back once more and knew there was nothing but grim water behind him.

Estercel fell to his knees, his sword sinking into the earth in front of him.

Gwydion steadied his hand, and looked down at him. His face was the same as it always was: serene. “Get up,” he said softly. Estercel made no attempt to stand, and Gwydion’s face contorted into a mask of rage. “Get up!” he shouted, “Die on your feet! Die like a king!”

Shaking, Estercel managed to stand, his sword still drooping in front of him. He had no delusions about what was coming. This was the end. He drew a long shuddering breath and suddenly thought of his daughter, his joy, and prayed that she was safe.

Estercel looked Gwydion in the eye and raised his sword. He did not speak. Gwydion Half-Hand lunged once more. With a final burst of effort, Estercel thrust at Gwydion’s exposed face. Gwydion twisted sideways, but the sword-point cut across his left eye.

But it was too late. Estercel could feel Gwydion’s sword sink into his armpit. He gasped as he toppled backward into the Gravemere. His crown was heavy, oh so heavy, and as he sank, Estercel made no attempt to fight against the water. His body was tired, he was tired, and the world above the waves was shrinking away from him, growing dimmer, disappearing. The deep was calling to him, the graves of his fathers opened their arms to receive him in their final embrace.

The dark waters above him parted into a brilliant light. Fear and loathing gripped Estercel’s heart: it was the dream, The Dream of the King. Even in death he could have no rest. The visions seized him, stronger than ever before.

It was exactly as it had been when first he dreamed it, the never-ending fields of golden wheat and the orchards overflowing with fruit. Men beating their swords into ploughshares, their spears into pruning hooks. Estercel had seen it before, hundreds of times: the children playing, the women singing and dancing, the feasting and the drinking, and above it all, the King. The great and towering figure, robed in majesty, in His right hand a set of scales, and in His left a sheaf of grain. At His feet, a sword, broken in twain.

The shadows pulled back, and Estercel looked in the King’s face for the very first time; he was undone. The face was not his own, but it was real. This King was a real king indeed.

Everything within Estercel screamed at him to fight against the water. He thrashed and fought, desperately trying to claw his way towards the surface. He wanted to try again, to wear his crown again. But it was too late. The water around him was turning red, and his body was weak. Estercel came to rest with his fathers, to await the coming of the King.

Window

If eyes are the window to the soul, do you see opal or jaded panes? Because stained glass does well to cover the skins of window frames

Traceries vein into blossoms while ruby rosettes wilt and wane, their desperate cry for renewal inscribed on each translucent pane.

And I shudder because these shutters refuse to let light by.

For now, we see through a glass, darkly but then face to face: we will see the glassy sea unhindered by earth’s drapes.

Panes

LAUREN CAMPBELL

Etchings of glass gardens and starbursts of sun rays refracting, but can you find me here? Or is the obscura too distracting?

The iris gently forms the petals of my eye, but all I see are perennial curtains, like bouquets hung to dry—

And yet, still, I look with hope, because Hope looks down on me.

Now I know in part; then I shall fully know, even as I have been, I have always been fully known.

A Profound Mystery

GRACE WHITAKER

“For this reason a man will leave his father and mother and be united to his wife, and the two will become one flesh. This is a profound mystery—but I am talking about Christ and the church.” Ephesians 5:31–32

Throughout the long and vivid history of romance stories, there have been two competing visions for marriage. On one side are the pragmatics, who believe that marriage is primarily a means of security—social, financial, even physical—and that this commitment should be made irrespective of love. On the other side, which usually wins in our stories, are the romantics, who believe that love is the magic word, the key to the much-desired happily ever after. All throughout history, these two visions have battled for supremacy; today, much of the Western world emphasizes the latter. Regencyera romance novels tout the victories of true love over social status; romantic comedies portray “meant-to-be” lovers who, with the exception of one plot-relevant miscommunication, anticipate each other’s every need; even the ever-

growing presence of couples’ accounts on social media paint a picture of “perfect” love. (Needless to say, none of these give us the full picture of marriage, hence the disillusionment we often face today.) But the late pastor Timothy Keller brings to light the central problem with both the romantic and the pragmatic visions of marriage: each sees marriage through the lens of what one’s spouse can do for them.

Whether we’re chasing emotional fulfillment or socioeconomic stability, we tend to think primarily (if not exclusively) about how our partner might benefit us. We are all fallen creatures with a selfish streak, which is why we need God’s grace in order to be able to consider others above ourselves. Though the problem of selfishness is not unique to romantic relationships, it is especially magnified in the context of marriage: in the face of a lifelong commitment, we are much more likely to prioritize our own comfort and success, even at the expense of the comfort and success of the other. As we consider potential partners, we instinctively think first of our enjoyment and their utility—in essence, how they will care for us. Once we enter into the marriage covenant, we inevitably (if we haven’t

already)

begin to see more and more flaws; if we’re lucky, we’ll be aware of our own as well, but those tend to slip by us unnoticed. After a while, we might find ourselves fixating more and more on our spouses’ flaws; we might even start to wonder when they changed (and they, the same of us). Before we know it, our sinful natures tempt us toward resentment, or even abandonment.

But we long to be truly known and deeply loved; our hearts are inclined toward relationship and intimacy. Marriage, in its purest form, is the most intimate relationship humans can have with one another. If you are called to marriage, your spouse will be the person who knows you best, who sees you at your most vulnerable and at your strongest; they will be the one with whom you make important decisions, to whom you cry and complain, and with whom you face all of life’s highs and lows. And—though we tend to consider

But we long to be truly known and deeply loved; our hearts are inclined toward relationship and intimacy.

this aspect less often—you will be that person to them. Marriage is a promise between two people to love one another regardless of what comes next. This should not be taken lightly: we should use discernment when considering whom to marry, or even whether or not we are called to marriage (and it is a calling—married life and single life each come with their own benefits and challenges, and God does not insist upon or show preference for one or the other). But if we do enter into this covenant, as significant as it is and as challenging as it can be, we may have the chance to experience a uniquely intimate, sacrificial, and abiding type of love. So we are faced with a series of paradoxes: the context in which it is most important to love one another is the one in which it is hardest to do so well, and the very thing that makes marriage so hard to do well is the one that has the potential to make it so wonderful.

The covenant of marriage is fueled by two things: desire and commitment. The “traditional” or pragmatic view of marriage focuses on commitment irrespective of desire. The “modern” or romantic view focuses on desire and is naïve about the requirements of commitment. But both are crucial to the marriage covenant; indeed, each precipitates the other. Desire is the spark of relationships: we make friends, choose roommates, and consider romantic partners based on our instinctive inclinations toward certain people. This is natural and good, as God created us with our own preferences and personalities; compatibility is so gratifying because it is unique rather than universal. In order for our relationships to deepen and flourish, however, we must commit to one another, even as our desires wax and wane. Often, our initial urge to pursue a relationship with someone precedes our commitment to them; in marriage, though, we promise to love our spouse, regardless of the state of our desire or even how well they behave towards us. (Here, by love, I do not refer to attraction or even admiration—who could promise that?—but the genuine desire for their flourishing, even at the expense of your own.) But if we truly commit to one another, serving faithfully instead of following the whims of our sinful hearts, we often find that our desire emerges stronger than it would have been without said commitment. In other words, the more lovingly we act towards someone, the more we will feel love for them; the more love we feel for someone, the more we will want to act lovingly towards them.

This is God’s design for Christian community as a whole: when Jesus tells the rich man to love his neighbor, he points to the Samaritan, who commits his money and his time to someone he would likely dislike—and more importantly, someone who would dislike him— and this commitment begets a relationship. Likewise, Jesus’ disciples were a mixed group; the tax collector and the fisherman were a strange pair. Yet they were committed to one another out of their devotion to Christ, and thus a brotherhood was formed. In marriage, the most exclusive and long-lasting

relationship human beings can have with one another, commitment to loving one another is crucial: our initial desires will certainly fluctuate over time, and without the habits of love to scaffold the relationship, desire alone cannot sustain the weight of marriage. But neither can commitment: commitment without love is often begrudging and always self-focused, preoccupied with our own giving rather than on the benefit of the recipient. So if desire and commitment are so crucial to one another—and yet we as humans often fail at both—how can we be expected to successfully engage in loving relationships, least of all marriage?

In answer, we can turn to God Himself, who is the very essence of love. He committed to His people with no sense of obligation, motivated entirely by a love we could never earn. Just as He is our model for love, He is the perfect model of the marriage covenant. In Genesis 17, God explicitly declares the terms of His covenant with Abraham, reiterating His promises and expressing Abraham’s duty to Him. However, two chapters earlier, when the covenant is first established, God places an emphasis on what He promises Abraham, not the other way around. In fact, when Abraham asks for confirmation of the promise, the Lord tells him to gather a cow, a goat, and a ram—the beginnings of the covenant ritual with which Abraham was culturally familiar. In this ritual, the animals are cut in half and arranged in two rows; each party then passes through the two rows, implicitly saying, If I do not meet my end of the agreement, may I be so punished. Once Abraham arranges the animals, though, God puts him in a deep sleep; then, in the form of a smoking firepot and a blazing torch, the Lord passes through the pieces on Abraham’s behalf. The message is as straightforward as it is beautiful: If I do not meet my end of the agreement, may I be so punished. If you do not meet your end of the agreement, may I be so punished.

Here, and throughout the Scriptures, our Lord displays radical commitment to us. His love and sacrifice for us are not contingent on ours for Him; instead, He has

PHOTOGRAPHY FROM LYDIA KIM

always made promises to us in the knowledge that we would fail, time and time again. The covenant with Abraham foreshadowed Christ’s sacrifice for us: His people did in fact fail to fulfill their end of the agreement, consistently turning away from God, and Christ came to bear the weight of their— our—punishment. But what does this mean for our relationships? 1 John 4:19 reads, “We love because he first loved us,” and indeed, God’s perfect desire for and commitment to us is both our example and our wellspring. The covenant of marriage demands so much of us, and it cannot be contingent on our spouse’s perfection. Therefore, we must rely on God for ultimate fulfillment, in order that we may then love our spouse well—not as a means of receiving their love, but as a natural outflow of the love we receive from the Father.

This is God’s design for the church itself, married and unmarried members alike. Ephesians 5 contains one of the most well-known passages about marriage; however, Paul’s instructions for marriage come in the very same sentence as his instructions for how believers should relate to one another. “Submit to one another out of reverence for Christ,” Paul writes; this command is as relevant for the church as it is for spouses. The way we love one another and commit to building relationships with one another is always modeled after Christ; as we strive to become more like Him, we also strive to love one another more deeply, laying down our own desires for their good as Christ did for ours. Marriage is no exception, although it is uniquely situated by the nature of its commitment: it is a microcosm of Christ’s love for us and, as Keller says, “penultimate to the Divine Marriage.” Just as Christian fellowship is a taste of the kingdom of heaven, so too is the covenant of marriage.

Marriage is a picture of our union with Christ, the ultimate covenantal relationship. This greater covenant is certainly not restricted to the married; it is for all of us who come to know Him. Likewise, those who are married do not experience greater blessing solely by virtue of their covenant to one another. We are all sinners, and while marriage between two people teaches them the beauty of love and commitment, even at its best it pales in comparison to the glory of

the perfect love of Christ. Many of us know all too well the fallout of a marriage ravaged by sin; many of us ache for a love that does not disappoint us. But every one of us has access to the truest and greatest source of love, the one who knows us more truly and loves us more deeply than another person ever could.

Christ is the perfect husband: the Bible tells us that we the church are His bride, and He is devoted to us to the point of death on a cross. He has never once forsaken us, nor has He ever held any ill will toward us. He is also the perfect bride: Keller notes that in 1 Corinthians 11, the same language used to describe a husband’s relationship to his wife and Christ’s relationship to the church is also used to describe the Father’s relationship to Christ. So whether or not you are called to be a husband or a wife, Christ is your example. Likewise, whether or not you are called to be a husband or a wife, Christ is your fulfillment. Looking for fulfillment in marriage is as foolish as it is tempting; if we place our hope in a spouse, real or hypothetical, we will inevitably be disappointed. Christ alone offers us perfect love, and Christ alone loves the way we hope to emulate. So let us proceed in all of our relationships, and especially in the marital covenant, with the love that comes from the Lord and the hope we have in the age to come, when all relationships will be righted.

1Keller, Timothy. “Submit to One Another.” Redeemer Presbyterian Church, 16 Aug. 1998, New York, NY. Sermon.

2Philippians 2:3, The Holy Bible, New International Version. Zondervan, 2019.

3Luke 10:25–37, The Holy Bible, New International Version. Zondervan, 2019.

4Genesis 17:4–21, The Holy Bible, New International Version. Zondervan, 2019. enesis 17:4-21

5Genesis 15:9, The Holy Bible, New International Version. Zondervan, 2019.

6Ephesians 5:21, The Holy Bible, New International Version. Zondervan, 2019.

7Keller, Timothy. “Marriage Supper of the Lamb.” Redeemer Presbyterian Church, 13 Oct. 1991, New York, NY. Sermon.

8Isaiah 62:5; Ephesians 5:25; Revelation 21:9, The Holy Bible, New International Version. Zondervan, 2019.

9Keller, Timothy. “Marriage as Completion: One Flesh.” Redeemer Presbyterian Church, 22 Sept. 1991, New York, NY. Sermon.

Grace Whitaker is a fourth-year student studying English. When she’s not reading or writing for class, she enjoys reading and writing for Bearings, keeping her Goodreads profile alive and active, and taking naps.

Found in the Middle Ground

LYDIA KIM

The abundance of the blue and green that we see every day on this planet is wondrous, teeming with intricate and unseen ecosystems sustained through millions of years. Creation ultimately points back to the Creator, whose handiwork is evident in the chirping of birds in the morning to a volcano waking after a long slumber. As beings also created by God, what is our relationship to the environment and this earth in the face of climate change? The start of the human to environment parallel actually begins with our relationship to God.

“Let us make man in our image, after our likeness. And let them have dominion over the fish of the sea and over the birds of the heavens and over the livestock and over all the earth and over every creeping thing that creeps on the earth . . . And God said to them, “Be fruitful and multiply and fill the earth and subdue it, and have dominion over the fish of the sea and over the birds of the heavens and over every living thing that moves on the earth.”1

Humankind was made distinct among the rest of creation and all living things, as God gives us the weightier duty of representing His image as we actively participate in this world. With that, we are given the responsibility of dominion “over the fish of the sea and over the birds of the heavens and over every living thing that moves on the earth.” These two fundamental ideas are core to how we think about our habitation on earth in the here and now, but have frequently been taken out of the context of Genesis in ways that disqualify the importance of dominionship and stewardship in a time such as this.

The accumulation of human actions have created a new geological period known as the Anthropocene Epoch. The earth has been physically transformed

due to soaring carbon emissions, global warming, and rapid industrialization.2 These human-induced hazards have destroyed land and ocean ecosystems and caused direct damage to living creatures and other human communities. On the broad and individual scale, our society has encouraged these exploitative and profitable practices, even at the expense of the environment or its inhabitants. This is the first way that dominionship has been warped—God no longer being the ultimate owner of everything we are entrusted with. The responsibility of having dominion over natural resources or “every living thing” has become more of an ownership. This rationalizes a more independent and inward-focused relationship to the object, disregarding that one was given a responsibility to oversee and guard for the genuine owner. Imagine that one of your closest friends asks you to take care of their pet goldfish while they’re out of town for the weekend. You agree and begin to take care of the goldfish, but slowly begin to forget that it was actually your friend’s. Before you realize it, you have redecorated the fish tank and changed its food because you thought it would be better, only to have caused

it to become sick. Your friend is inevitably shocked and unhappy when returning home because you did not tend to the goldfish as previously discussed. In the same way, God entrusted us as stewards of all that he created. Dominionship did not entail exploitation or profit and power, but to be a steward reflective of God’s character in love, compassion, and righteousness. This matters both at the societal and individual level, whether it’s addressing climate injustices or caring for the neighbors who are disproportionately impacted. The notion of dominionship has also been delayed when it comes to climate change response. Something that I have observed not just among people of the Christian faith, but in the statistics about climate change sentiments, is that certain generations care more about climate change than others. Older groups are less likely to agree that climate change should be a top priority, while Gen-Z and Millennials agree more strongly.3 Among the Church, it seems that the rationale for not addressing climate change at this moment is because we will eventually be in a new heaven and earth, so there isn’t a need to care about the planet right now. However, in the anticipation of

eternity, God reckons us to the importance of how we live right now. David says in Psalm 121, “The Lord will keep your going out and your coming in from this time forth and forevermore.”4

The reality of dominionship is being thoughtful and intentional with what God has given us to steward, including the physical planet we inhabit. I appreciate Norman Wirzba’s description in his book, Food and Faith, of how we think and relate to this earth, all stemming in being made in God’s image:

“A home place more clearly communicates that the memberships of life do not merely surround us (as the word environment indicates), but inspire and interpenetrate with our being on numerous levels. Creation is our home, the abiding place of nurture and sustenance, but also responsibility and celebration.” 5

Embracing our responsibility as stewards can feel heavy in the context of climate change, from reading the headlines of another natural disaster wreaking havoc to the loss of homes and communities. It’s also frustrating when it doesn’t seem like anything has improved, despite all the efforts to combat the impending impacts of climate change. The cycle of lament and praise grounds us in the hope we have in Jesus Christ in all things. As we find ourselves in this middle ground, I implore you to consider the necessity of stewardship in our home place we call Earth.

1Genesis 1:26–28, The Holy Bible, English Standard Version. Crossway, 2001.

2Kolbert, Elizabeth. “Age of Man: Enter the Anthropocene.” National Geographic, Mar. 2011, education.nationalgeographic.org/resource/age-man-enter-anthropocene/.

3Funk, Cary. “Key Findings: How Americans’ Attitudes about Climate Change Differ by Generation, Party and Other Factors.” Pew Research Center, Pew Research Center, 26 May 2021, www.pewresearch.org/short-reads/2021/05/26/key-findings-how-americans-attitudes-aboutclimate-change-differ-by-generation-party-and-other-factors/.

4Psalm 121:8, The Holy Bible, English Standard Version. Crossway, 2001.

5Wirzba, Norman. Food and Faith: A Theology of Eating. Cambridge University Press, 2019.

Lydia Kim graduated this winter with a degree in Global Commerce and Environmental Thought & Practice. She is part of the Bearings Design Team and engages creatively through film photography and mixed media art.

As If

ROB BATTON

As if the lightning’s thunderbell rang silent through the misty air Or a motherless rain sprang from the heav’ns to fall through blue sky fair

As if the rivers should cease their flow and regard their ‘stablished course And tiring of its settled path, their way back uphill force

As if the trees with bark-clad hand could stoop downward to grasp Your hand to shake, their silence to break, and all’s well-being to ask

As if the woodland beasts, now mute, could speak in human tongues to tell Of tales and time now long forgot that sole in legends dwell

As if the weary corpse-bound soul had hope beyond this day Of some salvation outside time, where cold death had no sway

As if some fiery gaze could piece the depths of mortal fog Far beyond empyrean machine’s ever-spinning cogs

As if immortal being walked again in mortal frame With sword and scales, eternal Word to this Earth came

As if Great Love had threefold name, fulfilled in Triune form And the peace of God calmed at once this never-ending storm

His hand rests against the worn wooden desk as He glances out the window at the cityscape below

Turning, He stands and closes the leather Book, regards the lone flame burning, still burning, in its tall stand

“Don’t worry, child—I will return”

Annelise Wolfe The Lighthouse , 2023 Aluminum Plate Lithograph

Creative Writers

Reagan Stallings is a third-year studying kinesiology. Her passions include coffee shop exploration, music making, reading good books, and writing to share the truth, goodness, and beauty of God and His creation.

Timothy Graff is a fourth-year nursing student and Elzinga Residential Scholar. He credits his life-long love of reading and writing to the many books his mother read to him as a child and his father’s excellent bedtime stories.

Lauren Campbell is a fourthyear studying Elementary Education. She adores listening to people’s stories, marveling at creation, and dreaming up new creative endeavors.

Rob Batton is a second-year studying English. He is also involved with RUF, Eunoia, and Veritas Forum. In his spare time he loves getting outside with friends.

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thank you to the Center for Christian Study at the University of Virginia for their continued support.

We also extend our gratitude to the UVA Parents Program and various community contributors who made the production of this issue possible.

Lastly, we would like to thank our mentor, Fitz Green, for his guidance and encouragement.

WHO WE ARE

Bearings is a member of the Augustine Collective, a coalition of student-run journals at university campuses across the nation.