Chapel Hill comprises one vertice of North Carolina’s Research Triangle Park. The road from here to Raleigh, Raleigh to Durham, Durham back to here is a congested, frantic, constant conveyor belt of workers, commuters, and travelers. I-40 is so busy it stands still– one realizes she is a hamster in a wheel, breathlessly running to nowhere.
Carolina shares the racing pulse of the Triangle. Students measure their worth by metrics of LinkedIn connections, resume lengths, marathon times, social affluence, and the prestige of their summer internships. We look for purpose behind the signs waved at demonstrations, or in the warm touch of a romantic partner. We race, we climb, we reach– and constantly we fall.
St. Augustine recognizes the state of our terrified, seeking souls in this life. We search for purpose, neglecting the fact we were created with a divine purpose by a wise Creator. He says of our creaturely relationship to God, “You have made us for yourself, and our heart is restless until it rests in you.” We do not live for this life alone, nor do we live for our glory alone. Made in the image of God, breathing his breath, we were created to glorify him and enjoy him forever. This life is temporary, but our purpose is eternal. Our works today are not just to make life tolerable, but to build up the kingdom of God.
We are a searching people, and we are a soughtafter people. You are not a faceless body in a crowd, you are the beloved child of a loving Father. In Luke 15, Jesus tells 3 parables about God’s pursuit of sinners like us: a shepherd going after the lost sheep, a woman sweeping her house to find a lost coin, and a father watching for and running to a wayward son. He sees us, He clothes us in the finest robe, and he kills the fattened calf for us. As believers we can rejoice, for our Father says of us, “‘This my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is found.’” In Him, we are found.
This edition of To The Well is for the searching and sought-after at Carolina and beyond. We sincerely hope you find a challenge and a comfort in the pages of this journal. May you look to the face of Christ for your meaning and eternal hope, today and every day.
Cheers,
Grace Robertson Editor-in-Chief
GRACE ROBERTSON
EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
Wilmington, NC
Class of 2025
Public Policy
ISAAC HOLMES
MANAGING EDITOR
Spruce Pine, NC
Class of 2027
Economics and Spanish
VIRGINIA VAN DE RIET
HEAD OF DESIGN
Stallings, NC
Class of 2026
Advertising & Public Relations
HANNAH FLOYD
DESIGNER AND ARTIST
Raleigh, NC
Class of 2026
Environmental Studies and Geography
HANNAH-WHIT HODGES
EDITOR
Nashville, TN
Class of 2026
Human Development & Family Science
JACKSON LEFLER
BUSINESS MANAGER
Nashville, TN
Class of 2027
Environmental Science
ELIJAH MOREE
BUSINESS MANAGER
Indian Trail, NC
Class of 2025
Economics and Statistics
HAYDEN DUNCAN
EDITOR
Matthews, NC
Class of 2027
Biomedical Engineering
MEREDITH BENTON
EDITOR
Waxhaw, NC
Class of 2027
Neuroscience
EMMY DASANAIKE
EDITOR
Raleigh, NC
Class of 2025
Public Policy
TREASURE OF MY CRIMSON TEARS DANIELLA & MIKALYAH OKYERE-BOATENG
ESTHER ISAAC HOLMES
INVITATION
THE ANCIENT STORY: A SEARCHING SHEPHERD BREANNE ECKMAN
REJOICE WITH ME HANNAH FLOYD
To The Well is a student-run organization at UNC-Chapel Hill that strives to facilitate dialogue meaningful to our community by creating a platform for Christian perspectives articulated in a peaceful, accessible, and thoughtful manner.
Before I Even Step in the Room
By Laurel Everett Miller
I overheard a conversation in the room next to mine Voices traveled through the wall the entire time The girl said she was about to come ask me for a pen So, happily I grabbed one to have it prepared for her when She would come to my room to present the request And it pleased me to think that truly, I’ve been blessed By the Lord up above who hears me as well And knows all my needs before my mouth opens to tell.
Yet still I stand in awe at the beauty of this mystery
Not only does he hear; he knows before me when my heart will come to realize that a need in me exists
But patiently He waits for such a time as this: when I come searching, I am instantly brought to peace
As I find His gaze is already fixed on me He hears my cry when I have drifted far And has good things prepared for my wandering heart He delights in my presence as I bring Him my needs and with every expectation He consistently exceeds, I am reminded that at His feet all strivings must cease For His grace is sufficient where I am most weak.
My conversations are heard every single time By a father whose love is far greater than mine
In Him I have found a well of great things Grace; there is plenty, and love; abounding The search continues; goes on day by day
But my father provides And by His side I’ll stay
LAUREL EVERETT MILLER Class of 2028 Dental Hygiene
The Progression
of Desires
By Lauryn Bailey
I"And now you set me face to face with myself, so that I might see how ugly I was, and how crooked and sordid, bespotted and ulcerous."
- Aurelius Augustine, Confessions Book VIII
am a good liar. The sweet words roll off my tongue, and the immediate gratification that I extract and manipulate from my own words will inevitably provide me with a pleasurable smile at the corners of my mouth. In that moment, every experience and relationship with lies has constructed the very one I am currently telling. My lies feel justifiable— necessary, even. Following that immediate gratification of manipulating something that, for the most part, I deem as for the greater Good, I am left with immediate and long-lasting sorrow and mourning. These feelings I can only relate to my physical experience with allergies. When I was seven years old, I became jealous watching my siblings grab the biggest spoon they could and scoop a huge glob of peanut butter as an afternoon snack. I soon decided that I was not allergic anymore. Obviously, a glob of creamy peanut butter would be good for me. So, I followed suit. This spoon of peanut butter was seemingly everything I was searching for at seven years old, but the all-encompassing inflammation of anaphylaxis that swelled my entire body painfully reminded me that
what I was desiring and searching for actually had the most destructive effects on my body. The effects of sin should painfully encompass our bodies. However, as the fallen world turns further from God, we become conditioned to remain content in a state of anaphylaxis. We have been trained to give in to our desires as “self-care” and follow our gut and intuition when in reality, our intuition is inescapably tainted by original sin. Augustine’s Confessions provides not a gentle reminder but rather an intense and brutal intrusion into our lives. He points us to understanding the difference between what we find when we search for meaning in a broken world versus what we find when our desires are relinquished to Christ.
Saint Augustine’s Confessions highlights the critical points in his life that led him into sin to understand why he sinned. Augustine describes his perspectives at predominant moments that would influence his motives and examines critical moments when his actions were guided by sin, seeking to understand his motives. As an infant, he was jealous, though no one taught him jealousy; as a boy, he realized a small
twist of words could bring pleasure; and as an adolescent, he stole pears not to enjoy them but to relish the thrill of sinning. Augustine observes that, while he changed physically throughout life, his instincts and motives remained corrupted by sin, obstructing any true spiritual growth. As Augustine progresses from infancy to boyhood and adolescence, he changes physically but remains unchanged spiritually because his instincts and motives remain corrupted by sin. Through observing other infants, Augustine surmises that all humans are born with corrupted instincts. Augustine determines that God “implanted all the instincts of a living being,” but that man was conceived in iniquity, and the instincts were corrupted1. Augustine’s motives as an infant are to fulfill spiritual and instinctual desires such as being fed and coddled by his mother. However, the taint of original sin creates an impossible task of fulfillment of these desires without being corrupted by envy to appease sinful appetites. Even though the infant could not speak and vocalize his desires, the infant’s body language was tainted by jealousy and bitterness as he “glared at his brother sharing his mother’s milk”1. His spiritual state as an infant immediately began as sinful and separated by God. Augustine realizes that as an infant, he becomes aware that he can “manifest his wishes” by lashing out with his body because he is bound by muteness. No adult taught the infant to be jealous of his brother, yet it appeared in all his instinctual behavior, and was never
reprimanded by adults because it was believed that “with coming of age it will pass away”1. Similarly, I was never taught to be jealous of my siblings, and their ability to eat a heavenly glob of peanut butter, yet that desire manifested inside of seven-yearold me, causing me to choose to act in dangerous ways. Though it was believed freedom from being without speech would also bring maturity, Augustine makes it very clear that in his boyhood, the use of speech allowed him to stay deceitful and capitulate towards his sinful appetites.
“Throughout my life, I’ve struggled with desires shaped by an inner hunger that seeks satisfaction in all the wrong places...”
In boyhood, Augustine had an introduction to God. He is taught to pray for “help and refuge” and begins to view Him as “being with the power of hearing and helping” him1. This perspective Augustine has of God fabricates his prayers into asking for worldly things such as to “not be caned at school” for being “indolent in learning”1. When acquiring speech, he also acquired a new way to demonstrate his motives. With access to speech, Augustine grasped hold of “human honors and deceitful riches” on earth, allowing him to vocalize his desires or reflect on them inwardly, hiding them from the eyes and ears of others while reaping the sinful benefits1. He reaped the pleasure of lies inwardly
as he told false stories, loving the tickle in his ears, further titillating his desires. With language, he can conciliate his sins, allowing him to love the pride of winning. He is able to express outwardly mature behavior to adults who believe that, with coming of age, the sinful behavior will pass away. However, his spiritual state had not grown since infancy as he remained separated from God. Though Augustine physically grows, his motives remain the same: corrupting instincts by depriving himself of the pleasure of taking advantage of people through lies to achieve worldly honor, power, and pride among his peers rather than spiritually growing with God.
In his adolescence, Augustine’s perspective of sin allows him to continue corrupting his original design. He had a natural desire to love and to be loved, but his perspective on sin corrupted how he sought God’s attribute of love. Rather than seeking God in himself, he became confused and “could not see the difference between love’s serenity and lust’s darkness” because no restraint was put on him1. No one stopped him from “being ambitious to win human approval” and giving in to his desires by disregarding the sin they were polluted with because they were praised among
his peers. His friends encouraged such behavior in his adolescence by boasting about their sexual exploits that evoked pleasure because it was admired. Augustine notes that finding pleasure in these sins would have been harder without his friends’ presence because he would not have found the satisfaction of becoming prideful about himself. I must confess, many of the sinful habits that I have found myself in during my college years continue on due to what I perceive to be a positive social reaction and from enjoying the benefit of being praised for my seemingly trivial comment or act. Augustine found himself in his lowest moment as he stole pears not for the enjoyment of how they tasted but for the satisfaction he felt from the sinful act itself. Augustine was not yet freed from sin; his manipulated instincts still controlled him, obstructing him from growing into God’s law and being able to spiritually change as he physically changed.
Though Augustine was physically changing, he was not spiritually changing. As physical growth allows him to speak and form thoughts on his own, he is able to satisfy these corrupted desires to an even greater extent. Augustine recounts moments that explain how he used physical changes to satisfy his unchanging spiritual state. He found new ways such as speech and the search for love to satisfy desires that kept him from God. His own sin forced him to stay in the same spiritual state as an infant rather than growing in God.
I would like to reassemble
my words from the beginning. I am not good at lying. I cannot be happy with associating a characteristic of God with a sin. Rather, I have become practiced in lying, driven by my unending search for love and validation. Throughout my life, I’ve struggled with desires shaped by an inner hunger that seeks satisfaction in all the wrong places, like Augustine’s. Yet Augustine’s Confessions has drawn out something deeply personal each time I’ve read it, illuminating aspects of my own soul at different stages.
The first time I read Confessions, I was a senior in high school, feeling the sharp intensity of Augustine’s conviction— an intensity that resonated like the physical memory of my own allergies. I felt overwhelmed, as though every sinful choice had left behind a painful, lasting imprint. However, upon my second reading, during the summer before my senior year of college, I experienced the text through an entirely different lens. I was transported back into the body of my seven-year-old self again, recalling a seemingly trivial act: spilling a jar of rainbow glitter across the carpet.
I purposefully scattered the glitter across the floor, thrilled by the idea of creating a hidden, sparkling world beneath the surface. I carefully smushed each fleck deep into the carpet fibers, imagining that this unseen glitter made my home beautiful and enchanted, even if it went unnoticed by everyone else. On the surface, the carpet looked ordinary and clean. Still, within the fibers, each piece of glitter told a
different story—a hidden tapestry of color that reflected the secrets and small acts of rebellion that were part of growing up.
Reflecting on Augustine’s journey and my own life, I now realize that our sins, small rebellions, and deep-seated desires are not without purpose. They accumulate like glitter, becoming woven into the very fabric of our souls, shaping us in ways we might not immediately recognize. Yet through it all, God remains. In Augustine’s life and mine, God has been present, not as a condemning overseer but as a patient presence.
I ask you, as the reader, to pray with me:
Heavenly and steadfast Father,
Redeem our hearts, minds, and souls. Claim back our days, actions, thoughts, and words that we have used against you. Curate these abilities back towards serving you so that our days shout the glory of your name. Remind us that “no sooner had I reached the end of the verse than the light of certainty flooded my heart and all dark shades of doubt fled away”1. “Hide me under the shadow of your wings” as I walk the rest of my days (Psalm 17:8)
Amen.
LAURYN BAILEY
Photos courtesy of Adobe Stock
An old neglected mop leaned on the right corner of the awkwardly ample space. The man leaned into the room and pulled the thin string to switch on the single light bulb. What was presumably a coat rack was bolted far up the wall on the left. Two wooden pegs hammered into a two-by-four. He took his first step into the dark room, but as soon as his foot touched the linoleum, he recoiled.
The floor was dirty, cracked, and damaged. Shuffling to the bedroom with toes curled, the man tried to clean his feet on the rug at the side of the bed, then slid his still-dirty feet into his dark leather moccasins. Then, in robotic silence, he returned to the open closet door.
He pulled down hard on the two wooden pegs, testing their strength.
“Here.”
Why he was doing it, he did not know. It was an urge, a reflex. An equal reaction to action. To pain, anguish, and–above all–inadequacy. Though he couldn’t have understood it, to him, neither he nor the God of his youth was enough. His own moral repugnance consumed him. Rather than face what could be, he sought to control what was. Now, he faced the rugged dichotomy between death and life: to grasp at control or let it loose.
He tried at least three configurations of the rope. He didn’t trust one peg
alone, but the two were so far apart that configuring the loop around both left only a mediocre amount for the secondary coil. Twisting the loops only meant less slack, and as often as he considered using only one, he decided against it; finally, he found a way to configure the knots, leaving just enough to form a tight loop beneath the pegs. He went to the other room, retrieved a sturdy box, set it beneath the rope, and stepped up.
Then, the solemn whisper of something inside the man failed to appear. He had explored his being, ravishing and living within the caverns of his soul. Yet now, at the culmination of all his existence, there was no voice of his own to be heard. He was lost. As often as he had looked inside, he realized he was not enough. Lying to himself had ceased to work, and at the limits of deceit, he found no further reason to exist.
Seconds ticked to minutes. Keeping his head through the loop, a busyness of mind grew. Noise, madness, disquiet, unsteady beats of his heart compounded into a fever of emotion–thought to thought there were no gaps–and nothing more than everything surrounded him; a swarm of stinging realities and illusions bent and twisted his fibrous being; inward, further and further, less and less, a heart trapped in darkness each object was only revealed by its shadows: the mop was the dirt trapped within it; the lightbulb painted in shades of
black; the box was a formless mass; his rope was an instrument of exile; the mirror…
He removed the rope from his neck and stepped down. It hung shamefully above him. He did not sob. He did not shake. He simply knelt, rescued and defeated, on the broken floor.
Knees on cold linoleum. Both hands hung by his sides. He lifted his head towards the sky and, at that moment, died.
Though his heart still beat, his breath was short and quiet. Echoing between his lips was a recognition of his place in eternity. His death was to himself, yet now, he was alive.
Looking up at the mirror on the wall, he glanced at a reflection, but what he saw was not himself. Eyes gazing into its light, he saw its form, figure, scuffs, and clouded spots. What he saw was the mirror, and however incomplete the image, he saw everything through it.
Staring at his face, he was lost. Searching it, he was found.
“I am yours,” he thought with every exhale, with every inhale: “and you are mine.”
ISAAC HOLMES Class of 2027 Economics and Spanish
The
LAURYN BAILEY
Class of 2025 Biology
Creation of Adam
An Invitation: Scars and All
By Brianna Veres
We are constantly searching for the key to acceptance. A key that society has hidden from us. They expect us to find it on our own strength and merit. Once we find the key we must squeeze through the door of societal standards before we can truly be welcomed in, but we can only fit in if we get it just right— we must be different from everyone else but also not too unique that we abandon society’s mandates. Whether it’s how we dress, the schools we go to, or what career we have, we are told that we must reflect these standards of perfection. These standards are what causes us to feel ashamed of ourselves, our insecurities, our struggles and imperfections, and our scars— especially the kind of scars that, one might argue, could have been prevented.
“You did it to yourself,” they say, unaware that the despair is entrenched in your mind like a parasite in a living organism--its severity convincing you to cross over the threshold. Society cherishes the overachiever and, in their minds, you have fallen short. They don’t want to stoop down to the pit of your struggle and sit with you in that hurt. Your pain is overlooked and instead replaced with terms such as “attention-seeker.” You’re all alone.
The desire to be perfect in their eyes and to gain their
acceptance runs through your veins. You spend nights viciously rubbing your skin, hoping those scars will disappear. You’ve learned and changed and yet those reminders still taint your vision each time you look down at them.
Searching for relief you bend down on your knees before bed, tears streaming down your face, and pray. Suddenly, as if waiting to comfort you, an image rushes into your mind’s eye: Jesus, in all His resurrected glory, appearing to the unbelieving Thomas. His hands are pierced through and His side is scarred. You recall John 20 where it reads:
So the other disciples told him, “We have seen the Lord.” But [Thomas] said to them, “Unless I see in his hands the mark of the nails, and place my finger into the mark of the nails, and place my hand into his side, I will never believe.” (. . .) Jesus came and stood among them and said . . . to Thomas, “Put your finger here, and see my hands; and put out your hand, and place it in my side. Do not disbelieve, but believe.”
The resurrected Jesus, in His true form of grace and beauty, chose to keep His scars so that we might believe in Him. He kept them so we could be reminded of the pain He bore for us. He kept them so we would remember he was once
human too.
Your scars reflect where you have been and what you have lived through. If society’s standards keep you from fitting through that door of acceptance because of your past struggles, run the other way into the loving arms of Him who was willing to take your place.
One day, when you are in heaven with Jesus, He will bend down and gently place His pierced hands over your arms, your legs, and touch your scars just as Thomas touched His. He won’t turn you away. You don’t need to search for the key to acceptance any longer because the door is wide open. All you need to do is walk through it.
Jesus does not expect perfection. He just wants all of you; He wants you to come to him in those moments where you doubt, where you cry, when the pain gets too heavy because even though you can’t handle it, He can. Seek Him.
He took your shame. So through Him those ‘imperfections’ are now a message of His unending love and how He accepts us regardless of how we look, what we do, or who we are.
Jesus welcomes us into His kingdom. Scars and all.
BRIANNA VERES Class of 2026
English and Psychology
An Invitation to Heaven
By Angela Ge
Against the 3AM darkness, my lamp glows, burning, like my eyes as red as the desk indentations on my forearms, throbbing, my head, my neck, my back. My chair complains about the burden my bed should be carrying. Already I anticipate the weekend and it’s only Tuesday. What circle of life is this but the circle of the week after week, where one deadline is met another begins, no rest for the wicked enslavement of my mind to these lofty goals. Make enough good grades, make enough money, make enough connections, make enough, do enough, be enough, enough, enough—I will never be enough—
In the glare of my computer screen, the openness of the sky outside my window draws my eyes upward toward a scattering of stars beyond the streetlights— what do the stars shine for?
—and suddenly, softly, I’m reminded: the same God who gave even the smallest star a purpose, who feeds even the littlest sparrow that sits in its nest and cries, who clothes even the tiniest flower in royal splendor, is the same God who created me so carefully, who knows me, out of billions, by name, and who offers His own shoulders to carry me.
Lay it all down, come to Me, and I will give you rest.
So in the hollow of the night, I kneel and I cry and I pray to the One who illuminates my path.
Divine Reflections
By Hannah Floyd
What is it about some spaces that resounds of something more? What– or who– is it that fills them, substantiates them?
There’s the water feature in my grandparent’s backyard, imbued with laughter from days where the expanse of rocks seemed to my cousins and me more like a canyon than a row of stepping stones. There’s the kitchen of my apartment, colored by late night baking and the waltz of three people filed into a narrow space. There’s the church parking lot my family used to park our minivan in, our radio tuned in to the appropriate station to watch the dance of Christmas lights adorning the house across the street. I don’t remember the name of that church. Our tradition of driving around and looking at Christmas lights each December has long since lost its
status. The meaning of these places is grounded in memory, by their comfortability. They are reflections. They are whispers of that which is complete and divine.
Light and shadow. Sandpaper beige and deep mahogany.
The Interior of the Oude Kerk, Amsterdam, painted by Emmanuel de Witte in 1660, stands framed amongst surrounding paintings. In previous visits to the Ackland Museum, I often found myself pulled back to the same paintings. Now I
retrace my previous steps, wandering through the rotating exhibit before heading into the main museum area. With each step, as I examine the increasing quiet of my mind, I wonder why I don’t come here more often. It’s an escape from the bustle, but the existence of that escape is easily muffled by the bustle itself. I almost walked by the de Witte painting, tucked away in the back of the museum. I don’t know exactly what made me stop. Maybe it was the people standing in the cavernous church hall. I can imagine the echo of their hushed yet forceful tones, bouncing about the space. Maybe it was the bright glow of the window in the center, with golden whispers of life beyond the glass. The building looks almost like a mountain, like an autumnal Blue Ridge peak. Warmth
from the window livens the church’s interior. Regardless of the reason that drew me in, the contrasts are what planted my feet and my fascination. The dark smudge of robed figures and shadows make the light seem harsher– the harsh insistence of dawn and renewal. It’s the morning rays that used to make their way through the blinds of my childhood bedroom, catching on my diamond curtain rod and casting rainbows on the wall. It’s the drowsy march of pinks, oranges, and blue coloring the sky when almost everything is at rest, in wait. Morning light points to what is to come.
The interior of the Oude Kerk, a landmark Calvinist church in Amsterdam with a name that translates to “Old Church,” is objectively plain. Aside from the posture of the ridged columns and arching windows, the sacred purpose of the space isn’t forthright. My first thought was of a quiet moment captured of a town square, typically filled with vendors and children tracing circles around the space.
One of every four of the 200 or so paintings created by Dutch painter Emanuel de Witte depict the Reformed faith in some sense.1 Was de Witte a participant in the Reformed Christian faith, or just a passive observer? He seemed to push beyond the point of being a passive observer with the extent to which he captures the heart and spirituality of the community. Church interiors specifically served as the subject of countless Dutch paintings in the seventeenth century— particularly Calvinist churches which lack the
luster of well-visited and photographed cathedrals. Specifically, this raises the question of “why would so determinedly visual a culture be so fascinated by empty, bare churches?”2
To what extent is a church and its value defined by what fills it? Pillars and markings, furniture and organ pipes–the congregation.
The church my brother got married in has a big window spanning the front, framing the stage. The sky opened after the ceremony finished, the brightness of the trees dimmed but not diminished in family pictures we took. The claps of thunder and pounding of rain were a celebration of sorts, a declaration.
season.
The church I attend now has stained glass windows along both sides. I often find myself taking in the kaleidoscope of colors, wondering why the hues on the right side seem so much duller than those on the left side.
There is a circular window in the sanctuary of my childhood, front and center. I’ve spent a lot of time gazing through that window, at the surrounding trees’ fluid dance. I see His sovereignty in the physical constancy of the church building, and in the way that the light catches on the leaves distinctively in each
This painting feels warmer than The Interior of the Oude Kerk, Amsterdam, even though the two paintings have almost identical color palettes. The filtering of the light through the window is where my eyes first went upon seeing de Witte’s 1669 painting, Interior of a Protestant, Gothic Church, with a Gravedigger in the Choir. I’d like to imagine the highlights as afternoon light, as sleepy rays that encase without closing off. The sun kisses my apartment unit in the afternoon, bathing my pepper plants in warmth and filtering through my blinds to cast ridges on my photo wall. The light never stays still, hastened in its vibrations by the oscillating breeze. The title of the painting drew my eyes to the small figure who appears to be standing in the floor. The gravedigger, standing in a grave. His arms extended and his body postured upwards. The
beams of light are insistent in their highlight of his figure, spotlighting him and only him. The gravedigger’s face can’t exactly be made out, yet I can picture the closing of his eyes and the contented tilt of the corners of his mouth. A gravedigger in the choir. Worship amidst the stark reality that life is fleeting.
De Witte’s inclusion of figures in his paintings makes his works stand out from the works of other Dutch artists at the time. The lifeforce of de Witte’s paintings, how he articulates his fascination with the Reformed church, is in his lyrical depictions of light and his inclusion of churchgoers and community members. Light and figures are what fill his paintings and substantiate how it feels when God dwells with His people.
The church building serves as a “collective possession” of sorts, a symbol of communion with each other and with the Lord.3 The building is a vessel for this sacred communion – an imperfect communion defined by a perfect savior.
When I think of church I think of the pond in the front of my childhood church, and the geese named by the children that race around the banks. I think of the people who watched me grow up and who I now see once every few months.
I think of the ways the community met me in the awkwardness and chaos of adolescence and also how they drifted away, further and further, starting with the pandemic. Because it was the only church family I’d ever really known, my juvenile mind grasped onto ungrounded ideals of perfection. I was left searching –searching for a completion that will be unreachable until the day when all of creation is made new.
In looking at this painting I am standing, marbled walls dotted with wooden frames and the brass chandelier looming over me. I feel the touch of each shadow and each ray of sun meticulously etched into the room. I am standing in the grave, my chest arching up and my eyelids shut, in a place of death meeting life.
In sacred spaces there is peace. There is a balance, a striving towards an eternal order. He who numbered the veins on every leaf and layered the hues and texture of the bark of every tree is the One who orders my steps.
The arboretum in Chapel Hill is the subject of many images in my camera roll. It is a space that somehow feels removed from all that I’m facing. In the arboretum I can just be, in a way akin to the sigh of sitting at the dinner table with my roommates for what we call our
“family dinners,” relinquishing my to-do list for the pause of a shared meal. I can find rest in the present moment, in the echoes of Eden that surround me.
I took this image of my friend walking her bike through the arboretum on my very first visit. The curving gravel paths that yearn for the tread of mindless ambling had yet to be traversed by my insistent steps. Now, looking back, I see familiarity and warmth in the speckling of light on the path. I see the sun inching lower and lower into the sky as the cicadas begin their evening ritual. The arching of branches, spotted with crimson berries. The arching of gothic windows, carving out the space of a room. Arching over people going about their days. Channeling the light, filtering the insistent beams. The harsh reassurance of morning light, the saturated warmth of afternoon light, and the culminating sigh of evening light: a daily routine filled with divine reminders. The photo is my futile attempt at reaching out into what surrounds me, to grasp at reflections of that which is eternal and boundless. Each blade of grass points heavenward, in the same way that the resonation of congregational worship echoes heavenward, to He who created all things.
1. Sara Rachel Bordeaux, “Emanuel de Witte’s Sermon Paintings: Sight, Sound and Spirituality.” PhD diss., (University of Delaware, 2014).
2. Angela Vanhaelen, The Wake of Iconoclasm: Painting the Church in the Dutch Republic. (Pennsylvania: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2012), 1.
3. Shampa Mazumdar and Sajoy Mazumdar, “Religion and place attachment: A study of sacred places.” Journal of Environmental Psychology 24, no. 3 (2004): 385-397, https://doi.org/10.1016/j.jenvp.2004.08.005.
Fig. 1 Emmanuel de Witte, “Interior of the Oude Kerk, Amsterdam,” 1660, Oil on Canvas, Chapel Hill, Ackland Art Museum, https://ackland.emuseum.com/ objects/5063/the-interior-of-the-oude-kerk-amsterdam?ctx=ba882ac7eb3f9858d4402299dad5e97a76abe433&idx=0
Fig. 2 Emmanuel de Witte, “Interior of a Protestant, Gothic Church, with a Gravedigger in the Choir,” 1669, Oil on Panel, Amsterdam, Rijksvmuseum, https://www.rijksmuseum.nl/en/collection/SK-A-4054.
“For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.” –1 Corinthians 13:12
HANNAH FLOYD Class of 2026
Environmental Studies and Geography
What Remains
By Virginia Van de Riet
(after Matthew 6:19-21)
On a bright and starry autumn night, lush with cricket songs, it’s easy to miss the low, pathetic squeals of a small and half-flattened squirrel trying to call out from the blood-slick road, just outside the wash of the streetlight.
The cries don’t ring out, but break and stall and dissipate into the quickly cooling air like the last puff of a cigarette. A patient crow stares down from on high. Somewhere, the wind blows away the last golden leaf. Somewhere, a child’s height is marked and dated on the living room wall.
Somewhere, a pile of nuts has been stowed underground, and waits, like an old forgotten doll, for the squirrel that first buried them out of sight of the crow. The cries slow and fade at last into the night. The body stills. A layer of frost begins to crawl over the grass nearby. Tonight, the crow will feast, and the nuts will rot in the frozen ground.
VIRGINIA VAN DE RIET Class of 2026
Photo by Virginia Van de Riet
this is a metaphor
By Elijah Moree
Julia picked up her phone and placed it under her ear, clasping it with her chin against the side of her shoulder as she adjusted her seatbelt.
“Hey Julia, this is Dawnrae callin’,” the woman on the phone said.
“It’s so good to hear your voice again, Dawnrae,” Julia said.
“You too hon, how are the kids?” she asked.
“Oh, they’re great! Liam just started soccer, loving it just as much as Noah does. Noah seems to be interested in engineering, so we’re going to probably send him to some camps this summer. David’s doing well. A bit stressed over some work-related things. The merger he was working on didn’t quite go as planned, but I trust him to make it through,” Julia replied.
“That’s great to hear. I wanted to call you and let you know that we’ve been able to get ahold of some information concerning your biological mother,” Dawnrae said.
Julia felt her throat close up and her fingers go numb. The phone in her hands felt as if it had suddenly tripled in weight. She finished the conversation with her former social worker and drove home silently, gripping the steering wheel and staring off into the horizon the entire ride home. That night, Julia opened her laptop to get a head start
on the nightly ritual of combatting the torrent of emails flowing into her inbox. An email from Dawnrae appeared near the top of the list.
The following Monday, she left her office and walked towards the city center. There was a nervous tingle in her gut and breathing felt like a conscious chore. The only thing that kept her grounded was the obligation to keep up with the flow of the other pedestrians. Arriving at the building, she immediately noticed how the first-floor lobby vibrated with the swarming collaborative fervor of twenty-somethings in dark suits, Starbucks, and briefcases in hand. When she called the number provided in the email, an executive assistant asked her if she was part of the Women in Business mentorship program, to which Julia responded affirmatively. Something about meeting under pretenses felt safer. She approached the front desk to ask for directions, but a figure from her periphery approached her.
said, smiling.
Julia agreed, and they exited the building. She felt more relaxed having replaced the clamor of the office building with the typical sounds of the city. Lori led her to Wade’s Coffeehouse, an unassuming establishment adorned with burlap coffee sacks from various corners of the globe. They sat down and ordered coffee.
“So, tell me about yourself, Julia,” Lori said.
“Hi, Julia, right? I’m Lori Johnston. Nice to meet you,” she said, extending her hand.
Julia looked at the woman who stood before her. She was in her mid-50s. Faint silver streaked many of her bleach-blonde hairs. Curious wrinkles of skin that had been luxuriously treated, but were
Julia felt a little startled by the question. She had not fully wrapped her head around the fact that the woman who abandoned her to the foster system at four now sat before her, sipping a latte, wearing a pantsuit, and sporting pastel-pink acrylic nails. “Well, I’m a project manager at a civil engineering firm, I’ve been happily married to David for almost seventeen years now…” She began.
“Congratulations!” Lori interjected.
Julia stared at Lori, frustration welling up in her throat, and almost wanted to snap at her.
“... and we have two sons, both at Suffolk Academy,” she
“So, remind me, I think my assistant might have mixed up my schedule, you are part of the Women in Business mentorship program right?” Lori asked.
“Yeah,” Julia responded. The lie made her cringe but it was better than the alternative.
“To start things off, I’ll tell you a bit about myself. I’m a Vice President at Point Group, which, as you probably know, is a multibillion dollar consultancy firm, where I lead strategic ops for our large-cap partners. I have a passion for supporting women in executive roles, which is why I wanted to offer my mentorship through Women in Business, both to give back and to support women in ways that I wasn’t supported back in the day,” Lori said. The skin on her cheekbones and her temples seemed too smooth when she smiled, a side effect of plastic surgery that gave the motion a lifeless quality.
Her facial expressions were just the right mix of responsive and emphatic, hypnotizing the listener into hanging on every word. And yet, this is not what captivated Julia. Lori’s eyes were the same as her 6-year-old son’s, a misty-shale color with tinges of blue, though in comparison Lori’s seemed duller.
“That’s amazing. Yeah, I’m honored by the opportunity. I’ll tell you I didn’t know what to expect coming into this,” Julia said. At least
the second part is true, she thought to herself.
“Absolutely. I’m here to help, and to provide the advice of someone who’s been through all of it. We must learn how to navigate a world where men are so often in charge, so feel free to ask me any questions. I’d love to help in any way I can,” Lori said.
“I guess I would ask how you have balanced your relationships outside of work. It can’t have been easy to balance your commitments and accomplish so much in your career,” Julia prodded. Engaging in corporate-speak sickened Julia. She felt like every sentence perjured her soul.
“Well, I’ve been divorced for about eight years, and have no children, so I’ve been able to spend my time giving back to the community. I have twelve goddaughters that I regularly meet up with, most of which have made it to top positions at firms in New York and Boston. I enjoy being able to help young women pursue their dreams, especially knowing how hard it was to be there without someone to guide and support me,” Lori said.
“Have–” Julia paused, a bit confused and exasperated by the conversation. She felt that any kinship she may have shared with this woman was dissipating. “Have you ever regretted any of the sacrifices… the things you’ve had to give up to pursue these accomplishments?” Julia asked.
Lori looked a little taken aback by the question. Julia had broken the decorum of these sorts of engagements, which usually center around abstract platitudes learned from business contexts. The flicker of surprise passed, and with a furrowing of her glistening brow, she seemed to silently engage with thoughts she did not like to think about. After a second, she regained her composure.
“I don’t have any regrets. I’ve been able to accomplish quite a bit, and it’s not as if I’m stopping anytime soon,” she chuckled dryly as if to convince Julia of the point.
“On a more serious note, a lot of young women tend to get pushed towards traditional obligations as they advance in their careers. If it’s my choice to make, I don’t see why we should have to be limited by those expectations. I mean, from what I can tell, you have been able to successfully manage both being successful in the workplace and handling those responsibilities at home.” Lori said.
Julia nodded to acquiesce, though she didn’t agree with the sentiment.
“I honestly think that is
succeed in every respect. We have to shake loose anything that doesn’t affirm and support us,” Lori continued. She smiled, whitened teeth glinting, and sipped her latte.
Julia felt her throat tighten. The emotionless way in which Lori talked about this issue didn’t just unnerve her, the implication of her statement shook Julia to her core. Julia remembered vividly how the stained booster seat pressed against the cracked black leather of her social worker’s car. She could also remember the dried salt caked on her cheeks, stinging every time she rubbed her eyelids. The conversation returned to a surface-level discussion of business and identity, leadership, and project management. Lori eventually hinted that she had a meeting to get to, and suggested Julia reach back out to her assistant to schedule another meeting in a month. They walked together out of the coffeehouse and parted ways. Julia did not call back.
a few minutes a reedy little fellow wearing round spectacles, adorned with a clerical collar, and firmly gripping a large black King James Bible stepped up to the podium. He began to half-heartedly deliver a sermon on the life of Lori Johnston, centering on her impact on the community as a business leader and supporter of various philanthropic efforts. He was clearly uncomfortable with the utter emptiness of the room and shuffled out quickly after closing his sermon in prayer.
Julia and the salt-and-pepper man sat in their seats without moving for twenty minutes. He broke the silence by first looking at his watch and then pulling himself out of his seat with the mahogany cane resting beside him. He shambled, leaning on the stick for support, and approached Julia.
“My condolences. Ms. Julia, I presume?” he asked.
“Yes. I’m sorry, who are you?” Julia said.
The funeral was on a Thursday afternoon. The attorney handling Lori’s estate, upon searching for living relatives, learned of Julia’s existence and personally invited her. Walking into the funeral home, Julia noted how many staff members were stationed at every corner, evidently anticipating a large throng of mourners. She walked into the chapel to find it empty, save a tall man with salt-and-pepper hair sitting in the front pew. She sat, and after
“Wilford King. I’m the attorney in charge of Ms. Johnston’s estate. I wanted to tell you personally that I will be taking care of things.
A majority of her assets are being donated to various charities, Women in Business to name one, and a few goddaughters I think, but what’s left over is yours,” he said.
“And yet, none of them showed up,” Julia remarked. She felt numb, empty. She hadn’t even teared up during the service.
He sighed. “I’ll be in contact. Again, my condolences.” he walked out, leaving Julia standing in the walkway between the pews, alone.
her mind wander unfeelingly through the viscous state of her emotions. Rain pattered onto her windshield, drumming her mind with white noise. She came to the funeral hoping for a resolution to the fear and feelings of worthlessness she had held since childhood but had not found it. Julia felt abandoned, somehow more so after meeting her true mother. Upon arriving home she sat in the car and let it idle. The soft plinks of “Clair de Lune” echoed from the classical station on the radio. She turned off the engine and the music stopped abruptly. After the rain, it was cold outside the car. She wrapped her coat tightly around her body and walked to the front door, wiping her shoes on the ragged doormat. Opening the door, her two sons ran out to embrace her, shouting, “Happy birthday Mom!”
David leaned against the wall in the hallway. “We’ve been expecting you! Dinner’s cold, but I know you like cold pizza so I didn’t think it would be much of an issue,” her husband said, smiling softly.
Julia hugged the three of them and cried.
ELIJAH MOREE
Class of 2025 Economics and Statistics
The Weight of Being Loved
By Gracie Helms
Some days (many days)
I wonder how it is possible to feel this loved. Some days (many days) I feel overwhelmed by the love I have to give away.
Yet here I am, relishing in the love of Christ; Welcoming the tender embrace of His bride, the Church, As they invite me in.
I used to think I would have to go my entire life convincing people I was worth it. I never thought there would be a people that would look at me and call me enough, Call me beloved.
So I turn; Praise the Father. It was His love that taught them to love me. And I feel it all—
I am enveloped by their love, Somehow only a reflection of His— All-consuming like the waves of the sea, And I know I could sink into it— Spend my days basking in every drop.
Daily, I am led to wonder what I did to deserve it, Before I am reminded That a father’s love is a gift No child has to earn.
GRACIE HELMS
Class of 2026
Psychology and Global Studies
The Treasure of my Crimson Tears
By Daniella & Mikaylah Okyere-Boateng
(after Luke 8:43-48)
On this day the dawn made its entrance, The ode of the sunrise, whispered that this day marked, The 12th anniversary of my ailment. Still, I arose on this unassuming day, And journeyed the path of gravel that paved the way To the commotion of Capernaum I clung to my garments rather loosely, Perhaps I could remind the rocks
Of my attempted return to normalcy
For twelve years is too great a pause, But I heard of the One Who might possess this treasure of the cure
A life that exists beyond one marked with bleed My crimson world just had to merge with his alabaster cloak Surely, My desperate fingers barely took hold of its fringes And Surely, He knew That He had been touched The eyes of the crowd gravitated towards this gesture, My wounds felt more amicable than this posture, I recalled the moment 12 years ago when my world turned crimson Beginning at the pivotal transition, Signaling that I now stood, a woman. The days of my youth; Replete with dancing Upon the rocks that witnessed this commence And Soon, my absence
Branded with stains from drops of blood That evolved into an unceasing flow
DANIELLA OKYERE-BOATENG
Class of 2026
Information Science
MIKAYLAH OKYERE-BOATENG
Class of 2028
Undecided
A cure, no physician of the land could breed The treasure I longed to satisfy my deepest need Until this very moment, That I beheld the great healer of Galilee By The balm of his compassionate gaze, The wounds of my suffering were now sealed, At the words, “Daughter, your faith has made you well; go in peace” My treasure had been revealed.
Go Home, Esther
Finding Peace in Grief
By Isaac Holmes
Her:
When I look out the window, I see the mountains. Deep blues, soft greens, forests, hills. I lift my head to a hundred miles, my eyes to a billion leaves– discernable hues forming out of the indiscernible. Light falls through the windows onto the floor, forming contrast– creating more colors. The beige walls, yellow light, drab curtains, white ceiling tiles, wood print linoleum floors–sticky. The harsh sun is diffused and softened by the clouds which stretch across the sky like a canvas over a frame. As I look out at those longworn mountains, with bald heads and varicose veins, I can’t help but see time. The time it must’ve taken to wear them in; woven, sewn to the horizon in long colored patches, hemmed, and layered one and then the next. They grow closer and closer till I see the threads: long vertical trunks and horizontal branches. The fabric of time. Now my quilt is threadbare and my once-white dress is full of moth holes and sized to fit a different woman.
Them:
“I can’t imagine Christmas. Cleaning the house. Finding her old things.”
Cold, the room was always cold. It was always clean–too clean–and asking to be lived in. In the cold one can always sense another body. Hugs are warmer; that feeling of having your sadness held as your cup is full of only sorrow, leaning your weight back, trusting you’ll be caught, and letting your shoulders fall back into the embodied comfort. Bitterness makes everything taste sweet. Sweet embrace she hadn’t yet tasted; perhaps she wouldn’t for a long time–perhaps it would be tonight.
“It’s the not knowing. If only I could know when– why?”
The “why” was unattributed. It hung in the air to dry while the breeze shifted it in the light. To whom was it addressed? Time, place, purpose: to which did it refer? In any other situation, she might’ve been scoffed at for asking a question that had no answer, but here she had only said what they’d thought already.
“Sweetheart,” he put his hand in her short grey locks, the gold band ‘round his finger came to fruition with every touch and every word, “cough for me now.”
Her mouth opened and chest moved; the wrinkles in her brow tightened and furrowed. She opened to bring in air and closed to keep her dignity. As if it were to escape should she linger. His other hand clasped hers. His gaunt and hers swelled – there was balance in their form and beauty in their fidelity.
Her:
I see dimly: through the haze of failing eyes and mist hanging in the evening air. Clouds have come down from heaven to dwell in the distant peaks. Memories fade; the present remains. They’re here with me; laughing, telling me stories, reading to me, urging me to hold onto them as they hold onto me. Yet a glory waits the last closing of my eyes such that words can only yearn to comprehend. Though now I see dimly, a day is coming.
Them:
He never left her side. Each night he’d drive miles home without her; he’d lay in bed—his side—and wake up with an arm in the divot she’d left him. It was larger than a mattress; it was the room, her closet and drawers; it was life-sized. As wide as the gaps between the distant peaks. Those ridges are filled with his memories. He filled them in with colors– so many all at once that all you could see was white sky– though now, a bit blue. Together they told the whole story and without each other they weren’t complete. One leaving the other was the sky departing the horizon.
“I’ll read to you, Grandma, just like I promised.”
Her:
The mountains are shrouded in mist. It draws nearer and nearer, but what is lost to the fog only brings me closer to the here and now. As it all fades, what remains is so much more than me: these warm people; their love by word, touch, with every breath— teardrop—and through the stories they tell with them. Words: I love to hear her reading.
Them:
“It’s like the sky is crying.”
As those words settled, so did the clouds. Down low on the mountains, a white glow coated the ridges, crests, and hollers; sun had begun to peer in like a child through a candy shop window. Bringing down its face, it lay on quilted edges. Orange, red, yellow—summer fruit ripe for harvest—warmth moved into the room and into her.
“She feels so warm.”
“Move that blanket.” She never liked to sit with her feet covered.
She couldn’t keep her mouth closed any longer. Whatever she’d feared losing, she’d sacrificed it for them so she could listen a while longer. Cold hallway lights were dimmed. Only the lamplight and the ever-lower sun filled the room.
“Play some music for her.”
He lost himself in her eyes. Noise had started to fill his mind, but not if he looked at her. Each moment she spent in his eyes materialized a lifetime: they brought forth love, laughter, and a lifetime of both.
“Night breezes seem to whisper, ‘I love you’ …”
Her:
The heat is fading; mine, not theirs. I hear him singing to me. I feel his eyes. Fog is lifting off the mountains in the sunlight. In the morning, the dew will settle back on the grass to cover it with life. It leaves, and I listen.
“Stars fadin’ but I linger on, dear…”
We danced to this in the beginning. Though now only in memories, soon enough like never before.
“I’m longing to linger ‘til dawn, dear…”
Linger on, dear.
Him:
“I’ll take care of them for you now– I’ll take care.” Everyone else had left the room.
“You just go on home now. Go home, Esther.”
ISAAC HOLMES Class of 2027 Economics and Spanish
The Ancient Story:
A SEARCHING SHEPHERD
By Breanne Eckman
In the pages of the gospels of St. Matthew and St. Luke, we encounter a Rabbi telling his students a story: There is a shepherd who left behind his flock on the open face of the mountain in search of his sheep who had left the fold. This naive sheep was lost, meandering amongst the hills and stumbling into ravines, hungry and injured. It would not return— it did not know how. The Rabbi inquired of his students, “Does the Shepherd not go in search of the one that went astray?”
When we hear this story, we might notice Jesus’ allusions to a common profession in his cultural context. We might even hear echoes of Psalm 23, a beloved song by many in the modern church. We would laud Jesus for telling a story that is simple and relatable. However, we will have missed the point if we do not perceive His words as a reprise of the ancient story that Adonai tells to his people. Since the beginning of history, the God of Israel has
introduced himself as the Shepherd who seeks after his people. Jesus’ words in the parable continue the story as God-in-the-flesh speaks to a new generation.
The Israelites had long been shepherds and keepers of animals. Throughout Genesis, hero after hero is depicted as a shepherd, a keeper of a flock, or one who pastures. In chapter 48, Jacob (named Israel) blesses his son Joseph, and for the first time relates the God of Abraham as a God who has ‘pastured’ him for all his life. Around 1000 BC, King David would draw from his days as a shepherd as he composed the devotional song we know as Psalm 23. “Adonai is my Shepherd, I shall not want.” Throughout the Psalms, God is called on over and over as the Shepherd of His people. “O give ear, Shepherd of Israel!” (Ps. 80:1)
Several hundred years later, these themes are repeated in the prophecies of Ezekiel. God called Ezekiel as a prophet to warn the
Jews of the incoming Babylonian invasion. His people had broken their covenant with Him. The catastrophe was the consequence of their chronic rebellion and callous idolatry. Most of Ezekiel’s prophecy depicts Ezekiel carrying out strange prophetic acts and describes Israel with symbolic imagery: a burnt stick, a rebellious wife, a promiscuous sister, and a dangerous captive beast. Israel will be judged by a holy God, whose glory will leave the temple, traveling with his exiled people into the foreign land of Babylon.
In the middle of the prophetic book, God damns the rulers of Israel— the “shepherds” of Israel, who have been caring only for themselves. He points out their sin: “The weak you have not strengthened, the sick you have not healed, the injured you have not bound up, the strayed you have not brought back, the lost you have not sought, and with force and harshness you have ruled them.” (Ezek. 34:4) Adonai
laments, because his sheep, Israel, have been scattered on every hill, every valley, and all over the face of the earth, with no one to seek them out.
Yet in the thick of this judgment, Adonai reveals Himself as the Good Shepherd— a vengeful, just, and merciful shepherd. “As surely as I live, declares YHWH God.” (Ezek. 34:8) The very God who with his breath holds the universe together, promises He will act, swearing on the existence of the I AM Himself: He will go and seek out his scattered sheep.
Amidst the dark clouds, amidst the confusion, across the multitudes of nations, He will go forth, searching for each sheep, and bring them home. At home in Israel, they will be fed and they will lie down in peace: “I will seek the lost, and I will bring back the strayed, and I will bind up the injured, and I will strengthen the weak, and the fat and the strong I will destroy. I will feed them justice.” (Ezek. 34:16)
When the LORD God takes center stage as the Good Shepherd, he cracks the door open to His very heart. He is the God who pursues the lost. He finds those who have strayed, and he brings them back. He is not like the human shepherds of Israel. He sees the wounds and pain of his people—self-inflicted or not—and he binds them up. He knows that his
people are but dust (Ps. 103:14) and he strengthens them.
Hundreds of years before Ezekiel, God reasons with the idolatrous nation through his prophet Isaiah. “Thus says the LORD, the King of Israel and his Redeemer, the LORD of hosts: ‘I am the first and I am the last; besides me there is no god.’” (Is. 44:6) The God of the universe stands at the city gates and challenges the idols of the nations to come forth if they have done all that He has— if they have seen the future. He further argues that idolaters have blind eyes and closed hearts and cannot see their folly because they fall before a block of wood.
wisdom, but rather of mercy. 1 He calls for the wicked to forsake their evil paths and the unrighteous to forsake their corrupt thoughts. If they turn to “our God, He will freely pardon.” (Is. 55:7, emphasis added) It is in this manner that the Good Shepherd is not like us,
"Yet in the thick of this judgment, Adonai reveals Himself as the Good Shepherd— a vengeful, just, and merciful shepherd."
Earlier in the book of Isaiah, he heralds truths about Adonai that contradict the expectations of his people. In Isaiah chapter 30, he reminds them that their Shepherd longs and waits patiently to be gracious to them. The Lord will rise and exalt himself to show them compassion because He is just. In chapter 55 of Isaiah, God exclaims gloriously that ‘[His] ways are not [our] ways, and [His] thoughts are not [our] thoughts.’ As Dane Ortlund highlights in his work “Gentle and Lowly”, these words do not follow an explicit declaration of sovereignty or
nor like the gods we have made in our image: He forgives freely. So when, in chapter 44, God reasons with the idolatrous Israelites, he shouts “Remember!” He calls his people to remember to whom they belong and to consider his words. Adonai is their Creator, and though they have forgotten him, He will not forget them. He has forgiven them, and their sins dissipate like the mist before him (Is. 44:22). He has redeemed them, and He is calling them home.
After the Jewish Rabbi had come, died on a Roman cross, and rose to life to gather his flock and name them his church, his students’ words still echoed the ancient tale. After all, their Rabbi was the Messiah,
1.Dane Calvin Ortlund, Gentle and Lowly : The Heart of Christ for Sinners and Sufferers (Crossway Books, 2020), 160.
the Shepherd who had come to ‘seek and save the lost’ (Luke 19:10). St. Paul exhorted the flock in Galatia saying, “But know that you know God—or rather are known by God— how is it that you are turning back to those weak and miserable forces? Do you wish to be enslaved by them all over again?” (Gal.4:9).
We must consider the words of St. Paul, Ezekiel and Isaiah. On what paths have we strayed? What idols have we crafted in our own image? What weak and miserable forces do we turn to? Any idol we worship or satisfaction we search for demands much. They are gods in our own image, for we demand much of others. The spirit of this age requires perfect justice, yet offers no grace or mercy. It encourages a search for the mystical - demanding more and more of you until your entire life is enslaved to attaining a higher spiritual experience and secret knowledge. The God of the Qur’an loves only those who have loved him first and obey him dutifully. The God of Mormonism requires his followers to ever learn, grow
and search, faithfully keeping every ordinance. The world is—indeed, we are—deeply unsatisfied and confused. Yet perhaps we can let this disorientation lead us to hope that there is something to orient us, to guide us to fulfillment, to a place we were made for.
The Rabbi finished his story. When the Shepherd had found his one lost sheep and brought it home, he invited all of his family, friends, and community to celebrate. He rejoiced more over the return of this sheep than the ninety-nine which never left.
And such it is in the Kingdom of Heaven. “Just so, I tell you, there will be more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninetynine righteous persons who need no repentance.” (Luke 15:7). Let the Good Shepherd carry you home, and gather you into the eternal chorus of pursuit, redemption and exhilarating joy— for He is the God who seeks the lost and welcomes them into everlasting life.
