Deserted Kingdom

We are walking through a deserted kingdom. Great stone stairs descend into empty courtyards, where towering stone fountains now stand still, the gargoyles looking off into nothingness. There is a majesty to it, but also a sadness – as if a living scene, full of noise and color, and packed with people so busy existing . . . has now become a painting, still beautiful to look at, but silent, frozen. And without the people, not even images. We proceed into an underground hall. More whispers of past grandeur. Complex frescoes line the walls, and the ceilings are woven with intricate patterns. Perhaps this was once a place of dancing, filled with music and light and, again, people. But now it too is empty. I am lost in the story of this place. My mind swarms with visions of its past - what happened to this place? What spell caused the golden realm to be locked in the still spell of winter? And I long for its renewal, for a king to return and restore the grandeur that now is seen only in hints and shadows.

And then we step out of Central Park and into the turmoil of the city. We stumble through icy puddles and piles of leaden snow and slush. Horns and flashing lights everywhere, and pulsating colors on high screaming “Buy! Buy! Buy!” And the story is lost – it was just my imagination – there was no deserted kingdom, just a city park where cold rain had driven away the visitors. This is real – the gray and silver buildings, and flashes of yellow as the cabs dart by. But why does the story grab me so deeply? Why do I ache for it to be true, for there really to be a mystic realm now fallen from some great height? Why do I grab onto all such stories, all the fantasies of great heroes and hidden kingdoms?

This attachment to story is what Tim Keller spoke on in this morning’s sermon. We have legends of great past kings who will one day return, of epic battles between good and evil. The stories carry common threads – the land locked in some evil spell; the presence of something beyond what we can see; and the need for a sacrificial love to save us. And these stories continue to resonate with us, no matter what the literary critics say. But why? The Gospel claims to hold the reality that all the legends point to – Jesus, the true king of old, returning to take his dominion and restore the world. “But you, O Bethlehem Ephratha . . . from you shall come forth for me one who is to be ruler in Israel, whose coming forth is from of old, from ancient days.” The true “once and future king” has invaded earth, preparing for the day when words of Psalm 96 will at last be fulfilled: “Then shall all the trees of the forest sing for joy before the LORD, for he comes.”

Longing, worship, and the eyes of an old schoolmaster

Green plains running up to towering mountains, beckoning travelers to indescribable delights beyond. Thus Lewis describes the heavenly countries in his fantasy The Great Divorce. We encounter a land more vibrant, more true, more real than the land we know, grounded in the Ultimate Reality of God himself. It is a master description for evoking longing, stirring in my heart the ache for the world set to rights and assuring me that my longings are not meaningless or absurd, but they point to something real, to Someone Real. Soaking in Lewis’ imagery, I ache with desire for what lies beyond the mountains. I ache to move “further up and further in” to a redeemed creation, no longer groaning but singing for joy at the revelation of the sons of God.

But this movement requires death. “For whoever wants to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for me will find it.” It means giving up my rights, my accomplishments, ultimately myself. Only in dying to self can the ghosts become solid, able to bend the grass beneath their feet. Reading the stories of ghosts caught in tension between ultimate joy and their own wills, I am convicted of the deep selfishness entwining my heart. So many of my thoughts remain in a self-referential box, like the infinite but small circle of Chesterton’s lunatic. But as I was reminded again of the ultimate worth of true joy, of the pearl and treasure worth selling all to obtain, I felt the selfishness (or at least the top layer) broken off of me.

At my core, I am like a little child who loves to worship that which is greater, delighting to explore the unknown, looking bright-eyed at the world. But I grow up and grow old, forgetting this child as I begin to come to grips with the hugeness and harshness of the world. Growing up is necessary, and yet it feels like a peace of me dies to lose that childlike delight in worship. Jesus told his disciples to “be as shrewd as snakes and as innocent as doves.” How do I grow in maturity and insight, but also in child-like faith? This is a question I haven’t yet resolved, but I feel like I had a glimpse of an answer recently in the form of an old yet young teacher named Donald Drew. I see the twinkle in Donald’s eye as he remembers to make jokes, even if he’s forgotten my name. And later I see tears welling up in those same eyes as he holds my hand, urging me to say aloud a line from Luther so that it fills my senses and my soul, this line that has remained his mantra: “In the great hand of God, I stand.”