Further Up and Further In
longing, loss, and the geography of hope
There was a magical place high up in the Colorado Mountains, set among the peaks of the Arapaho and Routt National Forests. I don’t mean magical in the sense of the first definition found in the Oxford English Dictionary: “relating to, using, or resembling magic.” I mean the second: “beautiful or delightful in a way that seems removed from everyday life.” This place was sacred and special and so removed from everyday life that there’s no other word for it than … magical.
The place was known as the Toth Ranch, and it hosted a series of retreats called Revel. The Revel leaders were a rare group, and for those of us who attended one or more Revels, they offered an extraordinary experience. Relying on a massive quantity of intercessory prayer and harboring a deep love for their visitors, these people made the Toth ranchlands feel like what ancient Celtic Christians called a thin place.
A “thin place,” according to Irish and Scottish tradition, is a location or moment where the separation between the earthly and spiritual worlds feels especially permeable or “thin” — where people feel unusually close to God. While he is omnipresent, of course, just as present in a cubicle as on a mountaintop, in a thin place, many Christians sense his presence in unique and sometimes overwhelming ways.”
Many activities filled the schedule at Revel, but worship was the main event. Twice a day, forty or so of us would squeeze into the living room of the main lodge. Most stood. One person played a guitar. Another, a mandolin. A third, some drums. The music was loud and simple, and we would sing with abandon — something I do, well, very rarely. But we all did it. Over and over again, we told God who he was to us. Through words and melody, we told him of our love and gratitude. We did it with our whole hearts. It was marvelous.
And then, late each Saturday, emotionally exhausted from worship, we would retire to a hobbit hole. A legitimate hobbit hole. We would leave the warmth of the lodge and head out into the cold, tramping through a dark forest toward a large circular, wood-planked door — one so heavy you had to lean to push open. And then, we would pile into a most glorious pub dug right into the mountainside. In golden light, we crammed into booths and onto benches. We laughed and sang songs like “Wagon Wheel” and “Take Me Home, Country Roads,” thrilled just to be together and celebrate who God is and what he’s doing in our hearts and in our lives.
I went to Revel three times over the years and eagerly looked forward to more. But I won’t go to those or any others because Revel shut down. And the owners sold the Toth Ranch.
Paul Kingsnorth, an English writer living in Ireland, has written extensively on a single theme: that today’s culture is intent on eroding what it means to be human. Fairly new to the Christian faith, Kingsnorth is a deep thinker and a fantastic writer. In his latest book, “Against the Machine,” he takes aim at technology, the internet, and AI.
Living in Silicon Valley, I’ve been mostly pro-tech for a long time, often an early adopter even. We use and embrace all sorts of new technologies to bring you Rapt. But my heart leaped when I read this passage from Paul’s new book:
Most of the things you like are fading away. The great forests and the stories made in and by them. The strange cultures spanning centuries of time. The little pubs and the curious uninhabited places. The thrumming temples and dark marshlands and crooked villages and folk tales and conviviality and spontaneous song and old houses which might have witches in them. The possibility of dragons. The empty beaches and wild hilltops, the chance of getting lost in the rain forever, or discovering something that was never on any map. A world without maps.
Paul captures something in these words that feels like it’s always been my reality. I think much of life, even when I was quite young, has been an attempt to experience what’s left of a “magic” in the world that was once abundant but is just about gone.
I think that’s why I love backpacking in wild places, scrambling over craggy peaks, fighting trout in mountain streams, sitting silently in ancient churches, living in old houses, gathering in snug taverns, and warming up by roaring fires in rustic lodges.
It’s also why I’m sometimes afraid. Kingsnorth called it right. I do feel like the places and things I love are under threat. Like the Shire in the “Lord of the Rings,” each of them, in its own way, seems like it could (and maybe likely will) disappear completely from this world. I often wonder how many of them will be there for my grandchildren and their children and their children to discover and enjoy and explore.
The Good News of the Gospel is that, while we wandered far from God — too far to get back on our own — Jesus came to get us and bring us back. He came to restore our relationships with God. No matter what we’ve done, Jesus brings us back. It’s the best news there is. But it’s not all there is. Like with everything with God, there’s always more. “He who was seated on the throne said, ‘Behold, I am making all things new’” (Rev. 21:5, ESV). All things. Renewed. Restored.
Does that include our favorite places and moments and experiences? Yes, I think it does. But we must understand that none of these things is “good” in and of itself. If we view something as such, it becomes an idol. No, these things are good because they are derivative. They are good because they come from and lead back to God. That’s actually why we desire them so strongly. God uses our longings as powerful forces “to draw us closer to him,” wrote John Eldredge. We yearn for wonder and beauty and intimacy because we encounter him and enjoy his love in and through them. Those are being restored. Those and us and all of creation.
“Desire,” wrote Eldredge, “both the whispers and the shouts, is the map we have been given to find the only life worth living.”
So, while many of the good things we desire are indeed under threat — and some may have disappeared already — not one is gone forever. Now and soon and forever, we will discover and explore and enjoy all the things God intends for us to enjoy. And not only that, but our desires for him and these things will only grow and strengthen as we live and pursue him. Spiritual maturity, C. S. Lewis taught, is not about reducing our longings for life and adventure, but about increasing our desire for the right kind of life with God — the right kinds of adventures with him.
In “The Last Battle,” the final book of Lewis’s The Chronicles of Narnia, Aslan (the Christ-figure, a Great Lion) leads the Pevensie siblings and their friends into the new, real Narnia — a metaphor for the Kingdom of God. He encourages them to come “further up and further in.” Come further up and further in is the continuous summons to all Christian souls. Come further up and further in is the invitation to hope, to dream, to keep seeking and feeling things in our hearts, for the journey toward God is never finished. There will always be more good things to discover, explore and enjoy, and higher places to ascend in knowing and experiencing God’s beauty and truth.
Heath Hardesty wrote “From Wonderblind to Wonder-Full.”
Chris Lee wrote “The Holy Art of Paying Attention.”
Asheritah Ciuciu wrote “Fill Your Life With Wonder and Delight.”
Sample ➼ “The Beauty Chasers” by Timothy Willard
Sample ➼ “One Thousand Gifts” by Ann Voskamp
We updated Rapt’s ‘Best of’ lists this week. Lots of new stuff!
Paige Collins is the founding partner of Icon Media Group, a premier PR firm specializing in faith and family entertainment.
Ryan Tinetti is an author and assistant professor at Concordia Seminary, where he teaches pastoral theology and the art of preaching.
Isaac Serrano is an author and lead pastor at South Valley Community Church in Gilroy, California, and an adjunct professor at Western Seminary.
Tammy Melchien is a writer and the teaching pastor at Community Christian Church, a multisite church in the Chicago area.
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Earth’s crammed with heaven, and every common bush afire with God. But only he who sees, takes off his shoes. The rest sit round it and pluck blackberries.
—Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Will you take some time this Thanksgiving week to look around and try to see, to lean in and listen for how God is speaking, teaching, and trying to love you?
We’re in this together, my friend, and I am very grateful for that.
Editor-in-Chief, Rapt Interviews & Wire for Men
Co-executive Director, Gather Ministries
This is a beautiful reminder.