Is This All There Is?

Have you ever stopped and wondered, “Is this all there is?”

All the hurrying and scurrying. The constant chasing. The quiet dissatisfaction that lingers no matter what we do.

If we are honest, most of us have asked that question. And not just once.

The Teacher in Ecclesiastes puts it plainly: “Everything is meaningless… a chasing after the wind” (Ecclesiastes 1:14). Sit with that for a moment.

It sure can feel like that, eh?

The Story We’ve Been Told

Some of us look for answers in different pursuits or belief systems. Some promise purpose. Others say there is none.

I am not trying to explore all those options here. I want to speak to those of us who believe Jesus is the answer, and who have been told that the goal of that faith is to reach heaven and leave this world behind.

Has that been the story for you?

That one day we will finally escape all of this?

Like the old spiritual says:

Some glad morning, when this life is o’er, I’ll fly away…

For much of my Christian life, I believed that. I was taught that God has a place prepared for us in heaven, and that one day we will leave this world behind and live with him there forever.

I am coming to believe that this is not quite right.

What Scripture Actually Promises

Let me be clear. I have not lost faith. If anything, I am becoming more convinced of the Christian hope, not less.

Scripture does teach that when we die, we are with Jesus. Jesus told the thief on the cross, “Today you will be with me in Paradise” (Luke 23:43). Paul says that to be “away from the body” is to be “at home with the Lord” (2 Corinthians 5:8).

That is real comfort.

But it is not the end of the story.

Why the Resurrection Matters

Which brings us back to the question: Is this all there is?

If the goal is simply to leave this world behind, it becomes hard to see why any of this matters. And it raises another question:

What was the point of the resurrection?

If God’s plan was to take us away, why did Jesus rise bodily from the dead?

The resurrection tells us something important.

God is not abandoning his creation. He is redeeming it.

Jesus’ resurrection is not an escape from the world, but the beginning of its renewal. As Paul says, Christ is “the firstfruits” (1 Corinthians 15:20). What happened to him is a preview of what God intends to do for his people, and for creation itself.

Not Escape, but Renewal

The Christian hope is not that we leave this world behind, but that God will make it new.

Revelation gives us a picture of that future: “God’s dwelling place is now among the people, and he will dwell with them” (Revelation 21:3). There is a new heaven and a new earth. Not an escape from creation, but its restoration.

This helps us make sense of Jesus’ words that he came so that we may have life, and have it abundantly (John 10:10).

Why This Matters Now

And yet, if we are honest, that life can feel far away.

We age. We struggle. Relationships remain complicated. The world still feels broken. Loneliness, injustice, and suffering are not hard to find.

It is no wonder that an “escape to heaven” view is appealing.

But Scripture points us somewhere deeper.

From the beginning, humanity was created for relationship with God (Genesis 1:26–27). The problem is not that creation exists, but that it is broken. And God has not given up on it.

In Christ, he has begun putting things right.

The Hope Ahead

So when we ask, “Is this all there is?”, the answer is no.

There is more. Not less than this world, but more than it has yet become.

We will be with Jesus when we die. That is our comfort. But that is not where the story ends.

We will be raised, as he was raised (1 Corinthians 15:42–44).

We do not know exactly what those resurrection bodies will be like, but we know they will be whole, free from decay, and fit for the life God has prepared.

A life not in this present broken world, and not in a purely spiritual existence, but in the new creation God has promised.

God will dwell with us, and we with him. We will know him as we are known (1 Corinthians 13:12).

Living in That Hope

This gives us hope, not just for the future, but for today.

When the days are long and the work is heavy, when we feel worn down, we are not left without help. We can turn to God in prayer, trusting his promises in Christ.

Because this is not all there is.

God is at work. And one day heaven and earth will be made one.

Even so, Lord Jesus, come.

The Quiet Strength of Waiting

Waiting is not something we tend to do well.

Our lives move quickly. We are taught to act, to decide, to move forward. Waiting can feel uncomfortable, even unproductive. When delays come, our first instinct is often frustration.

Yet Scripture speaks often about waiting, and it does so in a way that feels almost counter to our instincts.

Isaiah writes:

“But those who wait upon the LORD shall renew their strength.”
— Isaiah 40:31

At first glance, waiting can sound like inactivity. It can feel like being asked to sit still while life moves on around us. But the kind of waiting Isaiah describes is something deeper.

Waiting on the Lord is not passive. It is attentive.

Think of the work of a waiter in a restaurant. A waiter listens carefully. They receive an order, carry it out, and return ready to serve again. Their waiting is not idle. It is active, watchful, and responsive.

In a similar way, waiting on the Lord places us in a posture of attentiveness. We come before Him ready to listen, ready to receive, ready to respond.

Another picture may help.

When you wait for a bus, you go to a particular place because you expect the bus will come. You stand there with confidence that, at the appointed time, it will arrive and take you where you need to go.

Waiting has purpose. It is filled with expectation.

Waiting on the Lord carries that same sense of quiet confidence. We come before God expecting Him to meet us. We bring our weariness, our uncertainty, our need.

And Isaiah gives us the promise: those who wait upon the Lord will find their strength renewed.

The waiting itself becomes part of the work God is doing in us. In the stillness, He restores what has been worn down. In the quiet, He renews what has grown tired.

Waiting on the Lord is not wasted time.

It is the place where strength returns.

So the invitation remains simple and steady.

Wait upon the Lord.

And trust that, in His time, He will meet you there.

Held by a Father Who Never Lets Go

 

A Promise She Cannot Yet Understand

A new grandfather holds his baby granddaughter in his arms. He looks at her and tells her how much he loves her. He promises he will always be there for her.

He means every word.

The baby has no idea what he is saying. She cannot grasp the depth of his love or the weight of his promises. She does not know what it means for someone to always be there. She simply rests in his arms, unaware of the fierce devotion surrounding her tiny life.

My friend sees this and says, “This is so much like us with God.”

She is right.

Words We Barely Comprehend

Our Heavenly Father speaks love over us. He makes promises that stretch beyond time. Yet we often understand so little of what He is saying.

Zephaniah gives us this picture:

“For the Lord your God is living among you. He is a mighty savior. He will take delight in you with gladness. With his love, he will calm all your fears. He will rejoice over you with joyful songs.” (Zephaniah 3:17)

Pause there.

He delights in you.
He calms your fears.
He rejoices over you with singing.

These are not distant words. They are deeply personal.

God is not only Creator, though He formed you with intention. He is Father. Scripture says, “See what great love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called children of God” (1 John 3:1).

Children. That is who we are.

Love Made Visible

When Jesus entered our world, God stepped into flesh and blood. He revealed the Father’s heart. Through His life, death, and resurrection, Christ secured our redemption.

God’s love is not abstract. It is embodied. It is demonstrated.

As a grandfather speaks tenderly to his grandchild, so God speaks to us.

Learning Love Over Time

My granddaughter, Zipporah, is just sixteen days old. Sweet sixteen.

When I hold her, I tell her I love her. I promise to protect her and to provide for her as I am able. I want her to know that her Poppy loves her more than she can imagine.

She does not understand my words.

So I show her.

I comfort her. I respond when she cries. I support her parents in practical ways. One day she will begin to understand what has always been true. She is deeply loved.

This is how our Father deals with us.

Often we are like infants in His arms. We hear about His faithfulness, His presence, His provision. Yet life presses in. We struggle. We doubt. We ask where He is.

Still, He shows up.

He meets us in quiet ways. He provides in ways we do not always recognize at first. He speaks through Scripture, through others, through unexpected peace. Over time, we begin to perceive what has always been there. His steadfast love.

Paul prayed this for Believers:

“And I pray that you, being rooted and established in love, may have power, together with all the Lord’s holy people, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge, that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God.” (Ephesians 3:17–19)

To grasp a love that surpasses knowledge.

There is mystery there. Depth beyond comprehension. Yet it is love meant to be known.

When We Feel Forgotten

There are seasons when we feel abandoned. Prayers seem to echo back unanswered. We wonder if God has stepped away.

Scripture anchors us:

“For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.” (Romans 8:38–39)

Nothing can separate you from His love.

Not your past.
Not your present confusion.
Not your fear of the future.

Through Isaiah, God speaks with fatherly tenderness:

“I have cared for you since you were born. Yes, I carried you before you were born. I will be your God throughout your lifetime, until your hair is white with age. I made you, and I will care for you. I will carry you along and save you.” (Isaiah 46:3–4)

He carries you.

From the beginning, God instructed the priests to bless His people with these words:

“The Lord bless you and keep you;
The Lord make his face shine on you and be gracious to you;
The Lord turn his face toward you and give you peace.” (Numbers 6:24–26)

This is not a distant God. This is a Father whose face shines as He lifts His child. This is His posture toward you.

Held, Even Now

So be encouraged.

When life grows loud, return to these truths. Hide them in your heart. Ask the Spirit to remind you who you are. “The Spirit himself testifies with our spirit that we are God’s children” (Romans 8:16).

You may not yet grasp the magnitude of His promises. You may not fully understand the depth of His love.

But you are held.

And He is not going anywhere.

Let me leave you with this blessing:

“Now all glory to God, who is able to keep you from falling away and will bring you with great joy into his glorious presence without a single fault. All glory to him who alone is God, our Savior through Jesus Christ our Lord. All glory, majesty, power, and authority are his before all time, and in the present, and beyond all time! Amen.” (Jude 24-25)

The Table Is Large: A Biblical Heart for the Stranger

 

We live in a time when “different” quickly becomes “divided.” Borders harden. Language separates. Culture becomes a line instead of a bridge. Fear fills the gaps.

Yet Scripture presses us in another direction.

Rooted in God’s Character

Leviticus speaks plainly:

“When a foreigner lives among you, do not mistreat them. Treat the foreigner as your own. Love them as yourself, because you were once foreigners in Egypt. I am the Lord your God.” (Leviticus 19:33–34)

This is not a passing instruction. It is anchored in who God is. “I am the Lord your God.” The command reflects His character.

The people of Israel were to remember their own story. They had been strangers. They had known vulnerability. Their obedience was to flow from memory and gratitude.

And beneath it all is Genesis 1. Every person bears the image of God. Not selectively. Not culturally. Not conditionally. If we diminish the stranger, we diminish someone marked with divine imprint.

Fulfilled, Not Forgotten

Some argue that commands like this belong to another covenant. Jesus answers that question directly. He did not come to abolish the Law, but to fulfill it. He brought it to its intended depth and meaning.

And what did it look like when the Law’s heart came alive in him?

A Jewish rabbi speaking with a Samaritan woman in public.
A Roman centurion praised for his faith.
A Samaritan made the hero of the story.

Jesus does not narrow the table. He widens it. He exposes the heart of the Law as justice, mercy, and covenant love.

A Church Without Favoritism

The early Church wrestled with this in real time. Acts 10 is not merely a story about dietary laws. It is about walls coming down. Peter learns that God shows no favoritism. That revelation reshapes the future of the Church.

Acts 15 confirms it. Gentiles are not second-tier citizens. In Christ, the dividing wall of hostility is broken down.

Paul describes something breathtaking in Ephesians 2. A new humanity. Not uniformity. Not erasure. Reconciliation.

The Church is meant to be a foretaste of that reality. Every tribe. Every language. One Lord.

The Cost of Welcome

Welcoming strangers is not abstract. It is often uncomfortable.

Different languages slow conversation. Cultural differences require humility. Fear whispers that we may lose something.

But growth in Christ rarely happens inside comfort.

We are called ambassadors of reconciliation. That is not poetic language. It is a vocation. The Spirit equips the Church with gifts precisely for this work. Some teach. Some organize. Some extend hospitality. Some protect the vulnerable.

Together, we embody the Gospel.

Remembering Who We Were

The deepest reason we welcome others is not political or cultural. It is theological.

We were once strangers. Separated. Without hope. Without God.

And then Christ brought us near.

Hospitality begins there. Not with virtue. With grace received.

We open the table because we were first invited. We extend welcome because we were welcomed. The Kingdom of God is not a small, guarded space. The table is large. Grace is sufficient. There is room.

A Prayer for a Larger Heart

Father,

You welcomed us when we were far off. Forgive us when fear narrows our hearts. Teach us to see Your image clearly in those who are unfamiliar to us.

Lord Jesus, You broke down walls we could not dismantle ourselves. Form in us that same reconciling love.

Holy Spirit, make us courageous. Give us humility to listen, wisdom to act, and faith to trust that obedience reflects Your character.

May our churches reflect Your Kingdom. May our tables reflect Your grace. And may we never forget that we were once strangers who were brought near.

In Jesus’ Name, Amen.

 

Marconi's Dream

Introduction

In 2001, I wrote a short story for a CBC Radio contest. It received an honourable mention. I was early in my career in IT at the time. Video conferencing was just beginning to emerge as something that promised to change how we live and work. The world felt on the edge of something new.

I found myself thinking about the first wireless signal sent across the Atlantic. I thought about television and the story of an elderly woman in Labrador who dressed carefully before watching the evening news because she believed the man on the screen could see her as she saw him. We smile at that now. But maybe she sensed, in her own way, that something fundamental had changed.

Marconi could not have imagined what would follow that December day on Signal Hill in 1901. Within a century, the world had changed beyond recognition. In the twenty-five years since I first wrote this story, it has changed again. Faster. Closer. Louder.

When I wrote this piece, I was already wondering what we unleash when we innovate. What responsibility rests on the one who pulls the lever first? What follows once the first signal is heard?

I have revisited and rewritten the story below. The premise remains. The question has only grown sharper.

Marconi set something in motion. Arguably, he helped lay the groundwork for the connected world we now inhabit.

Where are we going? 

Marconi's Dream (revisited)

December 1901

Holy Mary, it is cold in this godforsaken land.

I have been climbing the Hill these thirty minutes and seem no nearer the top. The wind comes hard from the north and cuts through wool and bone alike. The sea below lies a dull sheet of iron. Each step is hard won against the cold.

Why is this taking so long?

As the cold presses in, the dream returns. It came two nights ago and has not loosened its grip. I woke from it in a sweat, though frost clung to the edges of the glass. By morning I sought out the parish priest, thinking he might quiet what I could not.

“Good mornin’, Father. Might I trouble you for a word?”

“Ah now, come in out of that wind, me son,” he said, drawing me toward the hearth. “Sit by the fire. ’Tis a bitter mornin’, and there’s more in it yet.”

“A seat would be welcome,” I said, holding my hands to the flame. “I would not disturb you without reason. I have had a troubling dream.”

“Dreams are queer things,” he replied. “Some are from the Almighty. Some are the Devil’s mischief. Tell it plain.”

I did.

“I found myself in a crowded room, packed tight with every manner of person. They stood shoulder to shoulder, restless but silent. Then something like an electric ripple passed through them. The entire room reacted at once. Some cried out in fear. Some laughed in delight. Others stared ahead, emptied of expression.

“It came again. And again.

“I searched for the cause and saw, in the corner, a man bent over a device. Each time he pressed a lever, the ripple surged through the crowd. Once, and they trembled. Again, and they shouted. Faster still, and the room dissolved into chaos.

“I called to him to stop. He would not. I forced my way toward him. ‘It is too much,’ I cried. ‘You will destroy them.’

“I seized him by the shoulders and turned him round.

“It was my own face.”

The priest was silent for a long moment. The fire cracked between us.

“Well now,” he said at last, “that sounds to me like a man uneasy with his own power. Perhaps you are about to set something in motion, and your soul knows the reach of it before you do.”

I said nothing.

Now I near my destination. In a matter of moments, I will take part in what may be the greatest event of our age. A signal drawn from across the ocean. Three faint clicks in the ether. The letter S.

A small thing.

And yet I cannot help but wonder what follows once the first message is heard.

The old hospital stands against the winter sky, its windows dark and vacant. The wind presses at my back.

I reach the door and pause, my hand resting on the worn wood.

For a moment, I listen to the wind.

Then I step inside.

Grieving the Church in the West

I find myself grieving for the Church. Not in anger alone, but in sorrow.

There is a weight that many believers feel but struggle to name. It is the sense that something has shifted. That we have grown comfortable standing near power. That we have become cautious about calling sin what it is when it resides in high places.

This is not written to condemn. It is written out of lament.

Our Attraction to Power

Why does the Church in the West seem so drawn to earthly power?

Why are we hesitant to name evil plainly when it is found among the influential and the celebrated? Scripture tells us to have nothing to do with the deeds of darkness, but rather to expose them. Yet we often grow quiet when the darkness wears a tailored suit, holds public office, funds ministries, or promises us cultural leverage.

There is a pattern that has become difficult to ignore. When wrongdoing is found among the unknown, we speak with clarity. When it is found among the powerful, we speak with caution.

Why are we more afraid of offending the powerful than wounding the powerless through our silence?

The Myth of Strategic Compromise

Some argue that proximity to power allows the Church to accomplish good. That flawed leaders can still advance worthy causes. That access opens doors for influence.

But God is not impressed by access. He is not persuaded by political advantage. He is near to the poor. He defends the widow and the orphan. He hears the cry of the oppressed.

If we claim to follow Christ, we must ask a hard question. Whose side are we practically standing on?

When Jesus was tempted in the wilderness, He was offered the kingdoms of this world. Power. Authority. Influence without the cross. He refused.

Yet how often do we accept what He rejected? We tell ourselves it is strategy. We call it engagement. We frame it as wisdom. At what point does strategy become compromise?

Silence Is Not Neutral

There is a cost to our quietness.

When leaders in positions of authority behave in vile and degrading ways, and the Church responds with hesitation or deflection, something breaks. The watching world sees it. The wounded feel it.

If our silence shields the strong and abandons the weak, it is not neutrality. It is complicity.

We cannot proclaim a crucified King while courting the favor of those who exploit the vulnerable. We cannot preach justice while ignoring injustice because it is politically inconvenient. The credibility of our message is bound to the integrity of our witness.

The Church does not lose her voice when she stands with the vulnerable. She loses it when she bows to power.

Lordship, Not Partisanship

This is not about partisan allegiance. It is about lordship.

Christ is Lord. Not Caesar. Not cultural access. Not a seat at influential tables.

If we bear His name, we must share His posture. He moved toward the sick, the poor, the sinner, and the outcast. He confronted religious hypocrisy. He spoke truth to power. He laid down His life.

The pattern is clear. The question is whether we will follow it.

A Call to Courage and Repentance

The questions before us are simple and uncomfortable.

Whom do we fear?
Whom do we serve?
Whose suffering moves us to act?

Are we protecting our comfort instead of embracing costly obedience? Are we safeguarding our place at the table while others are crushed beneath it?

This is a moment for honest self examination. For repentance where we have compromised. For courage where we have remained silent.

May the Church in the West recover a witness marked not by influence, but by faithfulness. May we step into the light. May we refuse to excuse what God calls sin, no matter how powerful the sinner.

Only then will our grief give way to renewal.

Honouring My Parents in the Fragility of Aging

 

Getting old is hard.

Scripture does not pretend otherwise. Our bodies wear down. Strength fades. What once felt effortless now requires patience, planning, and often the help of others. The spring in our step becomes a shuffle. The mind can feel slower. The body less steady. Ecclesiastes tells us to remember our Creator “before the days of trouble come,” before the years arrive when we say we take no pleasure in them (Ecclesiastes 12:1).

That is not weakness of faith. It is simply reality. Aging brings loss, and loss hurts.

I see this up close in my parents.

My mother has become unstable on her feet. A recent fall caused a fractured neck and left her in a brace for nearly half a year. She had to learn dependence in ways she never expected, relying on others for tasks that once seemed small and ordinary. It was frustrating. It was frightening. It was humbling.

My father lives with Parkinson’s disease. I have watched the slow ebbing away of strength and skill. Where once he depended on his voice to preach and sing, there are now days when his words are barely above a whisper, sometimes marked by impediments. His confident walk has become a careful shuffle.

This is suffering. It is not easy. Sometimes it feels undignified. And yet, weakness does not erase dignity. My parents are still image-bearers, still loved by God, and still precious to those who know them. Their worth has never been measured by speed, steadiness, volume, or independence.

The apostle Paul names this tension without flinching. He says our “outer self is wasting away,” even while our “inner self is being renewed day by day” (2 Corinthians 4:16). He does not tell us to deny what is happening. He tells us not to lose heart.

Why? Because of what God has promised.

Paul writes, “He who raised the Lord Jesus will raise us also with Jesus and bring us with you into his presence” (2 Corinthians 4:14). Our hope is not that we will avoid suffering, or outrun aging, or keep our strength forever. Our hope is resurrection.

In 2 Corinthians 5, Paul describes our present bodies as an earthly tent, temporary and fragile. We groan in this tent, not because we are ungrateful for life, but because we feel its burdens. We long to be “clothed” with what God will give, so that what is mortal may be swallowed up by life (2 Corinthians 5:1–4). This is not escapism. It is redemption.

My parents believe this. More than that, by their example they are teaching me to believe it.

Despite the real grief of what has been lost, they are looking forward to the day when Christ will make all things new. They look forward to new bodies, raised and restored, no longer marked by disease, frailty, or decay. Scripture teaches that our future will be like Christ’s resurrection life, not less human, but fully renewed (compare 1 Corinthians 15; Philippians 3:21).

I have heard people say that death is preferable to the long deterioration of the body. I understand why. When suffering stretches on, death can seem like relief. But the Christian hope is larger than relief. It is resurrection. It is not merely an ending. It is God’s act of making whole what has been broken.

And this hope is not wishful thinking. It is anchored in Jesus himself. Because he lives, we too will live. The God who dwells in unapproachable light must bring us safely into his presence, and he has promised to do so through Christ (1 Timothy 6:16). He will not abandon his people to decay.

Christ is coming again. All will be made new, including our bodies, and even this creation that groans under the weight of corruption. Though we die, we will yet live. We will rise as Christ has risen. This is our confidence.

God commands us to honor our parents, and too often we wait until they are gone to speak what should have been said while they could still hear it. I do not want to wait. I want to honor my mother and father now.

I honor them for their love, for their faith, for the life they have poured out for others. I honor them for enduring suffering without surrendering hope. I honor them because, in their weakness, they are still bearing witness. Their lives preach. Their voices still sing, even when quiet. Their hope is steady. And it has strengthened mine.

A Prayer

Father God, give us hope.

Remind us of your promises, and that they are Yes and Amen in Christ Jesus.

We look forward to the day when we will be raised, given new bodies, and fully redeemed.

Until then, be our strength in weakness and our comfort in sorrow.

Teach us to honor our parents well, with patience, tenderness, and gratitude.

In Jesus’ name, Amen.