Tomorrow—and for the weeks ahead—we begin with the man himself. A Different Kind of Story This is not a novel in the modern sense. There are no hidden meanings, no subtle irony, no shifting timelines. Bunyan writes plainly. He wants to be understood. And yet, what he gives us is unforgettable. A man with a burden on his back.A book in his hand.A city behind him that is marked for destruction. And a road ahead.

Last week we saw that the Christian life is lived in the present moment—one duty at a time. Not yesterday.Not tomorrow.But now. Yet as soon as we begin to live this way, we run into something deeper—and harder. What about the things we did not choose? The interruptions.The disappointments.The burdens we would gladly remove if we could. Jean-Pierre de Caussade now takes us one step further: Not only must we do the duty of the present moment—we must also receive it.

Satan and the rebel angels lay stunned in the burning lake after their defeat by God. But Satan rose, rallied his followers, and led them to build their new capital — Pandemonium, the great hall of Hell. Now, in Book II, the leaders of the rebellion gather for a council.

The world Charles Ryder once knew — Oxford afternoons, summer at Brideshead, the careless beauty of youth — has vanished. Years have passed, and the country itself now lives under the shadow of conflict. Charles is no longer the young man who first entered Brideshead in wonder and delight. He is an army officer now, older, more sober, carrying memories that seem to belong to another lifetime. And then, unexpectedly, he finds himself returning.

Last week, we began looking at the remarkable little spiritual classic often called The Sacrament of the Present Moment — the work traditionally attributed to the Jesuit priest Jean-Pierre de Caussade. The central idea is simple, but very powerful. God meets us in the present moment. Not tomorrow. Not yesterday. Right now. The past is gone. The future is not yet ours. But this moment — the one we are living — is the place where God’s will meets our obedience.

The remaining movement of Brideshead Revisited now continues in sequence and without haste. We have seen Arcadia. We have witnessed scattering. We have watched marriages formed not from surrender, but from arrangement. Now, in Book Three, Waugh allows the world’s substitutes to stand fully exposed. They are not violent. They are not scandalous. They are simply insufficient.

In this final movement, Søren Kierkegaard leads us to the point where Abraham must be left behind—not rejected, but fulfilled. Abraham Is Not the End of the Story Kierkegaard is often misunderstood as asking us to become Abrahams, as though true faith required us to reenact his trial. That is not his intent. Abraham’s faith is unique because his role in salvation history is unique. Abraham does not save himself.Isaac does not die. The knife never falls. Instead, God stops th

Brideshead does not disappear all at once. It simply stops being where life happens. Charles Ryder does not mark the change with grief or reflection. The house fades as friendships thin, as obligations multiply, as other paths open. He is still young, still capable, still moving forward. Nothing appears to have been lost. Sebastian slips from view first — not dramatically, but quietly, through absence and silence. Julia moves on with composure.

Behind all of this desertion and heartbreak is the sin of drunkenness. The Bible warns: Wine is a mocker, strong drink is raging; whoever is deceived thereby is not wise. Proverbs 20:1 The strong drink imprisons Sebastian, chaining him with a bondage he cannot break. For all the Marchmains' religiosity no one knows the Bible, and the result is chaos. Sadly ,there is no one in the book who can lead him to deliverance and the Deliverer.

Abraham’s Silence Genesis 22 is marked by what Abraham does not say. He offers no explanation to Sarah. He gives no justification to Isaac. He makes no appeal to public reason. When Isaac asks, “Behold the fire and the wood: but where is the lamb?” Abraham replies with the only words he can honestly speak: “God will provide himself a lamb.” (Genesis 22:8, KJV)

By the time love begins to take clearer shape in Brideshead Revisited, it has already been announced, tested, and wounded. That preparation has a name. Sebastian Flyte. Before Julia becomes the object of Charles Ryder’s desire, Sebastian is the one who opens the world of Brideshead, the one through whom Charles first learns what it means to love — and what it costs to love something fragile. If Julia will later represent love resisted,Sebastian is love given — and broken

Some passages of Scripture grow familiar with time. Others never do. Genesis 22—the binding of Isaac—is one of those texts that resists comfort. No matter how often we read it, it remains unsettling. A father is told to offer his promised son. The son carries the wood. God is silent. The knife is raised. We hurry to the end. We reassure ourselves that God never really intended the sacrifice. And that is true. But Kierkegaard insists that if we rush past the fear, we miss

Last week, we stood at the threshold of Edmund Spenser’s Cantos of Mutability, where the great poet turns from the virtues he has spent a lifetime shaping — holiness, justice, courtesy — and asks a deeper, more unsettling question. What happens to virtue, to order, even to goodness itself, in a world where everything changes? This week, before we go any further, it helps to know exactly where we are — and where Spenser is taking us.

Last week we lingered at Oxford — that season of innocence when friendship, laughter, and beauty seemed sufficient for a lifetime. This week, Evelyn Waugh moves us forward, gently but decisively, into Stage III — Brideshead & First Love. Oxford was a garden of youth. Brideshead is something else entirely. Here, Charles Ryder encounters beauty on a larger scale — not merely aesthetic pleasure, but a place that awakens longing, attachment, and a sense of destiny. Long be

First published in 1945, Brideshead Revisited is the most explicitly Christian novel by Evelyn Waugh, and one of the great religious novels of the twentieth century. Written at the end of World War II, it is a work of remembrance—of youth, of England, of beauty—but more deeply, of grace.

We dressed up in top hats, wore scrafts and carried candles when we caroled in the 1950s. I loved it then the singing, the carols, and hot chocolate and warm fellowship We like to go to the Old People's Home in Elizabeth to sing to the shutins, Now the young carolers come to sing for me and the other old timers at Riverside Presbyterian House. I think I enjoy it more now than then, the Joy of Christmas and the Love of Jesus still shines.

In the winter of 1741, George Frideric Handel was a broken man. Once celebrated, now deeply in debt, physically weakened, and emotionally exhausted, he faced public failure and private despair. Some believed his best work was behind him. Others thought he was finished. Then a libretto arrived — not a play, not an opera, not a story of kings or lovers — but pure Scripture. You know the rest.. It was not written to entertain.It was written to proclaim.

Few Christian books have comforted and strengthened believers like Hind’s Feet on High Places (1955), Hannah Hurnard’s beloved allegory of spiritual transformation. It tells the story of Much-Afraid, a timid young woman called by the Chief Shepherd to leave the Valley of Fear and ascend the High Places — the place of joy, strength, and union with Him.

Best Christian Fiction, from 1460 to 2008, 21 of the most inspired works of Christian literature. They reflect the Gospel & its worldview.

On the surface, it may seem obvious—many well-known Christian leaders have published books—but when we pause to reflect, two deeper questions immediately arise. What do we mean by pastor? And what do we mean by book?