The last few years I have compiled a list of my favorite book, album, and movie of the year. Here are the lists from 2022, 2021, and 2020. It’s a fun way to chronicle what really spoke to me over the course of the year. So, without further ado, here are a few of my favorite things from 2023.

Favorite Book:

Christian Philosophy as a Way of Life: An Invitation to Wonder by Ross Inman

This book is not an introduction to philosophy so much as it is a prolegomenon to its proper study in a Christian mode. Ross suggests that a Christian approach to philosophy is an invitation to wonder. He writes that wonder is “a window through which we can see reality in its proper light; what is genuinely good, true, and beautiful–and subsequently worth pursuing–tends to evoke wonder.” And as he demonstrates, philosophy is not the exclusive preserve of tweed-jacketed academics. We are all invited to take on the philosopher’s mantle, as we seek to live in light of the truth and to pursue the good life. Ross writes from a deep well of knowledge (he’s range is incredible), with wisdom and virtue to boot. The book is artfully written, intellectually enriching, and spiritually nourishing (and challenging!). It’s accessible too. Everyone from high schoolers to seasoned philosophers can benefit from this phenomenal book.

Honorable Mention: Crying in H Mart by Michelle Zauner

Favorite Movie:

Killers of the Flower Moon, directed by Martin Scorsese

This might be the greatest film from one of the greatest filmmakers of all time. I know that opinion will be disputed, because Scorsese’s corpus is filled with so many all-timers and fan-favorites. From one angle, it is classic Scorsese: it is an epic tale of organized crime, greed, and violence. But this time the canvas is spread wide on the flatlands and open skies of Oklahoma, and the themes are at the very heart of the American story: prosperity and opportunity on the frontier, but with the dark stain of racial injustice coloring nearly every brushstroke. The conflicted love story at the center of the narrative humanizes these sweeping motifs. Leonardo DiCaprio turns in a career performance as the ambitious Ernest Burkhart, but the subtlety of Lily Gladstone’s portrayal of his wife Mollie Burkhart steals the show. Plus country crooners Jason Isbell (see below) and Sturgill Simpson have cameos, and the late Robbie Robertson’s score was masterful.

Honorable Mention: Oppenheimer, directed by Christopher Nolan

Favorite Album:

Weathervanes, Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit

Isbell has been one of my favorite singer-songwriters since his days with the Drive-by Truckers. He almost never misses. Southeastern (2013; a ten-year anniversary edition was recently released) and The Nashville Sound (2017) are generationally good in terms of song-writing. This album is true to form. It many ways, it feels like an homage to our shared homestate of Alabama (one track even centers on “Vestavia Hills”). His standard soundscape of Southern Rock and acoustic Americana is woven together with some Muscle Shoals soul on tracks like “Middle of the Morning” and “This Ain’t It.” The track commemorating the passing of Isbell’s erstwhile friend and collaborator Justin Townes Earle (“When We Were Close”) might be my favorite song from 2023 as well.

Honorable Mention: Echo the Diamond, Margaret Glasby

I was recently invited to write a post on the purpose of theological education for the Henry Center at Trinity Evangelical Divinity School. My post focused on theological education as habitus formation. Here’s a bit:

In these perilous times (and all times are perilous before that great and terrible day of the Lord), we stand in need of a renewal of theological education that is centered on the word of God, interpreted and applied in the context of the church (both local and universal), with a view to the theological and moral formation of the minister and those to whom he or she ministers. In short, theological education exists to form a theological habitus, a virtuous disposition, in its students as they follow Christ and preach his word…

Theological education, then, is habitus formation in a Christian mode: it aims to produce in its students intellectual and moral virtue through certain curricular and extracurricular practices, both theological and spiritual, taught and modeled by faithful professors. Obviously, the means are not foolproof. Professors and administrators can only do so much. The students must bring to the equation their own studiousness, docility, and compunction. They must be willing to “study to shew thyself approved” (2 Tim 2:15 AV), and they must be open to having their minds shaped and their consciences pricked by the word of God.

But from the institutional side of the equation, what kinds of elements should be included in theological education in order to produce this theological habitus? Virtue formation in the Christian religion is ordered to the word of God. It especially employs the ear as the primary organ of religion through a humble and faithful listening to the voice of Christ in the pages of Holy Scripture. It invites students, with Mary of Bethany, to choose the “better part”: sitting at the feet of the Master, heeding his life-changing message. Only then can students, like Martha, rise to serve the faithful. The divinity school serves as a conduit for the word of Christ in several ways.

I then go on to describe four main ways a divinity school forms its students in the Word:

• Studying God’s Word
• Interpreting and Synthesizing God’s Word with the Great Tradition
• Teaching and Applying God’s Word
• Prayerfully meditating on God’s Word in corporate worship and private devotion

You can find the post and the others in the series here.

In the classic 1984 film rendition of Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol, starring George C. Scott, the Ghost of Christmas Past rebukes Ebenezer Scrooge for his failure to give careful attention to the world around him. She points out how Scrooge’s nephew looks so much like his mother, Scrooge’s sister. Scrooge replies, “Does he? I never noticed.” The Ghost responds with chastisement but compassion, “You never noticed? I think you’ve gone through life with your eyes closed. Open them. Open them wide.”

I think many of us go through life with our eyes closed. We are like the father in another cinematic masterpiece, Terrence Malick’s The Tree of Life, who confesses: “I wanted to be loved because I’m great, a big man. I’m nothing. Look: the glory around us, the trees, the birds. I lived in shame. I dishonored it all and didn’t notice the glory. A foolish man.” I can sometimes justify myself by claiming, “Well, I’m just not a very observant person,” which my wife can attest is often true! But a failure to attend to reality is not just a character trait; it’s a vice. It’s folly. It’s a failure to live in prudence, a virtue that entails docility (docilitas, aptness to learn), a disposition of “open-mindedness which recognizes the true variety of things and situations to be experienced and does not cage itself in any presumption” of self-deception. Docility requires “the ability to take advice,” “a desire for real understanding,” and “genuine humility” (Josef Pieper, The Four Cardinal Virtues, p. 16). Virtue demands that we open our eyes wide and “notice the glory.”

In his excellent new book, Ross Inman suggests that a Christian approach to philosophy is an invitation to wonder. He writes that wonder is “a window through which we can see reality in its proper light; what is genuinely good, true, and beautiful–and subsequently worth pursuing–tends to evoke wonder.” And as Ross demonstrates, philosophy is not the exclusive preserve of tweed-jacketed academics. We are all invited to take on the philosopher’s mantle, as we seek to live in light of the truth and to pursue the good life. Wonder is not just about contemplating weighty metaphysical or epistemological questions (though it includes those, as well). It’s not even just about transcendent moments of rapture, say, at the expanse of the Pacific Ocean or the sheer granite walls of Yosemite Valley. It’s also about simply noticing the glory all around us: the wrinkles and flaws on the face in the mirror, the movements and shouts of children playing the yard, the music of the morning songbirds, the rustling of the water oak leaves under our feet, the smiles and grimaces of the faces we meet, the pleasures and pains of mundane human existence.

Christian spiritual masters have long recognized that the objects of meditation include, not only the truths of Scripture, but also the glories of the creation around us and the depths of meaning within us. The better part of communion with God is learning to open our eyes to awe: to the glory all around us in creation, to the beauty and dignity of the people right in front of us, to the sacred truths of Holy Scripture, to the presence of God within us, and to the being and attributes of God himself. So, open your eyes, friends. Open them wide.

Christmas starts earlier every year. It’s not unusual to see the candy aisle at the local supermarket well-stocked with Christmas confections the day after Halloween. Christmas music can be found on certain radio stations throughout November and December. The long-awaited red cups and gingerbread lattes show up just as early in Starbucks. Small wonder. We long for the joy and nostalgia of Christmas. We cling to it as long as possible. We lament the moment when the final present is opened or the last meal shared on Christmas Day. December 26 is perhaps the most dreaded day of the year on many personal calendars.

But there is an older framing of the holiday season that gives space not only for mirth but also for mourning, and in the process places joy in its proper context, allowing it to shine with its full brilliance after the long night of darkness. The season of Advent, the four Sundays before the Feast of the Nativity (December 25), marks the beginning of the traditional church year. Originally, Advent was a time for remembering, not the first, but the second advent of the Lord: his appearing on the last day to judge the living and the dead (for more on this history, see this excellent book). The four Sundays of Advent often commemorated the so-called quattuor novissima, the “four last things”: death, judgment, heaven, and hell. The hymns and carols of the season carefully resisted the pull toward joy and celebration and focused instead on themes of longing, yearning, and hope. The famous “O Antiphons” are indicative, with the most well-known antiphon crying out, “O come, O come, Emmanuel, and ransom captive Israel.” Another traditional Advent hymn invites us to “look from afar” and “see the power of God coming, and a cloud covering the whole earth.” This older liturgical tradition can seem jarring to our holiday sensibilities, and yet, if we are bold enough to be honest with ourselves, it rings truer to our experience.

The joyful mystery of the Nativity is set against the backdrop of pain. The coming of the Lord only makes sense to a people who know what it means to wait—to a “people prepared,” as Zechariah prays in his Benedictus (Luke 1:17). Advent invites us, like righteous Simeon and faithful Anna, to wait for the consolation of Israel and the redemption of Jerusalem (Luke 2:25, 38). Advent is not about sappy sentimentalism, gauzy nostalgia, and cheap grace. It is about a “weary world” in desperate need of rejoicing. The land of Advent is spotted with deep valleys, impassable mountains, and crooked paths (Isaiah 40:4). As the Lord himself would remind us, “Those who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are sick. I came not to call the righteous, but sinners” (Mark 2:17).

And so, Advent welcomes our mourning. It has a place for our pain. It allows us the freedom to be honest about our losses, either through our own sins or the sins of others. It tunes our heart to sing, not only of God’s grace, but also of our sin and guilt and suffering. To be sure, we already live in the luminous reality of the first advent. No season of the year is entirely devoid of that joy. We need not pretend otherwise for some kind of pious effect. But we also live in the time between the times, in the overlap of the ages. The kingdom of Christ has been definitively inaugurated through the incarnation, birth, life, death, and resurrection of Jesus, but it is not here in its full glory and felicity. We, too, wait for consolation and redemption. And in this liminal space between the two advents, we can welcome a third, “middle advent,” as many spiritual writers have articulated: the coming of Christ in our hearts through the ministry of the church and personal devotion.

The season of Advent invites us to a kind of delayed gratification. We mourn before we rejoice. We sing of our weariness and captivity before we herald “Joy to the World!” In some traditions, Advent, like Lent before Easter, is a penitential season of fasting and self-examination. Only after the long night of sorrow can we rejoice that “the dayspring from on high” has visited us (Luke 1:78). Advent reminds us that Jesus didn’t come to a people who had their stuff together. He came to a broken world longing for healing.

With all of this in view, I would invite you to craft your own spiritual rule this Advent, one that centers mourning rather than joy, longing rather than realization. Obviously, none of these things are binding. The church year itself is not binding. But it is a useful tool for framing our time as sacred and centered on the whole life of Christ.

• Limit your holiday music (as much as you can!) to Advent themed songs until Christmas Day. Sing “Come Thou long expected Jesus” before you get to “Joy to the World! The Lord is come!” Create your own playlist of Advent hymns and carols.
• Read traditional Advent texts from Scripture. Consider using a lectionary (a list of readings) like this one.
• Consider fasting for one meal or one full day each week. You might even consider abstinence from something you would otherwise enjoy during this season, as many do during Lent.
• Practice these spiritual disciplines with others. Even if you don’t attend a church that observes the church year, you can still practice these rhythms with your family, roommates, or friends.

The good news is, mourning eventually gives way to joy. In the church calendar, Christmas isn’t a single day but an entire season! We call it Christmastide, the famed “twelve days of Christmas” that we forgot actually existed! And Christmastide gives way to Epiphany, which expands the joy, as we celebrate the manifestation of the Lord to the nations. Epiphany is traditionally marked by a reflection on the Visit of the Magi, when the Gentiles first meet their Savior, and the Baptism of the Lord, when the Triune God is manifested in the Jordan. Lent follows Epiphany, as we once again enter into a season of repentance, fasting, giving, and praying before the sorrowful mysteries of the Passion and the glorious mysteries of Easter. After seven weeks of Eastertide, we move on to the Ascension and to Pentecost, which frame our “ordinary time” as life in the Spirit. And so, the whole church year takes us through what John Calvin called the “whole course of Christ’s obedience”: from his advent to his birth to his ephipany to his suffering and death to his resurrection and ascension to his gift of the Spirit and back again. What joy awaits us as we are set to begin a new church year! For those hidden with Christ in God, mourning never has the last word. “He who goes out weeping, bearing the seed for sowing, shall come home with shouts of joy, bringing his sheaves with him” (Psalm 126:6).

In the liturgical calendar, today is the feast of St. Michael and All Angels. Traditionally four archangels–Michael, Gabriel, Raphael, and Uriel–are especially commemorated. Only two of these are named in the the Protestant canon: Michael and Gabriel. Raphael figures prominently in the apocryphal book of Tobit, and Uriel is mentioned in 2 Esdras and other non-canonical texts. Even if we cannot name these last two with any degree of biblical authority, we do know that the heavenly Jerusalem is populated by “innumerable angels in festal gathering” (Hebrews 12:23). Presumably they too have names that perhaps only God knows. In the Thomistic treatment of angels, given that angels are pure forms (not composed of matter and form or genus and species, like embodied creatures), each angel is his own species. Each elect angel is known and loved by God and does his holy bidding on behalf of God’s people.

In my experience, many evangelical Protestants have an impoverished view of the angels. Reacting to excesses and speculations on the part of some Roman Catholics and charismatics, evangelicals often swing the pendulum the other way. We take the other extreme that C.S. Lewis describes with reference to the demonic realm: rather than an unhealthy fascination, we end up thinking of the angels not at all.

Why should we care about and study the angels? Let me provide four brief reasons.

1. It Is a Delight

So why should we study the doctrine of angels and demons? For starters, it is difficult to improve upon the answer given by the Christian philosopher Peter Kreeft: because it is fun![1] Maybe fun is not the best word. Kreeft also writes this: Believing in angels “feeds the feeling of wonder, fascination, curiosity.”[2] So, one reason we should study this doctrine is the pure delight it can bring. Studying this wondrous, imagination-stoking aspect of God’s creation is not just a means to some other end. In one sense, it is an end in itself.

2. It is Biblical

A second, more fundamental, reason we should study angels is that they exist. And we know that they exist because, the Bible has quite a lot to say about them. Angels and demons show up in every genre of literature and in every phase of the unfolding biblical storyline. They are present at creation, at the fall, in every era of redemptive history, and at the final judgment and end of the age. Angels are especially prominent in and around the climactic event of the Bible: the incarnation, life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ. So, to the degree that we are care about the Bible, and its central Figure, we will care about angels.

3. It Is Theologically Beneficial

Third, we should study the doctrine of angels and demons because it is theologically beneficial. So much of the history of Christian doctrine has been concerned with angelogy. The church fathers, especially Augustine and Pseudo-Dionysius wrote extensively about the angels. The medieval theologians were especially interested in the topic. Thomas Aquinas is often referred to as the “Angelic Doctor,” not only because of his eloquent expression of Christian truth but also because he spent so much space in his writings on the angels. Similarly, Bonaventure has received the moniker the “Seraphic Doctor.” Likewise, the Reformers and their theological heirs have been careful to address angels as an important part of the doctrine of creation. It may not be a stretch to say that Martin Luther was rather obsessed with the supernatural, often speaking directly to the devil (often in colorful language). Furthermore, studying this doctrine impinges upon every other doctrine in the system of Christian belief. Just as angels show up in every phase of the biblical story, so too they show up in every topic of Christian theology: everything from creation and providence to Christology, ecclesiology, and eschatology. So, to the degree that we care about Christian doctrine, we should care about angels.

4. It Is Practically Beneficial

A final reason we should care about angels and demons is that this doctrine is practically beneficial to the Christian life. Many Christians never think about the angelic realm, and, quite frankly, they do not know what they are missing. Studying angels and demons enriches our worship, our prayers, our battle against sin, our thanksgiving for the saving work of the Triune God, and our hope in the future redemption. It is not just that this doctrine equips us for spiritual warfare, though it certainly does that. But this doctrine also equips us to know and love God, which is the ultimate end of all theological reflection. The Western world has become demystified, and one of the most countercultural and spiritually beneficial things we can do is to recover the wonder.

For what it’s worth, I am contracted to write a book that will be a lay-level introduction to the doctrine of angels and demons. It has been on the back burner for a bit, while I finish up another book (co-authored with Matt Emerson) on the Trinity. But stay tuned for more on the angels!

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[1] Peter Kreeft, Angels (and Demons): What Do We Really Know about Them? (San Francisco: Ignatius, 1995), 38.

[2] Ibid., 22.

Rod Dreher has a scathing and important review of the new book by Andrew Isker, The Boniface Option, which riffs on Dreher’s own 2017 title, The Benedict Option. I have read the latter, but not the former. So, I’ll leave it to others to determine how accurate the review is. But Dreher’s piece is important in its own right as a diagnosis of a broader phenomenon, namely, the very online angry young men who are so attracted to the Christian Nationalist cause. Here are a few relevant lines from Rod’s post:

Isker is “not interested in thinking and conversing, but only emoting and getting high-fives from church bros for owning the libs. I can’t emphasize this enough: The Boniface Option is a book for angry young men who enjoy being angry, young, and male.”

“Again, every page of The Boniface Option bristles with intense anger. Over and over, Isker says that we must train ourselves to ‘hate’ — but he offers no advice on how to keep that hatred of evil from turning into hatred of human beings, or the hatred from poisoning one’s heart. One gets the clear impression that he thinks hatred in defense of holiness is no vice.”

“In the end, I know very well what Andrew Isker hates, but I have no idea what he loves. I know what he thinks war should be like, but I can’t figure out what peace is to him, other than the vanquishing of his enemies. I know what his idea of justice looks like, but I can’t see even the slightest hint that mercy matters to him.”

Again, these are problems that are broader than any one author or book. The Christian Nationalist Right, or whatever we want to call it, has a Christian virtue problem. They revel in transgression–in hate and name-calling, not to mention the often overt anti-semitism and racism–and call it courage and faithfulness.

What use is Christian Nationalism if it isn’t even Christian in any demonstrable sense of the term?

Incidentally I’m reading Benedict XVI’s final writings, and it’s striking how different his perspective is from the Protestant Nationalist/Catholic Integralist tendencies that are so en vogue in certain corners of the Christian internet. Ratzinger, of course, knew the problems of modern liberalism well. And he, too, was concerned that Christians stand strong against the cultural pressures–like the Maccabean words of defiance, “We will not obey the king’s words.” But the “zeal” of the Maccabeans “is not the form in which Christian zeal is expressed. Authentic ‘zeal’ takes its essential form from the Cross of Jesus Christ.” 

Christian responses to what Ratzinger often called the “dictatorship of relativism” must be, well, Christian, which is to say, they must be cruciform. More Ratzinger:

“As far  as the truth is concerned, I would simply like to defer to Origen: ‘Christ wins no victory over someone who is unwilling. He conquers only by persuasion. Not for nothing is he the Word of God.’ But at the end, as an authentic counterbalance to all forms of intolerance, stands Jesus Christ crucified. The victory of faith can always be achieved only in communion with Jesus Crucified. The theology of the Cross is the Christian response to the question about freedom and violence; and in fact, even historically, Christianity won its victories only thanks to the persecuted and never when it sided with the persecutors.”