The Deeper Magic—Part II

Songs Beyond the Shadow

The deepest reality beneath all things is the self-giving love of God revealed in Christ crucified and risen.

And this is why the flowers can be trusted in their witness. They do not lie. They attest to the ancient and immovable goodness, beauty, and light that cannot be extinguished or destroyed. They are born of God, untouched by shadows. And no matter how loudly condemnation speaks in this fallen world, the flowers still lift their heads toward the light, unashamed. They tell us of the Goodness both ancient and everlasting, the lovingkindness that was before all things and through whom all things were created. It is almost as though they sprang from soil already touched by the blood of the Lamb slain before the foundations of the world. They offer us both witness and example, as though calling:

Lift up your head! The Dawn is coming. The Coming One is near. The night is almost over.

The stars in the heavens still sing the ancient songs from before corruption came, before the rupture of relationship tore apart the holy communion of the Garden. Their witness is to what was before evil entered and what will remain long after the darkness is over. They can be trusted. They point the way.

We weep over the darkness that has come. It is not small. Our sin is no small thing and must not be minimized or ignored. The grievous weight of our sin plunged the Son of God into death itself. Yet He took its full weight into Himself,  answering not with retribution, but with the self-giving love that absorbs death and overcomes it.

There, at the place of His death, the deeper magic was revealed. Accusation lost its final claim. The powers of darkness were disarmed (Col. 2:15). Death itself began working backwards as His royal blood answered the holy fire of justice and, passing through death itself, opened the way toward the final restoration of all.

His mercy, blanketing the heavens, never denies the darkness, but shines light upon it truthfully, giving full weight to the ruin it has wrought—not only in the evil we have done, but in the bondage that has laid hold of us all. And then He answers the darkness with His own body and blood, revealing the self-giving love that was already burning within the heart of God before the foundations of the world.

Accusation and the spirit of condemnation are understandable in a world so ruptured by sin, but it is not the final word. Christ is the final word. For at the center of all things stands not the Accuser, but the Lamb slain—unflinching in the holiness that names the darkness, and unmatched in the mercy that bore it into His own Body as the Crucified Lord who gave Himself for us.

In the great stories, we are all Narnia’s Edmund. We are all Jean Valjean. And we are Frodo too—we who love and long for the light, and yet still find the shadow of the Ring whispering within our own hearts. The arc that makes us weep is this: Aslan sees beyond our betrayal to the glory of what we might yet become in Him. Our Great High Priest gazes into our battered soul and, seeing more than a thief, claims the soul for God. Or in the truest story, the Greater Hosea lays down His innocent life to bring back His unfaithful beloved.

The arc that makes us weep is Him. He is the center of all the great stories. And He is the center of our own stories, too, the One moving through every chapter, bringing forth goodness and beauty even where pages are torn and the path forward obscured. Even where vessels are broken and we sift through the ashes, loathing what was evil while holding fast to every good that came from above, the Center remains unchanged (Rom. 12:9; Jas. 1:17). The Lamb still stands at the heart of the story, redeeming what sin sought to destroy and leading all things toward their appointed end in Him.

And even this does not reach the end of His kindness.  The deeper magic was never merely about freedom from condemnation but about being drawn  into love. He does not stop at delivering us from condemnation, but escorts us into living communion with Himself. The One who sees us fully does not merely pardon our guilt, but treasures even our weak and trembling love for Him. The chorus of a beloved friend has long rung through my heart with its tender and healing hope, echoing the same witness sung by the flowers and the stars:

I can’t wait to see your face when I show you how much your love meant to Me.

Such is the costly delight of the Crucified Beloved, who did not merely redeem a people from judgment, but drew us near in love. Even now, He treasures our lifted songs, keeps our tears in His bottle, and weaves the memorial of our faithful love into the eternal wedding garments (Ps. 56:8; Rev. 19:8).

Oh how good is the good news that has reached the ears of us all — all of us guilty and in need of redemption. All of us sinners fallen short of His glory, the line between good and evil cutting through the heart of each of us. We have no power in ourselves for any righteousness of our own making. All filthy rags. And yet the deeper magic does not leave those who entrust themselves to Him standing at a distance, but gathers us near in His radiant, ancient love and calls us His own.

How glorious the truth that our darkness cannot corrupt what comes from above—good and perfect from the beginning. Mordor never owned the heavens. The untainted, twinkling stars above speak of something beyond its churning grasp. There is a goodness no darkness has ever been able to stain. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it (Jn. 1:5).

The beauty that streams from the Father of Lights cannot come under another authority, for its source lies beyond the reach of corruption and shadow (Jas. 1:17).

Tim Keller beautifully observed:

It seemed to me that the universe was an enormous realm of joy, mirth, and high beauty. Of course it was—didn’t the Triune God make it to be filled with His boundless joy, wisdom, love and delight? And within this great globe of glory was only one speck of darkness—our world—where there was temporary pain and suffering. But it was only a speck, and soon that speck would fade away and everything would be light.

In the end, light and high beauty will outlast the shadow. Even the smallest glimpse of that light fills our trembling souls with hope. And even the faintest echo of those transcendent songs sung by the flowers and the stars—as we lift our own tender songs of faith in chorus—can make us weep for joy.

In the end, all their witness leads us to Him. The flowers point to Him. The stars sing of Him. Our stories center in Him. And every true song ends where all things began—and where all things are going—with the Lamb.