In 1606, less than a year after the Gunpowder Plot, Shakespeare was undoubtedly influenced by Guy Fawkes and his co-conspirators in writing Macbeth. However, there are also some intriguing personal details that may make the bond between these two influential figures even more compelling. For William Shakespeare, writing for two contrasting monarchs: Queen Elizabeth I and King James I (King James VI of Scotland) meant his works often concerned the political life of the nation. Arguably one of the most influential moments came in November 1605 with the discovery of Guy Fawkes beneath Westminster Hall preparing to light a fuse that would bring death to Parliament and its King.   What Family Connections Did Shakespeare Have with Guy Fawkes? Engraving of the Gunpowder Plot conspirators, Crispijn de Passe the Elder, 1605. Source: National Portrait Gallery, London   The most direct link between William Shakespeare and the Gunpowder Plot is via his father, John Shakespeare. John Shakespeare’s true faith is the subject of debate. However, what is known is that illegal Catholic writings were found in the attic of John Shakespeare’s home in Stratford Upon Avon. He was also known to have been friends with William Catesby, father of Robert Catesby (lead conspirator of the Gunpowder Plot). Furthermore, William Shakespeare’s mother’s family, Mary Arden, was descended from a family known for their Catholic faith which had seen several of the family imprisoned and even executed for an attempted assassination of Elizabeth I.   With so many close connections to Catholic sympathisers and radicals, William Shakespeare may have felt compelled to make his loyalty to the Protestant King James I explicit by writing Macbeth.   How Did Shakespeare Address Treason/ the Divine Right of Kings? Portrait of King James I of England. Source: The Royal Household, London   When James VI of Scotland ascended the English throne as King James I he was immediately met with a troubled country. Catholics had been oppressed under Queen Elizabeth I and they would continue to face persecution under their new king. Debate over who should rightfully sit on the English throne mingled political and religious concerns making it an uneasy transition for King James. Although Guy Fawkes and the Gunpowder Plot is the most famous of the plots against King James’s life, it was far from the only one. Therefore, Shakespeare (under the King’s patronage) would have felt urged to address the public on the subject of the divine right of kings. The description of the murdered King Duncan as possessing silver skin and golden blood gives the monarch a saintly appearance.    To make the point clearer still, the scene of the crime is described by Macduff: “Most sacrilegious murder hath broke ope the Lord’s anointed temple, and stole thence the life o’ the building.” There is no ambiguity that regicide is the most terrible of crimes. In the play, the the murder of King Duncan also has a catastrophic impact on the natural world at times describing apocalyptic scenes of floods, storms and cannibalism amongst animals. With vivid imagery, Shakespeare’s play upholds the status quo of hereditary succession and gives a warning to those who would dare to follow in Guy Fawkes’s steps.   How Did the Grisly Execution Affect Shakespeare? Etching of Guy Fawkes and conspirator executions in Old Palace Yard by Claes Jansz Visscher, 1606. Source: National Portrait Gallery, London   The first death in Macbeth is the reported one of the traitorous Macdonald. The thane has betrayed his king by supporting the invading ‘Norweyan’ force. In the first act of Macbeth, Shakespeare describes the thane’s death in grisly detail “unseamed from the nave to the chops…fixed his head upon the battlements.” Presumably as a stark warning to other would be traitors. Although the thane is killed in battle (by Macbeth), the manner of his death is striking in its similarity to another ‘traitor’ who would have been well known to the original audience.   The execution of Guy Fawkes is perhaps one of the most famous in English history. With wood block carvings of his torture and eventual execution showing in detail the effects of being hung, drawn and quartered. After death, Guy Fawkes and his fellow plotters faced the final indignity of their body parts being distributed “to the four corners of the kingdom” as a warning to others. An uncannily similar fate to described both at the beginning and the end of Shakespeare’s play (where Macbeth’s head is the final warning) so that the message is clear to all.    What Role Did the Mermaid Tavern in Cheapside Play? An Elizabethan drinking tavern. Source: Alamy   A popular drinking haunt of Guy Fawkes and his co-conspirators, The Mermaid Tavern was once a fixture of Cheapside’s nightlife. It was home to an (in)famous Elizabethan-era drinking club: ‘The Mermaid Club’.  As well as being a known location for the Gunpowder plotters to meet, a number of literary minds also found inspiration there: John Donne, Ben Jonson and Francis Beaumont are known to have spent time there. Most significantly, Shakespeare is rumoured to have frequently met with his acting troupe here (a rumour, alas, unproven).   The tavern burnt down during the Great Fire of 1666, but its legend as a hive of activity is memorialised in the poem Lines on a Mermaid Tavern by John Keats. Perhaps suggesting that Shakespeare rubbed shoulders with Guy Fawkes is a stretch…but it is certainly possible.

  Passed down from one generation to the next, Irish folklore is ingrained in Ireland’s rich culture. Tales of the brave giant Finn MacCool, leader of the Fianna tribe, are some of the most widely celebrated. These stories continue to be used to describe the landscape. The Giant’s Causeway, Lough Neagh, the Isle of Man, and Ailsa Craig—according to the mythology—all owe their existence to Finn.   The Birth of a Legend Finn MacCool depicted on the wall of Finn MacCool’s bar in Bushmills, by the author, Alex Johnson, 2024   Finn’s early life is recounted in The Boyhood Deeds of Fionn which is believed to date from the 12th century CE and was translated into English by John O’Donovan in 1859. Finn’s father, Cumhall, was a leader of the Fianna who were groups of roving hunter-gatherers spread across the island of Ireland.   Cumhall died before Finn was born when he was slain at the Battle of Cnucha (modern-day Castleknock) and his mother, Muirne, fled fearing execution. Shortly after his birth, Finn was sent to live with his aunt and was raised in secret in the forests of the Slieve Bloom Mountains (Sliabh Bladma in Gaelic). It was there that Finn learned to hunt and fight.   For years, Finn roamed the Irish countryside, and it is said that by the age of ten, he was already regarded as an outlaw and marauder, capable of committing plunder on anyone who was an enemy. With a magic sword as his weapon, Finn was a fearsome opponent.   Finn’s Famous Feud An aerial view of Lough Neagh. Source: Wikimedia Commons   Probably the most famous and frequently recounted tale about Finn tells the story of a feud with a Scottish giant called Benandonner. It is often used to explain several geographical features in the landscape.   If Irish legend is to be believed, Finn set about building a causeway so he could get to Scotland without getting his feet wet. This story concerns Benandonner, who decided he would fight Finn and stop him from reaching Scotland. Benandonner crossed the Irish Sea, but news of his journey reached Finn before he did. Finn returned home where his wife, Oona, dressed him as a baby. When Benandonner reached their home, he believed the baby to be Finn’s son and upon seeing the size of the baby was terrified of how big Finn would be.   To add further insult to injury, Oona offered Benandonner a griddlecake filled with iron which chipped his tooth. Oona ridicules Benandonner, telling him that Finn can eat the cakes without any trouble, and she feeds one to Finn—still dressed as a baby—to prove her point. Terrified of meeting Finn, Benandonner fled back to Scotland and smashed Finn’s causeway on the way back, creating the Giant’s Causeway as we see it today.   Neither Finn nor Benandonner ever attempted to fight in person again, but their feud continued to be played out across the Irish Sea.   An aerial view of the Isle of Man. Source: Wikimedia Commons   It was during this feud that Finn is said to have scooped up a large chunk of Irish land to throw across the sea to Scotland, with the hope of crushing Benandonner. The hole this exposed is said to have filled with water, creating Lough Neagh, the largest lake anywhere in the British Isles.   He missed, however, and the clump of land landed in the middle of the Irish Sea, creating what we now know as the Isle of Man. As much as there is, of course, no truth in this tale, the Isle of Man is not dissimilar in shape to Lough Neagh although it is slightly larger; Lough Neagh covers an area of 151 square miles and the Isle of Man spans 220 square miles.   Ailsa Craig, photo by Diego. Source: Unsplash   Another aspect of the landscape attributed to Finn is Ailsa Craig, an uninhabited island in the Firth of Clyde around eight miles off the Ayrshire coast. According to Scottish folklore, Ailsa Craig is a pebble that fell from the apron of another Scottish giant known as the Cailleach, who was crossing the Irish Sea because she hoped to marry Finn.   The Impact of a Legend The Giant’s Causeway, Northern Ireland, by the author, Alex Johnson, 2024   There is no firm opinion on who, or what, the myths of Finn were based on. What is certain, however, is that Finn MacCool’s impact on Ireland has been a significant one. The term “Fenian” stems from Finn’s name, with the folklore being known in Gaelic as the “Fhiannaiocht,” or the Fenian Cycle in English.   It was from this legend that the Fenian Brotherhood—an American organization that fought for the creation of an Irish Republic, free from British rule—took its name. Members of their Irish counterpart, the Irish Republican Brotherhood, who led the Republican forces through the Easter Rising in 1916 and the War of Independence that followed, became known as Fenians.   Even during the more recent troubles in Northern Ireland, the term Fenian has been used to describe Catholics living in the country. While the modern usage of the term tends to be derogatory, it proves the importance of Finn as a symbol of the Irish identity.   The Causeway Coast: In Finn’s Footsteps The Giants Causeway, by the author, Alex Johnson, 2024   Tourism authorities have dubbed Northern Ireland’s north coast the “Causeway Coast,” and today its namesake, the Giant’s Causeway, is the most visited site in the country. There is no better place to learn more about Finn MacCool. The Giant’s Causeway is open year-round and is free to visit on foot. However, purchasing a ticket also grants you admission to the Visitor Centre where you can hear more about Finn while also learning about the geography and geology of the landscape — and the more truthful reason the Causeway exists.   Not to debunk the myth of feuding giants, the Giant’s Causeway was actually created by volcanic activity during the Paleocene Epoch, around 60 million years ago. Molten basalt from the volcano flooded into the chalk, contracting as it cooled. This contraction caused the basalt pillars to fracture, leaving the causeway we see today.   If you prefer the myth though, paying visitors to the Causeway receive an audio guide that lets you listen to the story of Finn MacCool as you descend to the impressive stones.   More Than a Giant Dunluce Castle on the Causeway Coast, Northern Ireland, by the author, Alex Johnson, 2024   While the Causeway Coast may take its name from the basalt columns, there is a lot more to see on a visit to this coastline. Every way you turn, there are more fascinating tales to be told.   Dunluce Castle, around five miles west of the Causeway sits on a basalt outcrop, connected to the mainland by a footbridge. The castle was built in the 13th century CE by the 2nd Earl of Ulster, Richard Og de Burgh before falling into the hands of the McQuillan family in 1513. They were defeated and pushed out of Dunluce by the MacDonald clan in the 16th century and the site was left to decline when the clan lost their fortune during the Williamite War of 1689 to 1691. It is now preserved by the government and is a remarkable sight.   Another of the coastline’s top visitor attractions is Carrick-a-Rede Rope Bridge, around eight miles east of the Giant’s Causeway. The rope bridge connects the mainland with Carrickarede Island and is suspended some 30 meters (98 feet) above the sea.   Originally constructed by salmon farmers in the 18th century, the current bridge was erected in 2004. Salmon fishing ended in the area at the start of this century when salmon numbers were massively depleted, but the bridge remains an important tourism site and is the only connection between the island and the mainland.   Old Bushmills Distillery glass, by Sam Barber. Source: Unsplash   Just two miles from the Giant’s Causeway, the town of Bushmills has become a thriving hub as a result of the Causeway’s draw for tourists. Long before those tourists came in their thousands, Bushmills was on the map for another reason: whiskey.   Old Bushmills Distillery is the oldest licensed whiskey distillery in the world, having been granted a royal license in 1608, although the current distillery didn’t open until 1784. Bushmills whiskey is one of the most famous brands of Irish whiskey and is sold all over the world.   As far back as 1890, their whiskey was shipped to America and the Far East by their own steamship, the SS Bushmills. America quickly became Bushmills’s most important market, and the distillery suffered heavily during Prohibition. But Bushmills survived and today, the distillery is open for tours and tastings and is a fascinating activity to tie in with a visit to the Causeway.   Practical Information Carrick-a-Rede Rope Bridge, by Michael Shannon. Source: Unsplash   The best way to travel the Causeway Coast is to drive its length by car, starting in Belfast and finishing up in Londonderry, both of which are full of intriguing history, albeit some of it rather troubling. It is possible to do the trip in one day, but an overnight stay along the route makes for a more relaxed journey.   Small guesthouses are dotted along the coast, with hotels in Bushmills and at the Giant’s Causeway itself. In the summer months, the coastal town of Portrush is a hive of activity making for an excellent place to stay.   If driving isn’t an option, Translink’s 172 and 402 bus services provide a frequent link to all the major attractions along the Causeway Coast, connecting with rail services in Coleraine and Portrush.

Jerry Cantrell's new solo album I Want Blood features members of Guns N' Roses, Metallica and Faith No More

How many of us are weary? Our lives are so full, so stressful, and so hurried we only feel troubled. There is no peace for the weary. We live in an exhausted world where the pace of our days has left many of us empty. But there is another way.

“That hurt like hell. Thank you so much.” Of all the “Thank you for the sermon today, Pastor” comments I’ve received over the years, that one was particularly memorable—and particularly encouraging. It came from a man I knew well—a thoughtful, humble, family-focused, Jesus-loving owner of an auto repair business. He wasn’t an elder or a deacon, but he prayed for me every day. I cherished his friendship, and though I never would’ve intentionally hurt him, this man’s words were a helpful reminder that biblical preaching can often cause deep but good and necessary pain. We teach to present our people complete in Christ. We direct their lives to God revealed in Jesus. So when they say, “Good message,” I’m glad. But I’ve also learned that when the truth hurts, when it’s hard and raises questions rather than words of encouragement, that’s a good sign too. ‘I Know, Because of the Pain’ The same year that my friend told me my sermon hurt, I read the French classic Diary of a Country Priest by Georges Bernanos. On the subject of the ministry of God’s Word, the priest says, Deeply biblical preaching can often cause deep but good and necessary pain. Teaching is no joke, sonny! . . . Comforting truths, they call it! Truth is meant to save you first, and the comfort comes afterward. . . . The Word of God is a red-hot iron. And you who preach it best go picking it up with a pair of tongs, for fear of burning yourself, you daren’t get hold of it with both hands. . . . Why, the priest who descends from the pulpit of Truth, with a mouth like a hen’s vent, a little hot but pleased with himself, he’s not been preaching: at best he’s been purring like a tabby-cat. Mind you that can happen to us all, we’re all half asleep, it’s the devil to wake us up, sometimes—the apostles slept all right at Gethsemane. . . . And mind you many a fellow who waves his arms and sweats like a furniture-remover isn’t necessarily any more awakened than the rest. On the contrary. I simply mean that when the Lord has drawn from me some word for the good of souls, I know, because of the pain of it. (emphasis mine) Why must the truth sometimes hurt? Because “the word of God is living and active, sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing to the division of soul and of spirit, of joints and of marrow, and discerning the thoughts and intentions of the heart” (Heb. 4:12). God’s Word proclaimed will lay things open, right down to the bone, and that’s going to hurt in order to heal. It’s OK to admit that too. Not Designed to Entertain Truth be told, sermons aren’t designed for enjoyment and certainly not for entertainment. Sermons are designed to inform, liberate, convict, inspire, confront, comfort, challenge, build, disturb, subvert, and demolish. They’re search-and-destroy missions launched by the Holy Spirit against the strongholds of falsehood erected in our minds by hell. They’re a dead-raising summons to people who prefer graves to grace. Sermons drive out darkness—and sometimes that’s accompanied by agony. “That sermon angered me” or “That message was painful” might be far better responses to a Sunday message than any other words one could or should say. “My chains fell off” is also acceptable. Sermons drive out darkness—and sometimes that’s accompanied by agony. That’s why Annie Dillard was wise to observe that Christian worship services are hard-hat areas where people are under construction—and sometimes, the dust is going to fly. It’s a shared pain. Pastors’ tears when preparing and preaching are real. We repent of our sins as we seek to offer the red-hot iron of the gospel to all. We know it’ll be painful but not harmful. Call to Repentance and Renewal Not unlike Eustace Scrubb in The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, we experience the painful plunging of Aslan’s sharp claw into our souls, ripping away the scales of our dragonish thralldom, restoring our humanity: Then the lion said—but I don’t know if it spoke—“You will have to let me undress you.” I was afraid of his claws, I can tell you, but I was pretty nearly desperate now. So I just lay flat down on my back to let him do it. The very first tear he made was so deep that I thought it had gone right into my heart. And when he began pulling the skin off, it hurt worse than anything I’ve ever felt. The only thing that made me able to bear it was just the pleasure of feeling the stuff peel off. My old friend knew that pain. He knew that truth. He knew the word he’d heard that day, the word that “hurt like hell,” was actually heaven-sent, calling him to repentance and renewed faith, calling him to take painful steps outside his comfort zone and to make some crooked paths straight. And he did. Friends, that’s a good message. That’s what a sermon is for.

Recent studies reveal about 10 million people have been labeled “dechurched casualties.” These are folks who’ve left the church over the past 25 years because of their negative experiences, and they have no intention to return. Faith deconstruction, while not exactly synonymous, is a common experience among this group. Much has been written extolling either the dangers or benefits of deconstruction. But is seeing deconstruction as a threat or as liberation the only options? In their new book, Invisible Jesus: A Book about Leaving the Church and Looking for Christ, New Testament scholar Scot McKnight and pastor Tommy Preson Phillips choose their side. They write, “We believe deconstruction is a prophetic movement resisting a distorted gospel. It is not a problem; it is a voice. And we need to listen to what it is saying to the church” (1). McKnight and Phillips are right to be concerned with the ways some churches distort the gospel, but Invisible Jesus doesn’t bring the clarity necessary to strengthen the faith of deconstructors and the church’s witness. Basis for Deconstruction McKnight and Phillips, who share their own deconstruction experiences, argue that while many are leaving the church, they aren’t necessarily leaving Jesus. Often, they don’t abandon the church altogether but rather “find another form of the Christian faith that fits them better” (13). The authors provide little reflection on the various conclusions deconstruction can lead to. While many (including me) do remain Christian, it’s undeniable that many don’t. This reality is largely overlooked in Invisible Jesus. Deconstructors, seeing Christians acting hatefully in how they fight the culture war or hypocritically their fundamentalist attitudes, leave the church. According to the authors, they leave to find Jesus: “It is for Christ’s sake that people today are walking away from churches” (2). McKnight and Phillips accurately capture the deconstruction experience, describing it as a dark night of the soul, a crisis that doesn’t always mean leaving the faith. They recognize the pain of those ostracized or silenced in their churches and rightly point out that many churches have lost the plot, centering the church on themselves or their leaders rather than on Jesus. Compromised churches, they argue, are a major catalyst for deconstruction, and a prophetic witness is needed to call them back to Christ. McKnight and Phillips are correct about some cases. But is this the only cause of deconstruction? Incomplete Picture If you only read Invisible Jesus, you’d think the answer is yes. McKnight and Phillips recognize how churches can distort the gospel, yet they give only a passing glance at how deconstructors might distort the gospel themselves. This tendency to adjust beliefs to be a better personal fit, rather than seeking what’s true, deserves scrutiny—yet it’s hardly mentioned. Compromised churches, they argue, are a major catalyst for deconstruction. The book presents deconstructors in two seemingly conflicting ways: as those who want a “Jesus-first religion” (49) and as those who put “everything . . . up for reexamination” (46). While deconstruction does involve being willing to question everything, these are contradictory portrayals. One is a prophetic call to return to Jesus, while the other is a willingness to challenge the core of the faith, including Christ’s divinity and resurrection. It’s unclear how someone can do both simultaneously. McKnight and Phillips appear to conflate these, labeling them both as “deconstruction” without attempting to reconcile them. Undefined Doctrine Confusion like this permeates the book. In the same breath, McKnight and Phillips advocate for a centered-set Christianity focused on Jesus, suggesting that doctrinal and ecclesial boundaries should be removed to avoid hindering faith, while also attempting to maintain the importance of these boundaries. They write, “A centered-set approach to faith does not mean the only article of faith is Jesus, and Jesus alone. Beliefs about God, the Spirit, redemption, the cross, resurrection, justification by faith, and other beliefs are all still important. . . . But rather than defining the faith with clear boundary markers, we have something more akin to what C. S. Lewis called mere Christianity” (41). While a centered-set faith is good as far as it goes, even a “mere” Christianity has boundaries. This confusion is exemplified when they discuss the voices deconstructors are listening to. They list figures like N. T. Wright, Dallas Willard, Rachel Held Evans, Brian McLaren, Anthea Butler, Rob Bell, and Richard Rohr. While these names are influential among deconstructors, presenting them without distinguishing their varying degrees of orthodoxy (or heresy) is baffling. These authors span a wide spectrum. The gap between people like Dallas Willard, an evangelical proponent of spiritual formation, and Richard Rohr, who has tried to redefine the Trinity, is vast. Treating them as if they’re all alike is misleading, if not irresponsible. The authors acknowledge the need for doctrinal boundaries but fail to clearly define where they should be drawn. Their proposal of a centered-set faith with doctrinal limits seems more like a bait and switch than a genuine effort to remove stumbling blocks. A clearer framework, such as theological triage, would be more practical than a vague “centered-set” approach that pretends to have fewer boundaries than it does. Narrow Ecclesiology McKnight and Phillips criticize rigid ecclesial and denominational structures but don’t hesitate to prescribe their own. They write, “The church must find ways to become flatter, less hierarchical, and less institutional . . . more intimate, social, equal, participatory, relational, and transparent. It is time to stand face-to-face or in a circle and proclaim what we know is true about our King through laments, protests, choirs, and corporate prayers” (107). This call to stand “face-to-face or in a circle” critiques the traditional setup of rows facing a stage. The only model they explicitly endorse is the house church. There’s no acknowledgment that traditional church structures serve a purpose. Chesterton’s fence would serve us well here: It’s best to know why something exists in the first place before you tear it down. McKnight and Phillips correctly diagnose part of the problem that influences people’s deconstruction, but their analysis is incomplete. McKnight and Phillips correctly diagnose part of the problem that influences people’s deconstruction, but their analysis is incomplete. They rightly call the church to listen to deconstructing people instead of writing them off, but they don’t invite deconstructors to reflect on other reasons they’re deconstructing besides the hurt they experienced in a church. They rightly want the church to be centered around Jesus but struggle to define what that means. While attempting to speak prophetically to the church, Invisible Jesus undermines the church itself. That is tragic, because good churches are the best place for deconstructors rebuild their faith. Many of its diagnoses and some of its prescriptions hit the mark. However, this book is more likely to entrench the divide between the church and those who’ve been hurt by it than it is to heal relationships, strengthen the faith of deconstructors, and solve the problems they encounter in the church. In those ways, it greatly misses the mark.

Don Carson discusses the strengths and weaknesses of new hermeneutics, arguing that while it offers helpful insights, all Scripture carries an enduring relevance that transcends cultural shifts. He emphasizes the need for humility in biblical interpretation, Scripture’s clarity, and the Holy Spirit’s role in enabling us to understand God’s Word. He teaches the following: New hermeneutics must be balanced by Scripture’s transcendent relevance Scripture is clear and accessible for all believers to understand and obey God’s revelation is complete under the new covenant Understanding Scripture requires both intellectual effort and the Holy Spirit’s guidance How to evaluate command, sharing, and servant models of leadership Humility and a teachable spirit are essential when interpreting God’s Word

I'm diggin' this move from the White Sox