I’ve been listening to East of Eden by John Steinbeck, and as I take in the story—often while walking, driving, brushing my teeth—I find myself getting lost in the composite truth he paints. Steinbeck doesn’t just write; he illustrates. His words fall like watercolors on paper—soft, fluid, suggestive. At first glance, they’re just squiggles. Silent lines. Meaningless, unless you’ve learned the art of reading. But if you have—if the code has been cracked—these squiggles become something more. They form moving images in the mind’s eye. I can see two brothers fighting on a lawn. The older being clobbered by the younger. I can feel the sting of betrayal, the heaviness of generational pain, the ache of longing that underpins the human story.

And then—I zoom out. I find myself holding that mental image of the lawn, of fists and fury, and realizing: none of it is real. Not in the way we usually define reality. These are characters born from ink and thought, from a man who no longer breathes. Steinbeck’s synapses are still now. He doesn’t sit at a desk shaping paragraphs. He’s dust. But somehow—his creation lives on. These imagined people have more power over my soul today than the very real contents of my bank account or the concrete and wood that frame my home.

There’s a phenomenon here that I feel compelled to name. The Illusion of Reality—and the Reality of the Invisible.

We live in a world increasingly governed by materialism. Success is quantified in ownership—of acres, assets, and accounts. Real estate, digital bits, passive income, growth margins. Power is tied to tangibles. Measurable outcomes. Concrete metrics. But if you zoom out far enough—or if you’ve ever been in the kind of grief or longing that burns the scaffolding of this world—you begin to suspect that all these physical properties, despite their obvious weight, are smoke. Real, yes. But ultimately an illusion. A transient glimmer.

This idea struck me—oddly—in my bathroom. I was brushing my teeth. The hot water was flowing. I glanced around at the tile, the glass, the clean white sink. Mount Rainier stood stoic through my window. And all of it, I realized, is passing. None of this—no matter how pristine or permanent it feels—will exist in a hundred years. A fire, an earthquake, a shift in city planning, or simply the slow march of time will undo it. Even the mountain is not untouchable.

And yet we hoard. We strive. We live as though we can insulate our spirits with the stuff of earth. But no material object—not even the most cherished—can increase human flourishing or spiritual vitality for more than a fleeting breath.

Meanwhile, I return to East of Eden. To characters and ideas which, by all accounts, are not real. They’re squiggles. Words arranged in a certain order. But these imagined moments may very well outlast the house I live in. Because they reach inward, toward the soul. Toward truth. And that’s the strange, stubborn paradox: the invisible things are often the most enduring.

The spirit—the human spirit—is like that. Unseen, and yet more real than anything we can hold in our hands. It’s that part of us that still aches for beauty, for meaning, for union with something holy. And it is that part of us that lives on, even after the body gives out.

Think of the garden. The words God spoke to Adam and Eve were real. Spoken. True. They were invisible, yes, but they carried eternal consequence. When God said, Do not eat, he wasn’t merely offering advice. He was naming the deeper structure of reality. The consequence of disobedience—death, separation—was more enduring than the very fruit that Eve saw. That fruit, which shimmered with beauty and promised wisdom, is gone. Gone like last spring’s petals. But the consequence? Still with us. The ache, the break, the disconnection between Creator and creation—that persists.

And how did it happen? The serpent didn’t need to invent lies. All he had to do was distort. To shift Eve’s gaze from the eternal to the material. To downplay the Word of God and amplify the appeal of the fruit. To make the temporary seem ultimate.

And we have followed this pattern ever since.

This morning, I sat in silence in God’s eternal presence. I practiced Lectio Divina. I prayed through the Examen. I combed over yesterday’s events. I named the ways I chose lesser loves. And as I named them, I was crushed. Not performatively, not for show. Just… grief. Because I realized that the object of my affection had shifted. Again. Away from the fountain of life, and toward lesser things. Measurable things. Good things, even—but not ultimate things.

As I often do, I turned my attention to the whiteboard in my den and began to sketch out my thoughts. A heart—representing my will, my desire, the center of my soul—my heart. And then I drew a triangle—God, shorthand for the Trinity. When the heart is facing the triangle, there is life. But the moment it veers—even slightly—toward anything else, that same heart will begin to experience desolation. I felt it yesterday. And I named it today.

Even good desires—love, security, peace, provision—can become twisted when they dethrone God. When they become the thing, the ultimate, the north star. In those moments, I believe the same lie Eve did: If I just have this one thing, I’ll become like God. I’ll have control. I’ll have peace.

But it’s a mirage.

The truth is: reality isn’t what you can hold. Reality is the Word that spoke the world into being. Reality are the words of the Creator written down in the library of scripture called The Bible. Reality is the whisper behind you saying, “This is the way. Walk in it.” Reality is the voice in the garden, calling out, “Where are you?”

And illusion? Illusion is the fruit. The house. The title. The assets. The career. The success.

Which means… maybe the most real thing I can do today is to return. To reorient. To turn my heart back toward the Triangle. Back to the fountain. Back to the invisible, unchanging, everlasting truth that outlasts all I see.

Because the illusion of passing reality is strong. But the reality of the everlasting invisible is stronger.

So let me invite you to pause—with Psalm 40 in mind.

“I waited patiently for the Lord; he turned to me and heard my cry. He lifted me out of the slimy pit, out of the mud and mire; he set my feet on a rock and gave me a firm place to stand.”

Not just metaphor. Not just poetry. This is ultimate reality.

There is a Rock beneath the shifting ground of our disappointments. A presence more permanent than pain, more enduring than joy. A footing that will not give way. And if we let Him, the Lord will reset our feet there—again and again.

So today, may you become a person increasingly unaffected by temporary displeasures, pain, or unmet desires. May your life rest more and more upon what cannot be shaken. Wait for Him. Let Him lift you. Let Him place your feet on the Rock. Because in the end, that’s the only thing real enough to stand on.

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