The Man at the Window

Young Man at His Window painted by Gustave Caillebotte’s 1876

Squinting at the Page

I turn 43 at the end of this year. And over the past 12 months, I’ve noticed something: I’m beginning to squint when I read my Bible. I find myself adjusting the light, holding the pages further away, realising—however reluctantly—that it’s probably time to get some glasses.

It’s a small change, really. But it’s also one of those subtle reminders that things don’t stay the same forever. I’m not falling apart, but I’m definitely not 23 anymore either. That realisation has nudged me into a deeper kind of reflection about where I place my identity—and what really lasts.

Am I the Bulb or the Light?

I came across a quote recently by Joseph Campbell, the American professor and mythologist, who wrote:

“The problem in middle life, when the body has reached its climax of power and begins to decline, is to identify yourself, not with the body, which is falling away, but with the consciousness of which it is a vehicle... What am I? Am I the bulb that carries the light? Or am I the light of which the bulb is a vehicle?”

Campbell wasn’t a Christian. His work centred around myth—symbols and stories crafted by humanity to make sense of the world. He mined those myths for meaning, but ultimately, they were man-made. And yet, even from that perspective, he could see that the body is not all there is—that something deeper must endure.

As Christians, we go further. We don’t just believe in a vague inner light or some floating consciousness—we believe in the soul. Not a symbol, but a reality. Not a myth, but a truth. A soul created by God, for God. A soul that is being renewed, even as the body changes.

The Apostle Paul put it like this:

Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. 2 Corinthians 4:16

That verse feels more alive to me now than it did ten years ago.

The View from the Window

To illustrate this shift, I’ve been reflecting on Gustave Caillebotte’s painting Young Man at His Window, painted in 1876. In it, a young man—let’s say he’s 23—stands in a room looking out over a Parisian street. His legs are in a broad stance. His hands are in his pockets. His shoulders are square. You can almost feel the energy radiating from him: confidence, ambition, a kind of unspoken “I can take this world.” Anything seems possible.

In many ways, I picture that young man as a kind of Steven Bartlett. If you don’t know him, he’s a British multi-millionaire entrepreneur and host of The Diary of a CEO—a hugely popular podcast where he interviews some of the world’s most successful people. His audience is large and loyal, and the conversations often go deep. There’s a hunger for insight, for discipline, for the keys to building a meaningful life.

Of course, some of Steven Bartlett’s listeners are CEOs, founders, and millionaires in their own right. But let’s be honest—most aren’t. The vast majority are ordinary people, drawn in by the possibility that success might just be within reach if they can crack the right mindset, form the right habits, or hustle hard enough. It’s compelling. But it also subtly reinforces the belief that a life of value is one of more—more influence, more income, more visibility.

And that’s where, for the Christian, we need to pause and ask: Is that really what matters most?

The Danger of Making Success the Goal

Now let me be clear: success, influence, and wealth aren’t inherently wrong. Christians can and should be ambitious. We need Christian entrepreneurs, artists, investors, creatives, and leaders who dream big and build well. It’s not sinful to grow a business, create wealth, or become influential. In fact, when those things are submitted to Christ and used to bless others, they can be powerful tools for the Kingdom.

So to the Christian who is successful—financially, creatively, or vocationally—carry on. If you’re doing it for God’s glory, and using what you’ve been given to bless the Church and others—keep going. That may well be your call.

But the danger is this: when our confidence rests in success—when our identity is shaped more by what we achieve than who we are in Christ—we risk making success an idol. It becomes a subtle shift of the heart, but a significant one. Because status, money, and fame cannot bear the weight of our soul’s deepest needs.

The true measure of a life well-lived is not found in possessions or platforms. It’s in faithfulness. It’s in fruit that lasts.

A Different Kind of Confidence

Now imagine that same painting again—but now the man is 73. His stance has softened. He may still have his hands in his pockets, but not with the same bravado. His body no longer radiates power; it carries something richer: wisdom. He isn’t looking out at a world to conquer, but at a world through which Christ has faithfully led him.

At 23, we look out at life full of ambition—what we might achieve. At 73, we look back and see what Christ has achieved through us, often in ways we never expected.

Life doesn’t always go to plan. Dreams falter. Strength fades. We take hits we didn’t see coming. But for the one who has walked humbly with God, something deeper takes root: a different kind of confidence. Not in ourselves, but in His goodness.

“Those who trust in the Lord will find new strength.They will soar high on wings like eagles.They will run and not grow weary.They will walk and not faint.”— Isaiah 40:31 (NLT)

Growing Older with Purpose

And that’s what I look forward to. Not the slower reflexes or sore knees—but the view from the window at 53. Then 63. Then 73. I’m not holding out for 93—but 83 would be a gift.

Because if I can keep seeking the face of Christ, decade after decade, then each season becomes more fruitful. Not always outwardly, but inwardly—where wisdom, peace, and the fruit of the Spirit grow.

Of course, I say this at 43, and I know—there’s a kind of naivety in that. Forty more years is a long road. And if I read this again at 83, I might smile and say, “If only I knew! I knew nothing at 43!” Just as I now realise how little I knew at 33. Or 23.

But God has been faithful. And I trust He will continue to be.

A Final Question

So maybe the question isn’t just:

“Am I the bulb or the light?”

It’s this:

“Am I living in the light of Christ—whose strength is made perfect in weakness, whose plans are far greater than mine, and whose light never fades?”

Because while the body changes, the soul can grow stronger still.