The 5 AM Wake-Up Call
Look, I love my job. But facing a classroom of thirty teenagers at 7:30 AM requires a specific kind of mental fortification. Usually, I rely on strong coffee and a quick chapter of something dense to wake my brain up—Dickens, usually. But lately? I've been starting my days with Spurgeon.
(Yes, I know. My mother is thrilled. She's been telling me to read this for years. Don't tell her I'm finally listening to it.)
Here's the thing about Morning and Evening: It's not your standard "feel good" modern devotional. You know the ones—fluff pieces that basically say "You're doing great!" for three paragraphs. If you're looking for something lighter but still substantive, Anxious for Nothing strikes a better balance between depth and accessibility. This is Victorian theology. Heavy. Complex. Like reading Milton before breakfast. And honestly? It's exactly what I needed.
Christopher Glyn's Mahogany Voice
I listened to the version narrated by Christopher Glyn. (I know there are volunteer versions out there, but trust me on this one). The man has a voice that sounds like mahogany furniture feels. Rich, polished, and distinctly British.
Spurgeon's prose is... a lot. It's 19th-century eloquence, which means sentences that run for days and vocabulary that would make my AP English students weep. If you read this with your eyes, you might get bogged down in the syntax. But Glyn? He navigates those clauses like a captain steering a ship through a storm. He understands that the rhythm is part of the meaning.
He doesn't just read; he interprets. There's a warmth to his delivery that takes the edge off some of the more "fire and brimstone" theological points. It feels like a grandfather reading to you by a fire, rather than a preacher shouting from a pulpit. For a text this old, that accessibility is everything.
About That Background Music
Okay, let's talk about the production choices.
The structure is simple: a reading for the morning, a reading for the evening. The morning tracks are clean—just Glyn's voice. Perfect for my commute when I'm trying to focus on not spilling coffee on my tie.
But the evening readings? They added background music.
Now, generally, I have a strict "no music in audiobooks" policy. It usually feels cheap, like a bad movie soundtrack trying to force emotions the text didn't earn. And I'll be honest—at first, I rolled my eyes. It's this soft, instrumental stuff meant to be soothing.
But... (and I hate to admit this)... it kind of works?
After a day of grading papers where students confuse "their" and "there" for the thousandth time, I'm wired and frustrated. Falling Upward has a similar effect on me—it's contemplative without being preachy, perfect for winding down. The music, combined with Glyn's soothing cadence, actually helps me gear down. It's Pavlovian at this point. I hear the strings, I hear the British accent, and my blood pressure drops ten points.
That said, if you're a purist, it might bug you. Some nights I just want the words without the synth-strings. But it's not a dealbreaker.
Why Audio Beats the Paperback
My wife Denise saw me listening to this and asked why I didn't just buy the book. "It's a classic, Marcus. Put it on the shelf."
But here's why the audio wins: Pacing.
Spurgeon writes with a density that requires you to slow down. When I read physically, I skim. I can't help it—occupational hazard. I scan for themes and thesis statements. But listening forces me to take it at 1.0x speed (okay, maybe 1.1x if I'm really rushing, but don't tell the purists). You have to sit with the ideas. Let the theology marinate.
It turns a "study" session into a meditation. And frankly, in a world where everything is a 15-second TikTok soundbite (my students live in that world, help me), spending 5 minutes just dwelling on a single, complex thought is... restoring.
Who This Is (and Isn't) For
Skip this if you want light inspiration or get bored by archaic language and heavy biblical exposition—you'll bounce off it hard.
But if you love language—if you appreciate the craft of a well-turned sentence as much as the theology behind it—this is a goldmine. It's literary, it's deep, and the narration is performance art.
Just be ready to feel like you're sitting in a 19th-century London study. Which, honestly, sounds pretty good to me right now.
