It’s Not That Complicated

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There are appointments you do not miss. You do not “get around to” a court appointment. If you’ve been summoned, you do not elect to stay home because you stayed up too late the night before or because something else suddenly came up that you decided would be more enjoyable.

You go. You show up.

The same is true for so many other things in life. I don’t have cancer. But if I did, I couldn’t imagine just not showing up to my scheduled treatments. I mean, are there any cancer patients out there reading this who’d honestly skip a cancer treatment because it was maybe scheduled too early in the morning, or because it was further away than you’d prefer to drive, or because you felt like doing something else instead, like maybe fishing or gardening or whatever? Of all the people in the world, I’m sure cancer patients epitomize exhaustion, especially during treatment. And yet, none would shrug and say, “Something else came up,” or “I’m just too tired,” as though what they were facing, and the appointments in place to deal with it, were no big deal.

We show up when something is important to us—when we believe we need to be there.

You know where I’m going with this, don’t you?

Before I do, let me first say to those who’d say outright they don’t need to be in church because they can be “spiritual” without it, feel free to sit this one out. I’m not really talking to you. You’ve already made clear you will not allow the Bible to serve as an external authority to govern you. You already live by a standard of picking and choosing based on preference. And so, you’ll do “spiritual” things when you prefer, maybe when it fits your inner sense of meaning, and you won’t when it doesn’t. By the way, I don’t mean to commend you, but I suppose I’m willing to applaud your consistency at least. You are reliable in that sense.

I should make another quick clarification. For example, we just offered an Epiphany service here at Our Savior on Tuesday, January 6. Forty people attended. That’s only about 15% of what’s typical of our regularly scheduled Sunday morning service attendance. I’m not writing to the faithful Christians in our midst who could not attend our Epiphany service. I say this because even Luther acknowledged in his explanation of the Third Commandment in the Large Catechism that “there should be worship daily; however, since this is more than the common people can do, at least one day in the week must be set apart for it.” In other words, I’m not speaking to those who simply cannot attend the special services for life’s various reasons.

But what I am writing here is addressed to those who deliberately stake a public claim in Christianity and yet see no reason to attend worship with any regularity.

In short, if you confess that Christ is Lord, then I’m assuming you believe His Word. I’m also assuming you realize that the Bible explicitly commands faithfulness in worship (Hebrews 10:24-25, Acts 2:42, and 1 Corinthians 14:26). What’s more, it is thoroughly assumed throughout the rest of the scriptures. There’s no question it was an Old Testament pattern. God expected His people to assemble (Leviticus 23:3, Deuteronomy 16:16, Psalm 122:1, Psalm 84:10, Nehemiah 8:1–3, 16, and others). And for the record, Jesus maintained the pattern (Luke 4:16, Matthew 18:20; I suppose it can be assumed also in Matthew 5:23-24 and John 4:23-24). It was also maintained by the newly emerging Church (Acts 20:7, Acts 13:44, and others).

Beyond even these things, if a reader is being honest, Saint Paul more than betrays the standard of regularly scheduled worship in 1 Corinthians 11:18 when he writes “when you come together as a church” (συνερχομένων ὑμῶν ἐν ἐκκλησίᾳ). First of all, not if but when. Next, the first word in that phrase—συνερχομένων —has in its root the sense of traveling to a place to be together. Where is this traveling bunch going? The destination is ἐκκλησίᾳ—church. But couldn’t this just mean that when they are traveling together to Cedar Point in Ohio, even then, they are the Church, that is, the body of Christ in the formal sense? Of course. All believers in Christ, at all times and in all places, comprise the Church. But that’s not the point here. Paul is already talking about things that happen in worship, namely, the administration of the Lord’s Supper. In this context, Paul is casually indicating that normal Christians (so long as they are not physically incapable because they are sick, elderly, in prison, or something of that sort) travel to a place to occupy it—to be in it. The preposition ἐν does not mean “as.” It means “in.” In other words, “as” the Church, they travel to be together “in” a church.

Add to this the other reasons why Paul would encourage the Church to gather. Mutual edification is one that seems rather important to him (Ephesians 4:15-16, Colossians 3:16, Romans 12:4-5, and others). But even beyond this, God’s Word does not hide the warning of what can happen when we drift from faithful attendance in worship. Our hearts are more easily hardened (Hebrews 3:12-13), spiritual decline occurs (Judges 21:25), and we become more vulnerable to sin and Satan’s snares (Ecclesiastes 4:9-12).

For the Lutherans reading my words, consider your creedal and confessional heritage. Again, Luther reminds us in his explanation of the Third Commandment in the Large Catechism that “God insists upon a strict observance of [regular Sabbath worship] and will punish all who despise his Word and refuse to hear and learn it, especially at the times appointed.”

For those less familiar with Luther and more inclined toward others in mainstream evangelicalism, consider Billy Graham, who said so very plainly that “if you are a Christian, you should go to church.” And why? He continued that a Christian “has no right to neglect the church. It is God’s plan for the nurture and strengthening of His people.” And in another place, Graham wrote, “The church is the place where believers are fed, encouraged, and strengthened to face the world.”

Now, if Billy Graham isn’t enough for you, consider others from across the Christian spectrum—folks like John MacArthur, who said, “If a [church member] shows prolonged negligence in gathering with God’s people… how can he say he loves God?” Or maybe even someone like Dwight Moody, who insisted that “Church attendance is as vital to a disciple as a transfusion of rich, healthy blood to a sick man.” Or Paul Washer, who preached, “A believer who refuses the local church is a contradiction.” Or John Piper, who maintained, “The corporate gathering of believers is the single most important event in the life of the Church.”

Apart from Luther, I’m not in strict theological unity with any of the above preachers I just mentioned. And yet, it sure seems that faithfulness in worship is one thing that has not slipped through any of our theological divides. That’s because it’s a pretty straightforward standard that can only be set aside deliberately.

In the end, it’s really not that complicated. If Christ is real, and He is truly preeminent in your life, then none of the above proofs could ever be suggestions. Instead, they are divine appointments. Sure, we may not feel like keeping the appointments. Still, we know they’re important—and they’re good for us—and so, we show up. And so, our deliberate disregard or neglect of these things could never be interpreted as neutral behavior. Instead, it reveals something else altogether, and it does so rather crisply. Compared to the other practical examples I shared, it shows that, functionally, Christ is less significant to you. It reveals that forgiveness of sins, life, and salvation are nice, but not as nice as, perhaps, one’s bed after a long Saturday night of this and that with friends.

As a pastor, the saddest part here is that deliberate disregard for worship is a public demonstration of unbelief. Maybe not necessarily unbelief in the sense of open denial, but, at a minimum, it is unbelief expressed in practice. Both are public. The first is at least honest. The second is simply hypocritical. It is an observable contradiction, sort of like Washer pointed out. By staking a claim in Christianity, one assumes devotion to God and His body, the Church. And yet, there is no desire to show up as part of that body. So, what gives?

Well, belief orders life. What we choose and what we neglect reveal what we do and do not truly believe or consider valuable. To absent oneself so carelessly can be nothing less than to declare that God means very little to you by comparison to all the other appointments in life you’d never in a million years consider blowing off.

Again, no one would say, “I believe my cancer treatments are crucial, but I’ll only go when it feels convenient.” No one would ever say, “Your honor, I respect you and all, but I have some friends coming over this morning that I haven’t seen in a long time, so I’ll have to catch up on this court case a different time.” No one would ever call a beloved daughter right before her wedding and say, “I know it’s important for me to be there, but I haven’t been to my cabin up north in a while, so I’m not going to be able to make it.”

Do these things, and see what happens. Actually, I can just tell you what will happen. There will be trouble.

Shunning

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I want to begin this first Sunday in the new year by telling you a story that, on its surface, might seem somewhat trivial. It’s the tale of an awkward social exchange. I only share it because, first, it’s a new year, and second, after spending a month or so simmering with it, I realize that what happened reveals something far more serious about the spirit of our age than I first imagined—and the realization is ripe for New Year’s resolutions.

About a month and a half ago, Jennifer and I attended a small local event together. As we walked into the room, I noticed two former members of Our Savior already seated a few rows from where we’d entered. For clarity, they’re not “former” because of a personal conflict with another member in the church, or because I offended them by skipping over them at the communion rail by mistake. They left because they were offended by the kind of message you’re reading right now—the same kind I’ve been writing and sharing every Sunday since 2014. Within each, my cultural and theological conservatism, along with the moral convictions it produces, is laid bare without apology. Some people appreciate the messages. Some don’t.

As I said already, it was a small event. Therefore, the space was relatively empty, leaving no ambiguity about what followed. We saw one another clearly. I waved, smiled, and said hello. They turned away. Attempting ordinary human decency, I called out a brief question, nothing cumbersome, just the sort of small talk people use to acknowledge one another’s presence. One did respond with a relatively disinterested gesture, but he did so without looking at me. That was all. No eye contact. No further acknowledgment of my presence as a fellow human being.

The very next week, the same scenario repeated itself, almost theatrically so. This time, I was alone. I entered the room through the same door. The same couple came in immediately behind me. I greeted them again. This time, there wasn’t even an awkward acknowledgment. They simply ignored me. Moments later, as a handful of couples filed in and found seats beside them, I watched and listened as they warmly greeted others—smiling and calling out hellos to people by name—leaving me to feel the sting of their dismissal and the sense that, for them, I did not even exist.

Now, before we rush to psychologize motives or nurse grievances, let me at least explain that what follows is not about wounded pride. I already know I’m despised by plenty. It goes with the pastoral territory. And unfortunately, I’m used to it. That means I can do what I do without coming undone when someone fails to be polite. Funny thing—Jennifer and I just went out to lunch together last week and we talked a little about the flak I catch for things I write and share publicly. She is perpetually amazed that I continue to subject myself to the inevitable scorn. From my perspective, as a Christian, I am called to endure far worse than social coldness. I mean, what I experience is nothing like what’s happening to Christians in Nigeria on a daily basis. Countless are being killed for their confession of Christ. And so, it’s easy enough for me to write and share a personal observation or cultural critique—and maybe why they matter, especially among Christians.

This morning, I’m examining something I’m pretty sure most folks have experienced. Essentially, it was the cold and corrosive behavior of shunning.

I suppose, in a clinical sense, shunning means treating someone as if they are unworthy of basic acknowledgment, not necessarily because they have done harm, but because they believe differently from you. It’s a way of saying, “You’re beyond the borders of my tribe, and therefore, are not owed my kindness.”

I dare say that, in our current cultural moment, shunning has become a favored tool for pretty much everyone. I catch myself doing it on occasion, too. For the most part, I think many do it to avoid confrontation. I get why that might happen. And maybe that was true in this case. Although my kindly greetings on both occasions should have implied friendliness rather than contention, which suggests another way people wield it. They shun, not to avoid confrontation, not to correct wrongdoing or pursue truth, but to punish dissent and signal some sort of superiority in the relationship. And, of course, it conveniently shields them from the burden of actual engagement, which could lead to reconciliation and peace. If you have no interest in these, then shunning is essential.

Knowing these things, here’s where genuine Christian analysis should probably step in.

I’d say the first step in the analysis is to deal with our excuses. In other words, I know there will be some who immediately jump to texts like Ephesians 5:11-14. Saint Paul tells the Church not to “participate in the unfruitful works of darkness,” but instead to “expose them” (Ephesians 5:11-14). Perhaps assuming the reader already knows that Jesus called His people “light” in this dark world (Matthew 5:14), Paul goes on to say that darkness is exposed by light (v. 13). With this in our theological pockets, Paul’s point is not complicated. He doesn’t want God’s people associating (συγκοινωνεῖτε—binding to something) with sin in ways that condone or accommodate it. In other words, a Christian would not want to attend a gay relative’s wedding lest they be considered supportive of such things.

Now, for those who remain desperate to write off someone with whom they disagree, try to notice what Paul did not say. He did not say to act as though anyone with whom a Christian disagrees does not exist. He did not say to write that relative out of your life completely. Instead, he told the Christians to do what light does. It shines in the darkness. Darkness cannot be overcome by a light that withdraws to another room. If light is going to disperse darkness, it must be present to do what light does.

And so, I suppose the second step in the analysis is to admit the extremes of this truth, which is that God’s Word is unambiguous about how we are to treat those who despise or oppose us. Jesus commands us to love our enemies, bless those who curse us, and pray for those who persecute us (Matthew 5:44). Saint Paul exhorts believers to live peaceably with all, so far as it depends on you (Romans 12:18). Even when church discipline is required—which is a rare and serious matter—it’s never enacted through petty contempt or silent scorn. It’s done openly, soberly, and with the goal of reconciliation and restoration (Matthew 18:15-17, Galatians 6:1, and 2 Thessalonians 3:14-15).

What I encountered was none of that. What I encountered was a posture that says, “Your very presence is a problem for me, and as such, your worth is negotiable.” That posture does not come from Christ. It stirs in sin’s darkness. Tragically, many Christians absorb this posture without realizing how thoroughly it contradicts the faith they profess.

I guess what I’m saying is that the Church and her Christians should know better. The Christian faith does not permit us to reduce people in this way. Certainly, at a minimum, it absolutely does not excuse discourtesy, let alone allow it to be demonstrated publicly so that it teaches the watching world something about Christianity. And what’s being taught exactly? That Christians believe some people are not worth basic human kindness.

But Christians do not believe that. The ones who do should check themselves carefully.

As usual, I’ve made New Year’s resolutions. I know some folks dog the idea. Well, whatever. I prefer to be more contemplative and deliberate with my life. Having just passed through 2026’s front door a few days ago, I find myself returning to moments like these, not with bitterness, but with resolve. Observing these things through the lens of the Gospel, as I prefer to do, they nudge me toward a more focused faithfulness. If the culture is growing colder, then I want to grow warmer. If silence is being used to wound, then I want my words and gestures to heal. Again, darkness is scattered by light, and Christians are children of that light (1 Thessalonians 5:5 and Ephesians 5:8).

Relative to the moments I shared with you, what does all of this mean specifically? Well, it means I am resolved to offer a friendly wave toward someone who’d much rather back over me with his or her car. I will continue to smile. I will continue to say hello. Not because it is easy. Not even because the kindness will be returned. But because Christians are not called to mirror the culture’s contempt. We are called to resist it. And sometimes, that resistance looks as small as refusing to pretend another human being doesn’t exist.

Now, for those who may be looking at me right now in their rearview mirror while revving their engines, know that even as my enemy, you mean something to me. And if there’s a chance we could be friends, I’m game to make it possible. Again, that’s one of my resolutions for the new year. I promise I’m going to be more deliberate in the effort.

New Year’s Day 2026

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I wasn’t going to write and send anything out today. But then, here I am at my computer, tapping away. This morning’s worship service isn’t until 10:00 a.m., and so, apart from other preparations, I guess I do have some time. Besides, it felt wrong not to reach out and at least share something that might help with your first day of 2026.

I suppose I can start by telling you that the first words out of my mouth when I woke up this morning were a prayer of thanksgiving. I thanked the Lord for my family. I thanked the Lord for the congregation I serve. I thanked the Lord for all the blessings He has granted to me—both known and unknown in my past, present, and future. Then I got up, took a shower, got dressed, and headed out into the familiar but unpleasant Michigan tundra.

Waking up and praying is always a good way to start one’s day. But my first meal, that was something else. Despite my secret intentions for the new year, which is to try eating better, the first thing I consumed was a greasy hashbrown from McDonald’s at 5:55 a.m., followed later by my usual bowl of cereal here at my desk. Most mornings, a bowl of cereal in my office is part of my routine before I get started on anything else. But I don’t usually eat McDonald’s hashbrowns. However, I saw that the Hartland McDonald’s was open, so I stopped for coffee. The hashbrown sounded good. With that, I slid backward in my intentions before I even got started. So much for a perfect start. Well, we win some and lose some. Although anyone who thinks personal growth means instant consistency has never tried to live faithfully for more than a few hours at a time. Saint Paul understood this well when he spoke of the conflict within us—the desire to do what is good, set against the pull of the flesh that resists it (Romans 7:15-19).

And yet, Paul’s point isn’t perfection. It is a right knowledge combined with willful direction. It is choosing, again and again, to fight against the worst desires and to embrace the better ones. Paul writes that the flesh and the Spirit are opposed to one another. (Galatians 5:16-17). He doesn’t share this critical detail so we can excuse our failures. He wants us to be aware. Awareness allows for preparation and action. For starters, it grants that the Christian life is not the absence of temptation, but the daily, often quiet decision to walk by the Spirit rather than surrender to what comes most naturally. When, by the power of the Holy Spirit, we’re aware of the sinner/saint struggle, we can embrace prayer before complaint. We can lean toward obedience before personal comfort. We can know to do the better thing even when we don’t feel like doing anything at all. I suppose in one sense, sometimes faithfulness looks less like complete victory and more like simply showing up and trying, all by God’s grace, of course (Romans 8:1-4).

It is also worth remembering that even this willingness—to try, to lean in, to turn toward what’s better—it’s not something we manufacture. Again, it’s the Holy Spirit who creates willing hearts. And He does so by the Gospel (Philippians 2:13, Romans 10:17).

Now, you know what I’m going to say next, don’t you? Well, since you already know, I won’t dress it up.

Go to church. Being present where the Gospel gifts are given matters more than anything else at any time of any given year. God has promised to strengthen and sustain His people through His visible and verbal Word. That means if one really wants to step in and fight the flesh, being where Christ is preached and His gifts are administered should not be a second thought but a priority all year long (Hebrews 10:24-25).

So, if your year has already begun imperfectly, take heart. The only flawless beginning or ending we require is securely located in Jesus Christ, the crucified and risen Savior. By His person and work, the perfection that saves was accomplished. Through faith in Him, by the power of the Holy Spirit at work through the Gospel, our hearts are recrafted to trust Him, and thereby to receive the merits of His incredible work.

And then into the daily struggle we go. As we do, we remember that while the outer self may scrap against the sin-nature, God is at work within us, shaping endurance, humility, and hope right there in the middle of the fight (2 Corinthians 4:16). Indeed, “it is God who works in you, both to will and to work for his good pleasure” (Philippians 2:13).

With that, I encourage you not to become downhearted in the new year when you fall short. Remember, an all-important muscle in the struggle is repentance itself. Keep choosing the better things. Keep turning toward what’s good. And when you stumble, don’t quit. Repent, receive Christ’s forgiveness, and then rise and keep going, mindful of the divine encouragement, “Let us not grow weary of doing good, for in due season we will reap, if we do not give up” (Galatians 6:9).

I’m praying for you. I trust you’ll be praying for me, too.

A blessed New Year to you!

New Year’s Eve 2025

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I don’t know about you, but the older I get, the more New Year’s Eve loses its luster. It feels less like a party and more like a bedtime challenge. Can I make it to midnight? Can I even make it past 9:30? I think William Vaughn said it best, “Youth is when you’re allowed to stay up late on New Year’s Eve. Middle age is when you’re forced to.”

For the record, I stopped trying for midnight years ago, especially with a worship service in the morning. Still, the moment has never been lost on me. New Year’s Eve—the day itself—has always been a moment to pause. It can be sort of a held breath between what was and what will be, if only we’ll take the opportunity to consider it. Right now, I’m sitting at my dining room table. Even with a quick glance around the room, I’m reminded of just how quickly things can change.

For example, right across from where I’m sitting, a poster-sized photo hangs on the wall. Jennifer snapped the picture. Essentially, she captured a moment we can never revisit.

The photo was taken on a beautiful, sun-washed day at a beachside restaurant near Lemon Bay, Florida—one we visited with some relatively newfound friends at the time who knew the place and loved it. In the image, there’s a wooden post planted in the sand with forty or so signs nailed to it, each pointing somewhere else—cities across the United States, and a few beyond its borders, all measured in miles from that very spot. A bird is perched on one of the top signs, palled by a nearby palm tree’s shadow. It’s as if the bird’s deciding which of the cities he’ll choose to visit next. The sky is bright blue, interrupted only by a handful of clouds. Everything about the picture feels calm, steady, and permanent.

But permanence is a lie we tell ourselves when the sun is shining and things are easy. Hurricane Ian erased everything in that photo back in 2022. The sign, the restaurant, the familiar stretch of beach, it was all pretty much gone overnight. It was reduced to ocean-soaked debris and memory.

That said, I can promise you, the Thoma family loves the image all the more, if only because everything in it is gone. In a way, it’s not just a photograph for us anymore. It’s a reminder that certain moments don’t ask our permission before they become history. We will never stand there again. We will never see that post in the sand exactly as it was. We’ll never be able to visit that restaurant and relive that moment.

New Year’s Eve has a way of turning our attention toward that same kind of truth. We look back at the year behind us and realize how much of it has vanished without much ceremony. I think of my dear Christian friend, Alex Bak, who died just before Christmas. We had recent conversations together that I never suspected would be our last. Like the signs near the beachfront restaurant, I lived as though Alex would always be there. I just assumed I’d always see Alex sitting in his same pew near the post on the pulpit side of the church’s nave. Indeed, plenty of other things have happened all around me that felt ordinary at the time but now feel sacred because they’re gone.

I suppose the point I’m trying to make is that time moves forward with or without my consent. The clock ticks with absolute indifference to my nostalgia.

But I have an upper hand on the clock’s cruelty. As a Christian, I know Christ is present in every moment. “Behold,” He said, “I am with you always, to the end of the age” (Matthew 28:20).

Everything we love in this world is fragile. I’ve been known to say from the pulpit from time to time that everything has an expiration date. Everything is subject to wind, water, decay, and time. But the thing is, Christ stands right in the middle of the storms. He’s a fixed anchor right in the middle of all our victories and losses. He’s unshaken and unchanging. He does not promise that the signposts will remain standing. He doesn’t promise that the forthcoming year and its moments will be gentle. But He does promise Himself. And with that promise comes the impenetrable truth of a kingdom that cannot be washed away, grasped by a hope-filled strength that does not weaken or erode.

So as 2025 becomes 2026, just as I won’t cling to the misapprehension that I can stay up until midnight, I won’t hold to the illusion that the coming year will somehow be free from struggle or loss. Time has cured me of that naiveté. There will be storms I didn’t see coming, moments I assumed would last that didn’t, and conversations I didn’t realize were final until they already were. But those potential realities are not hollow or hopeless when viewed through the lens of the Gospel. The calendar can change all it wants. Christ remains the same—yesterday, today, and forever (Hebrews 13:8).

Indeed, the world may lose its landmarks. Favorite places and moments may disappear into the Gulf, maybe even becoming portraits on our dining room walls. But in the middle of all of it, the cross still stands, unmoved by this world’s winds and waves, untouched by time’s inevitable erosion. And that’s enough for me. I have everything I need in Jesus, which means I’ll have everything I need in 2026. My prayer is that He’ll be enough for you in the new year, too.

By the way, if your church doesn’t offer a New Year’s Eve service, stop by Our Savior Evangelical Lutheran Church in Hartland, Michigan. Ours is at 4:30 pm. For the record, I’ve never met anyone who was disappointed they went to church on New Year’s Eve.

Worship is Incarnational

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Before I begin, a clarification is in order, if only because people asked for a recording of the hymn I described in last week’s eNews message.

For starters, yes, we do record our worship services. The audio recordings are kept and given to those who genuinely need them, which I’ll come back to in a moment. In the meantime, know that the device we use to capture the service is fed straight from our thousand-year-old microphones directly to a flash drive. In other words, the recordings are, by no means, a spectral capture in crisp Dolby stereo. Above and beneath and around the liturgy’s voice, there are a multitude of ambient sounds you’d expect in a room bearing several hundred people. Thankfully, the spoken word survives the ordeal reasonably well. You can hear the lector reading and the pastor preaching clearly enough, and without much annoyance. But what does not fare so well is the music. It sounds like it’s being performed and sung from inside a gigantic oil drum.

In short, the recordings do what they are meant to do, which is to preserve the Word of God preached and read. However, they do not showcase the liturgical experience—and I’m perfectly okay with that, for a couple of reasons.

One of the reasons we do not share our services with anyone other than shut-ins or other folks in genuine need became especially clear during COVID. Not long after so many in society became terrified, even as we gathered in person, I warned the Board of Elders that providing a virtual alternative would inevitably give people an excuse to stay away—not out of necessity, but out of convenience. And as it turns out, I was right. While it didn’t necessarily happen to us, plenty of studies have discovered it did, in fact, happen to countless others. Indeed, American Christendom experienced a significant shift. Duke Divinity School’s Faith & Leadership initiative found that most congregations that normalized virtual worship during COVID never fully regained their in-person attendance, ultimately returning to in-person worship with 10% fewer people than before. The COVID Religion Research Project found that as many as 25% of regular churchgoers in America now regularly rely on online worship as a viable substitute for in-person gatherings.

Gathering these things into a singular thought, my sense is that what began as an emergency measure became, for many churches, a long-term standard for deliberate displacement. People settled into watching rather than attending, observing rather than gathering.

And yet, the Bible does not treat worship in this way. That’s because it does not consider the actual assembly as optional (Hebrews 10:24-25). Christian worship is, by design, incarnational. We do it together, in person. It is God’s people gathered in one place to hear, confess, receive, and sing. We do this in one another’s presence. We’re the Body of Christ, and that’s how a body works, together with its other parts (1 Corinthians 12:12-27).

So, what about service recordings? Well, we record and share our services as a care for those who truly cannot be there—the shut-in, the homebound, those whose bodies no longer allow them to gather without real difficulty. These are exceptional cases of care. I’ve always considered the service recordings as functioning sort of like an artificial heart. It’s not ideal. It more or less sustains when what should be there cannot be. In the meantime, for the healthy among us, we resist broadcasting beyond this threshold because we do not want to train anyone to believe that artificial substitutes are equivalent to the real thing. Again, an artificial heart does not replace a healthy, living one. In the same way, virtual presence can serve in cases of genuine need, but it is not the same as real presence.

But there’s still more to this.

Returning to where I started, after last week’s note, more than a few people asked if I had a recording of the service. I was going to disregard everything I just said and share a short clip of “What Child Is This” from our Children’s Christmas service. I really was. But then I listened to the recording. As I did, I ran squarely into what I mentioned before.

Our service recordings are not very good—and I like that they’re not. Yes, the hymn as it was sung that night—the children’s voices, the organ, the words—all these parts were technically present in the recording. But at the same time, they weren’t. The recording did not capture the moment. To understand what I described last week, you had to be there. If you weren’t there, then, well, you missed it.

Along the same lines as what I’ve already written here, there’s something about being in the room. It’s something no microphone can seize, and no speaker can reproduce. I can only tell you about it—the way the sound moved, the way the congregation was pulled into carrying the lyrics, the way time seemed to slow during the second stanza of “What Child Is This,” as though its words really were pressing down on all of us with a theological weight you could actually feel. Sure, I could play the recording for you. You’d hear the music and singing. But you cannot experience the surge of a moment when truth lands heavily, and everyone in the room is caught in its blast radius.

That only happens incarnationally. It only happens when you are there.

This is not a critique of recordings. They serve a purpose. Again, we consider it a kindness to shut-ins, travelers, and those whose bodies or circumstances truly prevent them from gathering with their Christian family. Thanks be to God for such tools. But they were never meant to replace presence. They cannot. They do not.

Christian worship is far more than content delivery. It’s not something you consume efficiently while cleaning the kitchen or working in the garage. It is not background noise for Sunday morning coffee or something you “catch up on” later in the week. Christian Worship is a holy and deliberate interruption to everything else in your life. It is God gathering His people to Himself at a time and in a place to feed and sustain them with His gifts of forgiveness.

Even better, Christian worship is where the Word is not merely read but actually addressed to you personally—where the Sacrament of Christ’s body and blood is not something thought about but actually received. You open your mouth, and you eat and drink. It’s a place where forgiven hearts sing praises to God, and what they sing isn’t just sound, but it’s borne by the space itself—by breath and wood and pipe and stone and people standing shoulder to shoulder confessing and resonating the same truths together (Colossians 3:16).

The night we sang “What Child Is This,” the hymn was not so moving or impressive because it was technically flawless. It was powerful because, in a sense, it was inhabited. Indeed, Kantor Newman painted the text gloriously. And yet, the text was painted not only by him, but by the space, by the gathered Church, by the shared attentiveness of people who had come expecting God to do what He has promised to do. And He did (Isaiah 55:10-11). That’s something you cannot download and listen to during the car ride to work.

Now, may I say something plainly and pastorally?

As we stand on the doorstep of a new year, if you have been away from church, come back. If attendance has slipped into something occasional, make it deliberate again. I’m all about New Year’s resolutions. I’m already planning mine. Perhaps you could embrace and use the tradition to recommit to attending church.

Now, be careful. Don’t do it because you feel attendance somehow checks a box and proves your devotion. Don’t do it for any reason other than you know you need what God gives you there. You need to be where the hymnody—God’s Word put to music—is not just captured, but encountered. You need to be where your sins are forgiven out loud (John 20:22-23), where death is named from the pulpit and defied from the pews, where joy is shared by the rest of the Christian body who believe and confess the body’s head, Jesus Christ, together (Ephesians 1:22-23).

Quite simply, nothing compares to being present.

You know as well as I do that this coming year will bring its share of noise, distance, and disembodied substitutes for real life. Resist the lie that these are enough. The Christian faith has always insisted on incarnational truths. So go. Stand. Sing. Listen. Receive. Let the gathering of God’s people in holy worship do what it was always meant to do—which is not merely to pass through your ears, but rather, to take hold of you completely (Psalm 95:1-7).

I assure you, nothing compares.

Christmas Day 2025

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Merry Christmas to you!

I think the best place to start this morning is with a little bit of honesty. I suppose quite plainly, the Bible never pretends that the world is other than it is. From Genesis onward, it describes a creation that groans beneath a weight it was never meant to endure. A glance to one side or the other in our surroundings reveals weariness. It’s not hard to identify. It’s in the headlines. It’s in families. It’s along the streets we walk. It’s in the human heart, too. That alone tells us something important. This world requires Christmas.

Now, to say that we need Christmas is to confess something far more than sentiment. It’s to admit that something decisive absolutely must interrupt the long fatigue I described.

On the surface, Christmas brings a rare pause. Even in our culture, which is so often bent inward, this day still nudges people toward generosity, reconciliation, and maybe even a little bit of genuine goodwill. For a brief moment, the rhythm of take-take-take slows, and the instinct to give emerges. People wrap and give presents to others. Dinner tables are set for more than just the immediate family. Indeed, people make room in their homes, even for people they’d prefer to see only once a year. These traditions, however imperfect, testify to something deeper than the mushiness of human nostalgia. They’re winks to a world that’s supposed to be something so much better than it is.

That said, there’s still more. Traditions do not exist in a vacuum. They always point somewhere. For one, a gift is never meaningless. It assumes a reason. And the reason for Christmas—regardless of what its underminers would say—has never changed. Long before the décor and melodies, Christmas had a name. To remember the day is, at some level, to remember Him. Christ is not one of many accessories to the holiday. He is its origin.

Christians know this, not necessarily by intuition, but by faith. That is why the Church gathers on Christmas Day. The pews are not empty because the promise is not. At Our Savior Evangelical Lutheran Church in Hartland, Michigan, there will be people who understand that the world’s deepest hunger cannot be satisfied by even its best seasonal traditions.

I admire the people who set aside everything else for worship on Christmas Day. Those are the ones who seem to know, truly, that no amount of giving or receiving, no feasting on holiday ham or snacking on Christmas cookies can quiet the concerned conscience made weary by sin. That’s because none of these things can conquer sin’s wage—the last enemy we all face, which is death. Only Christ can do that. Faith recognizes that without Him at the center, even the joy of a fabulous Christmas gift fades quickly. With Christ, however, joy endures long after everyone has gone home, the ornaments are back in their boxes, and the tree is out at the street awaiting the garbage truck.

All year long, believers live from the same confession the Apostles proclaimed. With Saint Paul they trust that “Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners” (1 Timothy 1:15). With Saint John they cling to the truth that “the Son of God appeared for this purpose, to destroy the works of the devil” (1 John 3:8). Christmas fixes a moment in history and declares that rescue entered time itself (Galatians 4:4). God did not shout salvation from a distance, but sent His own Son into the world (John 3:17). He stepped into the darkness to overcome it. Indeed, “the true light, which gives light to everyone, was coming into the world” (John 1:5, 9). And He did just that!

So yes, Christmas brings warmth to a frigid landscape, both literally and figuratively. Yes, it has always involved gifts. But Christians know the heart of the season lies elsewhere—in something entirely different. Worship invites you into that “something.” It invites you to God’s house, where the order of giving is wonderfully reversed. We arrive empty-handed, and the One we celebrate supplies all the gifts. Life, forgiveness, salvation—these are the heavenly treasures He delivers. These are the gifts He just cannot wait to give!

This is why we need Christmas. This is why, no matter how the world recrafts it, Christmas will forever remain as the greatest news—the best invitation! By the power of the Holy Spirit for faith in this Gospel, receive that invitation. Do not set it aside as the world does. Instead, rejoice in the Savior who exchanged heavenly glory for a manger, and who would later exchange His innocence for your guilt. That work saves you.

I began by mentioning this world’s weariness. Maybe this is where Christmas finally meets with it. Like the Word of God in which it rests, the Christmas narrative does not pretend the burden isn’t there, nor does it ask weary sinners to carry it a little longer on their own. Instead, Christmas announces that rest has entered the world in the flesh of God’s own Son. The world may remain tired, and hearts may still feel heavy, but they are no longer without help or hope. Into our exhaustion, God has sent His Son, Jesus. Into our darkness, He has given His Light. Into the world’s prolonged fatigue, He now speaks a promise meant for sinners like you and me, saying, “Come to Me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28). That rest is not found in a day on the calendar or in a season that fades, but in the Savior who came—and who remains.

I hope you’ll think about these things. Even better, I hope you’ll be immersed in them in a church pew.

I’ll leave you with that. And once again, Merry Christmas!

Christmas Eve 2025

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Tonight does not announce itself with spectacle. We might think that it does. But that’s only because of the holiday festivities. The event to which the festivities point did not demand attention by force or overwhelm the senses. It arrived quietly, almost unnoticed, as God so often does.

The world would have us recognize importance by noise and scale. It expects fanfare and crowds and applause. But God chose another way. He entered human history, but not in a royal procession. He came in the filthiness of childbirth. This did not happen surrounded by marble halls. He came to a borrowed shelter. He was not lifted from the mess and dressed in gilded garments. He was wrapped in whatever was available—swaddling cloths—if only to protect Him from the evening air.

That is the account of God’s arrival.

And yet, we know what the world does not. The eternal Word takes on weight. The Author of time submits Himself to it. The One who reached out and pinned the galaxies into place is laid where animals feed. Nothing about the scene feels impressive, and that’s precisely the point. God is not performing for us. He is coming to us—to be us.

Saint John tells us that “the Word became flesh and dwelt among us” (John 1:14). He did not say that God hovered nearby. He did not say He came by for a visit. John said He dwelt. The Greek word is ἐσκήνωσεν—tabernacled. God pitched a tent among sinners. He took on human flesh. He breathed the same dust-filled air that we breathe. He became us in the truest sense of the word. That means the incarnation is far beyond allegorical niceties. It happened. It was God’s fulfilled commitment. He didn’t abandon us. Even better, He didn’t rescue from afar. He stepped into the mess. He rescued from within. See for yourself. There He is, right there in the manger.

Interestingly, Saint Luke doesn’t first draw our attention to the Christ-child. Instead, he draws us to the witnesses—shepherds keeping watch in the darkness, men accustomed to long nights and very little recognition. We could, in a sense, consider them lowly. And so, notice, the story remains grounded. Heaven opens to them first. The silence is broken by heavenly glory. Into the presence of the ordinary, the eternal invades. “Fear not,” the angels declare. I’ve said countless times before that this is the only appropriate greeting when an angel arrives, just as genuine fear is the only proper reaction when holiness collides with fallen humanity. Still, the message is not one of condemnation. It is the joy of all joys. God in human flesh has appeared. “For unto you is born this day…a Savior” (Luke 2:11).

A Savior. The Savior.

Heaven does not sing with the shepherds in that moment because just any baby has been born. Heaven sings because divine salvation has entered the world with lungs and a heartbeat. And the sign given is almost as scandalous as it is simple. A Child—the Christ—wrapped in swaddling cloths and lying in a manger. No throne. No visible power. No grandeur. Only His presence. God makes Himself small enough to be held, small enough to be threatened, to actually be in danger. Even before Herod’s men come tramping through Bethlehem to kill Jesus, already, the shadow of the cross is stretching backward across the manger’s hay.

We know why this child came. We know what His future holds.

We also know that future will be the ultimate demonstration of divine love. Divine love does not arrive demanding what it’s owed. And we certainly owe God so very much. Still, Divine love brings and distributes what is undeserved. What’s more, it does not protect itself. It gives itself away to protect others. It empties itself, even to the point of death, for others. Saint Paul wrote those words first. He insisted that Christ “did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself” (Philippians 2:6-7). The manger, the shepherds, the angels, and everything surrounding the birth of Jesus, all these comprise the first sermon of this beautiful Gospel.

So tonight, in sense, the Church gathers for far more than a sentimental moment. We gather because the moment of all moments occurred in Bethlehem so many years ago. And as a result, reality changed. God bound Himself to humanity in a way that cannot be undone. Do you know what this means—what it really means? It means there is no suffering He cannot enter, no grief He does not understand, no darkness He has not stepped into ahead of us. Whatever the world looks like tomorrow, God will still be with us—because He already is (Matthew 28:19-20).

For now, we kneel beside the manger. We kneel where heaven touched earth in the most excellent way. It wasn’t an exceptional sight in human terms at the time, except maybe for that moment in the field with the shepherds. But still, that’s not why we’re here. We’re here, and we’re kneeling, because it’s all true, and we believe it. The Light has come. The Savior has arrived. And nothing—absolutely nothing—will ever be the same for us again. Sin, death, and Satan have met their match. The countdown to their final demise was certified at the moment of Christ’s conception.

With these Gospel promises in mind, may this holy night be an opportunity to renew your wonder, steady your hope, and anchor your faith in the One who chose to be near you. And why did He do this? Because He loves you more than anyone ever would or could. God bless and keep you by His grace. And Merry Christmas.

What Child Is This?

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This past Wednesday evening, during our Children’s Christmas service here at Our Savior Lutheran Church in Hartland, Michigan, I found myself unexpectedly undone by one of my favorite Christmas hymns. Those who know me might say, “That happens to you with lots of hymns, Pastor.” Ah, yes, it does. But it only happens when exceptionally well-written hymns are played as they should. “What Child Is This” is one of those hymns.

Our relatively new Kantor, Dr. Richard Newman, had been rehearsing the hymn with the children over the past few weeks. But he’d been playing it plainly and without any noticeable flourish. I don’t mean that as a critique. Kantor Newman is a gifted musician. I mean, he holds a doctorate in his craft, and no one earns one in such fields without peerless skill. Besides, anyone with ears can tell he has far more in reserve than what any given Sunday hymn page he’s navigating allows. That said, and considering the context, he’d been playing somewhat plainly for a reason—to lead the children. He was giving the 130 or so students surrounding him in the choir loft a melody sturdy enough to carry their voices.

Now, I don’t like to drop changes on anyone before a worship service. However, not long before the service, I mentioned to him, pretty much in passing, that if he felt inclined, he could let loose a bit during the second stanza of “What Child Is This,” especially during the lines that actually sit in the hymn’s middle—the lines drawing our attention to the Lord’s inevitable passion.

“Nails, spear shall pierce Him through,
The cross be borne for me, for you.”

I’ve written about those lines at Christmastime before, encouraging people to listen carefully during the hymn, if only their church musicians would play it. Those lines are by no means incidental. Again, they sit squarely at the hymn’s center, literally. Look at the words on the page to see for yourself. But even theologically, they are the hymn’s pivot. Everything before them asks the identity question posed by the hymn’s title. Everything afterward answers with an awareness overcome by strict solemnity—if only the one playing the hymn can get it right. If they do, the lines refuse to allow Christmas to remain sentimental or mushy. Instead, they insist that the Child in the manger, that cooing infant so dearly loved by His mother and adoptive father, has come for one purpose and one purpose only. He will bear our sins on the cross. Nails will tear into and through Him. A spear will be rammed through His side. He will die. It will be terrible. But He will do it—endure all of it—for me, for you.

That reality deserves something more than a simple tune.

Even while I was making the request of Kantor Newman, he was smiling. He then said something to the effect that what I was asking for had a name in the organ world. It’s called text painting. It’s the practice of allowing the music not merely to accompany the words, but to interpret them—to embody them.

Now that I know what he’s talking about, I’m willing to go even further and say it means to let the music preach the words.

And during the service, Kantor Newman did precisely that.

Rolling into the second stanza, the organ changed. It wasn’t loud for the sake of volume. It was expressive for the sake of the text’s actual weight. Our Kantor began building. And the music pressed into the text’s weight in a way that made it seem like the organ was rising into the rafters to play alongside beings we could not see but were nevertheless there. In that moment, for as much as I wanted to sing along, I couldn’t. My jaw tightened, and my throat shrank a little. And had our church’s Christmas tree not been hiding me, I’m sure anybody watching would’ve noticed my inability. I was overcome, even to the point of shedding a tear down my right cheek. For the record, the feeling was familiar. Our former Kantor, Keith Vieregge, could do this with certain hymns, too. I can barely get through “Stricken, Smitten, and Afflicted” with him at the helm.

But regardless of who’s painting the text, such moments capture something essential to Christmas, and it’s something I think too many work very hard to avoid.

We like our Christmas to be gentle. We appreciate it safely wrapped in glistening décor and candlelight. We prefer shepherds and angels and Dickens-like Christmas scenes. And those things are nice. They belong. But if Christmas never takes us beyond the wonder into the weight that the second stanza of “What Child Is This” brings, then I think we’re misunderstanding it entirely.

Grammatically, the hymn’s title is a question. But it’s not a rhetorical one. It’s asking the same question now in the Lord’s infancy that, when He grew and began to speak, He’d ask of others at various times and in various ways throughout His earthly ministry. Inherent to almost every question Jesus asked along the way is the much deeper inquiry, “Who do you say that I am?” (Matthew 16:15). Whether it’s Jesus replying to His mother at the wineless wedding at Cana, “What does this have to do with me?” (John 2:4), which is to acknowledge she knows He can do something to help; or to His disciples on the treacherous sea, asking them, “Why are you so afraid?” (Matthew 8:26), which is to invite trust in the One who’s in the boat beside them. “What child is this?” is another of these questions, showing that Christmas is not immune to concern for the answer.

The hymn refuses to let us stop at the manger and then be on our way. It doesn’t allow us to marvel at the Christ Child without reckoning with the man He becomes—with what He actually came to do. In other words, we risk Christmas being emptied of its principal joy if we don’t know the deeper “who” and “why” of the Child. The incarnation is not just a moment on the timeline that we observe and then carry along to other things. It is this world’s interruption. It is God’s plan moving decisively forward.

That is why the second stanza matters so much. Again, it is the epicenter of the hymn. It has to be. That’s because it’s the epicenter of Christmas. And I dare say William Dix, the hymnwriter, proved that he knew it.

For me, this is where text painting becomes far more than a musical technique. It becomes a theological confession of what the whole congregation must know is true. It’s the same reason certain words are chanted during a service, and some are not. Chanting draws attention to something significant and, by its form, ensures it is heard crisply and clearly. When music leans into the meaning of the words, it reminds us that truth is not only something to be stated; it is something to be immersed in fully. Another way to say it (and any church musicians out there reading this, feel free to correct me), I’d say good church music doesn’t manipulate emotion. It aligns it. It brings heart and mind, body and soul, into harmony with something real.

Last Wednesday, during the Children’s Christmas service here at Our Savior Evangelical Lutheran Church in Hartland, Michigan, “What Child Is This” was sung. But I dare say that, with the school children singing and some exceptional text painting by our very gifted Kantor, the Gospel was amplified in ways that made even the angels jealous. If anything, Gabriel and his pals were smiling through the whole evening. And any mortal human being who was listening—really listening—would’ve sensed that the cross is always the best lens for observing Christmas. The joy we experience at Christmas is a costly joy. It knows the world is not safe. It knows sin and death are no small things. It knows Satan is strong. And yet, the Lord entered into and against all these enemies anyway, and He did so to make sure we are not inheritors of this world—that we are not sin’s, death’s, or Satan’s captives. Instead, these are conquered and destroyed, and we are inheritors of the world to come and eternal citizens of the Lord’s blessed kingdom.

I’m looking forward to singing the hymn again on Christmas Eve. Desperately, so. I sure hope you get to sing it at your church, too.

Posting and Ghosting

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Unfortunately, I haven’t been holding to my usual practice of posting and ghosting. Usually, I share what I’m thinking and move on, rarely returning to the original post. I did turn off notifications for my last post right after I wrote it, so there’s that. I feel somewhat refreshed. But for others, I’d been reading comments, and in so doing, sensing a black hole form in the galaxy of my willingness to share anything at all. I don’t like that sensation. I’d rather keep sharing, not because I have anything valuable to say, but because for me, writing is a mental illness. Seriously. I have to do it. As I’ve told others, if I don’t, I sometimes feel like my head will split open and spray words on the wall.

I’ve also noted on occasion that there’s a reason for the black hole’s formation and the value of posting and ghosting. No one is truly capable of enduring the scale or flow that the social media firehose can produce. No one is meant to say something and then be instantaneously admired or hated by so many all at once. I suppose the inspiration for what I’m writing right now is an article I just read about the rigors of life in the entertainment business. It certainly seemed interesting, so I scrolled through it. Essentially, the author, a psychiatrist, noted that celebrities—people in the public eye—are more prone to anxiety, depression, bipolar disorders, suicide, and substance abuse. And why? The never-ending media and public scrutiny. They are loved and hated on a mass scale. It seems the ones who survive this are those who can step out on stage, speak, and then leave the stage, ultimately retreating to a well-insulated distance.

In a way, social media gives everyday Joes like us a sense of this. Apart from the fact that it’s a forum where so many rules of normal communication already seem to dissipate into ethereal nothingness, social media gives a sense of broad-reaching importance to anything anyone writes. Social media lets all of us announce our thoughts to the world, as if history itself had been waiting for our exact opinions, typed right there on our phones in a grocery store checkout line. Add to that social media’s instinctual rules. For the most part, nuance is frowned upon. Tribal allegiance matters most. Thoughtful consideration followed by kindly conversation has become heresy. Reactionism is rewarded. And the highest virtue is not being right but being certain that I could never be wrong—preferably in all caps, and while correcting someone who never asked. Or perhaps worse, having direct access to someone through private messaging, demanding an answer to an angry question, neither the response nor the person’s time being something you are owed.

And so, the practice of posting and ghosting is a way of sharing one’s thoughts without being slow-boiled toward defeat by potential vitriol. It also prevents the temptation to knee-jerk in response to the vitriol. In other words—and I speak only for myself when I say it—it’s an act of both self-control and self-preservation in a system primarily designed to fan instantaneous and mass-scale reactionary flames. I believe people can have their moment on stage, speak, and then leave the stage, leaving the crowd to discuss without being harmed in the process. It might not be what readers want from the one posting, but it helps him avoid the black hole, ultimately keeping him around a little bit longer.

Tribalism on Display: A Response

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Why am I sticking my nose in this? Why do I care about it? Not only because folks are taking time out of their apparently not-so-busy work day to come after me by email now, but because it matters.

What doesn’t matter is what Rob Reiner bemoaningly said about Donald Trump in the past. His name-calling does not matter. It also does not matter what he said about Rush Limbaugh’s death, no matter how cruel. None of those words supply anyone with moral permission to cheer someone’s murder.

But do me a favor and keep reading. Don’t skim. Read, because some are already sensing the urge to object to what I just wrote.

Yes, Reiner’s rhetoric probably helped fuel the kind of violence that got Charlie killed. Yes, words can inflame unstable people, and I have criticized that recklessness for, well, forever. But inherent to my point is that causal responsibility is not moral permission. Cruel or deceitful speech may be blameworthy, but it is never a license for murder. It’s certainly never grounds for celebrating it. And if you cannot discern these things, you are not dealing in moral clarity. You are trapped in an emotional tribalism, and you are a part of the Woke Right.

The Woke Right, just like the Woke Left, can decide that a man’s death is funny, or deserved, or useful, or whatever. But once you cross into that borderland, every protest that follows rings ridiculously hollow—because you’ve already proven that your moral claims only apply when it is your tribe member lying dead on the ground.

Interestingly, someone decided to email me and say something like, “Well, what about being glad about Hitler’s death? What if someone could’ve killed him to stop him? Can we cheer for that?” I’ll respond right here.

Yes, there are such things as stupid questions, and you just asked one. Why is it stupid? Because in this context, your question is an evasive attempt to justify your cheering for Reiner’s murder. How so? Because none of this is even remotely comparable to stopping (or being glad someone stopped) a man like Hitler while he was actively murdering millions. There is a categorical difference between restraining or killing someone in order to halt ongoing mass slaughter and cheering the death of a movie director because you despised what he said about the leader of your tribe. The former is tragic necessity in the face of evil. The latter is moral rot. And conflating the two is either careless and accidental, because you didn’t think it through, or you didn’t know any better, or it’s deliberately dishonest. Whatever the case may be, if you cannot tell the difference between preventing slaughter and celebrating murder, then the problem is not the complexity of the situation. It is your collapsed moral framework.

In the end, it’s pretty simple for me. If my commitment to human dignity evaporates the moment it costs my side something, then it was never a conviction at all. I’m not going to live that way. And that’s how I’m different than the folks coming after me. I don’t care what you’ve said about me. Your life still matters to me, and I’m going to do everything I can to protect it. Not because I like you, but because Christ considered you worthy of every single drop of blood in His holy veins, and I’m on His side.