A Better Toughness

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I’ll admit, the news of Chuck Norris’s passing ten days ago in Hawaii hit pretty hard. While I wasn’t a devoted fan of all his films and television shows, I more than appreciated him. When I was younger, if one of his movies was playing, I watched it. Because he wasn’t just tough. He was emotionlessly cool in his toughness. I’m guessing that’s why he became a kind of cultural shorthand for invincibility.

I’m sure you’ve seen or heard the jokes. Everybody has. My wife, Jennifer, has a favorite. It goes something like, “Chuck Norris is so tough, he can pick an apple from an orange tree and make the best lemonade you’ve ever had.” Jokes like that one, while ridiculously silly, certainly do laud what a tough and determined man can achieve. For many, Norris seemed to embody what winning looked like.

That said, I’m also Gen-X. Regardless of the current generation’s memes, we owned Chuck Norris’s myth in real-time. For me personally, legends like him, especially the ones built around genuine toughness, don’t go quietly from my imagination. While not exactly the same, I felt the same way when Patrick Swayze died. I wasn’t a fan of his later films. But no matter how many times Hollywood remakes Red Dawn, Swayze will forever be Jed Eckert, the backwater nobody who led a group of high school kids against foreign invaders. Even today, when I experience a personal victory, you might hear me whisper a subdued shout, “Wolverines!” I have a sticker on my Jeep Wrangler that does the same.

Now, before I steer too far off course, again, I was genuinely saddened to hear about Norris. In a world that admires strength, he stood as a towering symbol of it, and for all the right reasons. Not only a cultural icon, but he was also a man of conviction—open about his Christian faith and intent on living it out before the world. That matters to a guy like me. If anything, it adds depth to his legend. It’s a reminder that behind the myth of his invincibility was a man who understood that, apart from Christ, he was nothing, regardless of his worldly feats. It seems that the real Chuck Norris knew that strength, real strength, isn’t always demonstrated as we’d expect.

Considering today’s date—Palm Sunday—the point resonates. Not every hero’s entrance looks like a victory parade.

Today’s the day the Church commemorates our Lord’s ride into Jerusalem. It begins His walk to the cross. The crowd shouts. The road is paved in their cloaks. The palm branches wave. In all of this, there is, unmistakably, a sense that something powerful is happening. And yet, a donkey? Where’s the war horse? The prophetic scriptures called this particular rider humble and lowly. Where’s the physical dominance? Luke’s Gospel tells us that Jesus was weeping as he entered. That’s not very manly.

So, what’s going on here?

Well, none of these details is incidental; rather, they steer us toward a particular point. What we see is a deliberate subversion of everything we instinctively associate with strength. Kings ride stallions. Conquerors arrive to chest-rattling kettle drums and banners. But Jesus comes lowly. He’s unthreatening, at least on the surface. Everything about Him threatens this world’s powers. Still, in His humility is the better strength and authority we need. We don’t need laser lights and smoke machine spectacles. We need someone to submit Himself into the lowliest station to bear our sins and take hold of a victory we could never grasp, not even in a million lifetimes.

I guess what I’m saying is that if Chuck Norris represented the kind of strength the world instinctively understands, Palm Sunday presents something altogether different. We behold a strength that refuses to serve the self, even when it could. This is part of the tension inherent to the moment. It’s easy to admire the man who cannot be defeated. It’s harder—and far more unsettling—to reckon with the One who chooses not to win the way we expect.

I suppose this is why it was so easy for the crowds that were shouting “Hosanna!” to grow quiet—and then hostile, and then complicit in our Savior’s death. They wanted Jesus to come into Jerusalem wearing a black belt, ultimately kung-fu-ing the Romans, overturning their earthly rule. But Jesus came to overturn something deeper. The crowds wanted mortal victory. He came for eternal redemption.

I’m so glad Chuck Norris knew this. I watched an interview shortly after his death in which he told the interviewer, essentially, how his mythic toughness was nothing compared to Christ’s unwillingness to yield in going to the cross. Wow.

His inherent point was that the world actually needs the Lord’s kind of strength more than the muscle of any action star. We certainly need regular people of strength who can step into the world and take control. But we need the otherworldly kind that removes threats, settles scores, and makes things right in ways that matter for eternity. Sin, death, and the devil have us surrounded. Christ comes to our rescue. He does this by His humble submission to the cross. It looks like defeat. But it isn’t. Chris enters Jerusalem bearing the exact kind of toughness we need most. It’s the kind of toughness that’ll keep fighting even as it’s entirely misunderstood. It’s a toughness that’ll keep going, even when it’s rejected. It’s a toughness that makes its way into and through, not away from, an unspeakable suffering, the likes of which no one has ever experienced before. And ultimately, it’s a toughness that lays down its life for enemies, doing so to make them friends.

In other words, what looks like weakness is, in fact, the most unassailable strength imaginable. Perhaps more importantly, it has in mind a very simple premise. Christ, the Son of God, does not lack the power to end a world of enemies. He could obliterate everything with a wink. The thing is, He’s motivated by divine love. He has not come to destroy sinners, but to redeem them.

I should add, regardless of Christianity’s strength through the ages, what I’ve just described is the reason the cross, not the sword, has always been the defining image of Christianity. It’s not because Christ lacked strength. It’s because His strength was of an entirely different order. It’s cruciform strength. It gives rather than takes. It endures rather than escapes.

The world likes stories of men who cannot be beaten. But there’s the simple truth that no mortal man can outwit or outmaneuver death. It is, as Saint Paul said, “the last enemy” we all will face (1 Corinthians 15:26). Chuck Norris faced it recently, and like everyone else before him, could not outmuscle the reality.

But then again, in a sense, Norris did outmaneuver it. Well, he didn’t. But his Lord did, and by Christ’s strength, just as Norris believed by the power of the Holy Spirit through the Gospel, he was not beaten. Death had no final say for Norris because it had no final say for Norris’s Lord. That must be the last word here.

Action movie legends like Chuck Norris are strong in so many ways. They can take on armies carrying two Uzis and donning perfectly feathered hair and a well-groomed beard. But in the end, there’s only ever been one kind of strength that could carry the weight of this world’s sin. Behold, he comes to you, “righteous and having salvation is he, humble and mounted on a donkey, on a colt, the foal of a donkey” (Zechariah 9:9).

But Then I Actually Thought About It…

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Saint Paul is the one who wrote, “The saying is trustworthy and deserving of full acceptance, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners, of whom I am the foremost” (1 Timothy 1:15). The “foremost” of this saying applies to all, if only we’re willing to admit it. I can certainly share how easily it applied to me recently. I’m not afraid to tell you. I just preached a few weeks ago that repentance without confession is still sin in hiding.

This is my repentance coming out into the open.

Essentially, I was scrolling through Facebook. I noticed a photo, someone’s selfie with a friend. It was just a simple photo. Both in its frame were smiling widely, clearly enjoying the moment together. But the one taking the photo had something in his teeth. It wasn’t overwhelmingly obvious. However, it was noticeable enough to me. And so, now, my confession.

My first instinct was to chuckle and say to myself, “You might want to check your teeth before posting selfies.” And that, friends, is how easy it was for me to fall short.

I suppose the only upside to the response is that I restrained the urge to post what I was thinking. I could’ve done it. I could’ve justified it, too, believing I’d be preserving them from further ridicule, maybe giving them a chance to swap the photo with something else. It would have been easy enough to wiggle into that perspective.

But then, I actually thought about it. I didn’t just react. I thought. And the more I did, the more I looked at the image. And the more I looked at the image, the more obvious something else became. These two people weren’t posting a dental advertisement. They were sharing a moment of joy between them. They captured an image of friendship. And while I was busy capturing the flaw, they were busy demonstrating something so much better.

This is my sin. Not yours. Still, the overarching realization that occurred sheds light on the times in which we live. We live in a culture that has nudged us toward noticing the wrong thing first. Social media rewards it. News cycles feed off of it. Someone makes a mistake, says a clumsy word, posts an imperfect photo, and instantly, the comments fill with negative criticism. Everyone becomes a certified inspector of someone else’s flaws or understanding. Everyone becomes an expert in pointing out what someone didn’t get right or should have done better.

I’ve said it a thousand times that this is one of the worst parts about writing for public consumption. There’s always someone waiting in the wings to take what was meant for good and convert it into something dreadful. They’re lurking there, not to correct or improve what I’ve said, but to tear it down—to tear me down. It is almost reflexive now. People see before they think. They condemn before they understand. They correct before considering whether the correction is actually even necessary.

And sometimes the thing they miss is the very thing that mattered most in the first place.

I think that’s just one more reason why the season of Lent is so necessary. It’s not only about penitent postures relative to sin and, ultimately, the grace of our Savior who took those sins into and upon Himself, to free us from their decaying bondage. It’s also about the promised recalibration born from that wonderful Gospel. Lent, compared to all other Church seasons, is one where the Lord gently exposes the habits of the heart we barely notice anymore. Unfortunately, it seems far too many seem disinterested in Lent, even as it’s perfect for a social media world. It reveals the small reflexes of pride, the quiet hunger to appear clever, the subtle impulse to correct others rather than rejoice with them.

Lent slows us down long enough to actually see through the lens of the Gospel in some incredibly practical ways. Relative to the photo I mentioned, and as I hinted at before, social media prompts us to be clever when maybe we should be quiet and think. It prompts us for praise when what would better suit us is humble and thoughtful restraint. The good in the photo was obvious when I did that—when I stopped looking for the flaw and remembered my own failings. Now, through that lens, it was better seen as two friends enjoying life together. It was a small, happy moment, entirely undeserving of the conflict and criticism and outrage that social media demands we iterate over every ridiculous little thing.

And the thing is, I left that moment feeling better. That’s because faith’s choice is always so much better. Faith knew the better response in that situation was not to point out the speck in the guy’s teeth. The better response was simply to smile and be glad that joy still exists. Indeed, that’s one of the quiet disciplines of Lent. It’s a season for learning to see again. It helps us to see our own hearts honestly. It helps us to look upon our neighbors with charity. It absolutely helps us to see the good gifts of God that we too easily overlook when we are busy inspecting imperfections.

That said, you and I both know that the world already has enough critics. What it needs more are people who can bring the joy of Christ’s wonderful love into the darkness. And so, we do. We do it strengthened by faith’s humble repentance. We recognize that we, like Saint Paul, are the foremost of sinners in need of grace. Through that penitent lens, the landscape of God’s grace—all the undeserving joys He provides day in and day out—becomes far more visible through this world’s fog than the things that might bring sorrow. That’s because the grace of God has a way of reordering our sight.

When the Gospel steadies the heart, the flaws that once seemed so urgent lose their power to dominate the moment. That’s what repentance does. It doesn’t simply make us feel sorry for sin. It teaches us to see rightly again. It reminds us that the greatest flaw in the picture was never the thing in the guy’s teeth. The greatest flaw was the pride in my own heart that was so ready to point out what was really no big deal at all.

And that is exactly why Saint Paul’s words remain so trustworthy and deserving of full acceptance. Christ came into the world to save sinners. Not just the most scandalous among us. But sinners like me. Sinners like you, too. It’s far too easy for any and all of us to drift toward small cruelties we might otherwise excuse as harmless. Yet, Christ came for those, too. Even better, He came to bear the sins we barely notice and the sins we cannot forget.

Let my failure, no matter how insignificant it might seem, be today’s reminder.

Not Recording… But Recording

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The following has been on my mind for some time. I’ve only just now felt the urge to parse my thoughts. Essentially, Jennifer and I were sitting together and watching a news report on the Nancy Guthrie case a few weeks ago when something relatively small (but actually not very small at all) slipped into the host’s conversation.

Nancy Guthrie’s Ring Doorbell footage was playing on the screen. The suspect was visible, moving about the Guthrie porch area, doing what he could to cover the camera’s lens and then break into the home. At one point, Dan Bongino joined the broadcast. Bongino is the former Deputy Director of the FBI. The host and Bongino both commented on the FBI’s impressive technological capacity, how the Bureau likely had the tools to use the video’s contents to identify and track down the suspect, even though his face was covered by a ski mask.

But then came the statement that bothered me.

The show’s host mentioned that, even though the Ring Doorbell camera was turned off and not recording, the FBI was able to obtain the footage we were watching at that very moment, which was, in fact, stored at Google. Nothing was added to the comment. There was no explanation. No clarification. The conversation simply moved on.

I immediately turned to Jennifer and said, “Did you hear that? The camera wasn’t recording, but somehow the FBI was able to acquire recorded footage from Google’s servers.”

That detail, while it seemed to matter very little to the host or Bongino, has not left me. We are told our devices are dormant until activated. We have a Google Home device that sits quietly on a cabinet near our dining area. It’s not supposed to listen unless prompted with what’s called a “wake word,” and it’s not supposed to record until that wake word is used and the command to record is given. It’s certainly not supposed to store audio without our consent. Still, notice the logic. To hear a “wake word,” it has to be listening—always.

And so, the FBI obtained uninterrupted video footage from a Google device that wasn’t awake.

How many times has the Thoma family joked about this sort of thing? More than I can count. It’s become something of a running gag in our house. For example, if the kids are horsing around, poking fun at each other, mock-threatening in that exaggerated, theatrical way siblings do, someone might laugh and say, “I’m gonna murder you.” They all laugh. And yet, almost instantly, one of them will add, “In Minecraft.”

It’s reflexive now. The joke, of course, is that our Google device is always listening. So, if an algorithm somewhere flags the word murder, we quickly clarify that no actual murder is about to take place, but rather someone is going to get revenge in the blocky video game universe of Minecraft. The kids laugh, but they also qualify. They tease, but they also amend the record. And that’s the curious part for me. Again, we’ve been assured the device isn’t listening. And yet, here we are, instinctively adding digital disclaimers at dinner, as though an invisible guest might be taking notes.

But we have good reason to believe it’s happening. Maybe you’ve had the same experiences we’ve had. There’ve been times when we were discussing something obscure during dinner or while sitting around the corner on the couch—talking about something oddly specific—and moments later, we discovered advertisements or suggested articles or videos related to that very topic appearing in our feeds. No one looked anything up on the internet during the original discussion. No one shared a video link by text. We simply spoke. Then, suddenly, strangely, there was the topic of our discussion in digital form on all our phones.

We laugh and say, “Big Brother’s listening.” Maybe he is.

This also has me wondering out loud that if a Ring camera can be “not recording” and yet still have retrievable footage stored somewhere, what exactly does “not recording” mean? Technology companies use careful language. My guess is that “recording” may not mean what ordinary people think it means. In other words, maybe it means something other than the typical layman’s understanding of “on” and “off.” Whatever the definition might be, the former Deputy Director of the FBI just told me that federal investigators can, in fact, access recordings from a device that’s not recording. And they can use it against you.

I suppose for me, the question in that moment became something more like, “What’s the price I’m willing to pay for convenience—or personal safety?” I like the fact that we have cameras around the outside of our home. Writing for public consumption has proven the cameras necessary. But I also like the convenience of seeing that a package was delivered while I’m away. I like being able to adjust the thermostat from an app. I like calling out into the thin air, “Hey, Google, what’s the weather going to be like today?” even though I live in Michigan and I can pretty much guarantee it’s going to be cold.

But for all the things I might appreciate about technology, convenience and personal safety are rarely free, especially in the modern home. The modern home hums with interactive devices. I was at Home Depot a week or so ago and passed by a refrigerator with an interactive screen bigger than my desktop computer’s two monitors combined. And so, I suppose the question changes a little. I should probably be asking whether we understand the scope of what we’ve invited into our homes.

Having said all this, I’m not sure where to go next. Although I suppose Lent is an appropriate season for asking these kinds of questions, especially that last one.

Lent is a season of examination. The examination most certainly could reach into our digital habits. But in the end, its reach isn’t technological. It’s spiritual. Lent is in place to help us slow down. We quiet the world’s noise. We take inventory. We ask what has quietly crept into the house of our hearts and what’s humming in the background of our souls.

Sure, we worry about devices that are always listening. We joke about invisible listeners, and we clarify our ribbing jokes with “in Minecraft,” just in case. But God’s Word reminds us that there is, in fact, One who truly hears every word and knows everything about us. Read Psalm 139 if you don’t believe me. The first twelve verses will tell you everything you need to know:

“O Lord, you have searched me and known me! You know when I sit down and when I rise up; you discern my thoughts from afar. You search out my path and my lying down and are acquainted with all my ways. Even before a word is on my tongue, behold, O Lord, you know it altogether. You hem me in, behind and before, and lay your hand upon me. Such knowledge is too wonderful for me; it is high; I cannot attain it. Where shall I go from your Spirit? Or where shall I flee from your presence? If I ascend to heaven, you are there! If I make my bed in Sheol, you are there! If I take the wings of the morning and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea, even there your hand shall lead me, and your right hand shall hold me. If I say, ‘Surely the darkness shall cover me, and the light about me be night,’ even the darkness is not dark to you; the night is bright as the day, for darkness is as light with you” (vv. 1-12).

What the Psalmist declared could be either terrifying or comforting. It’s terrifying if God is merely a cosmic surveillance system waiting to use our words against us—to capture us in wrongdoing and bring swift judgment. On the other hand, the Psalmist’s words are comforting if the One who hears and sees is also the One who went to the cross for every intentional or unintentional crime of thought, word, and deed we’ve ever committed (Matthew 12:36). In other words, the difference is the cross.

And that’s where Lent is taking us—to Good Friday’s holy massacre.

This world is an uneasy one. The assumption is that we’re being watched, not only by corporations and governments, but by sin, death, and the devil, forces far more formidable than the FBI. And yet, in the midst of these things, the Holy Spirit calls us by the Gospel to remember that we are seen fully by God—and loved and cared for still. The Lord who knows what is whispered in our dining rooms is the same Lord who bore our sin in His body on the cross. He does not need devices or algorithms to track us down. He certainly didn’t look upon His world with His first inclination being that it would only end in eternal imprisonment. His first response was love. His first response was rescue. His first response was to act. And so, He reached into this world personally. Through the person and work of Jesus Christ, God came down Himself.

Perhaps that’s the best direction to go with all of this. We fear unseen listeners in plastic devices sitting on shelves in our living spaces. And yet, the One who truly sees and hears us—the One who knows the worst that we are—was already there all along. Even better, He took upon Himself human flesh and joined us at the table. He wasn’t invisible. He was seen. He showed us just how much He cares. And now, through faith in His sacrifice—inevitably demonstrated through repentance, faith, and the amending of the sinful life—the verdict is declared to those who believe: Whatever you’ve done, it isn’t enough to condemn you. You are forgiven. And this happened in reality, not in Minecraft.

An Unforgettable Moment—State of the Union 2026

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Perhaps you had a chance to watch or listen to President Trump’s State of the Union speech last Tuesday. I didn’t watch the whole thing. I’d only just gotten home before it started, and the day had already been a long and exhausting one. Still, I watched until about 10:25 PM—and that was plenty.

Political speeches, especially Trump speeches, are rarely remembered for their eloquence, even when they’re chock full of accomplishments, policy prescriptions, and legislative ambitions. That said, I can’t think of another president I’ve enjoyed listening to more than Donald J. Trump. He can be quite funny. And not to mention, he’s fearless. He steers into things that few before him have been willing to offer even the slightest glance. I should add that when my family and I met him in person, on my daughter Evelyn’s birthday, no less, he was the kindest and most genuine politician I’d ever met. He already knew it was her birthday before we walked in, and even as the Secret Service reminded us before entering that the visit would be quick—and not to touch him—he saw us enter and reached out to us, even hugging Evelyn. He took time with us, asking us questions. He shook my hand and described the pastoral office with great respect. He didn’t have to do any of those things. But he did. That’s because he’s that kind of person.

“Still, how can you admire this crass man? And you call yourself a Christian pastor!”

My first reaction to statements like that is to say I’m friends with lots of folks the perfect humans among us might be inclined to call imperfect. My second thought is to say, be careful not to fall into what has become a rather tired pitfall. I did not choose Donald Trump to be my pastor. I voted for him to be my president, and God’s Word draws a clear distinction between the roles of civil authority and spiritual shepherds. As I’ve noted on countless occasions, if I were ever on trial for murder, I’d want the best lawyer defending me, not the most pious Christian. Saint Paul teaches that governing authorities are instituted by God to “bear the sword” and to punish wrongdoing and promote civil order—a function of justice, not pastoral care (Romans 13:1-4). By contrast, 1 Peter 5:2-3 and Ephesians 4:11-12 describe pastors as shepherds who oversee souls, teach sound doctrine, and equip the saints for ministry. And of course, Jesus says, “Render to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s, and to God the things that are God’s” (Matthew 22:21). When He did this, at a minimum, He affirmed distinct spheres of responsibility. Both are established and ordained by God, and so, in that sense, they’re not absolutely divided. They’re designed to cooperate. Nevertheless, the plain structure is that civil leaders are accountable for governance and public order, while pastors are accountable for spiritual oversight. The offices are different by divine design.

But now, before I wander too far from what I intended to say, regardless of the politician giving any particular speech, most of what anyone says tends to fade almost immediately into the churn of news cycles and partisan rebuttals. What sticks are the moments—scripted or unscripted—that cut through the usual political theater, giving way to actual revelation. There was one particular moment during Tuesday’s address that stood apart for me. It proved Trump’s prowess. And for the hundreds of millions around the world watching the speech, it pared away any obscurities, leaving only the unmistakable mineral differences between two very different ideological positions.

When the president asked members of Congress to stand if they believed the primary responsibility of government is to protect American citizens before illegal aliens, the chamber responded immediately. A very simple question elicited a whole-body posture, a “yes” or “no” response that couldn’t be hidden.

Republicans rose instantly at the question, their applause swelling into a prolonged ovation that lasted several minutes. Across the aisle to their left, Democrats remained seated. Some scowled. A few shouted. Others mocked or gestured dismissively as the applause continued around them. The contrast couldn’t have been sharper. I turned to Jennifer and said, “There you have it. There’s no hiding from that. That’ll be remembered.”

Standing in support or sitting in protest during the State of the Union speech is normal. Trump used that practice, ultimately handing control of the rostrum over to the whole room, inviting everyone to state their most fundamental ideology concerning government. Who is it principally for? And the whole room answered. At that moment, the division was no longer theoretical. It wasn’t buried beneath news reporters asking the same question, only to receive rambling responses designed to avoid it entirely, lest the one being questioned offend the extremists in their party. Stand if you think the American government is in place to serve Americans before illegal aliens. Sit if you don’t.

The Republicans stood. The Democrats remained seated.

In the end, that was an important moment, if only because, as I said, almost any disagreement, whether it’s political, theological, financial, or whatever, is quite often softened by language designed to obscure fundamental differences. Competing parties frequently claim identical ends while disputing only means. Relative to what’s happening in our country right now, the rule of law, compassion, justice, and fairness are words claimed by pretty much everyone. But the varying sides understand those words differently. That all disappeared when Trump put the stand-or-sit challenge before the chamber. He cut straight through to the heart of the definitions in a way that the disagreement could no longer be about strategy or implementation. It was about first principles—who the American government is actually established to serve.

This exposed the deeper moral framework. For one side, prioritizing citizens represents the foundational duty of national sovereignty, which is one of the most basic justifications for the existence of the state itself. The other side openly refused to endorse this premise. And now, the differing postures formed an image that’s not going to fade from America’s memory anytime soon. Americans witnessed the divide. This time it had handles. It was no longer hidden behind nuance. It no longer rested comfortably behind mere policy preferences, as if both Republicans and Democrats want the same things, they’re just using different pathways to get there. Nope. The divide stems from fundamentally different understandings of the government’s moral priorities.

The whole country saw this ideological landscape mapped in real time.

In the end, like every other speech that’s ever been given, this one will be mostly analyzed for its claims and proposals. I don’t know about you, but on my part, I usually forget what the talking heads eventually end up scrutinizing. What I don’t forget are the images—the memorable moments I can visualize. I was only sixteen years old, but I can still remember watching the exchange between Lloyd Bentsen and Dan Quayle when, after Quayle compared himself to JFK, Bentsen retorted something like, “Senator, I served with Jack Kennedy, I knew Jack Kennedy. Senator, you are no Jack Kennedy.” I can safely say I knew very little about either candidate at the time. But it was a moment, for sure. And combined with the ruckus that followed, that moment defined the entire memory. Everything else has since faded.

The same kind of moment happened on Tuesday night. Years from now, few will remember the statistics cited or the priorities outlined. But many will remember that chamber—half standing, half seated—answering a relatively simple challenge without words, and in doing so revealing something far more enduring than differing points of view. It revealed, plainly and permanently, what each side believes the United States government exists to do—and whom its elected officials are in place to serve. I sense that many saw this clearly, especially folks who tend to exist in the middle on so many important issues, and now that they have, it’ll be really hard for the usual suspects to pretend they didn’t see it.

Shining Truth’s Light is Never a Bad Idea

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Have you seen the image circulating online that attributes a shocking confession to U.S. Attorney General Pam Bondi? I have. When I saw it, I had to start searching. I wanted to know whether she really said it and, if so, what the context was.

The quotation was, “If we prosecute everyone in the Epstein files, the whole system collapses.” Again, I searched. There is absolutely no evidence that she ever said this. That matters, and it’s important to say so plainly. Things like this corrode trust, whether it comes from liberal or conservative sources.

That said, the idea embedded in the statement certainly does raise questions worth examining on their own terms. Suppose, purely hypothetically, everyone connected to wrongdoing in the Epstein files was teed up for prosecution. That most certainly would include a large number of people within powerful networks of influence. Personally, I say, get the tees and let’s get this party started. But what about the supposed system collapse? Is this spirit of concern similar to the government’s refusal to let General Motors go under back in 2008, insisting it was too big to fail, lest countless lives be destroyed? What would collapse actually look like or mean, and would it be a good or bad thing?

The point here is that the statement really does dig into a strata that’s deeper than any one person. The assumption is that it intersects with the very nature of institutions themselves. In other words, when people speak about the “system,” they rarely mean a single organization, like GM alone. They mean a web of relationships. They mean the Big Three and all the downstream suppliers. Relative to Epstein, they mean political structures, legal frameworks, media institutions, financial networks, and all the unseen relationships, good or bad, that link them all together.

In its purest sense, when acting according to its divine ordination, the “system” is in place to serve the citizenry (Romans 13:3-4). It preserves order and maintains justice. It makes sure that the courts function as they should. It ensures that laws are enforced. It keeps everyone, even the most powerful, within the same boundaries that encircle the rest of us.

But it’s pretty obvious that systems can drift. I’ve seen it firsthand, even as recently as yesterday. Over time, incentives change the nature of friendships. Goals become more valuable than truth. Narratives become more important than integrity. In some cases, the preservation of the system itself begins to take priority over the principles that justified its existence in the first place.

When that happens, the system is no longer doing what it was designed to do. It becomes less about society’s well-being and more of a self-protective, leapfrogging competition for individuals to reach the top of the food chain. In that type of system, it becomes necessary to shield wrongdoing, and the logic behind the shielding almost always becomes something like, “If we expose the wrongdoing, the damage will be too great, and the system will come undone.”

But this reasoning has hidden assumptions. In one sense, it assumes that the system, if only because it’s the best system the world has ever known, deserves to be maintained. In another sense, it assumes that if the system is allowed to continue, some wrongdoing is tolerable among those at the helm, so long as the machinery keeps running and the outward forms of stability remain intact.

I’m a huge fan of liberty, which means the first sense is immediately rejected. Indeed, the framework of our constitutional republic is the best system this world has ever seen, and it deserves to be maintained. It’s the second assumption that troubles me. It’s the one that quietly shifts the definition of justice from something principled to something negotiated. It suggests that not only are there thresholds of wrongdoing we are willing to overlook, but also categories of people who operate under softer rules, and that their preservation is somehow a higher good than truth (Deuteronomy 1:17 and James 2:1,9).

I mentioned a few weeks back that the reason my Ashes To Ashes book has resonated with so many is that, in a way, it understands the frustration among the citizenry when this becomes the accepted standard. This feeling absolutely meets with the Epstein files. Young girls were trafficked and abused by the seemingly untouchable among us. We’ve known this for years now. And still, not one person, other than Ghislaine Maxwell, has been brought to justice. There are names behind those redaction marks. Law enforcement knows who they are. But here we sit. Of course, some would say Prince Andrew was brought to justice. But it wasn’t for anything I just mentioned. He was charged with sharing government information with Epstein, even though all of it happened within the darker context of sexual deviancy with underage girls.

I’m not so sure a free society can long survive this obvious discrepancy. Liberty depends on trust that the law applies equally, that wrongdoing is answerable, and that justice is more than a slogan carved in stone above a courthouse door. The moment people begin to suspect that some are shielded while others are exposed, the real damage has already begun. The machinery may still run, the institutions may still stand, but the confidence that gives them legitimacy is starting to turn to ash. And once that foundation gives way, no system, no matter how carefully constructed, can stand for long.

As Americans, we’ve all learned the principle that justice must be impartial. If we didn’t learn it in school, then there’s a good chance we learned it in real time, or at a minimum, by watching a cop show. Either way, the point is that justice does not bend for the powerful while remaining hard and fast against the rest of us. When it does work that way, the plain truth is that justice ceases to be justice at all.

So, Pastor Thoma, what are you recommending?

Well, essentially, I guess what I’m saying is that I wonder how shining the light of truth on anything could ever be a bad idea. I don’t believe for one second that the system would collapse if all the redactions were removed. I’ve never known truth to collapse what’s good—and America’s system is just that. Instead, truth exposes what’s broken, making repair a possibility (Ephesians 5:13). That’s always a good thing. And so, my point. Whatever is broken in the system, if it’s truly worth preserving, the truth will find and make it possible to refine it, not destroy it. If parts of it cannot survive truth’s light, then perhaps those are the very parts that should not survive at all.

No matter who they are, bring the people in the Epstein files to justice. Period. America will be fine. In fact, America will be the better for it. Nothing good comes from protecting anyone from accountability. That should already make perfect sense to Christians. We know what God’s Law does. We know it’s an expression of His love (Hebrews 12:6 and Proverbs 3:11-12). He’s loving us when He says, “Don’t do that! It’s bad for you!” With God’s loving warning, the perpetrator is given the opportunity to repent and amend—to steer away from destruction’s cliff.

But what if God didn’t care enough to do this? In a practical sense, we all know that parent whose kid can do no wrong. No matter what the kid does, the parent always excuses the crime. That’s a kid who only ever gets worse. That’s a kid who’s destined to go over the cliff eventually.

I suppose societies aren’t so different. A society that excuses wrongdoing in the name of preserving itself is not preserving anything, except maybe its decay. A homeowner who kills all the cockroaches but turns a blind eye to the carpenter ants will eventually learn what that means. Decay, no matter how carefully managed, always ends in collapse.

Ash Wednesday 2026

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The Church now stands at the threshold of one of her most searching seasons. Lent is not just another stretch of the calendar. In fact, if ever there was a Church season that could see through the masks we wear all year long, it’s Lent. It’s a season that presses upon us who we really are. In that sense, it’s recalibrating. It calls us back to better clarity.

But first, Ash Wednesday, the gateway into Lent.

In Ash Wednesday’s solemn liturgy, cooled cinders are placed upon our foreheads—the remains of what fire has consumed, the residue of destruction. As they’re smeared, you are told, “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” This is the biblical origin of the philosophers’ ancient phrase “Memento mori”—remember that you must die.

If, for some reason, you miss these words, rest assured, the ashes themselves will preach them. They are rough to the touch, pitch black, and stubborn to remove. They insist that death is no abstraction. It is the wage of sin, and it leaves its mark on every human life. There is nothing delicate about it. It is brutal consequence.

If you’ve ever stood in line to receive those ashes, then perhaps you already know the quiet gravity of it. One person steps forward, then another, and then another, until at last it’s your turn. You are dust. Memento mori. Each of us must face the same end. Each of us must reckon with the same truth. The Divine finger of God’s unalterable Law presses heavily against our hearts, corralling us into the fellowship of Adam, who heard God say through him to all of us, because of what we’ve done, “cursed is the ground because of you” (Genesis 3:17).

And yet, there is something else to know in these moments. Pay attention. If possible, watch the finger applying the ashes. If you can’t see it, look around you. See the same mark you bear being borne by everyone else around you. The mark is in the form of a cross. However uneven the lines may be, that shape is unmistakable.

See that mark and know you are a child of promise. Yes, memento mori. But also, memento Christus—remember Christ! You were claimed by the One who has entered death and overcome it. The cross traced in ashes declares that the end of Man is not the end of Christ, and therefore it is not the end of those who belong to Him.

Scripture teaches that we carry in our bodies not only the death of Jesus but also His life (2 Corinthians 4:10-11). His death was no defeat. On the contrary, it was the death of death itself. By His resurrection, the grave has lost its dominion, and its sting has been taken away (1 Corinthians 15:54-57). We are children of that promise!

Regardless of how other churches prefer to enter into Lent, this is how Our Savior Evangelical Lutheran Church and School in Hartland, Michigan, begins it. We keep Ash Wednesday. We need the reminder. Left to ourselves, we grow comfortable. We begin to imagine that life in this fallen world is stable, predictable, maybe even secure. Ash Wednesday strips away those illusions. It teaches us to see clearly what sin has wrought, and at the same time it directs us to the only refuge that endures—to Christ, who has entered the darkness and shattered it from within.

And then we go forth into the season. We meet the great struggle at the heart of our redemption. The contest between Christ and death will appear, for a time, to be no contest at all. Our Lord will be mocked, beaten, scourged, and crucified. He will yield Himself fully into the hands of His enemies. To every earthly calculation, it will look like utter ruin.

Yet that is precisely where the victory is won. And we will receive it as it truly is, even when it appears weak or foolish by the world’s measure. We know it’s a kingdom established by a crucified King.

The cross, in all its horror, stands at the center of the Gospel. It is harsh to behold, and yet it is good—profoundly good—because there the Son of God bore the sin of the world and reconciled us to the Father. And so, Saint Paul writes with fervor, “We preach Christ crucified” (1 Corinthians 1:23). Indeed, we do, and without shame. The Gospel is and remains the power of God unto salvation for all who believe (Romans 1:16-17).

For all of these reasons, I encourage you, if you’ve never attended the Ash Wednesday liturgy, make the effort to do so. Receive the ashes. Hear the Word. Begin the Lenten journey as the Church has long begun it—with repentance, with sobriety, and with hope fixed firmly on Christ.

Here at Our Savior, we’ll gather on Ash Wednesday for worship at 8:10 a.m. and then again at 6:30 p.m. You are welcome to come. Indeed, join with the faithful. Be reminded of life’s frailty, and—far more importantly—to hear again the promise of the One who said, “I am the resurrection and the life. Whoever believes in Me, though he die, yet shall he live” (John 11:25-26).

Surely This Must Be Satire

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I’ve seen a few letters circulating from local school districts about student walkouts protesting ICE. Beyond our own communities’ borders, there’ve been other stories and accompanying images about students pouring out of school buildings, holding signs, chanting slogans, and presenting themselves as voices for compassion and justice.

At first glance, these walkouts—misspelled signs and all—can seem admirable to some, maybe even virtuous. I’ve read plenty of comments from folks in various Linden forums praising the students for exercising their right to protest. That said, there are plenty of others in those forums tippety-tapping my thoughts, making it so I don’t have to write a single word. On my part, I’m not convinced a majority of the participating students actually understand or even care about the actual protest itself, if only because there are so many reports of kids joining them just to skip school. Some of the parents in one particular forum admitted as much, saying their kids flat out told them they see it as a way to take a day off.

Still, I’m sure some sincerely believe they are standing up for people being mistreated. But even with that, I’m in relative disagreement. Apart from the fact that the events in Minnesota gave birth to the walkouts—and it’s only after $9 billion in fraud was discovered in the Somali community, thereby serving as the perfect, all-encompassing distraction—the whole situation has been framed entirely by emotion. There isn’t a single thing about it that suggests actual thought. It has “knee-jerk” in its soul. And if there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that people have always been drawn to causes framed in emotional language—most especially youth.

When I say emotional language, I mean just that. Even the forum commentary surrounding all of this was perpetually framed in simple emotional terms. It was stuff like compassion versus cruelty, inclusion versus exclusion, justice versus oppression. These are powerful categories, and they resonate emotionally. And yet, the reality of immigration policy, law enforcement, and perhaps most importantly, national sovereignty, is far more complex than a misspelled protest sign allows.

The plain fact is that a nation, like pretty much anything, cannot function without order. Laws exist not merely to punish but to create stability and fairness. When students walk out of school to protest the enforcement of existing laws, they might “feel” they are expressing compassion or inclusion. But what are they doing implicitly? They’re arguing that the law itself should be disregarded when its necessary enforcement becomes uncomfortable.

But again, all of that said, I remain unconvinced that most of the students participating in these protests are even capable of reaching that conclusion without some help, which I assume the teachers and administrators who appear to be egging them on are disinterested in providing. I read one comment from a teacher implying that it brings her joy to see her students embrace anything that stands against Donald Trump.

That’s not helping students think through complex issues. That’s not teaching. That’s propagandizing. That’s the imposition of ideology.

Now, I’m not saying all protests are inherently bad. I stopped shopping at Target when they started letting men use the women’s restrooms. When they corrected course, I returned. But what I am saying is that public demonstrations—the kinds with people holding signs and marching and shouting—they are, by design, built on emotion. There’s no room for discussion or reflection in such demonstrations. The loudest voices, the most extreme slogans, and the simplest narratives that can be repeated as mantras tend to dominate. All nuance disappears. The quiet but necessary work of examining—of learning, reasoning, and weighing competing ideas is replaced entirely by chanting and the inevitable social media applause.

Which makes student walkouts like these somewhat satirical.

First of all, a human brain isn’t even fully developed until the mid-twenties. There are plenty of studies about how cognitive capability is inhibited until that point. So, my point about these kids not understanding what they’re doing remains fixed. I suppose secondly, education is meant to form the mind. Assuming a school is actually doing this, when students leave classrooms to protest rather than study, they are, by default, putting aside the very tools they need to grow into thinkers who understand the world they hope to change.

Notice I prefaced by saying “assuming a school is actually doing this.” There’s a reason homeschooling and classical/parochial education are booming right now. The modern American education system seems incapable of fulfilling its charter, especially given the results. America’s scores, compared to those of other countries, prove we are no longer leaders of the intellectual pack. But we’ve mastered gender confusion. We’ve graduated to “2+2=4” being racist. We most certainly excel at woke, and we’ve become top-tier engineers of Marxism-inspired social justice.

I suppose this stirs the question of responsibility. Schools are not ideological training camps. At least they’re not supposed to be. I suppose in their mineral form, they’re institutions entrusted with preparing young people for adulthood. One of the most important skills students must develop is the ability to think critically and to act responsibly as adults. When a school’s leadership allows a walkout—or worse, fosters and praises it—at a minimum, it risks teaching that obligations and responsibilities can be set aside whenever a person feels like it. That is not a lesson that serves students well in the long run.

For example, if I, as a parent, allowed my daughter to skip school or basketball practice because she felt more like going shopping, I would be teaching her that commitments are conditional and responsibilities are negotiable. I’d be setting her up to fail as an adult.

In adult life, obligations rarely disappear simply because you’d rather be doing something else. Learning to weigh convictions, fulfill duties, and perhaps, as it meets with these walkouts, to choose appropriate times and means to make one’s voice heard is part of becoming a mature and responsible person. Regardless of whether we like it, the fact remains that schools share in the task of teaching that lesson.

I guess what I’m saying is that any student who walks out should be treated the same way any other student who leaves school without permission is treated. The absence should be marked unexcused, missed work should have to be made up according to school policy, and whatever ordinary disciplinary measures apply—detention or suspension or whatever—should be imposed consistently. Rule enforcement like this does not mean administrators are cruel or that students should be forbidden from having opinions. To believe otherwise is to let one’s emotions steer. The lesson is that rules are important, and they only mean something when they are applied evenly.

The unfortunate thing is that many schools wouldn’t even consider doing this. And why? Because they’d become living contradictions. From what I’ve read, it sure seems that a significant number of teachers and administrators want the kids to protest. They want them to embrace progressive ideologies and demonstrate adjacent behavior. Holding them to school policies, especially in this instance, risks accidentally teaching that law enforcement is, at its core, about the rule of law. A school cannot function if its rules are treated as suggestions, obeyed only when convenient, and ignored when they aren’t. By holding students accountable to the school’s own rules, educators would be demonstrating how a lawful system—whether a classroom, entire school, or much larger society—is actually supposed to work.

Concerning immigration laws and ICE’s enforcement of them, they risk accidentally teaching that a school—or nation—that does not enforce its laws should not expect to remain for long.

Time Travel in the Bible?

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I’m so incredibly exhausted by the world’s news cycles. Each new day brings a brand new insanity. So, here’s the thing. How about we just swim around in our own weirdness as Christians for a moment? Here’s what I mean.

For starters, I’m only late to this topic for those who follow the historic lectionary, which we do here at Our Savior. For everyone else in the liturgical community, the Transfiguration of Our Lord will likely be celebrated this Sunday. The next stop—Ash Wednesday.

I suppose another reason I say I’m late to this discussion is that after worship here at Our Savior three weeks ago, during the Adult Bible Study hour, I shared a thought I had while preaching on the text for Transfiguration Sunday from Matthew 17:1-9. Yes, it landed on me in the middle of the sermon. It didn’t make it into the sermon. But it certainly was rattling around in my brain. Essentially, I wondered whether it might be plausible that Moses and Elijah, the two patriarchs who stood and spoke with Jesus on the mountain, were actually stepping into that moment from moments in their own time.

I shared that thought with the adults in the Bible study. However, I never finished the thought. And so, this is it.

Typically, the moment Moses and Elijah arrive is interpreted as a visit from heaven. But the whole thing seems almost too dense for that simple deduction. I mean, if this is merely a visit from heaven, even just to serve as witnesses, why does the moment feel so heavy with the entire history of divine revelation? I know it’s not a good idea to form theological positions from speculation. However, I guess what I’m wondering about is not merely what happened, but how deep the event actually runs into the fabric of the Old Testament accounts. When Moses and Elijah appear with Jesus on the mountain, is something more taking place? Is time and space converging? Is it possible that when Moses and Elijah encountered God in the Old Testament, they were, in one or more of those moments, actually meeting with Christ in the Transfiguration moment? Is this something that—not merely theologically, but actually—is a binding moment that shows the simultaneous reaching backward and forward of redemptive history? Christianity teaches that such things are true. But is it being demonstrated in the Transfiguration?

I know it might sound like a huge waste of time to some. Still, the New Testament provides the necessary theological foundation for at least asking the question. Saint John writes pretty plainly, “No one has ever seen God; the only God, who is at the Father’s side, he has made him known” (John 1:18). Christ Himself says, “Not that anyone has seen the Father except he who is from God” (John 6:46). And yet, the Old Testament repeatedly describes Moses, Elijah, and others as truly encountering God—speaking with Him, seeing His glory, standing in His presence. What’s more, the Church has historically resolved this tension by confessing that all visible manifestations of God in the Old Testament are manifestations of the pre-incarnate Son. In other words, whenever God shows Himself to anyone, Christ is the One they see. One of my favorite professors, Rev. Dr. Charles Gieschen, has written a crisp resource that leans into this kind of stuff. His book Angelomorphic Christology: Antecedents & Early Evidence, while thickly academic, is great fun.

In the meantime, these things place Moses’ experience on Sinai in an entirely new light—no pun intended. Exodus 33:11 tells us that “the Lord used to speak to Moses face to face, as a man speaks to his friend,” and yet moments later, Moses is told that no one can see God’s face and live. The paradox only resolves if the One Moses encountered was truly divine, yet not the invisible Father in His fullness.

Something similar happens with Elijah’s encounter at Horeb. The prophet stands on the mountain as the Lord moves by, accompanied by wind, earthquake, and fire, yet is finally revealed as God speaking to Him in a quiet voice (1 Kings 19). The text uses the same language of divine self-disclosure found in Moses’ encounter—“the Lord passed by”—and, like Moses, Elijah returns from the mountain back into historical time, commissioned once again for his prophetic task of preaching a faithful Word. Like the scene with Moses, though happening at different times, this one includes the mountain, the divine glory, the overshadowing presence. Once again, the Transfiguration account begs the same question—if no one has seen the Father, who was Elijah encountering?

I don’t want to force anything into this. Eisegesis is dangerous. Still, the Transfiguration itself seems almost designed to invite a deeper investigation.

Another quick thing… Saint Luke’s version of the Transfiguration account tells us that Moses and Elijah speak with Jesus about His ἔξοδον—literally, His “exodus”—which He is about to accomplish at Jerusalem (Luke 9:31). First of all, the disciples weren’t invited into this discussion. He was talking to Moses and Elijah. Second, this isn’t casual vocabulary that Luke used. Moses’ entire ministry is defined by the Exodus. And Elijah stands at the head of the prophetic tradition that would proclaim what the Exodus was all about—calling Israel back to the covenant, confronting false worship, and insisting that the God who delivered His people is the same God who remains faithful to the end. And both Moses and Elijah are, right now, on the mountain with Jesus, talking about the fulfillment of everything they were commissioned to enact or proclaim.

Well, okay, one more quick thing. Did Jesus wink toward the possibility of the kind of collapse of linear time that I’m talking about when He said to the Pharisees in John 8:56, “Abraham rejoiced that he would see my day. He saw it and was glad.” Not merely believed it, but that he saw it. I think Hebrews echoes this too when it says that the faithful of old did not receive the promise apart from us, because their perfection awaited Christ (Hebrews 11:39-40). Their story was never complete in their own time. It awaited His appearing.

In the end, is any of this provable in a strict sense? Nope. Not at all. Scripture never explicitly states that Moses was temporally present at the Transfiguration while also standing temporally on Sinai, or that Elijah consciously stepped into a future moment with Christ while at Horeb. But as I said, I thought about this right in the middle of my sermon on the Transfiguration, and this morning I decided to have a little fun with it, especially since I left it hanging during Bible study a few weeks ago.

I suppose, through all of this, regardless of the theological wandering, we did land on something the Bible establishes pretty firmly. It’s something that the dispensationalists may want to keep in mind. Essentially, all divine self-revelation is Christological, all theophany is mediated by the Son, and all redemptive moments converge in Him. Time in Scripture is not merely sequential. It’s centered—situated entirely in Jesus. You cannot be God’s people apart from Christ, who was, is, and will always be.

So, before the private messages start arriving, calling me crazy or saying I have too much time on my hands (which I absolutely don’t), I suppose the safest and most faithful way to close up shop on this is not in terms of literal time travel, but in terms of unveiled continuity. When Moses and Elijah encountered God in the Old Testament, they encountered Christ, though they did not yet know Him as Jesus of Nazareth. In other words, while Moses and Elijah were there at the Transfiguration, no matter where they came from, they weren’t visiting with someone or something new. They were visiting with the same One they’d been with during their own theophanies in their own time.

In that sense, even the Transfiguration becomes less about Moses and Elijah showing up, as if they’re appearing to the disciples alongside Jesus, and more about Jesus appearing as He is to and with Moses, Elijah, Peter, James, and John—with an element of enlisting the new guys into the same company that has always stood before Him, now finally seeing Him without the veil.

And so, however you feel about what I’ve written this morning, rest assured, it was a far better way to spend my morning than simmering in everything else going on in the world. Although the student walkouts deserve some consideration. Maybe I’ll be “unexhausted” enough to think about those things for my regular eNews message this Sunday.

What “Me” Told Me

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I’ve unfriended or blocked a bunch of folks in the last few days. Crazy stuff. I don’t know about you, but I used to do everything I could to avoid unfriending or blocking anyone. Admittedly, however, it has gotten much easier—and much more frequent. I suppose that’s because I’ve finally shared a drink with and listened to the “me” who’s willing to do it without hesitation. He convinced me that there are certain conversation characteristics that are sort of begging to be blocked.

Let me tell you what he told me.

He told me that if you come to a post to lecture rather than converse, there’s a good chance you’ll get blocked. If you speak as though you alone possess all wisdom and the rest of us are merely students in your classroom, you’re probably going to get blocked. If you twist words, assign motives, or argue with the person you’re imagining rather than the one who is actually speaking, expect to get blocked.

If you mistake mockery for wit or cruelty for truth-telling, assume right away you could get blocked. If you derail every conversation into the same tired arguments, no matter the conversation’s nuances, there’s a chance you’re going to get blocked. If you cannot disagree without showing contempt, you’ll probably get blocked. If it’s obvious that you did not read in completeness what was written before replying, speaking only for myself, you’re definitely a candidate for getting blocked. Skimmers are the worst.

The last thing he said made a lot of sense. He told me that if you believe that access to someone’s words entitles you to their time, their attention, pestering access through private messaging, or response after well-crafted response to every demand you fire at them, you’re all but pleading to get blocked.

Wow. That makes sense.

In the end, I told him that none of these behaviors should surprise either of us. I’ve acknowledged countless times that writing for public consumption is a risky business. The moment you put words out in the open, you invite not only conversation, but distortion, bad faith, and the peculiar breed of person who’s more than willing to treat others like lessers—or like a customer service desk.

But then he came right back at me with something else worth considering. He told me that when these things happen, conversation is no longer conversation. It becomes noise. It becomes more about posturing and endless circular fights that produce nothing but irritation for the one posting, along with the good-faith readers who reply.

Again, wow. He’s right.

With that, I appreciate what the other “me” told me. I think he’s onto something here, and I intend to take it to heart, both in the giving and receiving of online content.

Two Kinds of Time

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There are moments in my life when the world seems to divide itself into two kinds of time. There are times of noise. And by noise, I mean the ceaseless insistence that I give my attention to this or that thing. It feels like I live in that time most of my waking hours. But then there are times of silence. Those are moments for thinking. Well, maybe not just thinking. Maybe they’re more about paying attention to the right thing, and memory is one of attention-to-the-right-thing’s accessible wells.

Admittedly, these two kinds of time rarely coexist comfortably. One tends to drive out the other.

I didn’t watch the Super Bowl. I most certainly didn’t watch the halftime show. The great machinery of American sports moved on without me a very long time ago. And the thing is, I do not feel poorer for it. What may be a national ritual for pretty much everyone else has never really been a ritual for me. Call me a fuddy duddy. That’s fine. There was a time when I followed this stuff. And I’m not judging anyone who does. I’m just saying that I don’t have the time required for proper devotion.

“But the quarterback is the youngest to ever go to the Super Bowl,” someone might say. That’s completely lost on me. “But Bad Bunny is the halftime show, and he just won like fifty Grammys or something.” Yawn. All I know about him is that he doesn’t sing in English, which means I couldn’t sing along if I wanted to. And then there’s the plain weirdness of a guy known for performing in women’s clothing. Yeah. No thanks.

And then there’s Charlie.

For Charlie, Jennifer and I watched the TPUSA halftime tribute. The performances were not what I would normally choose. Modern country is not my native tongue musically any more than the seemingly talentless, autotuned, largely digitally-created pop anthems of the stadium might be. But the songs were not the point. The point was where I began—the noise versus memory. I miss Charlie. I wanted to watch what TPUSA put together, if only for him.

When the videos and images of Charlie played at the end of the TPSUA halftime show, the weight of his absence landed pretty squarely on me again. I know I said audibly to Jennifer, “I can’t believe he’s gone.” Probably more than once. I haven’t watched any videos of Charlie since his death. I’ve avoided them. But then, suddenly, I was watching him in clips. In that moment, it was hard to just keep him safely in the category of someone I once knew but is now gone. There he was, moving and smiling and pointing. For me, that was a flashback to my times with him—laughing, talking, leaning forward in conversation about something he insisted that I know and remember. Again, as I always have to clarify, we were not besties. But he was legitimately a friend.

There was my friend. Ugh. Life is by no means an abstraction. It’s motion and voice and presence. And then, all of a sudden, it’s little more than memory.

I’ve never been a fan of Kid Rock. Not really. I struggle to see how he can sit in an interview, every other word from his mouth being the f-word, and then stand on stage and sing of Jesus. That doesn’t make sense to me. That said, fewer and fewer people actually do make sense to me. Most seem like they’re barely hanging on in faith, so I suppose Kid Rock needs some space, too. Still, the Gospel changes people. We’re not who we were before it found us. We want to be better. That said, it pays to keep in mind that the person bringing the message doesn’t empower the message. As Saint Paul made clear, the Gospel is the power of God unto salvation (Romans 1:16). We don’t save people. God does. And He does it by His Gospel.

I only mention Kid Rock because of the song he sang. “Til You Can’t,” hit pretty hard, not for its added theology, but for the deeply human reality it presented. Again, it’s all motion and voice and presence, until it’s only a memory. That’s how I was feeling about Charlie when I saw those videos and images.

Beyond these things, from what others are saying, the contrast between what I watched and what I didn’t watch was unquestionable. One performance, as usual, was built to be a worldly spectacle, teaching spectators how to worship pleasure. I believe the halftime show I watched was built, not just to compete with or protest this, but for remembrance. And not just to remember Charlie, even though that’s what I spent most of the time doing. It was an attempt to remember what makes America worthy of our concern—and perhaps even our active participation—enough to stir us to lift a finger to help.

Either way, whatever you took from whichever you watched, I’m pretty sure the world has probably moved on to other things already, as it always does. Still, I took something unforgettable from it. I was able to remember a life that had touched mine. And I was able to find thirty-five minutes of cultural rest as an American who just wants to “cut my grass, feed my dogs, wear my boots,” as Lee Brice sang, and not hear the world preach another sermon about how I’m irredeemable, backward, or somehow shame-worthy for thinking a man can’t be a woman, or for loving what America used to be. I suppose, unlike Super Bowls of the past, I walked away from this one feeling better, not worse—like maybe we still have a chance. The viewership numbers coming out certainly seem to suggest the possibility. It seems that as many as 22 million of us feel this way.

Maybe that’s the real story. Maybe Charlie’s legacy organization did what he’d have wanted it to do. Maybe millions of ordinary people experienced something more than a time of noisy spectacle. Maybe they experienced a time of memory. Maybe they were given a moment to ponder what’s good.

If that’s what happened, then perhaps the world hasn’t moved on quite as much as it thinks it has.