Monthly Archives: March 2023

Charming

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This past week, someone I was chatting with used the word “charming” in a sentence. The word stood apart from the rest of the conversation. I think this is true for two reasons.

The first is that, like so many other words that have faded from regular employment, “charming” has fallen on hard times. Linguistically, this happens naturally, and for various reasons. In the vernacular economy, words replace other words. One reason I’ve heard for this has to do with proportionate use. In other words, a term maintains its viability when a larger portion of its users fit its description. I don’t know if that’s relevant to “charming.” Although, having recently witnessed a young boy in a waiting room at a doctor’s office tell his mom to shut up and give back his cell phone, and then to see her do exactly as he demanded, I sometimes wonder. Charming means polite and friendly leading to likability. Polite, friendly, and likable did not fit this kid, and unfortunately, such behaviors are more so becoming the rule than the exception. With that, I wonder if the word really is of much use to us, except in cases of sarcasm. This leads me to the other reason.

Another reason the word stood apart is that in this case it was used positively. We both knew the person being described as a friendly and likable person. Indeed, he is charming in every sense of the word. But again, it seems more often than not, the word is scarred by cynical nuance. Charm is seen as a tool for getting what one wants. I read this morning that psychologists have decided on a name for this kind of charm. It’s called “Eddie Haskell Syndrome,” appropriately named after the character from the show Leave it to Beaver. Eddie was known for gushingly good behavior when adults were around. But when they weren’t, he was up to no good. He used charm to gain trust, but only so that he could get away with his deviant schemes.

We all know people like Eddie Haskell, folks who portray themselves one way and yet are completely different behind the scenes.

A few years ago, I told my son Harrison that being charming was a lost art, and it’s one I wanted him to embrace—and I wanted him to do it in a genuine way. By the way, it’s not like he wasn’t demonstrating the characteristics already. He was (and does). In context, he was experiencing a moment of exhaustion from trying to be polite while so many of his peers seemed self-centered and impolite. In that tired moment, I just wanted to encourage him to stay the course, telling him that while it wouldn’t get any easier, it certainly was the best way to live. The Bible definitely says as much. The advice Saint Paul gives in texts such as 1 Corinthians 13:4-7, Galatians 5:22-23, and Colossians 3:12 isn’t bad. It’s good. By this, I meant for Harrison to understand that charm—polite and considerate friendliness—goes a long way with people. A man who does these things makes others glad to be with him. This is true not just because he’s pleasant to be around, but because he emanates honorability. He shows he’s worth trusting, and what he says and does is worth emulating. It’s likely I told Harrison what Albert Camus said about charm. Camus said something about how charming people are the only ones who own a person’s “yes” before ever asking a specific question.

Considering our world, Camus’ words (and mine) are likely to be twisted toward the negative. Politeness, kindness, respectfulness, clean language—all the various characteristics that make for charm—these are goodie-two-shoes behaviors for many modern onlookers, things people expect others to do because they’re either culturally awkward or because they’re attempting to manipulate others. In one sense, the cynics are right on both accounts. Genuinely charming people are out of step with the secular culture, which in my estimation, is a good thing. We need more people willing to speak up and say things like, “Hey, that’s wrong. You shouldn’t use foul language like that.” Secularism is rarely on the side of such goodness. But charming people seem to emit goodness. Goodness can and does influence others. Charming people tend to make others want to be better, not worse. Again, this is a good thing. We could use a lot more of what charming people bring to the societal table.

Of course, charm can be used for bad, too. Even Proverbs 31:30 notes that charm can be wielded deceitfully. More than familiar with this, I should mention I’ll have a close eye on any “charming” young men cozying up to my daughters. I’m not stupid. And so, to all the Eddie Haskells, I say, “Beware. My Jeep Wrangler is far roomier than it looks. It can also get to undiscoverable backwoods places that other vehicles cannot.” My point: I’ll be watching for charm’s real fruits—Godly fruits. In particular, I’ll watch for the boys who encourage my daughters to walk with Christ. However, only the ones who genuinely want to join them in that walk will ever come close to getting my blessing. In other words, if you cannot care for and walk with my girls as they walk beside Christ, you may be a nice person, but you’re not the kind of “charming” Christopher Thoma and the rest of his family are tracking.

In the end, the topic of charm’s fading usage is an interesting one. Does it really matter all that much? I don’t know. Plenty of words have disappeared over time. Although, it’s true we’ve lost some pretty interesting words like snollygoster and brabble. Look them up. You’ll see we absolutely need to reinvigorate both. Relative to charm, however, the word itself might not matter, but its meaning certainly does. I suppose when its synonyms (words like amiable, delightful, engaging, and others) begin disappearing, too, we should be concerned because, as a society, we likely no longer belong to their meanings.

A Squirrel is Not a Dog

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For the record, children are simply the best. I’m pretty sure I provided some evidence for this statement last week when I shared Giselle Graney’s Triduum artwork. Of course, I have ample reasons beyond her demonstration. One of the reasons can be seen in the Lord’s words from Matthew 18:4, which is when Jesus told His disciples that to be great in the Kingdom, one must bear the humble faith of children.

Having revisited the whole chapter this morning, I think what strikes me is that, unlike adults, children receive information differently. Adults tend to reshape information to fit what they already know. For example, if an adult believes baptism is nothing more than a symbolic washing, when that same adult crosses paths with biblical texts describing it as so much more, he or she will find a way to cram those texts into what’s already believed. That’s called eisegesis. When it comes to studying God’s Word, eisegesis is not humble. It’s self-serving. It imposes preconceived meanings upon a text. The opposite of this is called exegesis. Exegesis means to take meaning from the text.

Personally, I think one of Sin’s definable fingerprints is mankind’s tendency toward eisegesis. Indeed, Scripture poorly read or heard resulting in bad interpretation is Sin’s perpetual revenge.

When it comes to information intake, children don’t necessarily do this. At least not until adults show them how. I think Jean Piaget, the infamous child psychologist, more or less proved it. He’s the one who showed children as the truest exegetes. We see it in their attentiveness leading to adaptability—how they’re always on duty with information—how they can take two pieces of information, and when the pieces don’t fit, they adapt. They let the facts change them rather than laboring to change the facts.

I’m sure plenty of parents have seen this happen in real-time. For example, a child sees a dog for the first time. He learns to call it “dog.” He sees a snake. It’s far different from a dog, so he asks what it is. He learns to call it “snake.” But then he sees a squirrel. It looks absolutely nothing like a snake, so he knows it isn’t one. That’s easy. And it’s little more than honest observation. Still, his categories are limited. He has to put the squirrel somewhere into his knowledge base. Therefore, he notices its fur. He sees it has a tail. He watches it run across the yard on four legs. Only knowing dogs and snakes, he points proudly and says, “Momma! Dog!” When the mom clarifies it’s a squirrel, the child creates a new category based on fact. He doesn’t argue with his mom for the squirrel’s dogness. He doesn’t try to convince her that the squirrel is really a dog trapped in a squirrel’s body. It’s simply not a dog. It’s a squirrel. The facts change the child. He adapts. Piaget showed that adaptation is innate to child development, being more so relative to natural law. Every normal human child does it instinctually.

Piaget demonstrated that there are only two reasons a child would deliberately think a squirrel is a dog. The first is if he was completely ignorant of squirrels, and because he is attempting to grow and learn in truth, he adds the animal to the only available categories he knows. The second is if an adult lied to him, interrupting the child’s ordinary course of development and confusing the categories.

Theologically speaking, it’s there you see an essential distinction between the faith Jesus describes and the kind of faith the world promotes. One receives truth. The other bends it. To bend truth is to change facts. To change facts is to lie. As Christians, we know lies are the devil’s offspring (John 8:44). Unfortunately, all of us are often more than willing to be a part of his family.

Apply what I’ve written however you’d like. There certainly are plenty of things happening in the world around us right now that make all of this worth considering. But as you ponder, be aware of your interpretative process. Are you being shaped by truth or opinions? Is God’s Word imposing on you, or are you imposing on God’s Word? For example, if God’s Word plainly says that each of us is biologically male or biologically female—and God Himself is the author of this grand design—could it be true that any of us were born with or in the wrong body? Going a bit further, is God’s Word to be counted truthful when it labels homosexuality a Sin, or is the Bible’s perspective on the topic suddenly pliable because the issue hits close to home? For that matter, is adultery a Sin? Is gossip a Sin? Is theft a Sin? Or are these activities somehow made justifiable when my spouse is inattentive, or I have a juicy scoop on someone else I feel needs airing, or I don’t have enough money?

God calls these behaviors “Sin” because that’s what they are. God’s Word does not lie. It gives you the truth. A squirrel is a squirrel. A dog is a dog.

Of course, the Sin-nature shows itself to be powerfully eisegetical in each of life’s tempting circumstances. It despises truth, and so, it imposes itself during information intake. In my experience, I’d say it doesn’t even want to know the truth. Truth is dangerous to its narrative. And if the truth does arrive on the scene, the Sin-nature will try to manipulate it, doing what it can to fit truth’s facts into its deliberately unadaptable categories. That’s unfortunate because, in the end, and as has been said, a squirrel will never be a dog. A male will never be a female. Adultery will never be Godly. And what’s more, at the divine conclusion of all things, the One who established the truth’s borders won’t be found adjusting any of them for individuals (Romans 2:11). Truth will be truth. Sometimes it will be hard. Other times it will be easy. But either way, it’ll always be what’s best.

I ask the Lord daily for a faith that knows and accepts this. Thankfully, He accomplished everything necessary to answer my prayer before I even asked the question. It was a strange truth He gave. Through mortal eyes, it appeared to be a criminal’s death. But God’s Word defined it differently. The Word imposed itself upon me, establishing an entirely new category. The man hanging on that cross was no ordinary man. He was God’s Son. He was not being punished for His own crimes but mine. And by this brutal event drenched in everything dreadful, I have been given that which is most wonderful: eternal life. By the power of the Holy Spirit given through this imposing Word of God, He continues to make me His trusting child—a Christian adult desiring to be in complete alignment with everything His loving Savior says is true.

Know the Labor Among Us is Not in Vain

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I have a treat for you this morning. Truly.

For one, it’s proof that my congregation’s littlest children are listening—really listening—to what’s being preached and taught. This should be an assurance for anyone among us who’d question our Christian school or the rites and ceremonies of our liturgies. Our children, more than supported by faithful parents, are taking God’s Word into themselves in the richest ways—ways that equip them not only for steadfastness but for communicating the Gospel with substance. In other words, we’re raising our children to be far more than “Jesus loves you” Christians. They’re ones who can speak of God’s love and then go further into the person and work of Christ, the substance of that love.

Proof of this can be seen in a series of pictures I received after worship last Sunday. The images, five in all, depict the events of Holy Week and the Triduum—from Palm Sunday to Easter. Giselle Graney made them for me. And oh, how wonderful they are!

For the record, Giselle is eight years old. But don’t let that distract you. It’s clear she knew what she was doing. By the way, I went down to the school to ask her about a few of the images’ details just to be sure. I learned she was at home feeling a little under the weather, so I called her mom, Kerry. I asked her to check with Giselle. Sure enough, Giselle was intentional, even with the seemingly inconsequential details. And by the way, what she put into the portraits proves a theological prowess that extends far beyond many adults—the kind of artistic demonstration of Christological depth that one usually only sees among the greats like Caravaggio and Rembrandt.

Give me a minute or two, and I’ll walk you through a few of Giselle’s images. I know you’ll be as blessed. But before I share, there’s one more thing to keep in mind: the rule of interpretation.

A line in The Picture of Dorian Gray comes to mind. This is likely because I recently spent some time in the book looking for another line that fit a paper I was writing. In the volume’s preface, Oscar Wilde writes, “All art is at once surface and symbol. Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril.” In other words, when looking at art, you see the details that are actually there. That’s the surface. But there’s always more to it. There’s meaning. Art attempts to make meaning visible. That involves interpretation. That requires the viewer to dig deeper into what he sees. It also involves prerequisite knowledge. Together, there in the substratum, knowledge and meaning challenge the viewer, just as the artist would have it. Giselle has done this masterfully. What’s more, she’s been paying attention to everything she’s heard so far throughout Lent. These images prove her heart is already cemented for the events circling Golgotha’s terrifying hill. And yet, she’s making her way there (and now, she’s taking all of us along) with a firm grasp on everything Golgotha itself makes sure. Even at eight years old, Giselle is demonstrating the heart-shaping power of the Gospel.

She gave me five pictures. I’m only going to talk about four. And I’ll share each before I describe it.

The first one depicts Palm Sunday. What do I like about it? First of all, this is the only picture she drew with Jesus in it—which I’ll get to in a minute. Until then, know she gets Jesus right. It seems most Palm Sunday images are inclined to portray Jesus as jubilant and smiling. And yet, Luke’s Gospel tells us He was crying, saddened that people had no idea what was actually happening, that He was riding forth to die, and that their rejection of Him as the Savior could and would only end dreadfully (Luke 19:28-44). Giselle’s Palm Sunday roadway is festively bright with colorful cloaks and palm branches. But her Jesus is tearfully sad. (See the cropped image above.) Giselle has been paying attention to the intricate details being preached to her. She didn’t just roll along in the usual pace of a springtime smiling Jesus—which I imagine is preferable to many. She showed us the Lord’s concerned heart, even when the world around Him expected an entirely different kind of king. This matters more to the Palm Sunday story than most folks might know.

Another of her portraits that caught my eye was the one detailing Gethsemane. Strangely, as I mentioned before, Jesus is not in it. Then I realized why. Jesus has already been arrested and taken away by the guards. At the picture’s top, there’s a star-filled sky. But beneath this sky, the theme is clearly darkness, as it should be. This is the beginning of hell’s onslaught against Him. Jesus said as much when the troupe approached to take Him away. Giselle heard her Lord say this last Wednesday during midweek worship. “This is your hour,” He said, “and the power of darkness” (Luke 22:53).

Still looking for Jesus somewhere else in the Gethsemane picture, the viewer only sees where He’s been. On one side, a blood-pocked portion of grass is found beside a tree. That’s where He knelt and prayed, His sweat becoming blood (Luke 22:44). On the other side, a rooster (Matthew 26:34), a sword and a bloody ear (John 18:10), and thirty pieces of silver (Matthew 26:14-16). Beneath those images, the words: “Jesus shines butier than any star.”

Did you catch that?

Intentionally or unintentionally, Giselle did two things there. First, she combined beautiful and brighter into a single word. When writers do things like that, it’s for emphasis—to draw attention to something. Intentionally or unintentionally, Giselle highlighted a profound point: what Jesus has endured—the betrayal, the suffering, the road to a grisly death—these make for the brightest, most beautiful demonstration of God’s glory (John 12:23-29; Mark 10:35-40). Indeed, Jesus displays a glory that is butier by far than any spinning celestial in the endless sky.

Another image depicts Good Friday. Again, no Jesus. But a moment of reflection determines His location. It is finished (John 19:30). The cross at the center is empty. Jesus is in the sealed tomb to one side. The rest of the portrait reveals a blackened sky (Matthew 27:45), the Father’s hand extended as He gives Jesus over as payment for Sin (Romans 8:32), a torn temple curtain (Matthew 27:51), dice used for casting lots (Matthew 27:35), the centurion’s helmet reverently removed in the presence of God’s Son (Matthew 27:54), a wilting flower (Isaiah 40:8, Romans 8:22) beside other rich images relative to the Lord’s powerful sacrifice. Displayed most prominently are the words, “Father, forgive them” (Luke 23:34). These are the first of the seven last words Jesus spoke from the cross. I just preached on these particular words two weeks ago. Giselle was there. She heard the reason they’re first. Amid the gory details, the forgiveness of sins rests at the heart of the terrifying but butier event. That’s why Jesus is doing what He’s doing. He’s winning our forgiveness. It’s His goal. The “them” isn’t just the people attacking Him. It’s us, too. And He never loses sight of us throughout the ordeal. This sentence leads His final string of sentences, serving as the heart for each.

Giselle gets this.

The last image I’ll talk about is incredibly rich. It’s Giselle’s portrait of Easter. Again, no Jesus. But by now, I think I get Giselle’s broader theme, intentional or unintentional. First of all, while we can’t see Him, the risen and ascended Christ has promised, “Behold, I am with you always, to the end of the age” (Matthew 28:20. But more important to the Easter narrative’s cadence, Jesus is always a step ahead of His beloved. In other words, the Lord is always out in front, accomplishing what none of us could or would if left to ourselves. We can only follow and discover His wonderful work. Here, in particular, the tomb is open. The sun is shining. The flowers are blooming beneath a beautiful blue sky. Scribed across the skyline are the words announcing what He’s already done, “He I Risen Allauilla!”

Now, before you criticize Giselle’s spelling, give the eight-year-old artist her due. She’s already proven her masterful ways. Did she really misspell some words, or did she find a way to avoid using one in particular since we’re still in Lent? As many who celebrate Lent already know, tradition sets the word aside until Easter. We don’t sing, say, or write it. (Notice, I didn’t use it in this paragraph.) Also, notice it’s not “He is risen,” but “He I risen.”

Okay. She probably misspelled both words. Nevertheless, here’s a chance to apply interpretation born from what’s already been a faithful demonstration of the Gospel. The words she gave us, even if by accident, are asking to be mined more deeply.

Start with “He I risen.” That’s easy. Jesus and Giselle. That’s John 14:19. Because He lives, she will live also. As far as the other, when I saw “Allauilla,” I saw Latin. My Latin is more than rusty, but I think a case could be made for “Alla uilla!” to be translated as “Come on, to the village!” Thinking this way, remember, everything Giselle has presented so far was born from childlike faith listening to and receiving God’s Word. Staying the course, “Come on, to the village!” seems awfully familiar to Easter. If not, then you’ve forgotten Matthew 28:5-8. It’s there we read:

The angel said to the women, “Do not be afraid, for I know that you seek Jesus who was crucified. He is not here, for he has risen, as he said. Come, see the place where he lay. Then go quickly and tell his disciples that he has risen from the dead, and behold, he is going before you to Galilee; there you will see him. See, I have told you.”

Do you know what I’d say in a moment like that? “Alla uilla! Come on! Let’s go to wherever Jesus is going and find Him!” And sure enough, Jesus is found on the way to the village of Emmaus (Luke 24:13-35) and then again later that same day in the upper room in Jerusalem (Luke 24:36-49).

Giselle has given me so much through these images. I’ll cherish them until I meet face-to-face with the One who inspired them. That being said, I hope you realize how significant the investment for faith made in this little girl has been, not only by her faithful parents but by a congregation intent on preserving the pure preaching and teaching of God’s Word and the right administration of the Sacraments. A church holding to this is invaluable. A Christian school serving as an extension of such a congregation is priceless. I’m absolutely sure that’s Our Savior Evangelical Lutheran Church in Hartland, Michigan. Behold Giselle’s demonstration and know the labor among us is not in vain.

Maturity

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I’ve been thinking that churches without lectionaries (which, in part, help lead through seasons) are really missing out, especially during Lent. Lent is an incredible time for spiritual maturation. Indeed, it’s supposed to be. It’s deliberately solemn. It’s intentionally reflective. The Christian Church aims herself during Lent in ways that she doesn’t at other times of the year.

Although, no matter the season, she doesn’t play by the world’s rules while doing this. She can’t. And why? Because the Church is bound to the Lord’s course for maturity. Here’s what I mean.

For Lent in particular, one of its chief aims is to pull down our defenses. It labors to explode the barricades we put around ourselves. Sometimes these barriers are erected to hide our real selves from others. In other words, we don’t want people to know how rotten we truly are. Perhaps they’re guarding an unholy self-righteousness that cannot see its own faults. In that sense, maybe they’ve been built to protect secret behaviors we just can’t bring ourselves to categorize as sinful because deep down inside, we know if we call them what they are, that means we’ll have to change.

Sometimes we just don’t know why the barricades are there. Maybe something dreadful happened to us, and now we’re guarded. Perhaps they’ve been learned from people who were nothing short of bad examples.

No matter what builds or supports our defenses, Lent is a flamethrower aimed at a paper house. It’s a wrecking ball, and with each of its concussive blows, more of humanity’s need for a Savior is revealed until, finally, we’re standing at Good Friday’s cross surrounded by rubble.

This is good. It’s all part of Christian maturity’s process—a course of spiritual development that involves admitting who we are at our epicenters—our dreadful nature and the need to see it wholly overthrown. It is a humble embracing of God’s truths—terrible or comforting—rather than boldly holding to one’s deceptive self.

In short, it takes spiritual maturity to admit to Sin and, thereby, to be found confessing it. In some ways, worldly maturity means reaching self-sufficiency. It means reaching the end of one’s life and, alongside Sinatra, saying, “I did it my way.” I heard that song played at a funeral. It made me sad. Christian maturity means steering clear of doing things our way. It means being utterly dependent upon Christ, upon doing things His way. Lent brings this into incredible focus. It reminds us that Sin is our way. And then it shows us the One hanging on Good Friday’s cross. It shows Him hanging there, not for Himself, but for us. This is His way, and it saves us.

In a way, Christ indicates this humble maturity in Matthew 18:1-6. It’s there He claims that the greatest in the kingdom of heaven are the ones who humble themselves like children. In other words, when a Christian grows up—as he matures spiritually—he will be less like a self-sufficient, independent adult and more like a child whose trust must be placed externally. Childlike faith won’t resist truth’s hand. It won’t see it as invasive. Like a terrified child, fearful of this world’s monsters, it knows its own inadequacies and calls to the One who can provide what’s needed. Relative to humanity, this means rescue from the sinful predicament that keeps mankind in bondage to Death.

Lent helps cultivate this awareness. It helps take strides toward this kind of maturity.

Pulitzer Prize-winning writer Saul Bellow once said, “A man should be able to hear, and to bear, the worst that could be said of him.” Ten minutes on social media and Bellow would have labeled us as an immature society. In a way, Lent agrees with him. Spiritual maturity braves accusation, not just from others, but from God Himself. It knows it can be wrong. And yet, Lent’s undertow—a gripping current leading to the cross—reminds the Christian just what it is that enables a believer to admit to the hard news and be preserved through it.

The Gospel—the good news that we have not been left to our dreadfulness. Jesus, the Son of God, has been given over for our rescue.

Indeed, God wants us to know the depths of our very real need. In fact, it’s His love that carries the dreadful communication to us. In other words, He shows us our Sins because He cares. But then, He nails its solution to a cross. Right there, pinned to its splintery beams, we behold God’s love in the flesh. This love changes us. It enables us to confess our deepest dependence and cling to the only One who can provide what’s needed.

Regardless of the season, this is the heart and soul of the Church’s message. But if you miss it the rest of the year, it’s all but on steroids during Lent.

My prayer is that Lent is leading you in this way. If you’ve taken a chance to immerse yourself in it, I’m sure, like me, you’ve learned it certainly is capable.