Monthly Archives: February 2024

I’m a Rino. You’re a Rino. We’re all Rinos.

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I discovered a fantastically insightful bit of language recently. I happened upon it while reading an article about political attitudes and the cultural climates they produce. It was an unexciting but necessary read, I can assure you.

The line I enjoyed (and will forever remember) was attributed to the American humorist Don Marquis. He wrote, “A hypocrite is a person who—but who isn’t?”

Do you get it? I do. Although, I don’t think the article writer understood its depths. He used it as superficial fluff to preface groups who vote contrary to what they actually believe. For example, a Christian who claims the Bible while voting for pro-choice candidates demonstrates a measure of dreadful duplicity. But Marquis’s words own a much deeper stratum, and the crafting of his sentence shows it. He started to describe a hypocrite’s particulars but suddenly stopped. The abruptness in his change of thought is what activates the tension. His point: There’s no use in singling out particular determiners that ultimately quantify hypocrites because, in the end, we’re all hypocrites. The identification process requires little more than a person pointing his finger, moving from person to person in a crowd while saying, “He’s a hypocrite. She’s a hypocrite. Those folks in the corner, they’re hypocrites. The man at that table, he’s a hypocrite.”

That’s about it.

In conservative Republican circles here in Michigan, “Rino” is the favorite synonym these days for hypocrite. It means “Republican in name only.” Supposedly, a Rino claims conservatism’s title while practicing ideologies that are anything but. Of course, the person wielding the accusation against a fellow conservative typically fancies himself or herself as one of conservativism’s divine emblems and subsequent protectors. The funny thing is, like the accused, they’re likely just a different shade of Rino. Give me a few minutes in a room with any of them, and I’ll show you how non-conservative they really are. This is especially true of certain Bible-wielding ones. I’ll give you an example.

Concerning the current division in Michigan’s GOP, there are a few folks online who scatter the title Rino around the conservative room like clowns throwing candy at a parade. These same people tout things like our nation’s Judeo-Christian founding, parental authority in schools, secure elections, and such. But then they start talking Bible stuff, claiming to be conservative exegetes of God’s Word and fixing their wild interpretations as underpinning to their conservative platform. They start talking about how this online prophet said this and that, or the Holy Spirit ordained that particular candidate, or this Bible verse is clearly talking about Donald Trump, and blah blah blah. By doing this, they’re doing what progressive liberals do with the Bible. They’re twisting it to mean and say things it simply doesn’t.

Another unfortunate but precise example: I saw a woman online—ordained as a pastor, no less—spouting off that she believed every word of the Bible was true right before wandering into a rant about Rinos in the Republican Party. She even made the point I made before, which is that no Christian can rightly claim the Scriptures and be pro-choice at the same time. On this, we agree. But what about the texts instructing that women ought not be pastors? There are quite a few. Must we maintain the pro-life texts but jettison these?

This is where the hypocritical rinocery begins. In these moments, so many start wiggling around, making room for their preferences. They refer to the texts as culturally and contextually limited, implying they don’t apply to the universal Christian Church. And by the way, lest we think they’re cultural or contextual, there is one text to rule them all: 1 Corinthians 14:33. Before Paul reasserts the point, he writes, “As in all the churches of the saints” (Ὡς ἐν πάσαις ταῖς ἐκκλησίαις τῶν ἁγίων). In other words, his forbiddance isn’t limited to this or that particular culture or context. It applies to all Christian churches. This is to say, it is a doctrinal boundary that cannot be crossed.

The wiggling rinocery isn’t true conservatism’s tendency. Conservatism prefers to take from a text what’s inherent to it, whether it’s the Bible, the Constitution, or whatever. Progressive liberals are the ones who approach with the intent of shoving their preconceived belief systems into things. Look around. They’re everywhere. They’re the Christians telling you Jesus “gets us” no matter what we believe, do, say, think, or whatever—as if there’s nothing about us that might need changing. But Jesus didn’t say that. However, He did say there are sides, and you’d better be on the right one when you breathe your last (Matthew 12:30).

Returning to my original point, I suppose I’ll end with this—because I have somewhere to be in an hour.

These vociferous accusers may tip their hat and smile toward conservatism, and yet, just as Shakespeare spoke through the character Hamlet, “One may smile, and smile, and be a villain.” If Republican equals genuine conservatism, then everyone in the party is a Rino. I am. You are. And five minutes together in private to ask a few questions would likely prove it.

Satan is a Toothless Punk

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Last week’s eNews prompted an interesting response from one of its readers. The part that stirred discussion was my apparent disregard for Satan’s significance. Referring to the Lord’s words in Luke 22:53, I insisted that Jesus was not referring to Satan by the phrase “power of darkness.” I claimed sin was the power Jesus was talking about, implying I’m not one to give Satan credit as an all-consuming “power.” I did say that Satan is a big deal. Of course, if he weren’t, the Lord wouldn’t have needed to face off with him in all the ways He did. That certainly means the Devil is not to be trifled with. Still, he’ll forever be an agent of sin and nothing more. And so, when the Lord says to Judas, “This is your hour,” He’s speaking to Judas directly and engaging with the one actively inspiring his deeds—Satan. However, when the Lord adds, “and the power of darkness,” He’s referring to sin’s consuming reign in this world. I might consider adding death to the equation. Saint Paul certainly noted its relationship to sin. He wrote that sin once had dominion over us. Within this dominion, he explained that “just as sin came into the world through one man, and death through sin, and so death spread to all men because all sinned” (Romans 5:12).

Looking at what I just wrote, I think I’ll add it to this morning’s sermon manuscript. It certainly fits. One of my goals is to paint a portrait of sin’s deepest significance for the listeners.

Getting back to my original thought, I suppose if I’m wrong about this detail concerning Satan, I’m sure others will be willing to say so. Either way, we’ll find out on that great and glorious day. In the meantime, I won’t go looking for reasons (even biblical ones) to stroke Satan’s ego. He’s been defanged. I have nothing to fear from him, the toothless punk that he is.

Regardless of the person, if someone writes or says something worth remembering, I’ll file the truth of the words away. I do this mentally and physically. That said, I have various quotations printed and taped to the bookshelves in my office. I’ve had one for over a decade from Father Gabriel Amorth. He was the Roman Catholic Church’s chief exorcist for many years. It seems he’s somewhat popular, having become the subject of a recent film starring Russel Crowe. I appreciated something he said during a 2001 interview with an Italian news magazine. The interviewer asked Amorth, “Are you afraid of the Devil.” His response was as it should be:

“Afraid of that beast? He’s the one who should be afraid of me. I work in the name of the Lord. He is only an ape of God.”

As I acknowledged, Satan is a big deal. He’s clever. He’s tenacious. He’s strong. Even Jesus admitted this. In Luke 10, the Lord told His listeners, “When a strong man, fully armed, guards his own palace, his goods are safe” (v. 21). The term “strong man” was a familiar reference to Satan, and so, Jesus’ listeners knew who he was talking about. Still, the Lord concluded the acknowledgment of Satan’s strength as quickly as He began it, turning His listeners’ attention toward Himself, “But when one stronger than he attacks him and overcomes him, he takes away his armor in which he trusted and divides his spoil” (v. 22).

Yes, the Devil is strong. But Jesus is stronger.

In the scheme of things, the Lord spoke the words in Luke 10 well before venturing toward His death on the cross. Doing so, He assured us that the Devil was about to be disarmed and stripped of everything. Later in Luke 22, the time finally arrived for head-to-head combat. The strong man led a contingent to meet the Stronger Man praying in the Garden of Gethsemane. Strangely, the Stronger Man said to the strong man, “This is your hour” (v. 53). In other words, Jesus submitted at that moment and, as such, invited the Devil to do his level best to lay the Lord low. If you keep reading, you’ll see that the Devil embraced the challenge, ultimately delivering measures of dreadfulness we’ll never fully know.

But the strong man’s fun ended when the Stronger Man cried out, “It is finished” (John 19:30). Of course, the Lord’s cry was declarative. He was announcing that the price for our redemption had been fully paid. With a sense for Easter, His words can be heard as, “Alright, that’s enough. It’s my turn, now.” Because it was. By His death, the Stronger Man endured in our place against the strong man’s fury. In that same moment, the unholy trinity of sin, death, and Satan was ultimately taken to the mat and pinned. The Stronger Man walked away at the end of the three-day count, leaving the strong man defeated.

As believers, the Stronger Man is with us (Matthew 28:20). He claimed us as His own in our baptism (Matthew 28:19, Romans 6:3-8, Galatians 3:27, Revelation 7:14-17). We are not apart from Him. We are in Him, and He is in us (John 14:19-20), and greater is the One we bear (1 John 4:4). Because of this, the Devil has every reason to fear God’s people and not the other way around. We confessed as much at Lent’s beginning when we prayed the Litany here at Our Savior in Hartland last Sunday. At one moment along the way, we boldly petitioned that God would continue “to beat down Satan under our feet.”

By the power of the Holy Spirit for faith, that’s precisely what Christian feet can do.

Scan the Church’s hymnody. You’re sure to discover this kind of Christian confidence. You’ll likely experience just how penetrating this reality has been for Christians throughout history. Luther’s great hymn, “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God,” is a perfect example. Stanza three offers with astounding conviction:

Though devils all the world should fill,
All eager to devour us,
We tremble not, we fear no ill.
They shall not overpower us.
This world’s prince may still
Scowl fierce as he will,
He can harm us none.
He’s judged; the deed is done;
One little word can fell him.

Another is Erdmann Neumeister’s “God’s Own Child I Gladly Say It.” A middle stanza of this exceptional hymn demonstrates the same certainty, proving itself emboldened enough to impose demands on Satan:

Satan hear this proclamation:
I am baptized into Christ!
Drop your ugly accusation,
I am not so soon enticed.
Now that to the font I’ve traveled,
All your might has come unraveled,
And, against your tyranny,
God, my Lord, unites with me!

Perhaps another—Jacob Fabricius’ “O Little Flock, Fear Not the Foe”—spends a stanza mocking the Devil and his crew, calling their might “a joke, a mere façade!” Indeed, for those grafted to Christ (John 15:5), Satan is a joke, the kind that prompts regular laughter throughout heaven’s gloriously cavernous halls.

I don’t necessarily want to belabor the point. Suffice it to say that while I’ll admit the Devil is trouble, I do not fear him. By God’s gracious care, I can live with no small measure of certainty that he should fear me. And why? It’s not because of who I might claim to be of myself. It’s because of who claimed me and now stands between me and the strong man: The Stronger Man! And so, just as Luther so famously said, if the Devil would pull me down, he would first need to overcome the One who is my Redeemer and Defender. Christ is mine, and I am Christ’s. Period. I’m happy to let the Devil put that in his pipe and smoke it while I move on to more important things.

Complaining

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Perhaps like me, you’re not too fond of complainers. I don’t mean people who draw attention to things that need fixing. I mean those folks who simply complain about everything, no matter what it is.

I heard it said that if humans could somehow remove their opinions from most things, we’d likely find we have little to complain about in life. I think I agree. Pitched against Lent, it makes complete sense.

For starters, Lent leads to Golgotha. No one can arrive at Golgotha’s dreadful scene and actually grasp its significance without first having a handle on why it had to happen. Jesus is doing what He’s doing because He’s the only one who can. That’s important.

Of course, this reason has other dimensions to it. Perhaps the most essential is that the Lord loves us as no one could or would, so everything Jesus does, up to and including Golgotha’s exacting, is born from this love. His passion reveals His immeasurable yearning to save us. That’s one reason the crucifixion will forever be the heart of Gospel preaching.

Closer to where I began, another dimension is sin and the fact that we’re responsible for it. We let it in, and now everything is infected. Only Jesus remains untouched; that is, until, as Saint Paul described, He became the infection in a way that will forever be mysterious to us (1 Corinthians 5:21). Simply put, He bore every ounce of sin’s dreadfulness in Himself on the cross (Isaiah 53:6, 1 Peter 2:24). Yes, He carried and endured what we could see: mocking, injustice, bludgeoning, flogging, piercing, crucifixion, and death. These things are surface products, horrible in every way. There’s still something else He carried and endured in Himself that we couldn’t see. He gives it a nod when He’s arrested in Gethsemane. He tells His betrayer, “This your hour, and the power of darkness” (Luke 22:53). He wasn’t just submitting to the physical terrors. He was submitting to something else there. And it was the awful of all awfuls. He called it a power—an all-encompassing reality. As we are so often, Judas was the power’s agent.

I know some commentators think Satan is the power Jesus is referring to. Sure, he’s a big deal. Nevertheless, Satan does what Satan does because he, too, is infected by the power. If you haven’t guessed it already, I’m saying that the power of darkness is the reigning power of sin itself. It’s the all-consuming plague that holds each of us in its sway, ultimately poisoning the whole world with eternal death and condemnation.

So, what does any of this have to do with setting aside human opinion and thereby discovering fewer reasons to complain in this life?

Well, for example, there’s plenty to complain about, especially if, in our opinion, we somehow believe we deserve better than what this sinful world so often doles out. But the thing is, Lent teaches us the power of darkness thoroughly diseases us, and we don’t deserve better (Romans 3:12). Objectively, then, the calculation becomes quite simple. We own sin’s predicament and all its potential wages, including death. If our opinions have us convinced otherwise, Lent’s destination—the crucifixion of Jesus—must be a brutal demonstration of what’s really true: Behold, there on the cross! See what the sin nature warrants! See what you deserve for your crimes!

I guess what I’m saying is simply this: What is there to bemoan when the mineral element of everything wrong with this world is technically our fault? To complain about anything troubling is to complain about ourselves.

I think this is an incredibly recalibrating thought. Having recently felt the urge to say, “I don’t deserve to be treated this way,” this Lenten recalibration pulled me back from the edge of self-righteousness. It reminded me that I was experiencing exactly what sin offers to this world. And yet, having this awareness, navigating the contentious situation was a bit easier. Indeed, contentious scenarios unfold far differently when you can readily confess to being partly responsible for all contention in general.

That leads me to something else. The sinner that I am, and living in this sinful world, I’ll always find reasons to complain about the misery. By the way, and as I began, I’m not saying we should just ignore the travesties sin imposes. These things almost certainly require our attention. What I am saying, or better yet, asking is: How are things different for me now that I know the only One who could save me stepped up and did so?

The power of sin has been overthrown. I have been rescued. Jesus did it. Knowing this, the messes I find myself in are no longer occasions for complaining. Instead, they are opportunities to understand just how terrible sin is, acknowledge what my role in the terribleness might be, and observe the Lord’s crucifixion through tears of joy. Golgotha becomes less a reminder of what I deserve and more the ultimate emblem of hope in every sadness.

Even better, this hope is empowering. It moves its bearer beyond complaining. It strengthens for getting right to work making changes in a world that needs what Christians bring to the table. For every minute I spend complaining about how bad everything is, I lose a valuable minute meant for trusting Christ and, in faith, doing what I can to make things better.

Ash Wednesday 2024

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I felt the urge to reach out this morning. Lent arrives this Wednesday. If there was a season to contemplate mankind’s dreadful predicament, it’s Lent.

I suppose, in a broad sense, death’s predicament is not lost on humans. We’re all facing it. Still, believers have the best handle on it. We have the Gospel—the proclamation of death’s cost and the Savior who accomplished its payment by His own death.

During staff devotions this morning, I shared a portion from Luther. He spoke of the cross and the Christian’s desire to be worthy of it. He wrote, “Is it not a wonder to be possessed of a ready will toward death, while everyone dreads it? Thus is the cross sanctified.”

I’m concerned that far too many mainstream churches seem to have lost their formal grip on this. They demonstrate as much by their crucifix-less worship spaces. One pastor (if you can call him that) in a church not far from my own won’t allow crosses to be displayed in his facility. He openly admits that crucifixes—and even bare crosses, for that matter—are offensive to visitors. And yet, Saint Paul preached so fervently, “We preach Christ crucified” (1 Corinthians 1:23), knowing that such a message would be received as offensive and foolish by an onlooking world.

It’s heartbreaking when a church views the cross through the world’s lenses.

You should know what I’ve described is rarely lost on liturgical churches. A liturgical church will likely have crucifixes displayed throughout its expanse—and not just one or two, but many. Interestingly, Paulo Freire, the father of Critical Pedagogy (which is foundational to Critical Theory), insisted that for his Marxist theories to prevail, traditional liturgical churches needed to be deconstructed and their symbols dispensed and forgotten. Freire wasn’t concerned with contemporary churches. Why? Because traditional liturgical churches are by nature impenetrably linked to faith and its symbols, and in Freire’s research, far more dangerous. They don’t roll over when persecuted. They produce a far sturdier commitment than churches devoted to cultural appeasement. Hitler agreed, calling the more contemporary churches in Germany “mushy.” He was more so bothered by historically creedal churches and their believers. The historic Creeds define, teach, and defend truth. A church’s historic liturgies carry it. The church’s calendar—the liturgical seasons—imposes it in long-lasting and unforgettable ways. And by long-lasting and unforgettable, I mean it stays with a congregation generation after generation, binding it to those who came before and those who will come after.

A persecutor laboring to destroy such a church won’t have an easy time. Its identity is built from ranks the persecutor can’t even see.

Here’s some free advice: When any organization (whether it’s the Boy Scouts, your favorite car company, football team, or whatever) begins obscuring its symbols, jettisoning its creeds, or altering its traditions, beware. These are essential to the organization’s identity. When they change, so does their identity. They’re inextricably linked.

I suppose I’ve wandered too far already. So, here’s what I really came here to tell you.

A critical Church season begins this week. It starts with a crucial moment epitomizing the Church’s identity. It deliberately resists desires to loosen our grip on who we are and what we are to believe, teach, and confess.

Epiphany and the Gesima Sundays become Lent. As these season’s crowds approach, Lent’s somber doorman, Ash Wednesday, will clatter through its ancient keyring with cinder-stained fingers to open Lent’s door. Year after year, Ash Wednesday’s digits have etched a cross upon the foreheads of countless believers passing through this entry, elbowing them toward honesty, nudging them toward a vital confession that matters when pondering Golgotha’s truest weight: “Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return” (Genesis 3:19). And yet, Ash Wednesday’s participants do this wearing a black-powdery smudge in the shape of a cross. Yes, we are dust. We will die. And yet, in Christ, by His death on the cross, we’ve been made alive (1 Corinthians 15:22). Death in Christ is not to die but to live (Philippians 1:21).

Ash Wednesday’s liturgy amplifies what the Christian Church knows about death. It amplifies what we know about a certain Someone who met with death and outmaneuvered it. Ash Wednesday brings us in. Lent will take us the rest of the way. It will dive so much deeper into our genuine need for rescue while showing us over and over again the One who can meet the need.

Ash Wednesday, and therefore Lent, remind us that the clash between Jesus and death won’t be pretty. Death won’t just hand us over to Him. Death is the last enemy, and he’s been waiting his turn in line to consume us (1 Corinthians 15:26). Rest assured, war will ensue, and it’ll get ugly. At first, the glorious rescue will look more like defeat. Jesus will confront the challenger, submitting to its dreadfulness. He won’t lift a finger to defend Himself. He’ll endure, taking all of it in. The results will be His mutilated body nailed to a blood-soaked cross lifted high above the warfare’s haze. We’ll see Him pinned there like an animal; an outcast doled an awful demise.

And that, right there, is the message we preach! We preach Christ crucified! The Lord’s greatest work is His humble submission as the sacrifice for sin! This is His truest glory (John 12:23-33; Mark 10:32-38)! His resurrection is the proof pointing to this great deed. He owned the death we deserve, and He rose from the grave, proving He beat the specter at its own game, giving the spoils to all who believe.

This is Ash Wednesday’s message. Admittedly, it’s gritty. But it’s thoroughly consolidated and good. If you’ve never considered attending an Ash Wednesday service, I encourage you to do so. If your church doesn’t offer one, find a church that does. We’ll offer two here at Our Savior in Hartland, the first at 8:10 am and the second at 6:30 pm.

Consider these things, and in the meantime, God bless and keep you by His grace. Indeed, Lent has come. But rejoice, the fruit of the Lord’s greatest work—Easter—is coming, too.

A True Friend

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I learned something about friendship last Saturday while driving to give a presentation in Plymouth. I suppose I already knew it innately. However, I’d not yet formed the thought in a graspable, and therefore shareable, way.

Essentially, I had to be up and doing (as Longfellow would say) before everyone else in my home that day. And so, I crept through my morning routine lest I awaken the multitudes who’d finally been granted a Saturday morning to sleep in. Having showered and dressed, the sun just beginning to share its intentions, I kissed my still-sleeping wife, Jennifer, and left. I returned to our bedroom several minutes later to retrieve a forgotten item. Jennifer was now awake and scrolling through her preferred newsfeed. I grabbed the overlooked item, kissed her screen-lit cheek, and left for the day.

About fifteen minutes into my journey, I called Jennifer. The conversation went something like this:

“Hello?”

“It’s just me,” I said. “I took a chance you hadn’t gone back to bed.”

“No, I’m awake,” she replied. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I was just thinking about something.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m glad my first visit with Chris Pratt was in Guardians of the Galaxy rather than watching him in Parks and Recreation with you and the kids.” The night before, my family and I had just finished the final episode in a several weeks-long binging of the mentioned television show.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I become endeared to characters I like and the people who play them,” I explained. “And then I expect certain things from their performances. If I had known the character Andy Dwyer before Star-Lord, I would’ve expected certain behaviors from Star-Lord, and I might not have enjoyed Pratt in the role as much. Instead, I brought Star-Lord to Andy Dwyer and not Andy Dwyer to Star-Lord. I guess I’m saying it was just better for me that way. It was better to meet Star-Lord before meeting Andy Dwyer.”

“Okay,” she said hesitatingly, yet still sounding just as happy to be an audience for my relatively useless observation as she is with the more essential aspects of my life. “I can see how that might be true.”

“Yeah, so that’s all I wanted to say.”

“Well, be careful on the road.”

“I will.”

“What time will you be home?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “I’ll call when I’m on my way.”

The conversation became a tender goodbye, and I continued my drive.

So, what does this have to do with a lesson in friendship? Well, Jennifer once again showed me that she’s more interested in simply talking with me than in the content of the conversation. I had absolutely nothing of value to share, and I could’ve just as easily kept my thoughts to myself. Still, I wanted to call her and tell her what I was thinking, even if it was ridiculous. Something assured me I could. In a simpler sense, it’s not necessarily the subject that matters between genuine friends. It’s the friendship itself that matters. When that’s true, hearing the other person’s voice can easily become so much more important than what they say.

But there’s something else about genuine friendship that I’ve learned along the way with Jennifer. Sometimes, what’s said (or done) must eclipse that comfortable sentiment. One of friendship’s chief responsibilities is honesty. Far too many unfortunate proverbs are being shared about how a true friend accepts you for who you are. When I see a decorative wall print that says something like that on the shelf in a store, I tend to turn it around backward or hide it in a stack of nearby pillows. No one needs to see it. Unrestricted acceptance of any and all behavior is not the definition of a true friend. Genuine friendship cares enough to communicate truths that you may resist acknowledging on your own. A genuine friend—someone who truly cares about you—will risk everything, even your wrath, to steer you toward truth. Indeed, “faithful are the wounds of a friend” (Proverbs 27:6). Knowing our world and the ever-strengthening gravity of its dreadfulness, none of us should be without such a friend.

All of this came to mind because as I reached for a book on my shelf this morning, I accidentally bumped a nearby greeting card, which resulted in several toppling over and cascading to the floor. Rather than putting them back, I gathered more from across multiple shelves, eventually putting them into a box in a cabinet where I keep such things. When I opened the box’s lid, a handwritten note from a former friend was on top. I won’t share the details, but just know the friendship ended badly. What I will say is that its final discussion had to happen. I made the painfully necessary phone call. He needed to hear that he’d wandered too far beyond the borders of faithfulness to Christ and was teetering at the edge of a dangerous ideological cliff. Ultimately, he cursed my concerns and jumped. It’s been several years since we’ve spoken. I sent him a note a few years back, but nothing came of it. Likely, I’ll never hear from him again. Admittedly, when I discovered and read the note, I could hear his voice behind its scribbled words. I realized I missed it. The content of our conversations was vast and sometimes pointless. But when he spoke, I listened, not necessarily because of what he was saying, but because I liked being his friend.

Perhaps the better lesson learned from this morning’s rambling is this: Don’t throw away the friends who care enough to tell you the truth. Apart from the Lord and His Word, they’re your next greatest asset for navigating and enduring a world doing its level best to pull you toward destruction. With that, there’s a reason God’s Word commends friendship, offering that “two are better than one…. For if they fall, one will lift up his fellow. But woe to him who is alone when he falls and has not another to lift him up” (Ecclesiastes 4:9-10). There’s a reason Saint Paul encourages us to “bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ” (Galatians 6:2). There’s a reason he rejoices in the mutual encouragement that comes from faith exercised relative to the self and others (Romans 1:12). There’s a reason Solomon writes so uncomplicatedly, “One who is righteous is a guide to his neighbor, but the way of the wicked leads them astray” (Proverbs 12:26), and that “oil and perfume make the heart glad, and the sweetness of a friend comes from his earnest counsel” (Proverbs 27:9), followed by the well-worn advice that “iron sharpens iron, and one man sharpens another (Proverbs 27:17).

We don’t need coddlers. We need honest friends. And if we’re so scandalized by the truths they tell us, ultimately resulting in us tossing them from our lives like spoiled meat, we’re likely the problem, not them. This means we need to have and be the kind of friend who is ready to hear others confess their faults and willing to let them show us ours. To be a friend like that takes the type of hardshell humility that only the Holy Spirit can bestow. By hardshell humility, I mean the meekness that can handle its own reflection because it understands its need while knowing the One who met it—Jesus Christ—the greatest friend any of us will ever know (John 15:12-15).

Confronting our failings is never easy. Ash Wednesday is this week, and if ever there was a time to confront our dust-and-ashes nature (Genesis 2:7, 3:19, and 18:7), it’s then. As you do, remember Jesus, the perfect friend. He steered straight into this world’s awfulness, risking everything, even His life, to make you His own. Any friend who’s willing to give up his own self-security to save you from something dangerous is precisely the kind of friend you need. A friend like that certainly isn’t disposable but indispensable.

Again, Lent is soon upon us. Many people give up something for Lent. May I make a suggestion?

Set aside the defenses you’ve constructed around your easily bruised ego, fear of the truth, and ridiculous fragility. Own up to your strayings and rejoice that God’s love was manifested to you by His Word given in the Scriptures and demonstrated through friends who care. His warning against Sin is an essential proof of His concern. Don’t write Him off. He didn’t want to leave you ignorant of your condition, and He has more to tell you. You are not lost. Christ has come. By His life, death, and resurrection, the debt of your sins has been paid. Through faith in Jesus, you receive the merits of His work and are set free from your failings.

A friend who deals in these things is a friend indeed.

Headless Chickens

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I’m getting older. You know what that means? It means I’m losing more and more of my generation and its characters to death.

I received word this week that Carl Weathers died. Weathers was known for his breakout role as Apollo Creed in the Rocky films. He was great in those movies, but as a lover of sci-fi horror, I appreciated him as Dillon in one of my all-time favorites: Predator. When I learned he would be at the Motor City Comic Con last spring, I ensured my kids got to meet and get a photo with him. What a nice guy—genuinely friendly.

Strangely, I heard the news about Weathers after reading an article about how scientists believe they’ve unlocked one particular secret to aging. Every generation and culture has been chasing these secrets since the dawn of Man. And why? Because no one wants to die. Everyone knows it’s permanent. I suppose that’s the humor in cemetery fences. Why have one when those outside don’t want in, and those inside can’t get out?

Essentially, the article reported that cells age when their mitochondria start leaking. As they do, they release proteins that cause inflammation, leading to aging’s effects. Researchers theorize that by stopping the mitochondria from doing this, they’ll be one step closer to reversing the aging process altogether.

Will scientists ever figure out how to do this? To some extent, maybe. But will they ever defeat death? The Bible would say no.

First, death is far more than a natural phenomenon involving leaky mitochondria. Stopping this process won’t fix death. Physical death is merely the last decomposing fruit produced by a much deeper condition. Second, Jesus assured us that the earth has an expiration date. When it arrives, so will Jesus. He’ll return in glory to do precisely what the creeds declare: to judge the living and the dead. Hypothetically, even if scientists figure out how to keep people from aging, when that day arrives, those without faith in Christ and His salvific work will still be found locked in bondage to sin and eternal death, ultimately meeting the Lord as spiritual corpses. Such a person might look alive in this life but, in truth, is already dead. That’s what Saint Paul meant by describing living human beings as dead in their trespasses and sins (Ephesians 2:1). In a sense, the image of a chicken that’s had its head lopped off comes to mind. Running around this life’s yard, the chicken might look alive. But it isn’t. It’s dead. And it’s only a matter of time before its actual condition is settled.

I suppose it’s foolish to ponder death without including Saint Paul’s reference to it as the last enemy (1 Corinthians 15:26). We’ll have our share of enemies in life. I know I have plenty. Sometimes, I feel like a line has formed somewhere, and it’s comprised of folks who want to see me come undone entirely. If that line does exist, I know death is the last one standing in it. And when it’s his turn, there will be no outsmarting or outmaneuvering him. Plenty have tried. Plenty still do. And yet, there is that poetic but strangely inspired line that speaks an unflinching truth: “Because I could not stop for death, he kindly stopped for me” (Emily Dickinson).

It would be nice if science could help ease the aging process. I’d certainly buy a pill promising to reverse the disc degeneration in my back. A day without back pain would be nice. Nevertheless, such relief is not humanity’s greatest need. Look around. The world is a farmyard of headless chickens, so many chasing what cannot meet that terribly final necessity.

That’s not necessarily the case for Christians. We’re different than all the other chickens. We have the Word of the Gospel. The Gospel is restorative. It makes complete that which was incomplete. We have our heads. Saint Paul writes that Christ “is the head of the body, the church. He is the beginning, the firstborn from the dead, that in everything he might be preeminent” (Colossians 1:18). This is to say, we’re not running around the yard aimlessly toward an unfortunate end. Instead, by faith, we have the mind of Christ (1 Corinthians 2:16), and we’re living out the rest of our days in devotion to Him. That devotion has multiple aims, one of which is concern for what’s happening around us (Galatians 5:6; 1 Timothy 1:5).

Neil Armstrong once said that every human has a finite number of heartbeats. He also said he didn’t intend to waste any of them, which means he intended to devote himself to things that really mattered. Indeed, devoted people do incredible things.

On the way to school last Wednesday, Evelyn and I were listening to the news and learned about a man who died. His name was Larry Taylor. Taylor was an Army attack helicopter pilot in Vietnam and the last to receive the Medal of Honor in 2023 for doing something in June of 1968 that too many others wouldn’t. In short, four American soldiers were surrounded by aggressively approaching enemy forces. Taking inescapable fire, they were out of ammunition, having only a dozen hand grenades and their knives. If no one came to save them, they would die. Knowing this, Taylor flew straight into the chaos, lighting up the enemy ranks with as much firepower as possible before setting down in the middle of the mess. Thousands of bullets whizzing and rocket-propelled grenades flying, the trapped men grabbed hold of the helicopter’s skids, and Taylor flew them to safety.

At the medal presentation, a seemingly aloof crowd member asked Taylor, “What on earth would possess you to do what you did?”

“Well,” the 81-year-old hero and faithful member of his Christian church in Tennessee replied, “it needed doin’.”

Taylor was devoted to those men. Even as he faced certain death, his devotion was not self-concerned. Instead, he insisted on using what was likely to be the last of his heartbeats for something that mattered.

You have a limited number of heartbeats. Battles are happening around you that matter. Enemy forces in abortion clinics surround unborn children. More than 61 million of them have been killed. Countless students leave their homes and are besieged by teachers and administrators relentlessly firing radical sexual ideologies that overwhelm them. More and more are overcome each day. Christians are being bombarded in the trenches of America’s public square, having a mile-long line of battalion after battalion intent on eradicating them.

But you know something of death. You know it’s the last enemy. You also know that because of Jesus, it’s a toothless one. Therefore, if not even death can be our worst concern, what would keep us from a devotion to Christ capable of flying in to rescue as many as we can, even if it means risking ourselves?

Of course, that’s a rhetorical question.

My ever-vigilant prayer is that you’ll know the Lord’s remarkable rescue from sin and death. With such knowledge, I pray you’ll sense a Spirit-driven devotion to faithfulness far more robust than anything this world could ever use to terrorize you.