I don’t have to tell you who the pronoun “He” is referring to in those traditional Easter acclamations. You know His name. He’s Jesus, the King of kings and the Lord of lords. He was dead and is now alive, owning the name that is above every name. Every knee in heaven and on earth and under the earth will one day bow in absolute reverence to this name, whether it’s the knee of a believer or unbeliever, friend or foe (Philippians 2:9-10).
This cosmos-encompassing event Saint Paul describes will happen in the flesh. The Lord’s resurrection has sealed its certainty (Job 19-25-27; 1 Corinthians 15:42-56). This final veneration will not be a commemorative act, one performed in memory of an exceptional individual who once was but is no more. It won’t be an act of devotion recalling a person indispensable to history but nevertheless long dead and buried. Graveyards are filled with the forgotten. Even the greatest are little more than “comets of a season,” Lord Byron would say. “The glory and then nothing of a name.”
And yet, Jesus, the One bearing the name above all names, His grave was a blink. He could not own one for long. Although I suppose if owning the grave means besting the sinister powers of sin and death that give a grave its claim, He certainly holds these powers’ enduring titles (1 Corinthians 15:55-57). He owns them as a superior champion owns a weaker opponent. They came for Him. They were strong. But they approached Him in bold assumption and were met by an ugly fact. “No one takes my life from me,” Jesus said, “but I lay it down of my own accord. I have authority to lay it down, and I have authority to take it up again” (John 10:18). “Now is the judgment of this world,” the Lord added, “now will the ruler of this world be cast out” (John 12:31). Indeed, and amen! His resurrection is the proof that His words were not empty. He’s alive, and if this is true, then even these darkly powers will be forced to their knees at this world’s final hour. They will coalesce from their formlessness in humble reverence for the One who is no longer the suffering servant but the Pantocrator—the ruler of all things created and uncreated.
Admittedly, the Lord’s work was not easy. The combat was stupendous, just as the lovely Victimae Paschali sings (LSB 460). But the good news remains as plainly splendid as it is plentiful. His foes were too weak. They lost everything, and their consequence was sealed for the great and final day.
In the meantime of eternity, to the victor goes the spoils. Among the prizes, to the Champion the most precious: us! He won us! And now, by the power of the Holy Spirit for faith, to be with Jesus is a believer’s forever. The grave is not our end. He filled in its gaping chasm. The devil cannot accuse us. He has been debarked. Death cannot consume us. It was defanged. And now, we are the Lord’s own, and we will be raised and adorned in bodies “like his glorious body, by the power that enables him even to subject all things to himself” (Philippians 3:21)!
Immersed in this joyful news, may your celebration of Easter be wonderfully full-throated as you call out to this conquered and whimpering world, “He is risen! He is risen, indeed! Alleluia!”
Today is the Friday that, for centuries, the Church has called “good.” It is a strange designation, and yet, most appropriate. Without it, what hope against Sin, Death, and Satan would there be?
I’d say, “The Good Friday hour is upon us,” if that were sufficient. But it isn’t. It’s better to say, “The hours are upon us.” This is to say that the Lord’s death for mankind’s sin wasn’t swift. It didn’t happen in a flash. It didn’t come peacefully during sleep. It was preceded by ethereal misery.
When the Lord submitted Himself to the Devil’s viciousness, saying, “Now is your hour” (John 22:53a), and then allowed the fullness of Sin’s curse to crush Him, adding, “and the power of darkness” (v. 53b), unspeakable suffering began. There are no words to describe it. Which is why the Gospel writers really don’t even try. Like emotionless correspondents, they report the events. They speak simply.
For scope, Mark’s Gospel tells us the betrayal in Gethsemane occurred at midnight. That’s when it began. Beyond Gethsemane, Mark records:
“Then some of them began to spit on him; they blindfolded him, struck him, and said to him, ‘Prophesy to us, O Christ, who is it that struck you?’ The guards beat him…” (Mark 14:65).
All the inspired writers tell you these kinds of things. Within the limitations of human language, they present unfathomable cruelty in the plainest details.
“Then Pilate took Jesus and had him flogged” (John 19:1).
They don’t describe the event’s flaying nature. They don’t share the supernatural turmoil—the unseen grappling, the invisible but slicing dreadfulness occurring as the unholy trinity of Sin, Death, and Satan meet with God’s own flesh.
“When [the soldiers] had woven a crown of thorns, they put it on his head and a reed in his right hand, and they knelt before him and mocked him…. They spat on him and took the reed and struck him on the head” (Matthew 27:29-30).
The hours go on. Things get worse. But the writers scribble dryly. They don’t describe the bruising, the torn flesh, the streaming blood that pools whenever and wherever the Lord might stop to rest. Instead, He receives His cross and continues on.
“Carrying his own cross, he went out of the city to a place called Skull Hill, in Hebrew, Golgotha” (John 19:17).
The following is peculiar:
“As they led him away, they laid hold of Simon of Cyrene, the father of Alexander and Rufus, who was coming in from the country. On him they laid the cross that he might bear it after Jesus” (Mark 15:21).
Has the visible and invisible cruelty become too much for even the unholy trinity and its agents to stomach? We can’t see or describe it. But they can. They know every drop of its tarry horror. Beholding the Lord’s exhaustion, are they becoming sympathetic? Are they relenting a little?
No. Simon of Cyrene is of little consequence except to ensure that Jesus makes it Golgotha. Simon will be their ignorant mule.
“And there they crucified him” (John 19:18).
The writers are succinct. It’s a gory scene—ghastly all along—but they do not describe its carnage. Some might say it’s because the reader already knew a crucifixion’s harshest details, and to describe them would be a waste of precious papyrus. That may be somewhat true. However, it’ll never be the only reason. The Gospel writer John tells his readers that to record and share in print everything Jesus said and did would require more library real estate than the earth can provide (John 21:25). But if the world unexpectedly grew a thousand times larger, and the books suddenly appeared, some containing the Passion’s accounting within, what’s written would still be an atom-sized jot incapable of describing the Lord’s fullest work.
And so, our loving God has taken something massively incomprehensible and made it simple.
“For God so loved the world, that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life” (John 3:16).
“For Christ also suffered once for sins, the righteous for the unrighteous, that he might bring us to God, being put to death in the flesh but made alive in the spirit” (1 Peter 3:18).
“But God shows his love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us” (Romans 5:8).
“He is the propitiation for our sins, and not for ours only but also for the sins of the whole world” (1 John 2:2).
“[Jesus said] For this reason the Father loves me, because I lay down my life that I may take it up again. No one takes it from me, but I lay it down of my own accord. I have authority to lay it down, and I have authority to take it up again. This charge I have received from my Father” (John 10:17-18).
“For our sake he made him to be sin who knew no sin, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God” (2 Corinthians 5:21).
“Christ redeemed us from the curse of the law by becoming a curse for us—for it is written, ‘Cursed is everyone who is hanged on a tree’” (Galatians 3:13).
I could go on and on sharing more and more of God’s simplified yet preferred renditions of His great love for you accomplished through the person and work of His Son, Jesus Christ. But I won’t. However, I will encourage you to join with the faithful for Good Friday worship. I urge you to immerse yourself in the Church’s consolidated remembrance of the hours in which our Savior labored to set the whole world free from the grip of perpetual night.
For the readers beyond my congregation’s borders, if your church does not observe Good Friday, find one that does. Go there. Settle into a pew. If you can, spy a crucifix. See there a hint to Sin’s weight. “Here may view its nature rightly,” the great hymn whispers solemnly, “Here its guilt may estimate” (“Stricken, Smitten, and Afflicted,” LSB 451).
Even so, listen to God’s Word being read. Take in the Gospel preaching. Hear and rejoice that the Lord endured the horrible hours willingly. Take into yourself that His divine mind was thinking of you. You could not do it. But He could. And He did, all for you.
It was all for you.
P.S. If you need a place to go for Good Friday worship, here at Our Savior, we offer a 1:00 p.m. Tre Ore service and a 6:30 p.m. Tenebrae service. Consider joining us.
Holy Week begins today with Palm Sunday. Like any other week, Holy Week has seven days. And yet, it seems exceptionally longer than the others. By the time we get from Palm Sunday to Easter, a lot will have happened. For perspective, here at Our Savior, we will have packed at least ten weeks of sacred worship into these seven days. For our Kantor, musicians, and choirs, that’s an abundance of preparation and rehearsals. For the pastors, among so many other things, that’s a lot of sermon writing. I suppose that’s why you might hear me say in jest that the Lord and His pastors trade places on Easter morning. I often get very sick the week after Easter, usually from over-exertion. Although, I think it hit me early this year. I was terribly sick this past week.
Getting sick this time every year is one of many proofs that I could not do what the Lord did. He endured cosmic suffering. And yet, I count myself blessed if I can think through and preach a relatively coherent Easter sermon after Lent and Holy Week’s busyness has concluded.
I had an interesting conversation about these things last Sunday in the ER at Maclaren Hospital. A man sitting a few seats away from me in the waiting room started it. The worship pastor at his church, he endeavored to ask me how my church “does” Easter. I told him, even taking a chance at assuming between two clergy its exhausting nature. I assumed incorrectly. Along the way, he asked rather awkwardly why we continue doing it this way, especially when I almost always get sick year after year. At first, I took it as a reasonable observation and told him I had thought about cutting things back a little. But then he did something else. He took a passive-aggressive shot at what he believed was traditional worship’s tiredness. As he did, He explained worship shouldn’t be tiring, and he went out of his way to tell me that his church’s worship life could never be considered exhausting, that his church’s contemporary style was comfortable and easy—always fresh and new, always joyful, and always inspiring. He explained that worship is about praising God—about really feeling it, and blah blah blah.
Let me first say that’s not what worship is about. Praise is part of it (the lesser part, mind you) but that’s not its purpose. Worship begins with God. He serves us what we need—forgiveness. We respond with prayer, praise, and thanksgiving. Think Isaiah 55:11 and Ecclesiastes 5:1-3.
Next, I’ll ask, “Why?” What’s going on inside a person that would cause him to impose on a stranger in this way? I get that I’m easily identifiable in my clerical collar, and perhaps by it, I may represent a more traditional position. I’m no stranger to such interactions. But that alone doesn’t invite the imposition. I certainly didn’t ask for a critique of our worship style or life. As a normal human being confiding in someone I assumed might understand, I would never even think to steer into another church leader’s sphere in this way. I have no reason to criticize him. I’ve never been to his church.
Thankfully, few clergyfolk I meet are like this. Most just want to meet and visit—like normal humans. Also, thankfully, I didn’t have the time (nor the mood) to debate this particular guitar-slinger. I was seconds from being escorted to the bedside of one of my church members who’d been in a car accident. I was pondering my words to them and not to the worship pastor. Although, Blaise Pascal’s thoughts on reason would have been appropriate if the conversation had continued. Pascal once said something about how human reason’s final use is to admit there’s an infinite vastness beyond its capabilities.
What does this have to do with the interaction I just described? If I’d had the time and energy, I think it might have mattered in at least two ways.
First, Holy Week does sometimes feel unreasonably challenging. As I said, I’ve considered excluding some of the worship opportunities for this reason. And yet, as Pascal implied, even human reason admits to blessings that can only be reached by extending beyond what’s reasonable. No, the Lord doesn’t want us murdering ourselves with devotion. Still, we can (and often should) stretch ourselves past what we know is easier. This is the “no pain, no gain” principle. Still, even in an elementary sense, we also can’t remain infants, drinking only milk. We need solid food (1 Corinthians 3:1-13). The historic rites and ceremonies of the Church embody this opportunity, and if there’s ever a time to reach for solid food, it’s during this pinnacle time of the Church Year.
Some might refer to our worship style here at Our Savior as “high mass.” That description has various outside interpretations. Although, compared to other Lutheran churches, I can guess what it means. Still, I’m not interested in the other churches. I’m the pastor here. And no matter what is implied or who we’re being compared to, I’m convinced we’re enjoying solid food in this place—meat and potatoes, not frozen waffles and milk duds. It’s certainly far from being about the preacher or service meeting us right where we are, giving us what we like, and never demanding anything more. God does not call for us to remain forever where we are. We are to reach higher (Colossians 3:1-2).
By the way, a person should be able to tell when they’ve left the “where we are” of every day and entered into the new day of “higher.” Our regular worship is already wired for this. Stop by anytime. You’ll know you’ve stepped from the secular world onto holy ground. Holy Week is this on steroids, and for very good reasons.
This stirs a second thought relative to what’s reasonable. Pascal admitted to an endless array of things beyond reason’s reach. Isn’t that more or less a nod toward the nature of faith? It’s the same kind of nod Saint Paul offers in the Epistle appointed for today’s Palm Sunday celebration. In Philippians 2:6, Paul admits Christ’s incarnation was an ungraspable truth existing far beyond reason’s borders. Very little about it makes sense. However, as challenging as it is, it’s utterly accessible to faith. This is where I might have pushed back on my conversation partner even further, crossing the border into his doctrines and sharing how I think it’s strange how someone like John Calvin could ever insist, “Finitum non capax infinitum,” which is to say, finite things cannot contain infinite things. Of course, Ulrich Zwingli assumed it years before when debating Luther at the Marburg Colloquy in 1529. But either way, to say the infinite cannot be located in the finite is to be trapped behind reason’s barrier. It certainly binds God to human premises.
Since I’ve already mentioned Christ’s incarnation, if Calvin’s words are valid, then we must dismiss Saint Paul’s reason-pummeling words in Colossians 1:19-20, where he writes, “For in [Christ] all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell, and through him to reconcile to himself all things, whether on earth or in heaven, making peace by the blood of his cross” (Colossians 1:19-20). Had the conversation gotten this far, I would have encouraged my new ER friend to reconsider what the finite containing the infinite means for things like Baptism and the Lord’s Supper. I’m guessing he thinks these are just symbols. I wouldn’t attack him on this. But I would at least ask, “Is it possible they could be more?”
In the meantime, yes, the fullness of the infinite God was located in a finite human man—an object occupying a limited location. That man was Jesus. No, it doesn’t make sense. And Paul knows it. But that doesn’t stop him from upping lunacy’s ante in the Palm Sunday epistle with the reminder that the God-man Christ actually died. You think the incarnation is unreasonable; how about God dying? Paul goes further into irrationality, adding, “even death on a cross!” (Philippians 2:8).
The historic rites and ceremonies dig deeply into this, especially during Holy Week. From Palm Sunday through to Holy Wednesday and then the Triduum—the holy three days of Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and the Great Vigil of Easter—it’s a week that carries us into these things and more. It isn’t just a day or two of our favorite and most syrupy worship songs, whatever Bible verses the preacher happens to prefer at the time, and an engaging sermon with some fetching slides. It’s several days of reaching further.
To be fair, I should come at this from another direction. As insulting as the worship pastor in the ER waiting room was with his passive aggression (most of which I didn’t share), I’ll admit some in my more traditional camp do the same things he did; not a lot, but a few. They take similar opportunities to impose their pretentiousness rather than enjoying the conversation and encouraging others toward Christian worship’s inherent beauty and benefit. For example, they can make a pastor shepherding a storefront church feel lesser for not having what they have or doing what they’re doing. Again, there aren’t a lot of them. But as the saying goes, there’s one in every bunch. Confessional Lutheranism is no exception.
In conclusion, let me just say this: For those out there who are moving in the better direction—who are reaching higher—whether or not you have the classically ornate worship space, vestments, smells, bells, or whatever, I encourage you to stay the course. You already likely know we’re in a dark time in worship history, days when almost anything goes, and as it does, the faith that worship is supposed to feed becomes shallow and weak among so many. Nevertheless, anyone who’s served as a pastor for any reasonable length of time will tell you that shepherding God’s people from point A to point B takes time. Building the muscle to reach higher takes exercise. Catechesis is key. Introduce. Teach. Stay the course. As you do, rest assured your labors are not in vain, no matter the pace or progress.
And some final advice: If a man in a waiting room scoots a few chairs closer to you to have a genuine conversation about differing worship styles, enjoy the discussion. Such conversation can be refreshing and interesting. But if a peacocking purpose becomes obvious, before the conversation goes any further, I recommend leaning toward him and asking with wide room-scanning eyes, “You can see me?” That’ll close the conversation shop’s doors. Of course, if you’re not comfortable doing that, first, compliment his retro tee, and next, tell him the hospital called you to perform an exorcism, asking if he’s the one they called about. That’ll probably work.
We’re entering the fifth week of Lent. The further we go into Lent, the more I’m sad for the churches that skip this penitential season, electing to go straight to Easter. They’ll have missed a critical view of the empty tomb.
The Gospel should always be a church’s center. That said, one of the grand benefits of observing church seasons is that they provide us with different perspectives on the Gospel. Advent considers it one way. Epiphany another. Rather than letting us coast along thinking we know everything there is to know, church seasons lift the Gospel and turn it, allowing examination on all sides. Lent is no different. If observed rightly, Lent, and then Holy Week, deliver us to the Lord’s resurrection, having first shown us the cost of Easter’s joy. Holy Week—the days between Palm Sunday and Easter—dig so incredibly deeply in this regard. It needs to. Humanly speaking, we’d much rather come to worship on Palm Sunday and then again at Easter. We’d much rather enjoy these brighter festivals, having skipped the hours of terribleness that cement the two together.
Why is this? My first guess is that the sinful nature would prefer to keep its role in the narrative a secret. It knows that if we investigate the harder scenes, there’s a chance we’ll be shocked by what we discover—perhaps even learning something about ourselves we’d prefer not to know. These reasons feed my appreciation of the masters—Caravaggio, Rembrandt, and the like. They looked into these spaces and shared the details. A more recent master, Carl Bloch, handled the details well, too. Perhaps you’ve seen his portrait of Christ being comforted by the angel in Gethsemane (Luke 22:43)? Far too many images of Christ in the garden before His betrayal are portrayed with the preferred fluffiness of gilded rays pouring from heaven, Jesus intently meditating but untouched by sadness. But that’s not what the Scriptures describe. They describe intense sadness. Bloch captures the Lord’s physical exhaustion and the angel that came to bolster Him for the forthcoming fight.
Since I already brought it up, Luther wondered aloud about the Lord’s time in Gethsemane. In a sermon in 1545, he asked his listeners why the Lord shivered and shook with such dread while praying. The gory mistreatments hadn’t even begun yet. And still, His behavior is shocking. It grips us. The Lord’s sweat became drops of blood, and Luther shared the reason: “It is for the sin of the world which God has laid upon Him.” Speaking for each of us, Luther added, “My intolerable sin brings Him to this, my sin which He has taken upon Himself and which is so hard to carry” (W.A. 52. 738). Who wants to be blamed for another person’s sadness? Not me. It stings as few other things do. When it happens, I want to look away.
Lent and Holy Week insist, “Don’t look away. Behold the bludgeoned and pathetic Christ. Indeed, it’s startling that He would suffer and die in this way. You’ve heard so often how He did it for you. Do you see what ‘for you’ means? Let your unsettled heart be a clue.”
Of course, that’s not the end of the story. Lifting the Lententide narrative and turning it for a better view, Luther continued that the Lord’s startling grief is also filling in confidence’s terrible gaps, becoming “a comfort to you, that you may be certain that Christ has taken your sin upon Himself, and paid the price for it. If, then, your sins are laid on Christ, be content. They lie in the right place, where they belong” (Ibid.).
Still, there’s the startling nature to all of this.
The topic of abortion came up during our church’s School Board meeting this past Tuesday. Relative to what we were discussing, I mentioned to the Board that I’m one who believes that the only way to end abortion once and for all would be to require our populace to see it—to experience the sights, sounds, and smells of genocide, much like the Allied troops marched Germany’s complacent citizens through the concentration camps after World War II. Changes in heart and mind occurred almost instantaneously in Germany. My theory, which I cannot necessarily prove, is that while incremental behavioral conditioning works, there’s a layer of our being that can only be pierced by jarring news. In a sense, the Bible does both. So much of the Lord’s comings and goings in the Bible are given in ways that caress us to careful attention. In a purely human sense, we’re being incrementally habituated to His identity and what He has come to do. But then there’s the actual doing—the viciousness of His suffering and death. The events themselves are anything but careful. They were a swift and consolidated shotgun blast of dreadfulness. Mark’s Gospel says the Lord was betrayed at midnight on Thursday, while Matthew, Mark, and Luke record the Lord died about the ninth hour, or 3:00 pm, on Friday. Compared to the rest of the Lord’s ministry, there’s very little time to be eased into it.
While it might not be the best analogy, this reminds me of something W.H. Auden wrote about stark incentives. I’ve been reading and writing about the psychology of attitudinal shifts for my doctoral work. Auden agreed that behavioral conditioning had a proven record. But then he joked that with a few select drugs and a simple electrical appliance, he could have almost anyone reciting the Athanasian Creed in public, and he could produce the results far more quickly than any behaviorist. Of course, he was talking about torturing someone into compliance. But beneath his dark comedy lies an elementary truth: extreme experiences have a way of cutting through our protected selves, revealing what might otherwise remain hidden to us, ultimately passing us by.
If Easter greeting cards draped in sunshine, lilies, empty crosses, and empty tombs are all one knows of the Lord’s passion, then something incredibly important has been overlooked.
I guess I’m saying this morning that Lent and Holy Week play an essential role in preventing a superficial understanding of the Lord’s labors. They were jarring, and much of these penitential seasons’ collegial goal is to remind us that redemption came at a cost, that its price tag was attached to a world-sized pile of human brokenness, and then to show us the price was paid in full. From there, the startling image becomes one of genuine comfort. A crucified Jesus is a testament to the unfathomable depths of God’s mercy. His resurrection becomes an indescribable celebration worthy of a joyful ruckus. Skipping over the precision of Lent and Holy Week risks missing this.
Don’t miss out. Start making plans now, especially for Holy Week. Here at Our Savior, we’ll have services every day, sometimes twice daily. If you do not have a church home, or perhaps your church offers little opportunity to observe the harder things, feel free to join us. You are more than welcome. Listen to God’s Word and its preaching. By these things, look into the challenging moments. Measure sin’s cost. Be equipped for another startling of sorts.
In other words, no one goes to someone’s tomb who has been viciously mauled expecting to find that person restored and alive. And yet, we do. We behold and hear Easter’s cosmic announcement that the One who suffered and died so gruesomely is now alive, never to die again, His resurrection victory being ours by faith. Talk about shocking! Indeed, it’s the overwhelming sense of joy that the Easter celebration means to bring.
Everyone has a catchphrase. By catchphrase, I mean something you say with regularity. In truth, you likely have more than one. If you asked those closest to you, I bet they could tell you what they are.
About a year ago, Jennifer came up with a great idea. She decided she would make bingo cards with our family members’ unique catchphrases. I liked the idea. It highlights each person’s originality. As someone who appreciates movie memorabilia, I assure you originals are always best. By comparison, my family is by no means a company of imitators. They’re valuable originals.
I haven’t seen Jen’s bingo cards yet, but that hasn’t stopped the family from playing the game. Interestingly, the contest has expanded to include mannerisms, too. It’s not unusual to hear someone call out “Bingo!” whenever anyone at the dinner table says or does something unique to their persona. Apparently, I tend to sigh and say more often than I realize, “I need to get on the treadmill.” Now, whenever I utter those words, someone will say, “Bingo!” Thankfully, I know they’re playing the game and not commenting on my physique.
There’s one sentence the Thoma family as a whole says a lot. We all say, “I love you.” If I were to choose the family’s official catchphrase, that would be it, and I can prove why it’s the best choice. On two separate occasions within the past month, I said something to one of the kids as they walked away, and their reply was, “I love you, too.” The funny thing is, I didn’t say, “I love you.” I said something else. Not hearing what I actually said, they defaulted to the assumption that it must have been “I love you.”
I liked that. I liked it so much I didn’t even attempt to clarify. Instead, I continued along my merry way in both circumstances, savoring the moment’s joy and filing it away as something I might eventually write about. By the way, I’m not just writing for you. I’m writing for my family, too. This is a record of sorts, a chronicling. They’ll read and remember these words long after I’m gone. God willing, their children will absorb the lessons learned, sharing in them, too. As with most things, there’s a lesson to learn if we pay attention.
Looking back, I suppose one lesson I learned is just how burdensome life would be in any family if the go-to assumptions about each other were anything but the “I love you” kind. What would life be like for someone whose default expectation is anything but genuine care or concern from their closest family members? Instead, they expect ridicule and insult. That’s no way to live. It certainly isn’t what God intended for families.
That reminds me of something else.
I surprised my family a few weekends ago by taking them to the new Texas Roadhouse restaurant in Fenton. We don’t go out to eat very often, so it was indeed a treat. While there, a child in the booth behind us proved herself all but demon-possessed. Repeatedly screeching at the top of her lungs, the present but oblivious dad did little more than lean to her and whisper an occasional “Shhh” before returning to tapping at his cell phone.
His efforts did nothing. The child continued shouting, kicking the booth seats, and ultimately disrupting countless meals within earshot of the ruckus—which, in the end, was nearly half the restaurant. How do I know? Because I made eye contact with many of the disgruntled patrons.
Doing our best to talk above the screeches, Jen and I shared with our kids how hard parenting can be. Part of its difficulty is knowing two things. First, a parent needs to know the appropriate threshold for action in any given circumstance, and second, they need to respond in a way that actually helps. Before providing a few challenging examples from our family’s past, I told the kids how vital every parenting moment is for filling the middle spaces of who and what a child will be as an adult. What a parent does or doesn’t do will resonate exponentially. The out-of-control child in the booth behind us was in the very process of becoming her future self, and her disinterested father, even as he did nothing, was a part of her formation.
To explain this, I reminded the kids about a time years ago when I took a hammer and smashed one of their digital devices. I know that sounds harsh. However, the device had become a terrible distraction for one of them. Warnings didn’t work. Taking it away from him didn’t work, either. Getting rid of it appeared to be the only solution. Of course, I could’ve sold or given it away, but doing so seemed too easy, too unimpactful. It left me feeling like a deeper lesson would be lost concerning people and things. Moreover, as a Christian father, I knew somewhere in the mix was an opportunity for the Gospel to shine, which is the only thing that provides real love in any messy situation. The Gospel brings forgiveness while showing our Lord is neck-deep in the messes with us.
Having warned him well in advance of what I planned to do, when he finally crossed the line, he and I went out to the garage together, and I made good on my words. Right before doing so, I told him how much I’d spent to buy the item and that I’d be at a loss of several hundred dollars by doing this. In other words, I was invested in the loss. And yet, I added, I was deeper in the mess with him than he might realize. I told him I’d rather lose all the money in my bank account and sacrifice every object I own than lose him to this world’s things. I love him far more. With that, I smashed the device. He hugged me and told me he loved me. For the record, he remembers what happened and occasionally tells me how thankful he is that I did it.
I told the kids I felt sick to my stomach right after doing it. I wasn’t sure if I’d done the right thing. I wasn’t sure the results I’d hoped for would ever materialize. But as I said, they did. And reassurance abounded at the Texas Roadhouse dinner table. Here we were, several years after the event, agreeing that it strengthened the love between a father and son rather than eroding it. That’s the exponential resonation I mentioned before.
So, what does this have to do with where I started? Well, my mind tends to wander as I type, so I’ll do what I can to tie this up.
I suppose the first thing that comes to mind is the disinterested father in the booth behind us. He needs to know that disciplining his daughter is essential. It’s certainly not unloving. She’s not going to hate him if he requires that she respect him and the people in her vicinity. But if he continues his indifference, the time for hating him will come. She’ll be a self-interested young woman incapable of concern for others, and when he does impose a requirement, she’ll rebel, seeing him only as an enemy. He’ll say, “I love you,” but the words will ricochet.
I suppose my next thought concerns what I wrote before the story I just shared. I had just finished expressing “how burdensome life would be in any family if the go-to assumptions about each other were anything but the ‘I love you’ kind.” The connection there might be that for a family built on Gospel love, even the more complicated moments can still sustain and ultimately prove the “I love you” assumption. In other words, no matter what’s happening, easy or complex, happy or sad, tranquility or anger, we can assume “I love you” from each other, even when those aren’t the words being spoken, and maybe even when the situation requires the kind of disciplinary readjustments that might make a parent a little sick to his stomach. Disciplining or being disciplined, we’ll know the person loves us. We’ll know we always have a way back to better days.
This is true because the comfortable assumption is one of repentance and forgiveness. This is the way back. It bears the relaxing notion of the Lord’s Gospel presence in every trial. A moment might sting a little, but we know we’ll get through it no matter what. And why? Because Christ is our Savior, and He’s made “I love you” the family’s catchphrase.
For most readers of this weekly yarn, it’s probably a waste of print for me to describe social media’s more prevalent tendencies surrounding any topic that requires taking sides. Like most who use virtual platforms, you’ve likely experienced how much more domineering and vicious people become.
Concerning the domineering among us, George Burns was the best jester, offering, “It’s too bad that all the people who know how to run the country are busy driving taxicabs and cutting hair.” I’ll admit to knowing what he means in a literal sense. I once spent a fifty-minute car ride from Dulles International Airport listening to a laundry list of cures for our nation’s woes. My only available role was to offer a polite but occasional “Yeah, I hear you.” This isn’t to say all of the driver’s ideas were disagreeable. But he did, more or less, puke them all over his passenger, ultimately muting what could’ve been a mutual exchange that expanded one another’s knowledge base. I suppose, had I not been so tired, I might have tried to challenge his insistence on certain topics. I’m certainly more likely to do that in face-to-face conversations than I am in virtual ones. This is true for a few reasons.
For one, you can’t hide during an in-person discussion. If you try, you automatically lose credibility. Second, you can only access what you know. There’s no going to the internet for help. Third, tone and body language are available to both participants. Apart from words, these are often communication’s richest clarifiers. Without them, conversations are far harder.
Of course, social media sells itself as a format for conversation—an arena for ideological exchanges. Although, anyone who uses it knows that’s becoming less and less the case. It certainly plays with a very different set of rules than in-person communication.
For the record, I bring my own rules to the platform. One I practice somewhat devoutly is to simply write something and move on, rarely hanging around to engage in discussion. I know this makes me sound distant. But as someone who writes for public consumption, if I shared with you some of the uglier messages I’ve received over the years, you’d understand. In most cases, it’s best to just say what needs to be said and move along. This particular rule serves another one I practice.
I avoid the domineeringly vicious. These are the people who believe their opinions are the only ones that matter, and if you disagree, watch out. You know the kind I’m talking about. Of course, if such a person’s friendships and interests are the same as mine, the algorithms ensure they’ll end up on my screen. I don’t go looking for them. But when we do cross paths on occasion, I’ll read what they’ve written. As I do, another rule often kicks in. If I feel the urge to reply, I don’t. Why? Well, here’s an all too familiar and equally futile scenario one should expect when approaching these folks.
Essentially, the domineering person will spew his or her opinionated nonsense across the virtual landscape like a glaze. It’ll attract the usual supporters. But it will also attract unsuspecting people willing to share a different perspective. And when the visitor responds with a differing view—maybe even one geared toward the same goal—he is pummeled with insults for not agreeing until he finally leaves the discussion.
As I said, I usually do what I can to mark and avoid people who treat others this way. I steer even further away from the ones who are supposed to be on my ideological team and yet do this. They’re the ones who give the causes I hold dear a very bad name, and in the end, I don’t want to be associated with them.
This behavior seems at its worst during election seasons. For the instate reader, it’s been on steroids throughout the Michigan GOP chairmanship divide. What a mess! But no matter the divisive topic, its social media form is often tantamount to watching a nature show about birds. Like certain species of fowl, there’s an unfortunate time when chicks push unhatched siblings from the nest to their doom, all the while trying to kill the other hatchlings competing for the best of the parent’s vomitous provisions. If David Attenborough were narrating, he’d probably describe the viciousness as necessary for the species’ preservation. But while birds may be vicious for the sake of species survival, I’m not convinced that humans do it for the same reasons.
On one hand, I think the overarching reason is power. People want to rise above another person’s rule. That’s innate to the sinful nature in general. It’s why so many, even in the churches, avoid talking about sin. Fewer and fewer want to acknowledge their accountability to a supreme arbiter of morality—to someone who can actually say what’s acceptable and what isn’t. Humans are, by nature, radical individualists. But this describes all of us, not just a certain type of domineeringly vicious meanie on the internet. So, what is it with them?
I think many of these folks are the way they are because they’re hiding something. But what are they hiding, exactly?
Before I tell you, be sure not to confuse the word vicious. For example, try harming my wife or my children. If you do, I guarantee you’ll experience a divinely ordained ferociousness in me you’ll wish you hadn’t. Try challenging my integrity. Try accosting my reputation. Try steering the Christians in my pastoral care into false doctrine. These things will stir a measure of fierceness you won’t soon forget.
Now, let’s say we’re exchanging ideas, whether in person or online. I promise my inability to best you in an ideological debate won’t end with me maliciously insulting you, showing pictures that mock you, or doing whatever I can to erase you from the discussion. Those are vicious power-lust behaviors, and their only purpose is to hide one’s inadequacies. Ayne Rand described them as weeds growing in the vacant lots of an abandoned mind. And she’s right. Employing vicious behaviors in any ideological discussion is always—always—a sign of intellectual impotence. Although, to the casual observer’s benefit, they help mark the ill-intending egotists we should avoid, which is a good thing. They’re the ones who almost always prove themselves of little use to any worthwhile effort. And why? At least two reasons come to mind.
First, they’re of little use because they’ve somehow convinced themselves that insults hurt their enemy, that they somehow shrink an enemy’s resolve. But they don’t. More often, they bolster it. I’m living proof. Ridiculing me only makes me more invested in the effort to defeat you. Second, if the good guys win, we don’t want the egotists among them holding power. They’ve already proven their landscape-destroying tendencies. The battle for an idea is not won by carpet bombing, and a unique dilemma is rarely solved by indiscriminate assaults. Instead, these challenges are met by sharpshooters with aims that are steady and true. They require skillful precision and patient determination. Moreover, to meet the challenge requires coordinates and capability—truth and substance. The people in power need to own these things before they sit at the table. The sneering armchair quarterbacks rarely have these qualities.
Wrapping this up, I suppose I’d simply encourage you to think about these things and, in the meantime, maybe even do what you can to augment your resistance to the folks I’ve described. You don’t have to cut them from your life. In fact, I say don’t. They can be great entertainment, and sometimes dinner and a show go well together. Still, I caution you not to get caught in their gravitational pull (Proverbs 13:20; 14:7; Romans 12:2; 1 Corinthians 15:33; Ephesians 5:11; and others). Measure their truest intentions against their behaviors (Titus 1:16; James 2:18).
How do you do this? Well, one place to start is by watching how they respond to someone telling them they’re wrong. I guarantee you’ll learn a lot about them in those first few moments.
Cruciform Stuff 