Monthly Archives: May 2024

My Age is Showing

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I’m writing this from Roger’s City, Michigan. My friend and brother in the Lord, Joe Bangert, is being installed here as pastor of Immanuel Lutheran Church and St. John Lutheran Church and School, and he asked me to preach at the installation service. I was glad to accept the invitation. Although, I confided with Jennifer that being asked to do things like this has a way of putting my age before me. While I’m sure it does happen, I can’t say I’ve ever seen a young pastor doing things like this. Typically, it’s the patriarchal guys who get asked to preach at ordinations and installations. Admittedly, this is my 30th year in church work. That said, I suppose I’m not the spring chicken I once was, even if I do believe I’m “always the same age inside,” as Gertrude Stein so famously said.

A glance in the mirror or getting back to my feet after sitting on the floor for too long both remind me that I’m closer to my end than my beginning. My face has lines, my hair is more than graying, and my body makes sounds that it probably shouldn’t.

The topic of aging came up last night on more than one occasion during discussion. When we were alone, Jen said something that reminded me of an insightful observation Henry David Thoreau once made. By the way, I am by no means Thoreau’s biggest fan. I’m just one of those guys who’ll share anyone’s words so long as the quote is good, and what Thoreau said makes sense to me. He once wrote, “No one is as old as those who have outlived enthusiasm.” I agree with those words, although not as Thoreau probably meant them.

Thoreau was a transcendentalist, so in context, his words carry transcendentalism’s baggage—ideas like discovering life’s truest joys and purpose through spiritual connections with nature. I appreciate sunrises, and I’m rather fond of trees. I like these things just as much as the next guy. In fact, I’m watching the sun rise behind a purple-hued maple tree as I type these words. In its emerging light, I count no less than ten spiders meticulously preening their webs in preparation for the day’s catch. There’s a chipmunk skittering here and there in the yard. A rabbit sits near the fence, watching him closely. As they do what they do, the birds sing their early morning songs. The portrait is extraordinary in every way. Still, I know better than to commune with any of this stuff.

First of all, I can be weird on occasion, but I’m not a weirdo. And so, there’s a 100% chance you’ll never see a YouTube video of a bison trampling and then launching me into the air because I somehow believed I could commune with it. You’ll also never see me attempting to pet sharks, which leads me to another thought.

Not only am I overly fond of things like showers and indoor plumbing, but I’m equally fond of not being eaten by creatures larger than myself.

Lastly, and perhaps it’s just one more sign of age’s infiltration, Jennifer and I have been watching a lot of nature shows lately, and I’ve become all too familiar with nature’s instinctual ways, some of which I’ve already witnessed this morning with the spiders. It seems to me that nature can pretty much be summed up in three essential premises: wooing mates, combat, and killing and eating each other. That’s about it. And so, with that, count me out of Thoreau’s transcendental intentions.

Thoroughly removed, his words are still good, especially if you consider “enthusiasm” as a synonym for “joy.” No one is as old as those who have outlived joy.

Life, with all its twists and turns, is profoundly vibrant. Through good and bad, opportunities to learn and grow abound. And because God never fails in His loving kindness and care (Philippians 4:19; Matthew 6:31-32, 7:11), which is perfectly located in Christ, a Christian can rest assured that joy is always lurking in each of life’s moments (Romans 5:1-5). The ability to discover joy during sadness’ inevitable humdrum is possible, too. And that’s the partial point. Young or old, a joyless person is metaphorically near death compared to a joyful one. A joyless 20-year-old man, while he may be capable of greater physicality than an 80-year-old, is far less capable of so many other things that matter so much more.

Something—or better said, someone—comes to mind in this regard.

I went to visit my friend Gerry. He’s a longtime member of this congregation who can no longer get to church on his own. Thankfully, his faithful son and daughter-in-law, Jeff and Lisa, bring him regularly. But when Gerry isn’t feeling up to it, I visit him at home. I saw him a little over a week ago. At one point during our conversation, somehow, we began chatting about television programming’s devolution. Admitting that most shows on TV were trash, he mentioned a fondness for home restoration programs. He enjoys the “reveal” moments. He loves the moment when the home is finally ready, and the owners see it for the first time. Describing these things, Gerry was kid-like in his enthusiasm. As someone who is relatively recliner-bound, he couldn’t restore a home even if he wanted to. But you’d never know it by his enthusiasm. You’d never know it by his joy. Although, that’s not quite the point of sharing this.

Gerry’s joy is clearly not located in what he can or cannot do as he ages. Sure, he misses his athletic days. Gerry was an exceptional baseball player. He probably could’ve gone pro. But the “was” and “could’ve” haven’t landlocked him. His joy isn’t tied to this world’s limitations, ultimately rendering him perpetually downcast. Instead, his life is fixed on Jesus. And interestingly, his joy continues to flourish as it’s fixed on others around him. Their happiness feeds his happiness, and with that, his enthusiasm for life continues to abound.

I didn’t begin this rambling intent on talking about Gerry, but I never really know where these things will go. Just know that even as Gerry is in his mid-eighties, the more time I spend with him, the more I realize he’s one of the youngest people I know. Uplifted, and then looking at myself in the mirror through the same Gospel lens, I am reminded, “So we do not lose heart. Though our outer self is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day” (2 Corinthians 4:16).

Indeed, I’m getting older. But I fully intend, by God’s grace, to remain a joy-filled toddler in Christ. Looking back on what I just wrote, I know my words are by no means original. Jesus said them first. Inspired by the Holy Spirit, Saint Matthew recorded for all of us, “At that time the disciples came to Jesus, saying, ‘Who is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven?’ And calling to him a child, he put him in the midst of them and said, ‘Truly, I say to you, unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven’” (Matthew 18:1-5).

In the Presence of Greatness

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I was in the presence of greatness on Thursday evening. I genuinely mean this. Although, I should qualify my words. I know plenty of great people, folks I admire. But their greatness doesn’t necessarily make me nervous. In this particular instance, other than the typical sense of extreme inadequacy and complete unworthiness I so often feel while serving during holy worship, it was the first time in a very long time that I found myself awestruck while standing beside another human being.

The first time I remember feeling it was at my wedding. When Jennifer came around the corner from the narthex and into the nave, my whole body responded. It was as if all of it had suddenly decided, “You don’t deserve this woman.” And yet, there was another, more powerfully gripping sense from somewhere else that nudged, “Rejoice. She is a gift of the Lord.”

Another time I felt somewhat bumbling beside greatness was the first time I met Jack Phillips, the cakebaker from Colorado who has spent the last decade of his life enduring the most dreadful attacks by the LGBTQ, Inc. jackboots for his faithfulness to Christ. Just being around him was a privilege. Going out to lunch and talking with him—really talking—now, those were meals in which my chewing and swallowing required total concentration. Forget the body’s involuntary reflexes. Concentrate, Chris. You’re in the presence of greatness.

This past Thursday, thanks to my great friend Jason Woolford (who, by the way, is running for the 50th District seat in the Michigan House and has my full support), I was privileged to sit beside similar greatness. His name was Jon Turnbull.

Jon is a 38-year-old retired Army Major. He is blind. He is partially burned. He has limited hearing. I did a little research into his life, and I learned he endured more surgeries than most people I know combined. He has spent countless days hospitalized. I can’t even begin to fathom the number of hours he has spent in physical and mental rehabilitation.

I offered the opening prayer at Jason’s event. Major Turnbull got up to speak right after me. His father led him to the podium. He told his story. He (a Captain at the time) and four others in his special forces team, one of whom was an interpreter, were in Syria assisting in the efforts to reopen schools and refurbish and resupply the hospitals. Until one day, a suicide bomber approached and detonated himself beside Turnbull and the others in his team. All but Turnbull were killed. The title of his book, Zero Percent Chance, tells you what the folks on the scene expected of the one soldier who was barely alive. And in a way, they were right. He died and then revived three times on the way to and during emergency surgery. 

After he spoke—which he did in a comfortably disarming way, acknowledging his own dry humor—another gent stood up, grabbed a guitar, and led us in singing the National Anthem. Turnbull’s father led his son back to his seat and helped aim his salute toward the flag. We all sang together. I could barely get the words out. By the time we made it to “gave proof through the night that our flag was still there,” which occurs lyrically right after Francis Scott Key’s description of the barrage against Fort McHenry he witnessed, I was at emotional capacity. I couldn’t sing the rest. I was mere inches away from a man living the daily toll required by Key’s red-glaring rockets and bursting bombs.

After the anthem, we sat down. I reached to Turnbull’s dad, patted his shoulder, and smiled. Surprised at first, he smiled back. I didn’t dare pat Turnbull’s shoulder. I didn’t deserve to be near him, let alone touch him. A humble man, I’m sure he would say differently.

I mentioned before that Turnbull’s words were comfortably disarming. I think this was true because he did two things in particular. First, he made sure his listeners understood he loved America and he wanted to be one of its protectors. He knew the dangers involved, and yet, he wanted to stand in the gap. He wanted to get between the ones he loved and the bad guys. He wanted to be the one awake on the tower so that we could sleep peacefully. He didn’t say it that way, but that’s essentially what he said. I think that eased the audience away from sadness and any potential guilt toward gentler gratefulness.

The second thing he did was express his faith in Christ. He didn’t parade it. He simply sprinkled it here and there (Colossian 4:6), but it was enough to show that Christ had never been just a part of his life. His faith was as real as his wounds. And so, at the podium, he gave thanks to the Lord for His grace and assured everyone listening that God obviously preserved him for a reason, even if only to encourage the rest of us to trust in the same way during inexplicable suffering. Again, he didn’t necessarily say it that way, but that’s what he said.

It was all incredibly Christological.

Anyone who reads my scribblings on occasion is likely familiar with the following term: Gospel lens. I sometimes remind readers to view the world deliberately mindful of Christ’s person and work. Doing this, you’ll see things you didn’t before. C.S. Lewis so famously said, “Every Christian is to become a little Christ.” Luther said the same thing. That said, I think Turnbull was a little Christ in his vocation without even realizing it, ultimately becoming a reminder of the One who saved the whole human race. Indeed, he wasn’t necessarily eloquent. Still, there was a Gospel resonance in his words. Turnbull’s story was almost entirely directed toward concern for others. His faithfulness reflected the story of the Savior, Jesus, who wanted to get between us and all that could destroy us. Our Lord did so fully aware of the dreadful consequences. And yet, Christ’s plan to save us did not include rubbing our noses in the guilt-ridden grime of our sinful filthiness, reminding us that He had to die for an inherently thankless world. Instead, Christ brings consolation. He gives a Gospel that replaces guilt with gladness and shame with thankfulness. It preaches into our hearts that Jesus wanted to be the Savior. He loved us, and that love establishes and ultimately produces an otherworldly ability to endure against “the rocket’s red glare, the bombs bursting in air,” giving proof through this world’s night that our Lord is still and always there (Matthew 28:20).

Turnbull had to leave the event relatively soon after he spoke, so I didn’t get the chance to talk with him. At some point, I’ll reach out to him. I’d like the people in my congregation to meet him and experience what I experienced for themselves. In the meantime, we go forward as God’s thankful people, ready to be little Christs for others (Ephesians 5:1). We do this because we believe. Believing comes with risks. We know what they are (John 16:2). And yet, we go. Somehow, we can stand in the gap against a suicide-bombing world doing everything it can to rid us from the earth. A faith like that is not shaky, shrinking at the first sign of trouble. Instead, it can speak alongside Saint Paul, saying, “For if we live, we live to the Lord, and if we die, we die to the Lord. So then, whether we live or whether we die, we are the Lord’s” (Romans 14:8).

I started this morning’s jaunt by saying I was in the presence of greatness this past Thursday. I don’t intend to lessen what I’ve said. Still, Christ gets the final word on greatness. Knowing we’ll apply greatness to those who really stand out—for example, someone like John the Baptist—Jesus said things like, “Truly, I say to you, among those born of women there has arisen no one greater than John the Baptist. Yet the one who is least in the kingdom of heaven is greater than he” (Matthew 11:11). The Lord’s reference to the “least in the kingdom” is a wink to something He’d say later: “Truly, I say to you, unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. Whoever humbles himself like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven” (Matthew 18:3-4).

In other words, the world is filled with impressive people. Indeed, they exhibit unique forms of greatness. But child-like faith is true greatness.

Indeed, being around Jon Turnbull on Thursday was an exceptional experience. Still, there’s rarely a moment when I’m not in the presence of greatness. Surrounded by believers, a pastor’s life is quite privileged in that sense, one that is so often nudged, “Rejoice. These people are gifts of the Lord.”

It’s A Good Thing God Is In Charge

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This past Friday was somewhat chilly and yet beautifully sunny. Even if only for a moment, it was as if spring welcomed summer to the podium for a few words of encouragement. Smiling brightly, he comforted his onlookers, promising eventual warmth.

“It’s nice to see all of you,” he said to his winter-worn Michigan audience. “Not to worry,” he continued. “I’ll be back soon, and I intend to stay for a while.”

Evelyn and I smiled at summer’s joyful appearance, the sun beaming brightly as we made our way to the church and school. I would spend my Friday as I usually do, catching up on the previous week’s unfinished business. Evelyn would enjoy the fast-fleeting days of her eighth-grade school year.

Thankful to the Lord for the lovely day, we cued an appropriate song for the morning’s travel: “Mr. Blue Sky” by Electric Light Orchestra. Singing along, the morning’s joy was seemingly impenetrable. I smiled. Evelyn smiled. Another song played. It was “Brown Eyed Girl” by Van Morrison. Still, nothing changed. We sang and smiled and enjoyed the sun-filled landscapes passing along beside us.

But then, near the end of our journey, as is our way, we took a moment to listen to the news.

The first and only story we could stomach was about a man on trial for beating his five-year-old daughter to death. Living in their car, it seems she soiled herself one time too many in her sleep. In a rage, he pummeled her brutally. After a few moments of gurgling moans, the little girl went quiet.

“I think I really hurt her this time,” he said nonchalantly to his wife before taking a bite from a sandwich. Unaware that he’d killed her, he shot up with heroin and then continued along his way.

For as effortlessly happy as the morning had begun, suddenly, the sun’s rays annoyed my eyes, and the sky wasn’t as cloudless and blue as before. It was motionless and empty. The passing trees no longer adorned but loomed. There were more shadows than sunlit spaces.

While just as dreadful as so many other atrocities available to this devolving world, child abuse is the one crime that cooks my arteries more than most. It’s the epitomized juxtaposition of powerful and powerless, strong and weak, predator and prey. Evelyn’s first words were that the man should pay dearly for his crimes. I agreed. However, I didn’t interpret my agreement for her. The newscaster noted he’d been sentenced to 56 years in prison. Prison wasn’t a part of my initial calculation. I had something much, much worse in mind. And so, my initial words to Evelyn were, “It’s a good thing God is in charge.” Evelyn

Why am I sharing this with you? I suppose partly because today is Mother’s Day, and I’ll while driving to the church this morning, I was thinking about all the ways my wife, Jennifer, is such a wonderful parent to our children—how she loves them with all that she is. Anyone thinking this way will make comparisons, whether they realize it or not. The newscast, still fresh in my mind, interrupted my thoughts. I couldn’t imagine a parent doing what that man did.

I suppose another reason I’m sharing this is because there’s a better point to be made. Friday morning’s happenings coalesced as a reminder relative to faith’s presence.

I described a beautiful day unexpectedly charred by tragedy’s flame. And yet, our initial inclination to rejoice in God’s beautiful creation, even as it turned dark, remained steady into and through the tragic news. We had a choice of proverbial replies in that shocking moment. Our shared response could’ve been, “How could God let this happen?” But it wasn’t. We didn’t blame Him. Intuitively, we both knew better than to think we could manage this world and its inevitable dreadfulnesses more skillfully than God. Instead, we gathered around the position, “It’s a good thing God is in charge.” In a way, this was both confession and thanksgiving. It confessed darker inclinations toward another human being while showing gratitude for God’s gracious hand in all things. It admitted that while we may not know what’s going on, God knows, and with that, we can rest assured. 

Now, I’m not going to examine the problem of suffering. Indeed, the girl’s death is terrible. Again, it’s a good thing I was not in charge of the universe when it happened. In the meantime, I’ll simply say that such tragedies should not surprise us in this fallen world. Sin enjoys many capable hands, and each perpetrated awfulness is just one more fingerprint proving sin’s infectious reach. God told us it would be this way (Romans 5:12; 1 Corinthians 15:21). Following the fall into sin, He said to Adam, “Cursed is the ground because of you” (Genesis 3:17). Regardless of what you may have learned, this is not God cursing the earth. It was resultant. בַּֽעֲבוּרֶ֔ךָ is the word God used. “Because of you” is its translation. Adam was to blame. His action (or, more precisely, his inaction during Satan’s interaction and allure with Eve) injected the fatal poison. Still, we know that two short verses before in Genesis 3:15, God promised He would reach into and fix what was broken. The Messiah would come, and the curse would be turned back.

Having said these things, I’ll aim toward a conclusion by offering two quick observations. First, and similar to something I already said, when Christians don’t know what’s going on, not only can we trust in God’s perfect awareness and care, but we are empowered by the Holy Spirit for recalling what we do know, which is that God is by no means distant from this world. The most extraordinary proof is the cross. Behold the fulfillment of Genesis 3:15. Behold the suffering and death of God’s Son. Behold His intimate and inreaching love for a humanity mired in sin and destined for eternal condemnation.

Second, by the power of the Holy Spirit, Christians are equipped to endure this world’s bipolar mess. And it’s just that, a bipolar mess. No matter the road before you, life has sharp ups and downs. It swings back and forth suddenly. Still, by the Spirit’s power, a Christian can navigate both. In the good times, a Christian holds tightly to God, giving thanks for His kindliness. During the upheavals, a Christian holds tightly to God, too, assured that we are never left to our own devices and glad for His gracious care in all things, especially the care He showed by sacrificing His Son to save us from this temporary world for the unending world to come.

Let this be an encouragement to you today.

Put the Wisdom to Work

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I just moved from the same parlor chair in the Grand Hotel on Mackinac Island that I sat in last September. I’m in the Audubon Wine Bar now. It’s a classic library-style lounge a few paces from the parlor. I’m not in here because the doors were open. I’m here because I saw an early morning passerby in a security hat on his way to fetch coffee. I asked if he wouldn’t mind granting me similar benefits, and he was kind enough to oblige. I only stepped into the Audubon room to wait. Coffee in hand, I decided to stay. It’s more my style, anyway. And now that I have coffee, I can begin.

No matter the space I’m occupying, this early morning eNews is often only as sensible as it is because of coffee.

Some of you may recall that I was invited to speak at the GOP Policy Conference held at the Grand Hotel last fall. I agreed and took along my family. Well, most of them. Jennifer, Madeline, and Evelyn went along. My daughters fell in love with the place. It’s hard not to. Unfortunately, and candidly, the only way the Thoma family would be able to afford time at the Grand Hotel is if Dad was invited to speak and the accommodations were the reward. That said, as we were leaving the hotel last fall, the girls commented sadly, “We’ll probably never come back here.”

That stung a little. On the other hand, my kids know not to use the word “never” around me. Remember: there were snails on the ark. It took some time, but they made it.

Last December, I sold three antique whisky bottles I’d been keeping for a special occasion. That, combined with the graciousness of congregation members who care, we had everything we needed to enjoy three days and two all-inclusive nights at the Grand Hotel for its opening weekend. I went online and secured the dates. I made copies of the reservation, put them into envelopes under the Christmas tree, and surprised the family on Christmas Day. 

Again, don’t tell me it can’t be done. Instead, let’s talk about how it can. And besides, God has a way of opening doors for me to find a way. 

Speaking of “never,” while looking around the room at all the books, I’m reminded that I’m very near the end of my doctoral studies—something I never thought I’d ever get the chance to do. God willing, I’ll defend my dissertation sometime this summer. It’s been a challenging experience. For one, I didn’t want to drag it out, and so, in my typically self-torturing way, I doubled up on coursework and study at almost every turn. As a result, a five-to-seven-year journey was accomplished in a little more than two.

Apart from content digestion, in a human sense, the one thing I have going for me in such circumstances is that I can write a lot in a very short time. For example, I wrote my book Ten Ways to Kill a Pastor in five days. I’m not looking for praise by saying this. I’m just saying that the time I need for tippity-tapping away at things gives me a unique advantage while schooling. This is especially helpful since my life is already a cosmos of full-time obligations. Before enrolling, just the thought of adding one more twirling solar system of responsibility made me sweat. Still, there’s something I knew about myself. When it comes to the paper writing, give me three hours, and I’ll give you twenty double-spaced pages. Whether or not they’re good pages, as with anything else I’ve ever scribbled, I would leave that determination to the reader.

As I said, it’s been a challenging experience. All of it has been beneficial, with only a few parts here and there that I didn’t necessarily enjoy. In one sense, it reminds me of the saying, “A man who carries a cat by the tail learns something he can’t learn any other way.” I shared the same quotation in last Sunday’s adult Bible study. I mentioned Mark Twain as its author, but I don’t know that for sure. What I do know is the accuracy of its implied practicality. Doctoral work provides opportunities for learning that no other avenue provides. That said, I’m glad I’ve done it. But I’m also happy it’s concluding.

Jennifer has asked me more than once what’s next, not as in what other self-tortures she should expect to endure with me, but how I intend to use what I’ve done. That remains to be seen. However, I’d say in a broad sense that pre-seminary and seminary curricula could be improved by adding my efforts as stand-alone courses. At a minimum, additional modules could be added to existing systematic and pastoral care courses. In a narrower sense, I certainly intend to use what I’ve learned to my congregation’s benefit and maybe even a few other organizations with which I associate. Either way, we’ll see, and therein lies the tension in Jennifer’s original question. Relative to my daughters’ Mackinac Island concerns, what’s the use of having a few valuable whiskies on the shelf if I’m not going to put the value to work when and where it’s needed? Similarly, what’s the point of acquiring knowledge if the acquirer fails to use it? Knowledge is weaponry, and I intend to open-carry.

Regardless of its broader applications, I’ll use what I know wherever I am. At a bare minimum, it’ll be at the ready in every instance in the ever-unfolding war against truth.

This is an essential thing for Christians to keep in mind.

Christians bear knowledge. We know something of Christ and His immeasurable love for a world steeped in sin. We know how the Devil and the world are active powers laboring to smother truth, most especially the Gospel of salvation through faith in Christ. That said, we have access to the greatest reservoir of wisdom the world has ever known: God’s Word. And so, we are encouraged to dig deeply into it, to digest it (2 Timothy 3:14-17). 

And then we are called to put the wisdom to work (James 1:22).

Now, don’t misunderstand me. This is not an encouragement to see the Bible as a moral handbook for living. Even as the norma normans (the standard for all other standards) and the sole source for faith, life, and practice, the Bible’s epicentral purpose is the divine revelation of God’s work to save mankind from sin, culminating in the person and work of Jesus Christ. This is the molecular substance of the Bible’s wisdom, and its goal is faith. But here’s the thing: the wisdom the Bible brings and instills cannot sit idly by. It engages. It acts. It shines outwardly in ways that others can observe (Matthew 5:13-16; James 2:14-26), thereby allowing others to light their torches from your faith’s flame.

In other words, Solomon was right when he wrote, “The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom, and the knowledge of the Holy One is insight” (Proverbs 9:10). Therefore, be wise. Believe. Therein is knowledge. Knowledge produces insight. Insight isn’t for the knowledge bearer alone. Insight is for others. It is meant to be shared. So, again, put your wisdom to work. Do so in faithfulness to Christ and for the benefit of others.

Be someone who openly carries the knowledge that saves.