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.”