Monthly Archives: December 2024

New Year’s Eve 2024

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Truth be told, it’s been years since Jennifer and I have stayed up until midnight on New Year’s Eve. I’ll take the blame for that. I’m usually spent by 9 PM, no matter what day it is. Although, on New Year’s Eve, I have been known to survive until 10:00 PM, but that’s only because I practiced the week before with the 10:00 PM Christmas Eve service. Either way, the hours I’m actually awake on New Year’s Eve are well spent. Once we get home from evening worship, like most folks, we spend precious time together as a family. Among other things, we play games and eat snacks. And, wow, do we eat! I love those crisply baked bacon-wrapped chestnuts and the miniature sausages slathered in sweetened barbeque sauce. Jennifer usually makes both. I am blessed. Of course, the snacks are nice, but the better blessing is our togetherness.

The days before Christmas, Madeline asked me more than once what I wanted as a gift. She wanted to make sure to get just the right thing for her dad. I was no help. Each time she asked, I told her I didn’t know. But actually, I did. It’s just that my answer would’ve sounded syrupy. Really, the only thing I want, no matter what day of the year it might be, is to be with them—to sit back and listen to them talking and laughing and enjoying one another’s company. That’s a gift enough for me. And to unwrap it, no matter when during the year it’s happening, is to mingle a silent prayer of thanksgiving to God, the gift’s true giver.

New Year’s Eve has the potential for a similar prayer.

Tonight, the world races toward the year’s final chime. I suppose for many, the hours before midnight form a unique crossroad. We stand, one foot planted firmly in the closing chapters of the past while the other steps into the uncertain expanse of tomorrow. This can be a precarious, almost bipolar, place to stand. When I say this, I speak from experience.

At the edge of one year becoming the next, there is the temptation to think backward to bygone days. The older I get, the more I think about when Jennifer and I were younger, and our kids were little. Those days seem so far away, and the in-between space is so easily filled with thoughts that the best days have passed. Simultaneously, New Year’s Eve nudges me onto my tiptoes. I look up and over its horizon toward the unknown. As I do, my sin-nature prompts concern. What’s coming my way? What does the future hold for me, for my family, for you, for our nation, for our world?

If left to myself, in a sense, the New Year’s Eve countdown can sometimes feel a little more like the moments before a ticking time bomb reaches 0:00.

But I’m a Christian, and there’s something I know. While the surrounding world counts down to midnight, for me, time begins to blur a little at the new year, especially if I’m observing it as I should—which is through a Gospel lens. Yes, the calendar is changing. Yes, a new year is beginning. However, I know by faith in Christ that God has already gathered up my past, present, and future into the arms of His love. The death of Jesus Christ was the hour of hours. Paul said as much in Romans 13:11 when he wrote, “Besides this, you know the time, that the hour has come for you to wake from sleep. For salvation is nearer to us now than when we first believed.” The word he uses for “time” is καιρόν (kairon). That’s not the word for sequential time. It’s a word referring to a season marked by a moment of critical importance.

We know what that critical moment was. It was the death of God’s Son for sinners. Born from that moment, Christians exist in faith’s season leading toward salvation—eternal life. Now, standing at every New Year’s crossroads, there is the confidence that sequential time and all its happenings are held by the One who is eternal. Jesus Christ—the same yesterday, today, and forever—is the anchor of a Christian’s life story, and we know He can be trusted to write every forthcoming chapter.

My prayer for you tonight is that New Year’s Eve will be an opportunity, not for wishing for days past or fearing what lies ahead, but for resting in the steadfastness of God’s continued love. I hope that it’ll be a chance for you to remember that each new year, like each new day, is a gift wrapped in His mercies, which are new every morning (Lamentations 3:22-23).

With that, don’t forget about our New Year’s Eve service today at 4:30 PM. If your church is not offering a worship service, feel free to stop by and join us here at Our Savior. One attendee or two hundred, we wouldn’t think of starting a new year any other way. (By the way, we offer a service tomorrow, too. That one is at 10:00 AM.) Again, we’re located at 13667 Highland Road, Hartland, MI 48353. I hope you can make it. God will certainly make it worth your while, being sure to situate you with the timeless assurance that in Christ, all things are made new—not just at the turning of a calendar page, but every remaining moment of your mortal life until the life to come.

New Year’s Resolutions Are Not Bad

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A new year is very nearly upon us. For the record, I’m with Tennyson, who said, “The year is going. Let him go.” From there, as I do every year, I ask myself, “How can I improve? What can I do differently?” The answer is always the same. “Plenty.” And so, I make New Year’s resolutions.

I know some folks think it’s a ridiculous practice. I don’t, which is why I tell you as much each year at this time. I make New Year’s resolutions not on the whim of wise words from guys like Benjamin Franklin, who encouraged his friends, “Be always at war with your vices… and let each year find you a better man.” I do it because there’s something I know about myself.

I know I’ll end this year infected with the sin-nature. I know I’ll begin the new year with the same infection. For me, this is an essential concern.

Thankfully, there’s something else I know. I am a forgiven sinner. God loves me, and I live in His grace. This Gospel of Christ’s life, death, and resurrection for my dreadful transgressions changes my trajectory entirely. By the power of the Holy Spirit through that Gospel for faith, I have a new inclination.

“You are not welcome here,” the inclination says to the sin-nature.

I suppose, reminiscent of Franklin’s words, to speak this way to the sin-nature is to coax it to war. If you’re wondering what that war might look like, take a quick moment to read Romans 7:14-25. Fully aware of sin’s dreadful grip, Saint Paul wrote in verse 23, “But I see in my members another law waging war against the law of my mind and making me captive to the law of sin that dwells in my members.”

And yet, the Apostle was prepared to face the deeply rooted inclinations of the flesh, having already written in the previous verse, “For I delight in the law of God, in my inner being…” (v. 22). Paul writes in this way only as the cross remains his strictest heading, adding rhetorically in verses 24 and 25: “Wretched man that I am! Who will deliver me from this body of death? Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord!” Paul rejoices that his wrestling with the sinful nature is entirely possible as it emerges from the Gospel deliverance won by Christ. In other words, because Christ has defeated death, sin has no rightful claim on the believer. It just doesn’t belong. And so, Christ has equipped us with a better nature, one equipped to wrestle and pin it.

From there, I think it’s interesting how Saint Paul sees God’s Law in an entirely new light. He doesn’t speak of it as burdensome, but instead, as good—as a preeminently useful weapon in the struggle against sin. From this perspective, he appears to lean in a direction that disinterests popular Christianity.

Essentially, mainstream Christianity is opposed to traditions, liturgies, rites, ceremonies, and other historical helps. But Paul appears to delight in the strictness of these things (1 Corinthians 11:1-2, 2 Thessalonians 2:15, 3:6, and others), counting it all joy to observe boundaries that keep him fixed to the Gospel.

I just watched the film Bonhoeffer. Well, I didn’t watch all of it. I only managed about forty-five minutes before I turned it off. The filmmakers framed Dietrich Bonhoeffer as someone who despised Christian tradition. They even wrote into his character syrupy, near-heretical phrases I’ve heard 21st-century mega-church pastors use concerning the faith. But Bonhoeffer didn’t write or speak this way. I studied Bonhoeffer extensively for my doctoral work and half of what so many claim to know about him and his theology is just not true. They often associate him with certain things without knowing what he actually believed. Concerning tradition, he was openly bothered by cultural influences on the Church and her historic practices, which is one reason why he was capably attuned to the Nazi dangers. Bonhoeffer didn’t see the Church’s traditions as humdrum things that needed to be jettisoned. They were protective things—Christocentric things. Their very point was to keep Christian hearts and minds fixed on Jesus. The Nazis brought their own rites and ceremonies—gestures, creeds, attire—all things that steered away from Christ to Hitler. The more they influenced the German Church’s leadership and clergy to massage these practices into the lives of the Deutsche Christen (the German Christians), the more the nation slipped into darkness.

I could go on and on about this, but I won’t. I’d rather return to Saint Paul. The Apostle to the Gentiles insisted that traditions, even though they might appear to some to have a Law sense about them, are quite useful in the spiritual battle. With this in mind, it’s interesting then how Paul insists still more in 1 Corinthians 9:24-27:

“Do you not know that in a race all the runners run, but only one receives the prize? So run that you may obtain it. Every athlete exercises self-control in all things. They do it to receive a perishable wreath, but we an imperishable. So I do not run aimlessly; I do not box as one beating the air. But I discipline my body and keep it under control, lest after preaching to others I myself should be disqualified.”

Mindful of the benefits of such discipline, first, Paul understands its nature and activities. He uses a very strange verb—ὑπωπιάζω—translated as “discipline.” It’s a visceral word that quite literally means to “strike beneath the eye,” thereby implying its visible nature. In other words, Paul doesn’t fight the flesh only in private with prayer, devotionals, quiet meditation, or whatever. His practices are activities—behaviors that others can see. He does these things to “keep [the flesh] under control,” that is, to enslave it to something better, something godly. That something is Christ.

These public behaviors are designed to keep him set on Christ.

I suppose that leads me to something else relative to New Year’s resolutions and why I think they’re good.

Essentially, Paul engages in self-discipline, viewable or unviewable, knowing it is not aimless but purposeful. That purpose matters for himself and others. If it’s visible, then Paul must know it has corporate effects. And so, he says as much in verse 27 when he writes, “I myself should be disqualified.” Disqualified from what? He already said what it was. His role as an Apostle who preaches. Paul knows that if he does not continue to practice visible or invisible discipline—keeping his body under control for the sake of godliness—his work as an Apostle could very easily become of little use not only to himself but also to the body of believers to whom God has sent him.

I practice self-discipline. One of my practices is to make New Year’s resolutions. It’s not just for me but also for you—for my family, friends, parishioners, people who know and see me. I know my sinful tendencies, and so, as a pastor, I fight them for the sake of remaining faithful to my calling.

As for you, consider your own vocation. As you do, take a chance at making your own New Year’s resolutions. Keep your eyes on the cross, and from there, try adding a routine to your life, some rites (words) and/or ceremonies (actions) that help keep your eyes fixed on Christ. For example, start off small. Maybe begin each day by making the sign of the cross and praying before you even get out of bed. If you already do this, maybe add something else. Maybe try something as simple as hugging your spouse and children daily and telling them how thankful to Christ you are for them.

You know you. You know what needs betterment. Give it a try. Be encouraged in the war against the flesh. And when you fail, don’t worry. Dust yourself off and get back in the fray. God is with you. He loves you. Steadied by His Gospel, He’s given you everything you need to maintain the course.

Christmas Day 2024

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You should have figured I’d sit down to write something to you this morning. How could I not? You’re family, and if there’s anything that families almost certainly do together at Christmas, it’s sit and remember, finding joy in familiar things and the memories they stir. Indeed, familiar things are often comforting things. We know them well. We know their sounds and scents. We know how they feel in our hands. And when we interact with them, we are strangely at ease. Christmas has a way of introducing and reintroducing this sensation every year. It did so for me last week. Let me tell you how, and in the best way I know how—by telling you a story.

My Grandma Thoma had a small candy bin on a side table near her couch that she kept filled with the chalky pink mints you might find at a bank or funeral home. Of course, as kids, we didn’t care. Candy was candy. Anyway, the round bin, about as big as a coffee mug, was by no means an extravagant vessel. Rough and unpainted, its old metal was worn. Its hinged top was challenging to open. Even worse, it screeched like a haunted mansion’s front door, assuring that any would-be candy thieves were swiftly apprehended. Still, whenever the grandchildren came for a visit, we were allowed to pass it between us, each taking a piece of its contents for ourselves.

One year at Christmas, having received the required wink of approval from Grandma, my brother and I opened the bin and found striped peppermints instead of the usual chalky pastels. We smiled. She smiled. I still remember that relatively insignificant Christmas moment.

I haven’t seen the candy bin in decades. I don’t know what happened to it after she died. My guess is that someone in the family—an aunt, uncle, or cousin—took it home and has it sitting somewhere on a shelf. At least, I hope it is. Either way, why am I telling you this? Because for some strange reason, this Christmas memory of my Grandma and her candy bin returned during last week’s Children’s Christmas service here at Our Savior. The recollection started just as the children began singing the familiar Christmas hymn “The Angel Gabriel from Heaven Came.”

Somehow, the hymn’s beautiful familiarity triggered the equally familiar scene with my Grandma. It’s as if the image swept in with Gabriel’s grand entrance in stanza one, his “wings as drifted snow, with eyes as flame.” There, on the lectern side of the chancel, somewhat hidden behind our congregation’s glistening Christmas tree, the setting itself conjured an intersection of comfort, familiarity, and ease—a thread of reminiscence resonating through the sacred spaces and carried on the voices of children.

But that’s not all. Throughout the rest of the midweek service’s “Lessons and Carols” portion, more memories arrived. I started thinking about the snow forts my brother and I built in our side yard near the neighboring tavern. Then, suddenly, I was transported to the hospital room the day my brother died. But I didn’t stay there for long. My thoughts turned to something else.

I recalled hooking my childhood dog, an Alaskan Malamute named “Pandy,” to a sled to pull my little sister, Shelley, around the yard. I remembered Pandy wasn’t too interested. I thought of summer days on my bike, cruising the neighborhood with friends. I remember jumping a ramp we set up. It did not end well. I crashed and was pretty skinned up. But still, there was more.

I could see as clearly as if it were yesterday, a wintry evening with my son, Joshua. We built a snowman that managed to remain upright and smiling for several weeks. I also remember how concerned I was as we struggled to keep our house warm.

Flickering like candles in my mind, I recalled summertime basketball with the kids in the driveway. I remembered lifting Madeline from the ground to get her as close to the rim as possible so she could finally make a basket. I remembered doing this while Harrison and Evelyn tooled through and around on tricycles or scooters. I recalled how concerned I was when Harrison ended up in the hospital with a staph infection that nearly took his life and how Jennifer and I essentially lived in the hospital with him until, after several surgeries, he could finally go home. I remembered the same when Evelyn was diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes. I remembered sitting with Jennifer on our front porch, admiring the hostas she worked so hard to cultivate. I recalled coming out the following day to discover that the deer had eaten all of them.

In all, I thought of good times and harder times, joy-filled and terrifying.

Now, someone might be tempted to say, “It sure sounds like your mind was wandering during the carols and hymns. Shouldn’t you have been listening to the words? Shouldn’t you have been thinking of Jesus?”

I was listening to the words. In fact, anyone watching would’ve seen I was singing along. And I was definitely thinking of Jesus. More importantly, I was thinking of how He is forever thinking of me. Immersed in the Christmas hymnody’s glorious familiarity, more than once that night, it was so easy to whisper things like, “Thank you, Lord. You’ve been so good to me.”

Still, what would prompt the memories and whispers? Well, singing “What Child Is This” certainly played a part. If done right, it’s a moving hymn. I preached as much at last night’s Christmas Eve service, reminding the listeners of that particular moment in the lullaby that requires us to confront the reason for the divine Child’s birth. We sing, “Nails, spear shall pierce Him through, the cross be borne for me, for you.”

There were other moments wafting on the children’s glad Christmas sounds with the same potency. In “Of the Father’s Love Begotten,” when the congregation joined the children to exclaim, “Pow’rs, dominions, bow before Him, and extol our God and King. Let no tongue on earth be silent, every voice in concert ring, evermore and evermore!” Even better, the hymn’s final Trinitarian verse! Listen for yourself to the recording: https://www.oursaviorhartland.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/12/REC12-18-24.wav. It’s not the best audio capture. But still, did the angels suddenly decide to join us? Was the recorder clipping at the end, or was that divine applause?

I don’t know about anyone else, but those moments pulled me like a tractor beam into times that mattered—both good and bad—all wrapped in God’s unmistakable grace. My thoughts weren’t wandering. They were enslaved by the thrilling joy of Christ’s incarnation—Immanuel, God with us!—and what that means for my past, present, and future.

So, where am I going with all of this? Well, as always, I’m thinking it through on my keyboard.

Looking back at what I’ve written so far, I suppose there’s a basic nature to what I’ve described. In other words, familiar things have a way of anchoring us—an innate way of reminding us who we are and where we’ve been. A Christmas hymn sung by children reminded me of being a child and visiting my Grandma at Christmas. Along with it came an object any child would remember: a candy bin. But as the hymns continued, more moments came into view. Admittedly, Christmas is already second to none when it comes to sentimentality’s sense and the basic nature I described. And yet, for Christians, there’s still more to this.

As the secular world is moved by pristinely wrapped presents, evergreen and cinnamon smells, and Frosty the Snowman, I suppose I’m also saying that for Christians experiencing the same sentimentality, we can actually reach Christmas’s truest destination. We know its purpose: the incarnation of God’s Son to rescue us from Sin, Death, and hell. With that in sentimentality’s hand, we can grasp at the fragments of our lives, assured that the moments of joy, sorrow, struggle, and triumph form a tapestry of God’s grace. They’re not bygone moments. They all bear reminders that God, in His infinite love, came into our world not only to save us but to walk with us through every season of life—that all along the way, and still to this day, Jesus is thinking of us.

I guess I’ll just leave it at that. I need to start preparing for this morning’s service.

That said, may today’s Christmas celebration and all its comforting familiarities be more for you than holiday jingles and opening presents. May the festival of Christ’s birth be an anchor fixed to God’s wonderful promises. Indeed, unto us, a child is born! Unto us, a son is given! It’s Jesus! O come let us adore Him, Christ the Lord! Merry Christmas to you and yours!

Christmas Eve 2024

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The story of our redemption begins in quiet simplicity tonight. While the world expects fanfare before a king’s arrival, the Son of God—the King of kings and the Lord of lords—enters our world wrapped in humility. He takes a feeding trough as His throne. His attendants are a young virgin and an adoptive father. His courtiers are whatever creatures that live in the stalls. His reverent nobles are backwater shepherds.  

Saint John, the inspired author of the Christmas Day Gospel, writes of the Child, “The true light, which gives light to everyone, was coming into the world. He was in the world, and the world was made through him, yet the world did not know him. He came to his own, and his own people did not receive him” (John 1:9-11).

Tonight, another inspired author, Saint Luke, tells us that, regardless of His humble beginning, the residents of heaven know who He is. The newborn is their Lord. Like Saint John, they know “all things were made through him, and without him was not anything made that was made” (John 1:2). And they say as much that first Christmas evening, piercing its pitch-black sky with celestial luminescence and an otherworldly song heralding God’s magnificent inbreaking (Luke 2:8-14). I suppose, in one sense, their knowledge and song are essential. If heaven did not claim Him, ultimately announcing His identity as the perfect Son of God, then He’d be just another human being who was equally incapable of saving us.

But He isn’t just another human being. He’s God in the flesh. And it’s here, in this tender scene, that heaven’s greatest gift is revealed—Immanuel, God with us—which is to say, the manger serves a profound role. God rests in it. It doesn’t seem possible. And yet, there He is. He is not distant. He is near, very near, right there in the manger. He has stepped into our brokenness, our struggles, and our longing. He is not above us. He is us.

Still, the manger hints further to His trajectory. Who among us was born and then placed where animals feed? See, He’s willing to go even lower. He does not shy away from the mess of life but enters into it fully, becoming all that we are and worse in the most incomprehensible way. Indeed, Saint Paul writes, “For our sake [God] made him to be sin who knew no sin, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God” (2 Corinthians 5:21).

What the Christian Church across the world celebrates tonight is by no means a mere Hallmark holiday or theological abstraction prompting tinseled gift-giving and goodwill for a few days of the year. It celebrates something extraordinary—a person—the divine Person, Jesus, a gift of the Heavenly Father, who left the realms of His eternal glory to exact what the angels declared: peace between God and mankind. That’s no ordinary act of goodwill they’re proclaiming. That’s no ordinary gift-giving. Jesus is the end of all that divides mankind from God. The angels direct the shepherds to find His beginning wrapped in swaddling cloths and lying in a manger. As we follow, the Lord’s humble lowliness resonates. We know what the hymn writer means when he scribbles, “Sacred Infant, all divine, what a tender love was Thine, thus to come from highest bliss, down to such a world as this” (LSB 373, “See Amid the Winter’s Snow,” stanza 3).

Behold, the passion of Good Friday and the weight of the cross are not far off.

Until then, tonight, we glorify Christ, knowing that His birth, even as it lacks all fanfare, is the greatest the world will ever know. This is true because, by the incarnation, the world received the only One who could save it.

With that, and by all means, I hope the genuine wonder of this night and everything it gives is revitalizing. I pray you’ll contemplate God’s Word proclaimed and the Gospel preached so that by the Nativity’s powerful message, the flames of an already pyre-like faith are fueled to burn even brighter for all in this desperate world to see.

God bless and keep you by His grace. And Merry Christmas!

Summary and Summery are Kin

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A couple of weeks ago, before venturing into Michigan’s dreadful mid-winter cold to retrieve our daughter, Evelyn, from basketball practice, Jennifer called to me, asking, “How do I look?” I came around the corner from the living room to see she looked the winter part. Hat, gloves, and coat—all were in place, as they should be. All except for one detail. She was sockless and wearing her summer flip-flops.

“You look summery,” I said, implying a momentary sense of a far better season’s intrusion.

“It’ll be a quick trip,” she replied, “and I won’t be getting out of the car.”

“Good idea,” I said. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” she replied, the door closing behind her.

Returning to what I was doing before, I thought how “summery,” a made-up word used to infer summer’s fresh, bright, and relaxed feeling, bore no audible difference to the noun “summary,” which is a word tinged with brevity. In other words, a summary is short. It’s a fuller portion of information distilled into its essential parts, ultimately telling us in brief only what we need to know.

Unfortunately, my mind, already suffering from Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD), followed my disorder’s doldrums down into a moment of frustration. I thought that summery and summary are kin here in Michigan. Indeed, summers in Michigan are short. They so often feel like barely a synopsis of the season’s essential parts—the warmth, clear blue skies, sunshine, and all that makes summer so wonderful. What other states enjoy at full-throttle for four or five months, we barely get three, if that. I’ve mentioned before that Michigan is one of the states with the fewest number of sunny days. And setting aside for a moment the Upper Peninsula, where it’s entirely possible to have a foot of snow until the end of May, here in the Lower Peninsula, where I live, we’ve had snow dumped on us in the middle of May. Sure, it’s gone just as soon as it arrives. But it has happened. Back in 2016, we had an inch of snowfall on May 15. I remember because I was driving in it, and I recall questioning my geographical life choices.

But enough of my bemoaning about Michigan. As I said, when the door closed behind Jennifer, my SAD kicked in. I have to work hard to overcome those moments. That said, something else happened when I left home the following day.

Before leaving for the office, I sat down at the kitchen table and told Jennifer, “You know, I’m tired of this. I’m going to sit here and drink coffee until the sun comes up, and then, I’ll go.” I went on to explain that I’m thoroughly exhausted by leaving home and returning home in the darkness. This time, I was going to wait for the sun to rise before doing anything. I called out to our Google Home device, “Hey, Google, what time does the sun rise today?”

“The sun will rise today at 8:17 AM,” she answered.

It was 6:30 AM. Still, I insisted I wouldn’t leave until I saw the sun’s rays. Five minutes later, when I stood up to go anyway, Jennifer admitted to wishing she were a betting woman. She knew that sun or no sun, I’d change my mind and muscle through. And so, I grabbed my things, kissed her goodbye, and left.

That morning, I decided to shake things up a little and take a slightly different route, one that had me joining southbound US-23 just a little further north than usual. I’m glad I did because I saw something I wouldn’t have typically seen, and it was refreshingly recalibrating.

On the east side of the highway and just beyond the safety fencing, someone decorated a small evergreen tree with Christmas lights. Being on the highway’s right-of-way, I’m sure no one owns the tree. Not to mention, the tree is quite some distance from any of the area’s surrounding houses. With that, it’s a mystery how the little tree has electricity. Still, there it is, out in the middle of nowhere, all by itself beside the highway, piercing the perpetual Michigan darkness with its twinkling colors.

I had a thought when I saw it.

For as dark as things may seem sometimes, there’s Christmas right out in the middle of all the humdrum. There it is, a beaming reminder of the incarnation of God’s Son for my rescue. Because of His person and work, none of what’s filling the surrounding shadows of this world’s winter is forever, only the divine summer of Christ and my eternal future with Him.

At 70 miles per hour, I didn’t get to see the tree for very long. Within seconds, it was in my rearview mirror until, eventually, it was gone. In that sense, it was only a brief prompt, a summary glimpse of a summery illustration. But what it summarized in that moment was vast and powerful. Against a sunless landscape draped in the blistering chill of Sin, Christ’s arrival remains fixed. He came, and when He did, He turned back the rulers and authorities and the cosmic powers of this present darkness against which we wrestle (Ephesians 6:12). Defeating those dreadful specters, he gave “light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death” (Luke 1:79).

Passing this tree is now my usual route. Whether I’m coming or going in the dark, I want to see it. I like that it’s there, and I’m thankful to whoever is keeping it lit. It’s as if the tree, with its branches glistening cheerfully and waving in the highway winds, is saying to every passerby, “Rejoice! Christ was born for you!”

Almost Winning

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Ask my family, and they’ll tell you I don’t like to lose. I’m a “go big or go home” kind of guy. When I endeavor to do something, I expect to pursue and achieve it in a top-tier fashion. When an A is possible, a C is not an option. If my potential is not A-worthy, I’ll go sleepless until it is.

In a way, I demonstrated this personal boundary several Sundays ago during worship. My voice was struggling because of a lingering (but not contagious) cough. During the sacramental liturgy, when I arrived at the Words of Institution (which I usually chant), for the first time in a while, I elected to speak them. Why? Because I could feel the itch in my throat getting worse, and I knew it wouldn’t go well. Second-rate chanting is not edifying. It’s a distraction. I knew if I couldn’t do it well, I’d wait until I could.

Good or bad, this stickler mentality is one reason why the game of Monopoly is also relatively off-limits in our home. I’ve shared with you before that it can get pretty brutal. When it’s possible to buy every property on the Monopoly board and fill all but the utilities and railroads with hotels, why not do it? And while we’re at it, win big. Drain each player of every dime. Do not win some. Win all. Is there a strategy that accomplishes this? Yes? Then use it. Go big or go home.

But for as driven as any among us might be, a lesson I learned early in life is that losing is incredibly important. In other words, winning is nice, but almost winning is sometimes better. This is true because it often prompts self-analysis leading toward the determination needed to improve. Sure, hitting a home run may be the batter’s ultimate goal. Nevertheless, the road to home run hitting is one of insight and opportunity for actual betterment. Babe Ruth, a champion home run hitter, insisted that there was nothing so motivating as a bunch of strikes. In his words, every strike is one swing closer to a home run.

I watched a video last week while walking on the treadmill. It was a compilation of youthful progressives tearfully complaining about Trump’s victory. It was clear they simply could not process the loss. They just didn’t have the skills. As a result, one by one, they droned toward and over illogic’s cliff. For example, one insisted that anyone who opposed Trump was destined for a concentration camp. Another mentioned she was fearful she might have to spend time in prison for the multiple abortions she’s had. Still, another chimed in with Oprah Winfrey’s ridiculously obsolete warning that because Trump won, all future elections would cease. Humorously, some of the video’s teary-eyed characters threw their faces into pillows and screamed as loudly as they could. Honestly, I felt like I was watching a documentary about the participation-trophy generation—or a research study of toddlers who’ve only ever been told they’re the best of the best and can never lose.

As I watched, I was also reminded of something else.

An artificial victory is no victory. While occasionally playing a video game in “god mode” might be fun, there’s no invulnerability in real competition. In other words, the video game “Call of Duty” in no way compares to actual combat. I was listening to Joe Rogan interview a former CIA operative who executed countless missions in the Middle East. He told Rogan that when he had to go to the bathroom in a firefight, he went in his pants. That’s it. He didn’t say it, but I’m guessing he knew well enough that there’s no pressing pause in a firefight. There’s certainly no game reset button when you die.  Real victory is dangerous, and it is sometimes unpleasant. In all, it takes effort. It takes perseverance through struggle. It requires diligence even when diligence seems foolish.

Victory takes a whole lot of almost winning to reach.

People who somehow avoid second place’s more arduous road—whether it’s because they’ve insulated themselves against loss or because what they have was given to them without any effort or personal risk—are missing out on growth’s genuine joys. I suppose relative to faith, this leads me to something else.

For starters, don’t get me wrong. Salvation has nothing to do with our efforts. We do not earn it. Through the person and work of Jesus Christ, we actually do receive a magnificent “get out of jail free” card. However, after faith (or perhaps better said, because we’ve been grafted to Jesus [John 15:5, Romans 6:3-6]), some pretty unearthly struggles will likely come (Matthew 5:11-12, John 15:20, Mark 10:29-30, 2 Timothy 3:12, and countless more). Jesus did not hide this prospect from us. And yet, Saint Paul offers an intriguing perspective concerning these struggles. He writes in Romans 5:1-5:

“Therefore, since we have been justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ. Through him we have also obtained access by faith into this grace in which we stand, and we rejoice in hope of the glory of God. Not only that, but we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us.”

His first point is to make sure we understand that when bad things happen, we are not to think we’re somehow at war with God. He clearly states that we have been justified by faith in Jesus Christ and are at peace with God. His very next point is a crisp reminder that we exist now by God’s grace. This grace brings about something extraordinary.

First, we’re found capable of finding hope in the glory of God. Do you know what the “glory of God” is? It’s the gruesome death of Jesus for the sins of the world (John 12:23-28, Mark 10:35-38). It’s the absolutely dreadful cup of suffering that Jesus tipped back and gulped down in its entirety. Saint Paul insists we can rejoice in this glory primarily because Jesus endured it. The cup’s contents were ours to consume, but the Lord took them for us. However, even as Jesus made it clear that we could not endure absolute suffering’s cup—the kind that wins salvation—He did say we’d at least sip from it on occasion (Mark 10:39). That’s where Paul goes next. However, his tone remains constant. His mood is joyful. With a grammatical smile, he describes faith as having the ability to rejoice when rejoicing seems ridiculous.

Who can rejoice during suffering? Christians can. And this is where my previous thoughts about winning and losing come back into view.

Paul describes an essential process of spiritual maturation that can only occur through suffering. He describes suffering for Christ as a seed that produces endurance, character, and, ultimately, hope. But not just any hope. It’s the kind of hope that genuinely knows the value of the Lord’s work to save us. It’s a hope that knows the Lord’s road was not easy. It’s a hope that gathers more and more strength as our own roads become seemingly less and less navigable. It kind of reminds me of another video I happened upon demonstrating the properties of a substance called Oobleck. It’s a non-Newtonian fluid that, when pressure is applied, gets stronger. In the video, a person dips his hand into it like water. But then he punches it, and suddenly, the substance is like a rock. Oobleck might just be Christian hope’s best mascot. It steers through and meets the mortal journey’s end, and no matter how hard the world beats on it, the Lord continues bolstering it to stand victorious above shame, eventually receiving the gold medal of triumph gifted entirely by the love of God through the Holy Spirit for faith.

In short, God had no intention of making us earn our salvation. He did all of it. However, He does train us to embrace and live in its value. Before we receive Christ’s first-place prize, we should expect to spend a lot of time almost winning—or, in other words, enduring struggle. But again, the struggle is good for us. And we can rejoice through it. We keep our eyes on the prize, equipped with faith’s otherworldly tenacity for knowing that a home run is fewer strikeouts away today than it was yesterday.

Perspective Is A Tricky Thing

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Perspective is a tricky thing. What you see or hear is only sometimes the whole of something. There is a saying that people who are dancing are considered crazy by people who cannot hear the music. In other words, there are layers of information necessary for communication. When they don’t match up, things go sideways. Add to this that everyone transmits and receives information through filters. These filters affect perspective. Some are easier than others to discern. A person who says, with a kindly smile, “I love you” communicates something far different than another person using the exact words while rolling their eyes. But you only know this from the perspective of sight. A text or email can hide it. If it weren’t for the intuitive clues inherent to tone, a phone call could potentially conceal it, too.

In the end, when perspectives differ in ways resulting in conflict, one-on-one conversation is always best. Admittedly, when face-to-face interaction is not possible, a phone call is the next best thing. Allow me to show you how this is true.

I received an early morning email last week from Amber Roseboom, the president of Right to Life of Michigan. It pinged on my phone just as I was putting my coat on to leave for a visitation. Pausing for a moment to skim the first few lines, I could see she was somewhat unhappy with me. With that, I read the message thoroughly. I won’t go into the email’s finer details. Just know that I took my coat off, sat back down at my desk, and called her. We talked for quite some time.

To start, she was surprised that I called so quickly. Nevertheless, my immediate return call and her willingness to put aside what she may have been working on fostered a shared perspective that the other person’s concerns mattered to us.

Amber began the discussion. I listened. In short, an eNews message I wrote in October was making its rounds. In it, I expressed specific concerns for the newest advertising and online commercial campaign effort (“Life: The Other Choice”) from RTL of Michigan. Amber read the eNews message and, as she mentioned both in her note and on the phone, felt somewhat betrayed. The betrayal was two-fold.

First, she believed the message was harmful to an organization I’d proven myself so incredibly devoted to for so long. Indeed, I have been and remain devoted to RTL of Michigan. Plenty know I’ve gone to the furthest reaches in Michigan to iterate life’s message at rallies, conferences, or evening dinners, only to drive hours through the night to get home in time for my usual church and school duties the following day. I’ve done this countless times, often resulting in maximum exhaustion. But I do it because life is important to me.

Second, and perhaps more intimately, Amber was saddened that I didn’t express my concerns to her first.

For the record, I did not broach either of these first concerns directly. In context, they seemed rhetorical. My fidelity to the cause needs no defense. Beyond that, had I defended the appropriateness of a public response to a public campaign, Amber and I would’ve likely ended up in some rabbit holes that didn’t lead to what we both already knew was true: We were not opponents. We were teammates with different perspectives who, having already proven ready to preserve the comradery, were willing to explore those perspectives and adjust our thinking if necessary. So, instead of a defense, I continued listening. She continued to explain the rationale behind the campaign.

Initially, I interjected on occasion where appropriate. For example, I made a passing comment that doing anything for public consumption, whether writing or creating commercials, is risky. I didn’t take the time to explain the comment, but what I meant was that we both know the external dangers we face out there. I get my share of hate mail, as I’m sure Amber does, too.  Beyond that, what we do is risky internally, too. Sometimes, the team doesn’t agree. In this particular situation, we were experiencing the downside of the internal risk.

I also recall saying that I don’t remember half of what I write, especially when it comes to my eNews messages. I write them on the fly. Whatever comes out of my nine-volt brain is what ends up on my computer screen, most often with minimal editing. Of course, I pray before the first finger hits the keyboard, asking that my words would be faithful. That said, I actually had to search for what I wrote. I found it, took a moment to skim it, and found I remained comfortable with what I’d written. We went on from there.

Along the way, we more than cemented our collegiality. We acknowledged the importance of maintaining creedal boundaries, especially for the sake of protecting organizational identity. We discussed the cruciality of shaping the culture rather than allowing the culture to shape us. Together, we agreed that RTL of Michigan must remain immovably fixed to its North Star—life—and that no room can be given to anyone or anything that would distract from life’s heading. In tandem, we confessed a common faith in Christ, one that desires faithfulness to Him as we search for the best ways to bring the message of life into a world fostering death as a viable choice during pregnancy. That angle of discussion led us to momentary examinations of our Lord’s ways of bringing His listeners from point A to point B. It led us to consider the way Saint Paul interacted with people he met along the way of his ministry. It led us to these and more. By the time we were done, we had landed at a fundamental realization, which I had already mentioned.

We are not opponents. We are teammates with different perspectives. However, these perspectives turned out to be similar after all. They were just in a different order and being considered with varying prominence. I did my best to frame it for both of us.

Essentially, I’m an incrementalist. I’ve learned that very rarely can anyone be carried from one perspective to another without taking a whole lot of deliberate steps in between. Yes, my goal is always a touchdown. However, a touchdown is rarely available at kickoff. Most often, plays are needed to get the ball down the field. I work that way in pretty much everything I do. That said, the forward motion happens within absolutist boundaries. A football game occurs on a field and is governed by rules. The steps I’m willing to take—the things I will or will not do or say, the plays I’m willing to make during the game—are influenced by absolutist principles. Relative to these two perspectives, my October eNews focused more so on the absolutist nature of the effort—the language I believe we must use, the North Star heading, what protects the organization’s position relative to culture and objective truth—rather than the incrementalism involved in the plays themselves. I did make it plain that any play resulting in lost yardage is a foolish one. But beyond that, the absolutist position—the boundaries—was my precise perspective. If we don’t hold the line on certain things, the game is lost before it even begins. Amber was reading what I wrote from a purely incrementalist perspective, and as such, she felt that one RTL of Michigan’s worthwhile plays was being misjudged.

In the end, we realized we did not disagree on much of anything. Instead, our opposing perspectives were, as I already said, just differing measures of emphasis applied to different aspects of the work. Perhaps best of all, we understood one another better, and as a result, we rejoiced in continued fellowship. In fact, I told her I’d write something saying as much. You’re reading it right now.

Amber Roseboom and Right to Life of Michigan have my full support.

Also, I asked Amber if she’d be willing to speak at Our Savior’s upcoming event with Seth Gruber on January 30, 2025. I thought it would be an opportunity for anyone in the RTL community who may be thinking we’re opponents to see us together on stage as friends—because we are. Serving alongside one another would provide this far better perspective.

In closing, I think there’s a lesson to be learned.

W.B. Yeats once wrote, “The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.” In a way, he’s talking about untapped perspectives. As it relates to what I’ve shared, I think the key to sharpening perspectives is being humble enough to listen and patient enough to process what we hear in a way that doesn’t lose sight of the goal. It’s both incremental and absolutist. That said, the key to this hangs on the hook of bravery. Unless we’re daring enough to reconcile while at the same time being willing to search our own thinking for error, there’s no chance of seeing through to something better. But when we take the time to do this, blessings emerge. Perspectives can shift, relationships are strengthened, unique skills each player brings to the game come into sharper focus, and efforts toward the goal line endure.

I think that happened. I’m pretty sure Amber believes it happened, too. And so, we go forward. We know the boundaries. We see the goal line. We understand the fundamentals. With the playbook in hand, we’ve come to execute. We take the field, grab the ball, and move it relentlessly down the field as a team, no matter how the world might try to stop us.

Amber and I are in it. Are you?

Reverend Doctor Advent

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The Advent season is upon us. Not Christmas, but Advent.

“So, what’s the difference?”

Well, there’s a big difference, actually. A person can understand the difference by first admitting that not all teachers are human. Seasons are professors, too. If we’re paying attention, even the earth’s varying seasons teach us something. Ralph Waldo Emerson described summer as a time that teaches us to swim and to drink in the wild air, which is to say, it’s a time for getting out and occupying creation. Conversely, John Steinbeck noted that the value of summer is best known in the depth of winter. Shakespeare added to the wintry lesson, “Here feel we the penalty of Adam, the season’s difference; as, the icy fang.” In other words, we can blame the devilish serpent and Adam for winter.

Again, seasons teach.

I’ll add that the Christians who jump straight from Thanksgiving to Christmas without experiencing the season of Advent are truly missing out on something extraordinary.

Advent means “coming.” When you know someone or something is on the way, you prepare. No small part of the Advent season’s purpose is to stir thoughtful anticipation and to refresh Christianity’s two-fold longing for the arrival of Christ. Here’s what I mean by “two-fold.”

If an Advent pilgrim is paying attention, he’ll first sense Advent’s deep concern for a savior from the perpetual nighttime of Sin and Death. He’ll notice the season’s explicit call to contemplate this unfortunate predicament, and he’ll be urged to look toward a little city with a manger. He’ll be prompted to prepare for Jesus, the One whose incarnation was the very inbreaking of God to save us. He’ll also notice an underlying promise: the One who first came in lowliness won’t return in the same condition. The next time He comes, it will be in glory as the divine Judge over all things. When He returns, He’ll set all things right and take His people to be with Him forever.

Advent ponders these two arrivals. The season is in place to help us, mainly because if left to ourselves, we’ll be enticed toward the first of the two—and this will happen for all the wrong reasons. Setting aside the reality that we are not inheritors of this world but of the world to come, we’ll begin to see Christmas for everything that it isn’t—an opportunity to accumulate things. It becomes little more than a glittering season of commercialism, inevitably resulting in fast-fleeting joy. Advent, by contrast, is designed to exchange the superficial for the depth of a divine event—the breathtaking moment when God actually entered our world to fulfill His promise of salvation, claiming us as His own, and inaugurating a hope and a future that extend far beyond what this temporary world could ever promise or give.

By the way, I should interject and say it’s entirely fine to put up a Christmas tree, string lights on the front porch, and decorate our homes in jolly anticipation during Advent. Some would disagree. I’m not one of those folks. The Thoma family put up their festive decorations the weekend before Thanksgiving. For one, we had to. It was the only weekend we’d all be around to help accomplish it. Besides, I’m not so rigid as to think these traditions are incapable of adding to the anticipation. They can help prompt the warmth and expectation I mentioned. Still, even as the Christmas tree twinkles and the tiny Dickens-like villages adorn our fireplace mantles, Advent calls us to make sure our hearts remain focused on something that glistens with a brighter shine. Advent’s appointed lessons keep our gaze steady, reminding us that everything we see—the tree, the lights, the gifts we receive at Christmas, whether wrapped or unwrapped—all have an expiration date on them. We might not be able to see it, but it is there. Indeed, this world is passing away (1 John 2:15-17, Matthew 6:19-20, James 4:14, 1 Corinthians 7:31, and the like), and while the surrounding décor might represent a sense of our joy, it’ll only ever be a hint at the unsurpassed joy Christ brought in His birth and will bring again in its fullest at the Last Day.

Advent zeros in on these things. It whispers to the soul, “Prepare in this world for the next. Prepare not just your home but your heart.” It readies us for Jesus, the Divine Gift that does not fade, the Hope that does not diminish, and the Joy that is truly everlasting.