About AngelsPortion

REVEREND CHRISTOPHER I. THOMA is a husband, father, and Lutheran pastor in Michigan. He is allergic to sharks, has a 4th-degree black belt in Monopoly, is bored by scary movies, and drives a Jeep Wrangler he pretends is the Millennium Falcon.

The Tyranny of Lies

Posted on October 26, 2025 by AngelsPortion

It’s been a while since I’ve read C.S. Lewis’s Mere Christianity. Believer or unbeliever, everyone should read it. In fact, it should be required reading in every school, if only for what it can teach about detecting truth and untruth.

My son, Harrison, started reading it recently. I gave it to him a long time ago. He finally took a chance on it. He admitted he wasn’t sure he’d like it at first. But before too long, he became engrossed. For me, it was an “I told you so” moment. I knew he’d appreciate it. He’s a thinker. He’s also a debater in search of capable opponents. While Dr. James Lindsay was with us a few weekends ago, he seemed to really enjoy Harrison’s company, insisting to me in private that he has a bright future ahead of him.

I don’t know if Harry has finished the book yet. I suppose I should ask. In the meantime, I intend to revisit it soon, too. I consider the volume a medicine of sorts. In the same way I need a few ibuprofen to endure a headache, I sometimes need an hour with a time-tested and clear-thinking observer like Lewis—just a few of Mere Christianity’s opening chapters—to interpret this world’s blaring noise. I need someone far smarter and more eloquent than I to make simple the fact that truth is immovable, no matter how loudly the world around me insists otherwise (Isaiah 40:8; John 14:6).

Looking back at what I just wrote, I took a moment to retrieve the volume. I flipped through it and landed on the following portion, which is one of many I have underlined in pencil:

“[The Law of Human Nature] certainly does not mean ‘what human beings, in fact, do,’ for as I said before, many of them do not obey this law at all, and none of them obey it completely. The law of gravity tells you what stones do if you drop them; but the Law of Human Nature tells you what human beings ought to do and do not. In other words, when you are dealing with humans, something else comes in above and beyond the actual facts.”

That short collection of sentences alone is a decent dosage. Lewis is preparing to show how truth is never waiting to be discovered by vote or consensus. It simply is, and it always has been (Psalm 119:89). And relative to it, somewhere beneath the static of this opinion and that alternate perspective, there remains a fixed point. By the phrase “what human beings ought to do and do not,” Lewis means there’s a discernible moral north that no amount of clever wordsmithing or philosophical opining can erase (Romans 1:18–20).

It might sound somewhat naïve to say, but I still struggle to understand how we, as a society, could be having the conversations we are at this moment—having to ask questions like, “What is a woman?” Believe it or not, there was actually a time when essential right and wrong, truth and untruth, were not up for debate. People may have differed in practice, but they shared the quiet assumption that a generation’s mood does not define what’s true and what isn’t.

But nowadays, subjectivity has eclipsed objectivity as the most virtuous approach. The thing is, even the Christians—people who supposedly herald the objective truth of Christ—fell for it (John 17:17; 2 Timothy 4:3–4).

Nowadays, we tell our kids that we want them to choose their own path, that we don’t want to force morality upon them, but rather that they discover their truest selves and a genuine love for the Faith. And so, we let them decide whether they even want to attend church (Hebrews 10:24–25). What’s more, we don’t dare restrict or monitor their friendship circles or express concern about the way they dress (1 Corinthians 15:33). We hand them mirrors instead of maps and call it guidance. And then, when they drift aimlessly away from Christ, ultimately folding under the world’s pressure and no longer able to discern right from wrong, we act surprised, as though confusion were not the inevitable harvest of our own parental cowardice.

In short, when we establish and exalt the subjective self and its personal truths as the beginning and ending of one’s moral compass, we should not wonder why that compass’s needle spins wildly, unable to find true north.

What I like about Lewis’s Mere Christianity is that, beneath the confusion brought on by our own failures, he makes clear that even as this is happening, a heartbeat remains, and then he points to its subtle pulse. For example, we get a sense for it when humanity still flinches at cruelty or shows admiration for courage. These are “conscience” things. And part of Lewis’s point is that while we might try to silence the human conscience, we’ll never be able to kill it. It’ll be there whispering, and the only way to avoid it is to pretend not to hear it.

Lewis goes on to explain that if morality were a matter of individual invention, such thinking would inevitably lead to murder, betrayal, and many other things being forbidden in some cultures but virtuous in others. And yet, not even the moral relativist can live as though that were true. I think we’re seeing this in real-time right now. I watched a video of an Antifa member screaming “Offense!” and calling for help after being thrown to the ground by federal agents. But this happened only after he’d thrown a massive brick at the same agents. I’ve heard college students shout for “justice for victims” while celebrating the killing of unborn children. I’ve watched public leaders condemn violence on the Tuesday before Charlie’s assassination, only to make excuses for it on the Wednesday afterward.

In the end, this tension betrays something deeper. And it’s simply that we know. Even when we deny it, we know. There is a law beneath the noise, written into our being. And even when we pretend otherwise, it remains.

Where does this knowledge come from? Not from textbooks. Not from governments. Not from culture. It existed before all these things. I gave a brief lesson in our Preschool a few Wednesdays ago. From my time there, I can assure you that even a child knows the difference between showing kindness and showing cruelty. I can assure you, the students knew it long before someone like me had to sit down and define it during circle time. This awareness lives deeper than instinct. It is a whisper from something else.

Christians know what that “something else” is. The Bible reveals that it’s God’s Law written on the human heart—the echo of the Creator’s own character within the creature (Romans 2:14–16). It’s why guilt for wrongdoing burns even inside unbelievers (John 16:8). It’s why repentance and reconciliation feel so good, almost like coming home, even for atheists (Luke 15:17–24). In other words, even when we don’t believe it, these sensations are proof that we’ve heard its voice.

But as I said before, the only way to get around it is to pretend we don’t hear it.

Admittedly, our age has grown clever in its deafness. Evil has become “necessary.” Good has become “oppressive.” Guilt is dismissed as a false construct, and repentance is described as emotional manipulation pushed by a cruel patriarchy. Now, we have an ever-growing generation of mindless nitwits running around shouting “Injustice!” about almost anything and everything, all the while incapable of actually defining it. But that’s because they were let loose to create their own standard of rightness apart from God and His objective standards. Maybe that’s the real tragedy of our time. They cannot escape the Law, but neither can they name its Giver. And yet, they will stand before Him at their last, just like everyone else, and they will do so according to His truth, not theirs.

I hope we can turn this around. Personally, I think one of the only ways to do it is for more to step up and invalidate the lies whenever and wherever they occur. I don’t think folks should necessarily go looking for such opportunities. I just think we should be ready to respond to lies in our everyday lives. If we find ourselves in a moment where the line between right and wrong, good and evil, is blurred, we should be ready to respond in a way that unblurs it (2 Timothy 2:25). If we just had more people willing to do that, things would likely get better.

But that will take courage, the kind that doesn’t necessarily shout louder, but instead, bows lower before truth’s sacredness than before anything else. Do we have that kind of courage? I don’t know. Some days I feel like we do. Others, not so much.

Either way, there’s one thing I do know, and it’s that objective truth does not belong to us. We belong to it (John 8:31–32). We did not invent it. We are not the authors of right and wrong. We are its witnesses and, at crucial moments along the way, its servants (Romans 12:1–2).

I suppose there’s something else I know, too. Big or small, every genuine tyranny in life exists in the spaces where fear of speaking the truth has taken root. If you are afraid to speak truth to lies, you are a loyal subject to lies, plain and simple.

A Passing Storm?

Posted on October 19, 2025 by AngelsPortion

Apparently, those among us who called it a social contagion were right.

That said, some will meet this moment with anger because the numbers undermine their narrative. Others will read them with sorrow, because it’s too late for people they know. And still others will exhale with relief, sensing that perhaps the edge of this storm has finally been sighted, and calmer seas are on the horizon.

If you have no idea what I’m talking about, then you’ve missed some very important news. A recent study showed that the number of students identifying as transgender or nonbinary has dropped from nearly 7 % in 2022/2023 to around 3.6 % in 2025. Regardless of how the media might spin the data, that’s not a statistical wobble. That’s pointing to a collapse.

Go figure. Truth, after all, is patient, and fads have a way of burning themselves out.

That said, we should be careful not to take a victory lap just yet. Too many lives have already been scarred, if not completely ruined, this side of eternity. Too many parents have lost children to this mess. Too many were shamed into silence by doctors, family members, and friends. And yes, too many pastors chose the comfort of quietism, deciding that inaction was courageous and engagement was heterodoxy. They hid behind pious phrases like “Just preach the Word and God will handle the rest,” as though the Word they preach never calls for the courage to act, let alone to speak plainly about or against the wolves devouring the flock.

I should stop right there. There’s no need to go further. The task now is not to point fingers, but to lock arms and bear witness. Our job is to bind up wounds. Just know that for some, that means to stand where they refused to stand before and speak truth into the ruins.

Admittedly, we do this remembering that when entire societies exchange truth for a lie, God sometimes gives up and gives them over to the “due penalty for their error” (Romans 1:18-32). I think that’s precisely what we’ve lived through—a due penalty. We landed here because, in part, a generation was catechized not by faithful pastors and teachers, but by algorithms. They were allowed to believe the body is moldable and that feelings are sovereign. The result was pain on a scale we will not fully grasp for a very long time.

But again, lies are brittle things. They can’t bear the weight of actual reality. And that’s what the entire LGBTQ, Inc.’s world is facing right now with this study. But when the fantasy does finally collapse for some, the Church needs to be ready, because they’ll find themselves wounded and wandering.

While eating dinner with Chloe Cole in our home a few weeks ago, everyone at the table learned intimately that for every young person who detransitions, there is a story of profound regret. However, Chloe herself exemplifies hope in the mess—or better said, faith rediscovered. Admittedly, the truth may seem a little slower than lies when reasserting itself, but eventually, it does.

If we are indeed witnessing the beginning of the end of this cultural mania, the Church should be careful not to respond with cynicism or self-congratulation. Honestly, I don’t think she will. It’s not what her Lord desires to accomplish through her. I think she’ll respond with compassion. But it can’t be as before. It must be compassion built on faithful conviction—the kind that is never afraid to say to anyone in any context what’s actually true. We can never be scared to say out loud and in public that male and female are not arbitrary categories. They are divine gifts. “From the beginning of creation, God made them male and female” (Mark 10:6). That truth is not subject to revision.

From this conviction, genuine compassion is born, the kind that understands that many of the children and families caught up in this wave were not villains but victims. They were misled by an age that despises God’s boundaries, preferring instead to worship the self. As I said before, many needed shepherds, but didn’t have them. Now more than ever, they need shepherds who will not flinch from the devilries this world imposes on humanity. But they also need shepherds who will not sneer at the fallen.

I’ll be honest with you. I was starting to think God was giving up. As I mentioned before, He does do that in certain circumstances. Well, I was beginning to think we were experiencing it firsthand—that we were venturing into a forsaken landscape that Luther warned about so long ago:

“Let us remember our former misery, and the darkness in which we dwelt. Germany, I am sure, has never before heard so much of God’s word as it is hearing today; certainly, we read nothing of it in history. If we let it just slip by without thanks and honor, I fear we shall suffer a still more dreadful darkness and plague. O my beloved Germans, buy while the market is at your door; gather in the harvest while there is sunshine and fair weather; make use of God’s grace and word while it is there! For you should know that God’s word and grace is like a passing shower of rain which does not return where it has once been” (LW 45:352).

Perhaps this study is proof that God has not yet abandoned this generation. The same Christ who stilled the storm is still speaking His Gospel to the winds and the waves of this culture, saying, “Peace, be still.” (Mark 4:39) It sure seems the chaos that claimed so many sons and daughters is not being given the last word.

In one essential sense, the study is not just data. It’s a mirror. It reflects a society that appears tired of pretending. Divine truth is interrupting a worldwide delusion—an ideology built on lies that delivered only despair and loneliness. And now, as the illusion collapses, as is almost always the case, a vacuum will form. Rest assured, the human soul cannot abide in emptiness for long. If the Church does not step in to fill the void with truth, another dreadfulness will rush in to fill it.

Rest assured, this moment will test us. Will God’s people seize the opportunity to engage with compassionate conviction? Will we speak mercy to the misled while refusing to avoid or soften what’s true? The time for polite silence has passed. In fact, I’d say it was never an option. Indeed, more than ever before, bold catechesis leading to an even bolder confession must fill the space left unattended.

The turbulence may be passing, but God’s mandate through Saint Paul remains. Even when the waters are still, he insists, “Be steadfast, immovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, knowing that in the Lord your labor is not in vain.” (1 Corinthians 15:58). Through our continued labors, many in the world may yet come to see something better—that the cure for confusion was never self-creation through mutilation. The solution to every bit of the sin-nature’s confusion is to become a new creation through faith in the mutilating crucifixion of Jesus—His death for our redemption.

Liberty is No Enemy of Holiness

Posted on October 12, 2025 by AngelsPortion

As many of you know, I prefer to post and ghost. In other words, I share something, and then I rarely return to read the comments, if only because I believe humans weren’t designed to receive 24/7 input from an endless crowd of digital judges. It’s not healthy to live beneath the constant gaze of the commentariat. Admittedly, 24/7 commentary goes with the territory for anyone who writes for public consumption, which I do. Still, I’m wise enough to know that the soul can wither when every thought must be defended and every sentence explained. It’s better, I think, to set one’s observations before readers, entrust it to the Lord, and then move on with the quiet confidence that truth doesn’t require

That said, sometimes I break my own rule.

Essentially, I shared an image of myself, Dr. James Lindsay, Father Calvin Robinson, Bishop Mel Williams, and William Federer enjoying pre-conference whiskies and cigars on my deck. It wasn’t long before Facebook reply notifications began arriving. Usually, I scroll past those notifications. But this time I didn’t. I clicked on one.

A passerby had expressed concern: “That doesn’t seem like the best example to set for young parishioners.”

Now, his words are a common enough sentiment. The supposition is that anything capable of misuse must be avoided altogether by Christians, lest someone follow the example and sin. This is Pietism in its most socially acceptable form: the attempt to preserve holiness by limiting someone else’s Christian liberty.

Attempting to be funny (but not really), I replied, “It was a heretical-pietist-free evening. Praise God for that!” Maybe I shouldn’t have. But I did. With that, the conversation grew, and with textbook precision. My counterpart immediately invoked the dangers of addiction and disease. I responded that not all enjoyments lead to sin and then offered the ancient liturgical phrase, “Τὰ ἅγια τοῖς ἁγίοις” (The holy things for the holy ones). In other words, God’s gifts are for those sanctified by Christ, not denied by fear.

The back-and-forth continued. He warned against “promoting potentially harmful behaviors.” Identifying this as classic Pietism, I took another quick moment to lay out the contrast between moral restraint and moralism:

“You are conflating personal abstinence with holiness and assuming that visible restraint equals moral superiority… you make ordinary Christian liberty (whisky and cigars) sin-adjacent, implying that the ‘holy’ choice is abstention.”

Of course, what I just shared with you was not my entire reply. In my much longer response, I invoked God’s Word and fundamental human reason, adding that the dangers of sugar, gluttony, and social media are by far statistically worse for health than cigars or whisky. My point was not complicated: true wisdom is not found in prohibition, but in discernment.

Still, he kept on. Clearly wounded by personal loss, he shared his father’s tragic battle with lung cancer. Yet even his heartfelt appeal that others should keep their “unhealthful affectations” private revealed Pietism’s blind spot. Pietism mistakes personal experience for universal moral law. In fact, is that not one of the great dreadfulnesses of our age—the confusion of subjective perception with objective reality? People no longer ask what is true, but rather what feels true to them. Truth has become elastic, molded to suit one’s emotion or experience. But someone’s subjective conviction, however sincere, cannot alter objective reality. Reality fragments when truth is privatized, its authority giving way to the tyranny of preference.

That’s the soul of Pietism. The objective Gospel is recast as personal sentiment rather than divine fact.

I know some might argue it, but I think my final (and rather lengthy) reply was both pastoral and theological, weaving together compassion, Scripture, and principle. I wrote, “Your experiences are tragic, and you have my sympathy… But in my home, I will not make your weakness my law. Christian liberty is not sin. Compulsion is.”

Then, as before, I anchored the argument in God’s Word—Titus 1:15, 1 Timothy 4:4, Psalm 104:15, Luke 7:34, Galatians 5:1. Each text underscores that the Christian life is not defined by what we abstain from, but by what we receive rightly. Certainly, one could say that Pietism was born of good intentions. Indeed, it was a 17th-century reaction to cold orthodoxy and a response to the particular woes of the day, alcoholism being one of them. But good intentions can be deadly when they elevate personal zeal above divine grace. In its essence, Pietism teaches that visible piety proves a person’s inner holiness. When it does this, it replaces the Gospel’s declaration, “You are free,” with the conscience’s suspicious questioning, “Are you holy enough?”

That’s not good. That’s flat-out dangerous to the soul.

Still, the Pietist goes further, imposing on others, “Do not drink, smoke, dance, or play cards, because these things might harm your witness.” But the Gospel says, “All things are lawful—not all are beneficial, but you are free” (1 Corinthians 10:23).

I suppose part of the irony in all of this is that Pietism sees danger everywhere except in itself. It replaces real sin with symbols of sin, preferring the optics of sanctity to the substance of faith. It is less concerned with the heart that trusts Christ than with the appearance that pleases observers.

Maybe even the more profound irony is that Pietism claims to protect morality but ends up birthing hypocrisy. It trains Christians to hide, to present a sanitized version of life, and to confuse the suppression of appetite with the cultivation of virtue. As it does this, it unwittingly revives the very Pharisaical spirit Christ so often condemned—the one that tithed mint and cumin but neglected mercy, freedom, and joy.

Against this, Saint Paul, and ultimately Confessional Lutheranism, have a proper understanding of these things, one that stands firm. And it’s simply that God’s creation is good, and when received with thanksgiving, it sanctifies rather than defiles. When Scripture warns against drunkenness, it condemns excess, not alcohol’s existence. When Paul tells Timothy to “use a little wine,” he affirms alcohol’s benefit, not vice. When Jesus turns water into wine at Cana, He not only dignifies holy marriage, but also Godly fellowship and festivity. You know one thing Jesus doesn’t do in Cana? Magnify abstinence.

Make no mistake, the theology of Christian liberty does not promote recklessness. It insists that the conscience be ruled by grace, not by fear. It says that a Christian’s freedom is not to be licentiousness, but rather faithfulness. In this context, a Christian can receive a cigar or a dram of whisky as a gift, not as a threatening vice or idol. A Christian can also choose to refrain, not because of superstition concerning one’s holiness, but according to Godly discernment.

I quoted Saint Paul’s words in my final response, saying, “If food makes my brother stumble, I will never eat meat” (1 Corinthians 8:13). For the record, that’s not self-contradictory, not in context. Paul is writing about charity, not control. He’s teaching about sensitivity, not censorship. Saint Paul would never forbid meat. To do so would make his other writings on the subject instantaneously hypocritical. In this instance, he forbids the sin of despising the weaker conscience. Still, Paul’s compassion never becomes compliance with false laws. And so, I also shared Saint Paul’s words that “to the pure, all things are pure” (Titus 1:15), and that “everything created by God is good, and nothing is to be rejected if it is received with thanksgiving” (1 Timothy 4:4). I noted that God Himself gives “wine to gladden the heart of man” (Psalm 104:15). I even reminded that Christ was accused of being “a glutton and a drunkard, a friend of tax collectors and sinners” (Luke 7:34), not because He was those things, but because He partook freely of God’s gifts within holy boundaries with others.

My opponent’s final plea—that such moments be kept private to avoid tempting the “impressionable”—revealed one of Pietism’s most corrosive features. Pietism’s instinct is to hide the very goodness of God’s creation. It imagines that holiness grows in secrecy, that joy must be concealed lest someone misunderstand. But remember, Christ’s first miracle at Cana was very public. His critics were the ones who scowled that He did the things He did so openly and so freely.

I should also add that to hide God’s gifts is not humility. It’s ingratitude. To pretend that the Christian life is tidy, risk-free, and maybe even unembodied is so far away from spiritual maturity. Perhaps worse, it’s a denial of the Incarnation itself. Indeed, God did not hover above creation as though holiness required distance from it. He dwelt bodily in it in ways that Pietism insists we distrust. To recoil from the tangible—food, drink, fellowship, and the bodily joys of this life—is to behave as though God erred in becoming man. It is to imply that holiness exists only in the abstract, not in the enfleshed grace of Christ who came as one of us—eating and drinking—for our salvation. The Word became flesh, not vapor.

In the end, I suppose the entire debate comes down to who sets the boundaries of holiness. Is it human fear or divine grace? I think Pietists fear liberty because they cannot control it. Pietists are closet tyrants. But Christians are free from such tyranny in every way. They are enabled by the Holy Spirit through faith to discern and embrace Christian liberty, ultimately trusting in Christ, the One who governs it.

“For freedom Christ has set us free,” Paul wrote, “do not submit again to a yoke of slavery” (Galatians 5:1). The Pietist, though well-meaning, forges a new yoke from his own fears and insists that it’s righteousness. But freedom—true Gospel freedom—is not the enemy of holiness. It is its foundation.

So, pour the whisky if you want. If it will lead to your demise, don’t. Light the cigar if you prefer. If it will harm your physical condition, discern the foolishness of your action and don’t. But whichever you choose, laugh with friends who love Christ. And do so not to provoke the weak, but to proclaim the strength of Christian liberty and its discernment. Proclaim that God’s gifts are good. His creation is not the problem, and holiness is found not in rejecting or hiding His generosity but in receiving it in faith with all joy.

Endurance through Fire

Posted on October 5, 2025 by AngelsPortion

You’ll rarely find me ready to admit that my brain has run dry of words. And yet, the busyness of the past few days was as a black hole pulling into its twirling mass every last particle of my energy, and with it, not just thoughts that popped into my mind that typically become a few paragraphs here and there, but also the will to actually form them. It was a kind of gravitational pull toward emptiness—a reminder that even those of us who trade in words can find ourselves staring at a blankness that feels alive, swallowing thought after thought.

For me, in order to reconcile all the supposed “good ideas” I may have lost to the void last week, I think the point is not necessarily to fear the situation, but to recognize it as part of the cycle. In one sense, it was a pause before creation, a stillness from which the next torrent of keyboard taps would eventually emerge.

And those taps are happening right now.

I should say I do remember one random thought from last week that managed to stay with me. It might seem silly in the scheme of things, but since it’s the only thing that comes to mind right now, I’ll share it.

There was a moment while driving when I wasn’t sure if I still liked Star Wars. Yeah, weird. I’m the guy in your feed with a life-sized Darth Vader in his basement. I also have a Stormtrooper costume on display, one that was sent to me by the gent at Shepperton Studios in England who designed the original molds for the 1977 film. The trooper is armed with a holstered E11 blaster and all standard-issue equipment. I have some, but not all, of my original Star Wars toys from the 80s, too. My AT-AT stands beside my bar. The Millennium Falcon hangs by wires from the ceiling above it, with Vader’s TIE fighter in pursuit of an escaping Han and Chewy. Among countless eye candies scattered throughout the space, I can assure you, I’m no ordinary Star Wars fan.

But here’s the thing.

Perhaps that strange realization that startled me while driving was because, for most of my life, the Star Wars saga has been a wellspring of imagination and awe. But since Disney took over, what was once rich and expansive has now been drained of its mystery. It seems almost every corner of the galaxy is retooled and franchised into ideological submission, and now a void is staring back. Disney’s current trajectory—with its insistence on imposing LGBTQ, Inc.’s nonsense, combined with prioritizing quantity over wonder, and spectacle over soul—has transformed a universe once supercharged with myth into a factory line of shallow narratives, each one closing doors instead of opening them.

Thinking this through right now on my keyboard, I suppose my disenchantment isn’t necessarily a betrayal of my younger self, but a natural response to watching a beloved story collapse into an insatiable gravitational pull, leaving me waiting for the emptiness to let go, and for creation to feel alive again.

That said, this is simply where we are as a culture.

And if that sounds abstract, it isn’t. The point has faces and names. Just last night, sitting at my dining room table with Dr. James Lindsay and Chloe Cole, our conversation turned to this very thing—the strange willingness of our age to normalize what is gross, confused, or destructive, while shunning what is good, true, and beautiful. We agreed that the inversion isn’t accidental. It’s become a cultural reflex. In so many ways, the very same pattern that gutted Star Wars—trading mystery for ideology, and reverence for rebellion—now governs how society decides what deserves its affection.

It’s a pattern that doesn’t stop at Hollywood or politics. It seeps into everything, showing itself to be a symptom of something far deeper.

I guess what I’m saying is that we live in an age where tradition—what’s sacred—is no longer cherished, but instead repackaged until nothing generationally transcendent remains. In other words, we’ve been slow-burning the inherent wonder that makes most anything worth loving in the first place. What has happened to Star Wars is a cautionary tale in that sense. It mirrors what we’ve done to our own world—draining meaning for sellable content, trading soul for profit or popularity, and leaving ourselves with universes that look full but feel strangely empty.

Again, that said, you may not like what I’m going to say next… but… well, whatever.

I’d say the Church in America has not escaped this same gravitational pull, especially when it comes to worship. More and more, mainstream evangelicalism mirrors the same logic that gutted Star Wars—a reliance on endless production, flashy effects, and emotional manipulation designed to keep an audience engaged rather than a people fed. The holy spaces have become stages, and the pastors are little more than TED Talk speakers. The liturgy, if there is one, is a syrupy playlist of songs that repeat the same three lines twenty times, sometimes without even mentioning the God the people claim to worship. Every moment must be filled with lights, sound, and extraneous distractions.

I have a theory about this.

Not long ago, I saw a video from a megachurch memorial service. The pastor was speaking, but just over his shoulder, in clear view of the camera, a keyboardist played soft music the entire time. Why?

The theatrics of emotional manipulation. What is theater without its soundtrack?

Unfortunately, this wasn’t anything unique. It’s just one example of a wider pattern in megachurch (and smaller wannabe megachurches) culture where reverence is replaced with stagecraft. My theory is that these churches deliberately avoid reverence—with its quiet, cruciform ponderance—because it risks exposing how thin they are in substance. We’re told they’re attempting to be relevant, but it looks and feels suspiciously like entertainment—like franchising—running the sacred through the machinery of consumer demand. Just as Disney ruined Star Wars by trading the mythical for market share, churches are trading the sacred for the secular, reverence for relevance, mystery for marketing, and the otherworldliness of what’s holy for trendiness. The tragedy is that in trying to be accessible (which proponents of the “attractant model” insist is necessary), they end up being disposable—thin words paired with even thinner ditties that fade with the next generation. Christianity becomes a gathering of generic platitudes that stir the senses for a moment but leave the soul unanchored for the moments to come.

But unlike Star Wars, what I’m describing isn’t fiction. It’s the very lifeblood of the Church being stripped of its substance and wonder and, ultimately, sold back to us as theater.

The plain truth is that churches that adopt this theology and practice are not the ones that survive the fires of time. I said as much during my speech at yesterday’s conference. Charlie Kirk agreed with me. Dr. James Lindsay affirmed that he did, and primarily because both know that history has long proven it. History shows these forms of religiosity rise for a time, swelling in number and noise, but like fast food, they fill a generational moment, ultimately leaving that generation’s people malnourished. And when the next cultural storm hits—whether persecution, political upheaval, or even just the slow burn of the same societal disillusionment that we’re experiencing now—the thin scaffolding of lights and slogans simply cannot hold. And again, why? Well, it’s the same inversion we talked about in my dining room last night—the reflex to applaud what deforms and to yawn at what sanctifies, which leaves people brittle precisely when meaning is most needed.

Simply put, syrupy Christianity isn’t up to the challenges brought by real suffering. In those moments, people actually need the God who is holy, transcendent, and present where He promised to locate Himself.

By the way, I have a theory about this, too. I think that in the end, the even more profound tragedy isn’t that churches like the ones I’ve described eventually disappear, but that in their wake they leave generations who think they’ve “tried” Christianity, when in truth they’ve only tasted a diluted version of it. And so, they walk away, not only from Christ, but from a franchise built in His name that they mistakenly think He commissioned. In other words, people having a false impression of what Christianity actually is, that, I fear, is a far greater problem than the fading cultural mythos of even something as beloved as Star Wars.

You may or may not agree with me. That’s okay. In the end, though, I suppose what matters is not whether the Church can keep pace with the culture or stay in step with the latest trend, but whether we are anchored to something that can actually withstand the storms. The world can afford for Star Wars to become disposable entertainment. It cannot afford for the Church to follow suit. When churches trade away their sacred identity—when they sacrifice reverence for relevance—they train their people to crave sugar instead of bread. When famine comes, they starve. What the world needs is not another franchise in God’s name, but the God who breaks into our shallow emptiness, exchanging this world with the sacredness of the world to come. Strip that away, and you may have a show. Keep it, and you have a Church. And that is the difference between extinction and endurance.

I Was Not Disappointed

Posted on September 28, 2025 by AngelsPortion

It looks like I’m a little late to the party on this one. Really, I should be concerning myself with other things right now. I have a sizeable conference happening in six days. Still, I was asked by a friend last night if I was disappointed concerning the rapture date that came and went this past week.

No, I wasn’t disappointed. And here are my three reasons why.

First, I believe what the Bible teaches, which means I do not believe that God speaks to His people outside of His Word. He does not employ modern prophets. He does not give special revelations to anyone. If you say to me something like, “God spoke to me and told me I should be doing such and such,” regardless of my expression, you can pretty much guarantee I’m recoiling on the inside. Everything we need to know about God and His work to save us has already been revealed. And so, whenever someone stands up and claims otherwise, it’s by no means harmless zeal. It’s dangerous. And why? Because how do you know what’s being shared is from God and not prompted by Satan?

The Bible warns that Satan operates in this way (2 Corinthians 11:14). What’s more, he delights in twisting God’s Word and offering counterfeit revelations (Genesis 3:1). But he does more than that, too. Moses knew this. He gave a sobering caution in Deuteronomy 13:1–3, reminding Israel that even if a prophet or dreamer seems to perform signs, if his message leads you away from God’s Word, it is a test—and you are not to follow him. To seek or trust in “new words from God” beyond what has been given in Scripture is to invite deception (1 John 4:3). And Christ Himself makes this painfully clear: “Beware of false prophets, who come to you in sheep’s clothing but inwardly are ravenous wolves” (Matthew 7:15). They don’t simply mislead in minor matters. They lead people to embrace false christs. That’s why Jesus warns in the same passage that on the Last Day many will cry out, “Lord, Lord,” only to hear Him say, “I never knew you; depart from me” (Matthew 7:22–23). In other words, false claims of special revelation aren’t just theological mistakes. They’re devilish snares set with one goal in mind—to draw us away from the true Christ and His sure promises, and to leave us clinging to a counterfeit christ who cannot save.

My second reason is that rapture theology is very plainly a sham. How can I say this? Again, because I believe the Bible, and the doctrine of the rapture (as many seem to know it) isn’t in it. It was invented by the Anglo-Irish theologian, John Nelson Darby, a self-proclaimed prophet, in the 1830s, who claimed to receive special revelation from God apart from the Bible. He then proceeded to take three Bible texts (all three about the Lord’s second coming, two specifically referring to the resurrection of the dead on that day) and twisted them beyond meaning’s threshold. In other words, he built an entire theological movement on a false teaching—a doctrine that remains fantastically popular among Christians today. It’s not because they’re unintelligent or insincere. It’s because they earnestly long for Christ’s return. That desire is not wrong—it’s biblical (Philippians 3:20–21). But when it’s infused with falsehood, it can turn into despair, confusion, or even shipwrecked faith. That’s why it matters that we trust the Scriptures themselves, not speculation, for our hope.

And yet, speculation has been the lifeblood of rapture teaching for nearly two centuries. Its most famous modern champion was Tim LaHaye, author of the Left Behind series. Like the false teachers before him, when pressed for biblical proof, he pointed to Matthew 24:40–41, which reads, “Then two men will be in the field; one will be taken and one left. Two women will be grinding at the mill; one will be taken and one left.”

Sounds like a rapture, right? Well, hold on a second. Don’t forget about the recent outrage from folks concerned about others taking Charlie Kirk’s words out of context? The point here is that we should show the same concern for our Lord and His words. To do this means keeping Matthew 24:40-41 with what came before it in verses 37 through 39. So, together, the text reads:

“For as were the days of Noah, so will be the coming of the Son of Man. For as in those days before the flood, they were eating and drinking, marrying and giving in marriage, until the day when Noah entered the ark, and they were unaware until the flood came and swept them all away, so will be the coming of the Son of Man. Then two men will be in the field; one will be taken and one left. Two women will be grinding at the mill; one will be taken and one left.”

At the very center of the image the Lord presents is the phrase οὕτως ἔσται καὶ—“so it will be” or “it will also be the same.” With those words, Jesus draws a direct parallel between what happened in Noah’s day during the flood and the Lord’s return. The ones taken in Noah’s day were those swept away in judgment. The ones left behind were the faithful who were preserved from destruction. The grammar makes the meaning plain. According to the Lord’s imagery, being left behind in the field or at the mill when the final trumpet sounds is a good thing. They’re the inheritors of the new heaven and new earth. The ones taken are delivered into judgment.

The third reason for my lack of disappointment at a passing rapture date is, like the first and second, because I believe the Bible. Anyone who actually reads the Scriptures knows that predicting the Lord’s return is not only foolish, it’s flat-out ungodly. Our Lord Himself said in Matthew 24:36, “But concerning that day and hour no one knows, not even the angels of heaven, nor the Son, but the Father only.” That’s not vague. That’s not a maybe. That’s Jesus Christ—God in the flesh—saying plainly that not even He was given that information in His earthly ministry. If Christ Himself deferred to the Father on the timing of the end, what business does any man have trying to pin it to a calendar?

Saint Paul warned the Thessalonians about being unsettled or alarmed by people claiming special knowledge about the Lord’s return (2 Thessalonians 2:1–3). He told them not to be deceived, that it would happen according to God’s timing. Likewise, Saint Peter, in faithfulness to Jesus, all but repeats the Lord’s words in 2 Peter 3:10, saying that “the day of the Lord will come like a thief.” In other words, it will be sudden, unexpected, and impossible to chart out on a timeline, no matter how clever we think we are.

And yet, here we are again—people circling dates on calendars, skipping college exams, quitting their jobs, selling their cars, giving away their houses to total strangers, whipping up anxiety in others, and then acting surprised when the sun rises the very next morning.

The ridiculousness of it isn’t just in the failed prediction. It’s in the arrogant presumption that anyone can call themselves a modern prophet or apostle, stand onstage, and claim to share special revelations from the same God who already said He doesn’t do such things.

Hebrews 1:1-2 insists that God used to speak through prophets, but now He speaks to us by His Son. Saint John tells us plainly that the Son is the Word made flesh (John 1:14). To confess that God speaks through His Son is to confess that God speaks through His Word. And as Christ is the authority, so also His Word alone carries final authority for faith, life, and practice (Colossians 1:18).

That is why when the writer to the Hebrews declares that God has spoken by His Son, he means the Word. The Bible is it. Done. No more special revelations. Throughout history, Christendom has consistently maintained this. Chrysostom explained Hebrews 1 as emphasizing the finality of Christ’s voice, saying, “The prophets spoke in fragments, but the Son spoke all. Not one truth remained that was not spoken by the Son.” In Augustine’s On Christian Doctrine, he draws together John 1 and Hebrews 1, insisting that Christ, as the incarnate Word, is the measure of all revelation and, therefore, the Scriptures that testify of Him are sufficient for the Church. In his On the Incarnation, Athanasius does the same, labeling as heretical anyone seeking or believing any revelation apart from the Son, who he shows is the Word given in and through the Scriptures.

Still, people come along claiming to have received new revelations, even claiming to know something God has explicitly said no one knows.

The point is that all such claims will always be a denial of Scripture in the worst way, all beneath a rented tent and the illusion of special, namely, divine self-appointed authority. Anything that sets itself above (or even alongside) God’s Word as an authority is not merely in error but active rebellion against the very Christ who is the living Word and who alone has preeminence (again, Colossians 1:18).

I suppose I should wrap this up by saying that when it comes to genuine Christianity’s eschatological view, the Bible’s message is never to “calculate the day.” It’s “be ready every day.” Jesus said in the same breath in Matthew 24:42, “Therefore, stay awake, for you do not know on what day your Lord is coming.” Notice, not if He’s coming, but that He is—and that the certainty of what He has revealed in the Bible, not a false prediction, is where our comfort should be found resting.

So, no, I wasn’t disappointed. And when the modern prophets were once again proven false, I chuckled. Then I prayed for them and for the people who drank in their poisonous words. After that, I went right back to not being disappointed because my hope is not tethered to human speculation. My hope is tethered to Christ, the gift of His real presence and promises located in His verbal and visible Word (1 John 5:6-8; Hebrews 10:15; 2 Timothy 3:16; 1 Corinthians 2:13; John 14:26; 15:26–27; Hebrews 3:7). This is the One who said that when He comes, it will be in His time, in His way, and unmistakable to all. Until then, we’re not called to guess the day. We’re called to assume every day could be the one, while at the same time living faithfully in each He’s already given.

Not A Barrier. A Bridge.

Posted on September 21, 2025 by AngelsPortion

As you may already know, I was asked to give the opening prayer and speak a few words at the rally for my friend Charlie Kirk on the steps of the Capitol in Lansing last Monday. Regardless of the resulting criticisms, both from some in my own ranks who believed I shouldn’t have participated and from those in the progressive media who broadcast my words, stirring a plethora of vulgar comments against me online, I considered it a privilege.

Indeed, it was a genuine honor to stand before thousands and speak of the hope we have in Christ (1 Peter 3:15), while at the same time urging all to take up truth’s torch and go forth with courage. This was something I was compelled to do—something I needed to do—if only because I owed it to Charlie.

And yet, there’s another debt I owed to Charlie. Not only was it the debt of friendship, but also the responsibility of being seen and accessible in public, as he always was. Charlie never hid from the people he knew needed him, and in his own way, he taught so many to step forward with the same openness, to stand where those who are searching might actually find them. I’ve tried to follow that same pattern of visibility, even when it sometimes comes with risks.

And yet, there is a memory from this past Monday that will stay with me forever.

Long before I stood atop the steps at the microphone, I learned my better destiny on Monday was down among the brokenhearted (Psalm 34:18). During the forty-plus minutes before the event started, a handful of men and women—not many, just a few, but still complete strangers to me—saw me near the Capitol steps and wanted to talk.

A few were heavy with grief. Some were burdened by anger. One was carrying both to extremes. But all wanted to know the “why” behind what happened to Charlie. They wanted answers. They wanted hope.

But here’s the thing. How did they know to talk to me? These people who approached me didn’t know me from the next person. They didn’t know my role in the event. Still, they felt somehow that they did know me, that they could step forward and ask to talk, to ask me for help with whatever burdens they were experiencing.

How was this possible? Before I answer that question, let me tell you what happened during those private interactions.

One-on-one, each told me his or her story, and I responded with God’s Word. I gave the Gospel. I reminded each that death does not get the final word, that Charlie’s faith was not in vain, and that for all who dwell in Christ, there is victory over the grave (1 Corinthians 15:54–57). Those conversations—private interactions near the Capitol steps—are what I remember most.

This brings me closer to an answer to the question. But still, a little more first.

Not all that long ago, a brother pastor shared with me an August email from his LCMS District President discouraging pastors from wearing the clerical collar. In his own words, he suggested that clerical collars create “the wrong kind of distance” between pastors and people, and that perhaps a suit, tie, or even casual clothes would be better—maybe even more approachable.

I couldn’t disagree more. To diminish or even discard the pastoral uniform—the visible sign of the pastoral office—is to hide the very thing that helps the hurting and the searching find us when we’re out and about in the world.

Maybe think of it this way. If someone is in crisis and they need a police officer, they don’t want to guess who in the crowd might be one. They look for the badge, the hat, the uniform. In the same way, the clerical collar doesn’t confuse us with the rest of the crowd. It doesn’t conceal. It’s not necessarily concerned with approachability. People will find every excuse imaginable to avoid anyone for any reason, anyway. But the only way to know to approach or avoid is first to find.

That said, I do recognize that for some, the sight of a clerical collar does not bring comfort but instead stirs painful memories of being hurt by someone who once wore it. And yet, the uniform’s meaning is apart from the wound. In the same way, one corrupt police officer does not redefine the badge for every officer, nor does one corrupt person in uniform—whether a doctor, a soldier, or anyone else—undo the purpose of the uniform itself. The failures of individuals do not erase what the uniform is meant to signify, nor do they invalidate the faithful who continue to wear it rightly. For those who would never know us from the next man in the crowd, the collar gives a clear answer. It identifies us, unmistakably, as shepherds of Christ, and that is often all the invitation a suffering soul needs to step forward.

Admittedly, in today’s America, a pastor’s findability (if that’s a word) can be a dangerous thing. For example, I was with a group of pastors in Washington, DC, several years ago. I was the only one wearing a clerical collar. Passing near a group of protestors in front of the Supreme Court building on our way to the Capitol, I was the only one in the group that the protestors chose to spit on. Yes, it was a dreadful thing in the moment. And yet, I know why it happened. They could see me. And like it or not, they knew whose servant I was and what I stood for just by looking at me (John 15:18–19). The other pastors were not similarly persecuted, but that’s because they were entirely indistinguishable.

But even in those kinds of moments, the Lord has sometimes turned what was meant for harm into something surprisingly good. More than once, the hostility directed my way has ended up sparking conversations with people who would otherwise despise Christianity from a safe distance. They approached me precisely because they could tell who I was, and while some came ready to argue, others stayed long enough to hear the Gospel. Those exchanges, often uncomfortable, would never have happened if I had simply blended into the crowd.

This past Monday in Lansing demonstrated the best of these possibilities, certifying for me that wearing the clerical collar is valuable all the time, because you just don’t know. And so, I wear the collar everywhere I go. I always have, if only to be found in a crowd by whoever needs to find me. Contrary to the discouragement my friend’s district president mentioned before, the collar doesn’t put distance between me and the people. It actually closes the distance. It signals, immediately and unmistakably, that I represent Christ. It’s a sign that Christ still sends His servants into the world. Like Him or hate Him, like me or hate me, it doesn’t matter. Here I am. Let’s talk (Romans 10:14).

By the way, regardless of what people think the collar means, for generations, the pastor’s clerical collar has always been this kind of visible sign. Although at one time, Christians were more literate in this regard and didn’t need the explanation. Traditionally, the clerical collar was and is a wordless sermon. The black garment represents sin, death, and the brokenness of this fallen world—our human condition. The white tab or ring at the collar represents Christ and His righteousness, surpassing all the darkness. But even better, the collar is near the pastor’s throat, indicating the Gospel message that is to be preached and taught from that same man’s throat to a world in dreadful need of rescue. What’s more, even as the man speaking is covered in the black garments, showing his equal need for a Savior, that white collar insists that when he speaks as a called and ordained servant in faithfulness to Christ, regardless of his frailties, it is not ultimately his voice you are hearing, but Christ through him (Luke 10:16; 2 Corinthians 5:20).

Those who approached me before the event had no idea who I was, but they saw the collar and knew I was an emissary of Someone who could help. If I had been dressed like any other man in the crowd that day, they might have walked past, their grief locked inside. But because they could tell just by looking at me, they didn’t pass by. They stopped. They cried. We prayed. They received the comfort of God’s powerful Gospel (Romans 1:16). And by God’s grace, they left with the only kind of hope that will see them through this life’s storms, even ones of national import.

And so, as you can see, the most memorable part of that day was not necessarily speaking to thousands in memory of Charlie but consoling a handful in service to Jesus. But it only happened because, regardless of what you’ve been told, the clerical collar was by no means a barrier, but rather a bridge—a silent invitation to come and be comforted by Jesus.

Hypocrisy

Posted on September 14, 2025 by AngelsPortion

Charlie Kirk’s death is still very raw for me. I can’t even begin to describe the strange mixture of anger and sadness I’ve experienced over the last few days. I’ve known Charlie for a long time. I keep making it clear to folks that it’s not like we were besties. Lots of people all over the world called him a friend. Still, he read and endorsed my books, called when he needed my help, flew Jennifer and me to his conferences, spoke at our “The Body of Christ and the Public Square” (BOCPS) conference pretty much any time I asked—all things that friends do for each other.

I remember at his “People’s Convention” in Detroit last summer, Charlie hosted a clergy gathering the night before the main event. Of course, I went. I was already in the room when he arrived. When he walked in, he saw me a few rows away and waved, mouthing, “How are you?” I nodded and mouthed back, “Well. You?” He gave me a thumbs up and then turned to give his respectful attention to the person on stage. When he finally took the microphone, of all the local pastors and leaders in the room—and there were many—he pointed only to me, calling me out by name and telling everyone in the room how thankful he was for what I was doing in Michigan and how glad he was to call me a friend.

Admittedly, it was a proud moment. And yet, I was also somewhat embarrassed. I’m just doing what pastors are supposed to do. I’m engaged in the world around me—representing the Church’s concerns in the realm of Caesar.

Before I go further, I should admit that Charlie’s death has torn open old wounds. For years, I’ve endured sneers from fellow LCMS pastors and laypeople who were critical of my partnership with him. Their jabs—sometimes private, sometimes very public—still sting. I’m sore from it. They made my friendship with Charlie into a liability, as though being friends with a brother in Christ who wasn’t Lutheran was somehow scandalous. Even now, as I wrestle with my own sadness, I feel the old irritation rising. It’s not the grief alone that’s raw. It’s the hypocrisy and the sanctimony of those who should know better, but don’t.

I wrote a few weeks ago about a cardinal I’ve heard singing outside my office window. Well, he was back this morning. At least, I think it was him. Either way, his song was familiar, and as before, he was unwaveringly defiant against the noise of the world as he welcomed the dawn. And yet, I also imagined how strange it would be for that crimson bird’s song to shift midstream suddenly—how hypocritical it would be for his melody to change from one that welcomed the sunrise to one that condemned it.

The day before Charlie’s death, I received an unfriendly email—much like the jabs I’ve been getting this year for re-inviting Dr. James Lindsay to BOCPS. I shouldn’t have been surprised by these things. Every year, in the month leading up to BOCPS, the usual suspects emerge from the shadows to criticize my efforts in the public square. For example, a few years ago, a fellow LCMS pastor blasted me for my friendship with Dinesh D’Souza. When I pushed back, he unfriended me. Another called to complain about my partnership with Ben Shapiro—because he’s Jewish—then unfriended and blocked me. Three years ago, an LCMS district president attempted to cancel me after I highlighted CRT’s presence in our own Lutheran circles, including a BLM rally hosted at Concordia University in Ann Arbor, where the school’s chief administrator spoke. Two years ago, a group of conservative pastors launched a vicious series of online threads criticizing me for working with Tim Ballard, a Mormon, to address child sex trafficking.

Now, before I light the fuse on what I really want to say, let’s get something straight. What I do with BOCPS is not complicated. It is well within the boundaries of “Two Kingdoms” theology. Essentially, I engage in what the Church has long called “cooperation in the externals.” In short, Christians may share a stage, or even a cause, with unbelievers in matters of the public square that affect both Church and society. What we may not do is share an altar or pulpit with a foreign confession. That line has always been clear. What I am doing belongs to the first category, not the second.

And so, the cardinal. I think of that bird and how strange it would be if his song welcoming the morning suddenly turned against it. This is to say, I behold such dissonance in much of what I’ve described so far.

One pertinent example: I find it perplexing that several of those expressing concern also openly support organizations like 1517 or the Institute of Lutheran Theology (ILT)—institutions that trade directly in theology, and in ways far more concerning than anything connected to someone like James Lindsay, who is not even attempting to speak as a theologian. One of my most vicious critics touts his confessional Lutheran authorship and professor status at ILT.

By the way, the distinction between cooperation in externals and fellowship in theology is not without precedent. The Scriptures give us several examples. God used Cyrus, a pagan king, to send His people back to Jerusalem to rebuild the temple (Isaiah 45:1; Ezra 1:1–4). Nehemiah appealed to Artaxerxes, another unbelieving ruler, for letters of safe passage and timber to reconstruct Jerusalem’s walls (Nehemiah 2:1–8). Paul himself claimed the rights of his Roman citizenship to preserve his ministry (Acts 22:25–29). In each case, God’s people worked with unbelievers in outward matters to accomplish the concerns of the Church. They did this without ever inviting them to share in the altar or the pulpit. That line was never blurred.

The difference must be made plain. BOCPS is a cooperation in the externals. James and I share a stage and its microphone to address matters in the public square that impact both Church and society, but we do not share an altar, pulpit, or confession, which makes what I’m doing with James far more appropriate than those in fellowship with 1517 or ILT. Supporting those groups does not constitute cooperation in external matters. It is a fellowship in theology. That is a different thing altogether.

Yet the line is equally clear in another critical direction. To say that a flawed or unbelieving voice can still reflect truth in the public square is not to say that a disqualified pastor should be preaching or teaching in the Church. Not only have 1517 and ILT wandered into dangerous theologies, but they also platform voices who should no longer be preaching or teaching God’s Word. The Church has its own God-given standards for those who do these things. Those standards are not negotiable (1 Timothy 3:1–7; Titus 1:5–9). Any man removed from office because of, let’s say, adultery, or perhaps embezzlement or sexual abuse, or some other extraordinary public sin, is no longer fit for that office, regardless of his eloquence or credentials. And yet, he cannot be barred from speaking in the marketplace of ideas.

This is not complicated.

And so, it is entirely appropriate to work with someone like James Lindsay in the public square. James is an agnostic and does not claim Christian faith, let alone to the office of preacher or teacher in Christ’s Church. He does not stand in our pulpit or at our altar. He stands at a microphone—and then afterward, is welcomed into my home to enjoy dinner with my Christian family, and then he and I head to the bar in my basement, where I share the best whiskies I can offer—while our conversation, of course, steers into matters that include the Christian faith. In every instance, he analyzes and exposes the corrosive ideologies of our time, and I do, too. Together, we offer one another insights that can be applied in defense of both the Church and society. To receive that help is no more a compromise of faith than Paul quoting pagan poets in Athens. And yet, as it was for Saint Paul, so also for me. My words are Gospel-infused, making them the most potent in the discussion.

In the end, all of this reveals that the issue for some of my critics is not really about partnerships or purity. The problem is selective condemnation. When the alliances are their own, they are sanctified. When the alliances are mine, they are scandalous.

I genuinely wonder why that is. Knowing most of these men personally, I’m more inclined to think it’s because they believe they are gatekeepers. If you are not one of the boys in their group, not tethered to the right circle of approved voices, then your work is immediately suspect.

In the meantime, I mentioned in my sermon last Sunday a quote from Ralph Waldo Emerson. He said, “We do what we do, and we call it by the best names.” The point was to highlight how easy it is for us to justify our own behavior with noble labels while condemning the same behaviors in others.

Uh-oh. I quoted from Emerson, a poet who, like Lindsay, was unwilling to accept the deity of Christ. In fact, also like James, he rejected the authority of Scripture altogether. Still, when Emerson described the frustrating dissonance that sometimes exists between what humans allow for themselves compared to what they allow for others—what they defend and what they condemn—he was absolutely right. And the Scriptures agree with him (Romans 2:1; Matthew 7:3–5; Matthew 23:27–28; James 1:22–24; Isaiah 29:13).

Since I’ve referenced Emerson, a man of ungodly belief and yet capable of, on occasion, reflecting certain sunbeams of truth through his cracked window pane, remember that the Apostle Paul argued that truth can flicker even in unlikely places, and to reject every beam of light just because the window is cracked is foolish.

But again, the real soreness of this moment is the more striking inconsistency of those who once condemned me for my friendship with Charlie, and who now, in the wake of his death, are posting tributes that call him a martyr. How could a man they kept at arm’s length suddenly be worthy of such a holy title? How could the same men who derided me for walking beside him in life be so eager to claim him in death?

The public square will always be noisy and unpredictable. The Church will be, too. But there is no license in either for hypocrisy.

It seems even a cardinal has this figured out. His song is consistent. He would never think to condemn in one moment what he welcomed in another. Instead, he chirps the truth of the one true God who made the morning. He may even do it while sharing a branch with a very different bird. That bird may not sing the same notes, or even understand the sunrise in the same way, but natural law’s branch still holds them both. And natural law’s dawn still comes, unconcerned by their theological differences.

Ashes to Ashes – The Author’s Exposition

Posted on September 12, 2025 by AngelsPortion

For starters, as a clergyman, I knew I’d take some heat for the book. I knew those scenes of extreme vigilante violence—moments when a man in a clerical collar arrives to erase the most vicious among us—I knew this would send some spinning into a fever.

Honestly, I’ve really only read one critical sentence about the book from an advanced reader, and the expressed observation didn’t surprise me. He noted something I did intentionally. Beyond this, it seems most folks, once they picked up the book, couldn’t put it down until they finished it.

Nevertheless, two individuals reached out to me privately with concerns. While separate, their concerns were essentially the same. I’ll attempt to paraphrase their thoughts. But before I do, you should know the book’s premise.

Essentially, Ashes to Ashes follows Reverend Daniel Michaels, a small-town Lutheran pastor who, while visiting one of his members, is somehow knocked unconscious, and when he awakens, he finds the church member dead. From there, the story steers toward a human trafficking network operating under the cover of a nearby church-run women’s shelter. With the possibility of law enforcement being compromised and the guilty hiding in positions of authority—right out in plain sight—Daniel shoulders the unbearable burden of both grief and responsibility. What follows is a harrowing descent into vigilante justice—brutal in every way—scenes as messy as they are decisive. Daniel wages war against predators in their homes, alleys, and shady motels, each encounter leaving more blood on his clerical collar than before. However, threaded through the brutality is a much deeper conflict. I won’t reveal too much, except to say the novel builds inexorably toward a pile-up collision between repentance, vengeance, vocation, hope, redemption, damnation, right and wrong, Law and Gospel, ultimately leaving readers scorched along the way by some of the best narrative writing I think I’ve ever produced in my entire life.

Seriously. I’m so proud of this book. I immersed myself in Reverend Daniel Michaels’ world, and I employed every ounce of my creative faculties to bring the reader into it, too.

All of this said, and to paraphrase a concern: “Isn’t it dangerous to put a clergyman that close to this stuff? It seems unbecoming of a guy like you to write something this.”

I hear the concern. The question is serious. It deserves a serious reply.

First, take note that there’s no swearing in the book. Also, no sex or nudity. There is one scene in which an abused girl is noted as naked, and yet, Reverend Michaels, after he deals with the man in the room abusing her, and before he moves on to other rooms with the same fury, he covers her up, brushes her blood-stained hair, and tells her she’s going to be okay. His gentleness with the victims is markedly profound. He cares.

Second, admittedly, there is gore. And yet, the book isn’t about glorifying the results of a pastor’s rage. It’s about putting vocation into the most severe of circumstances—into the refiner’s fire—and watching what burns away, and what does not.

If you felt a shiver reading that, good. You were meant to. The book is a meditation on the threshold of talk and action—the proximity of hero to villain, prayer to fury, genuine justice to unbridled vengeance. Daniel prays before and after; the words are “always crisp.” And yet the soundtrack in his head is Johnny Cash’s The Man Comes Around, a cracked, apocalyptic psalm about a God who, whether or not we want Him to, does, in fact, come around. And He chooses how He’ll do it.

So, how does He use us in the process? Where do we fit in? The book never lets the reader relax into easy answers, because the context isn’t easy.

In one of the two messages I received, I was told I “put the man in the collar too near the sword.” That comment was referring to Romans 13—the government’s bearing of the sword.

My reply: Yes, I did—and on purpose. Not to baptize vigilantism, but to force an honest Christian reading of Romans 12 and 13. Paul’s words are prescriptive, not descriptive. And so, what does that mean exactly in a world where “the powers that be” can be both God’s servants for good and, at times, participants in harm. For example, when a nation sanctifies the slaughter of its own unborn children, that is not righteousness—it is evil dressed in legality. Evil doesn’t become less monstrous because it is legal or convenient. It remains blood crying from the ground (Genesis 4:10), and the Church’s unwillingness to confront it makes us complicit in the very silence that lets it thrive.

There’s a funeral sermon in the novel that walks that blade’s edge aloud. Daniel proclaims, “‘Vengeance is mine,’ saith the Lord, ‘I will repay,’” then warns that we too often hear the verse only as comfort for victims and not as a warning to the evildoers. And so, Daniel preaches, “Do not mistake God’s patience for apathy… He will act.”

But, again, what’s our role?

Whatever the answer, you’ll notice in that same sermon—in the same breath—Daniel wrestles himself back to the Gospel’s center. He preaches the Lamb who ultimately bears vengeance in His own body so that sinners might become sons and daughters. We are transformed into those who can take action when action is required.

If, while you’re reading the book, you feel the tension in these things, then the story’s doing precisely what it’s supposed to be doing. I refused to rest in the cheap catharsis of tidy judgment or pious quietism, both of which are a pestilence in the Christian Church today. Instead, I chose to walk Daniel straight into the furnace and keep him there until the sparks started flying and you, the reader, flinched.

Ashes to Ashes isn’t tidy, because life isn’t tidy. Evil certainly isn’t. It’s raw, relentless, and sometimes terrifyingly close to home.

And so, in this world’s darkest pages, what must we bring to moments like these?

One of the comments I received was that in the moments of confrontation, Reverend Michaels offers no grace to the villains. I suppose I’d ask, is grace the appropriate first response in every situation? I’m one to say no. Hopefully, there’d be time for grace in any normal situation. But first, evil needs to be subdued and the victims protected. Unfortunately, sometimes that means making a mess. Sometimes that mess is bloody, and the villains ultimately lose out on grace’s opportunity.

Another comment said straightforwardly that this book “could scandalize the weak.” That concern is baked into the book’s DNA. The dedication page itself anticipates readers who’ll “see autobiography where none exists.” In the end, it’s fiction, though painfully plausible fiction, and if a reader can’t figure that out, they probably shouldn’t be reading it to begin with. Also, it is not a sermon in disguise. In fact, the story risks discomfort precisely to protect Christian preaching from naïveté. In other words, keep it simple, and remember: if we will not name evil, no matter its form, our sermons deserve to be taken less seriously by those in the pews who’ve likely already experienced what we refuse to see.

Another paraphrased comment: “It valorizes anger.” No. It interrogates it. Daniel’s anger is understandable, but it is also corrosive; he knows “refinement and ruin come from the same flame.” His most powerful moments are not when his fist is clenched and the Colt 1911 is raised to judge, but when his conscience is pierced. He is repeatedly pulled back to his calling, to the Gospel, even as judgment drums in his ears. The novel’s best question isn’t “How far will he go?” but “What will the fire leave behind when it’s done with him?”

If someone reads Ashes to Ashes and comes away thinking, “Pastors should punch harder,” then they read carelessly. The arc is faithfulness-shaped: a parade of revelations that corner the reader with the same double-bind that corners Daniel—do something and don’t become someone else while you do it. In that corner, you discover why he wears the collar while doing what he does. It’s not to bless sin, not to cosplay a crusader, but first, to let the demons know who’s coming for them; and second, to do everything he can to hold on to who he is—to Whom he belongs—when the room is filling with smoke.

I suppose I should add my own concerns at this point.

If anything, the Church needs two kinds of courage right now. It requires the courage to be clear and the courage to act. Mercy without either of these leaves victims unprotected. It turns us into the thing we hate. In a little town—Linden, Michigan—a place that smells like spring and looks “peaceful and quiet,” evil was buying time and gaining strength because the only thing opposing it were people wearing piety’s mask of politeness. The book tears the mask off and demands that the Church, and I suppose, all of society, look in the mirror.

It demands, “Do something. Stop sitting idly by and do something.”

So, to those who wrote to me with worried words: I’m with you in the worry. You should know I wrote Ashes to Ashes to earn that worry—not to dismiss it. But I’m also asking you to step into the furnace with me for close to four hundred pages. Watch what burns. Watch what stubbornly will not. And when you’re done, preach Christ crucified like it matters for victims and perpetrators alike. Then go to the altar and receive what we cannot manufacture: genuine mercy that doesn’t blink in the face of horror, and the holiness that can stand and act in any circumstance without losing one’s soul along the way.

If you want a copy, visit https://www.amazon.com/Ashes-Christopher-I-Thoma/dp/1955355053/.

Everything Has A Lifespan

Posted on September 7, 2025 by AngelsPortion

I’ve been simmering in what I wanted to write about this morning since last Sunday. Essentially, after nearly 70 years, the congregation where I received my first call back in the 90s—where I also met my wife and got married—was closed. Needless to say, the closing service was a bittersweet one.

The sanctuary was full that morning, probably fuller than it’s been in a while. I think what got me the most was the bustling before the service. It wasn’t the regular bustle of a congregation preparing for just another Sunday. It was the noisier hum of memory. People who hadn’t seen each other in years—old friends, former members, even children now grown with families of their own—all were moving into and through the pews, greeting one another.

I moved around a little, too. Not a lot, but a little. I saw folks I barely recognized. And for some reason, I couldn’t sit still. I had to go to them. This would be the final benediction in a place that had shaped so many of us. There was joy, of course, in the greetings. There was joy in the memories that came from the brief discussions. The baptisms, the confirmations, the weddings, and funerals that stitched our lives together reappeared in those moments like smiling presences. It was impossible not to feel grateful for what had been.

But there’s more.

I won’t say that the ache of finality was absent. That was a hovering specter, too. The knowledge that this beloved place would no longer echo with hymns, that its altar would no longer receive faithful Christians at its rail, that the building’s doors would finally close—this thought hung heavily.

It is one thing to know that seasons change, but it’s something altogether different to stand in the very moment when one passes into another, to feel it slipping away while at the same time holding what it gave you.

If anything, the whole event was a reminder that everything, even a congregation, has a lifespan.

Like people, organizations are living things. Congregations are, too. They grow and mature, and as they do, they store up countless moments of both joy and sorrow. They have seasons of health and vitality and, sometimes, seasons of struggle. And eventually, as with all things under heaven, they reach their appointed end. To say these things is not to be negative. It’s to be honest.

We do well to remember this, if only for the sake of keeping a proper perspective relative to all things in this life. When we know that nothing here is meant to last forever, we learn to cherish what we have for as long as we have it.

There’s a song by Poor Man’s Poison that my wife, Jennifer, has taken a liking to. It’s called “Ireland Sky.” In it, there are the lines, “When you wake, just take it all in. Be sure to live for right there and right then. ’Cause we only have today, but tomorrow we may die. So let’s shout out loud to the starry sky.”

At first thought, you might think the song is hedonistic—or maybe epicurean in nature. But it isn’t. It’s born from an Irish blessing. It’s meant to wish you well along life’s way, trusting that as you go, the winds will always be at your back, even as you keep in mind life’s brevity. It’s meant to keep you from taking lightly what God has entrusted to us in the present. In other words, don’t hurry past today. It may seem ordinary, and yet, as the closing service last Sunday brought into crisp focus in a very unique way, even the ordinary things are gifts that will one day be remembered as extraordinary.

Of course, all of this is easier said than done. And admittedly, I’m the worst offender. I go along from day to day at top speed, missing so much more than I likely realize. Still, moments like last Sunday have a way of landing right in front of me, slowing me down, if only for a while. They demand that I stop and take notice. They remind me that the things I so easily label as “routine” are in fact the very things that are likely shaping me most profoundly.

Parents, I can’t even begin to describe the profoundness of this relative to children. What we might be tempted to brush off as routine—Sunday after Sunday of getting the kids ready for worship, only to traipse out the door when you’d much rather go back to bed. And when you get there, a hymn sung a hundred times over, a liturgy you don’t even need the hymn book to follow. What glorious mundaneness! These are the stitches that, over time, hold together the fabric of a life rooted in Christ. These are the things that take deepest root in young hearts. Children may not always grasp the whole meaning in the moment, but they are absorbing more than we realize. They are learning the rhythms of God’s grace, the cadences of His Gospel, the shape of a cruciform life that’s fixed to the only One who remains immovable in this world’s winds.

Don’t fool yourself into thinking your children will pick these things up later when they get older or when life slows down. They won’t. Because they’re just like the rest of us. That means they need to be taught—led to participate alongside us now. The sights, sounds, and smells of it all. Yes, the Word! But I’d say even the sun through the stained glass, the creak of the family pew, a familiar friend’s voice, the smell of the extinguished candles. All of these things become part of the landscape of their souls. Even if they wander far, these things remain. They become landmarks, signposts pointing them home to something better.

This is all just one more reason why it matters so deeply to keep children connected to worship. Doing so is to invite them into the holy patterns of the Church’s life. When they see their parents kneeling, when they hear their grandparents singing, when they sense that they themselves belong to something larger and older and holier than their own small world—they are being catechized, quietly and intensely, in what it means to be the people of God.

I mentioned before that some of the people I saw last Sunday I barely recognized. That’s because they were children when I knew them. But they’re grown now. And their presence was proof that the foundation they received remains. The congregation may have reached its end, but what was established in those little hearts is still alive, still bearing fruit, still part of God’s larger story.

I suppose that is an aspect of the hope to be had in a congregation’s closing. Indeed, the Word of the Lord endures forever. What was preached, sung, prayed, and lived in that place is not lost. Instead, it carries on in the lives of those who were shaped there, most especially, the children.

Parents, with that in mind, don’t hurry past the ordinary mercies of today. Give your children the gift of showing up, of kneeling, of singing, of praying, of being present in the places where God promises to meet us. I can assure you that in these seemingly small things, eternity is breaking in.

Truth is Truth No Matter the Source

Posted on August 31, 2025 by AngelsPortion

There it is again—that word. Autumn. Or “the fall.”

Isn’t it interesting how the season that leads into the deathliness of winter carries the same title as the moment the barrier between this world and sin was ruptured? I’m not surprised. With Autumn comes an increase in darkness. For me, that’s its most unfortunate part. I’m an early riser. In late spring through to summer, the sun awakens with me—sometimes even a little before me. I’ll be just opening my eyes, and I’ll see its radiance already beginning to sketch out the horizon behind our home. It’s as though if I started walking toward it, I’d eventually go over its edge and tumble into its embrace.

But those days are fleeting. The sun won’t rise today until 6:59 AM. In winter’s depth, it’ll be closer to 8:00 AM.

Can you tell my seasonal affective disorder is taking hold? It happens every year at this time, and I can’t even begin to describe the internal war I wage against it—how I crave sunshine and its warmth, and how I have to equip myself for the 285-day stretch that Michiganders go without it.

To take the edge off the long grayness, I find it’s best to distract myself. That means pouring myself into other things. It means doing so with deliberate focus on Christ. In the quieter, free-thinking moments like this one, it means an even deeper examination of my surroundings through the lens of the Gospel.

For example, since I’ve already mentioned the word “fall,” thereby having wandered into the realm of homonyms—words that are spelled the same but have different meanings—how about the word light? It’s a homonym, too. It describes not only the brilliance that scatters the darkness, but also the opposite of heaviness. How does the Gospel reflect on this?

Easy. Christ offers us rest, ensuring us His burden is light (Matthew 11:28–30). He also says, “I am the light of the world” (John 8:12). In English, the word light bears two different meanings, and yet can combine to reveal the fullness of our Lord. He’s the radiant burden-bearer who dispels all darkness.

For another mental distraction, take the word cross. It is the shape of suffering, and it is also the action of being “crossed”—to oppose, to offend, to stir wrath. Indeed, the cross of Christ offends the world (1 Corinthians 1:18, 23), even as it saves the world (Galatians 6:14). It will forever frustrate me when I hear or read the words of Christians saying how we should focus less on the cross. Fewer sayings are more ignorant when poured from a believer’s lips.

The word grave is a homonym, too. It’s the tomb that holds a body, yes, but it’s also a word we use for something serious that demands our attention. Christ’s tomb demands our attention. While ultimately empty of His body, it was not empty of meaning. It was a serious thing that Christ suffered, died, and was placed in a grave that, in the end, could not hold him. The grave, something usually filled with death, was emptied of death (Luke 24:1–6; 1 Corinthians 15:54–57).

These layered words remind us that God wastes nothing relative to His Gospel, not even language. I appreciate this. And for a guy like me, especially during fall and winter’s depths, words provide the best distractions. As far as I’m concerned, they are open windows letting in the sun, so long as I’m paying attention.

It is here that I find a meaningful connection to someone who is, perhaps surprisingly, a human homonym: Dr. James Lindsay. He is an avowed agnostic, which means he does not share the faith that undergirds my life. Still, he’s a friend, and he’s someone who knows words. More importantly, he knows how words have been twisted, redefined, and repurposed in our age to smuggle in new creeds and new “gospels.”

James knows a lot about a lot. In particular, he’s a skilled troublemaker among secularists. For one, he uses his expertise in Marxism and, most especially, Gnosticism, to show elitists their inherent foolishness. He bears a thoroughness in this regard that very few can rival. Best of all, he understands Gnosticism’s modern offspring—“woke” ideology—better than most Christians do. He understands how, like the ancient Gnostics, today’s ideologues claim access to a kind of hidden knowledge that ordinary people cannot see until they are “awakened.” He points out how the language of “wokeness” mimics the Gnostic division of the world into the enlightened and the unenlightened, the knowers and the blind.

In Gnosticism, the material world was seen as corrupt and evil, something to be transcended through secret knowledge. In the same way, the woke framework teaches Marxist materialism underpinned by the belief that society is systemically corrupt—shot completely through with oppression, privilege, and hidden power structures—and that only through redistribution and initiation into its special vocabulary can one begin to see the truth. The Gnostics divided people between the “spiritual” and the “carnal.” The woke do the same, dividing people between the “oppressed” and the “oppressors.” Both set up hierarchies of purity and enlightenment that, ironically, only end up deepening divisions between the haves and the have-nots.

And just as the Gnostics denied the goodness of creation and the incarnation of Christ, woke ideology denies the givenness of created reality—especially in matters of the body, sexuality, and identity—recasting even biological facts as oppressive constructs.

Men can be women and women can be men. In fact, both can be neither, both, or something altogether yet undiscovered. It’s a spiritual thing—an identity thing—accessible in a sphere of understanding that only the truly enlightened can enter.

James knows all of this stuff inside and out. This is why his voice is so important. He has traced these parallels with clarity. And while he does not confess Christ, he’s more than an expert witness relative to things Christians need to know. He helps Christians see that the battle we are facing is not new. The names have changed. The vocabulary is updated. But the heart of the heresy—the very same things Saint Paul and Saint John wrote against in the New Testament (Colossians 2:8–9; 1 Timothy 4:3; 1 Corinthians 15; 1 John 4:2–3; 2 John 7; John 1:14)—remains the same.

That said, it’s right about this time every year that the criticisms begin arriving at my door for inviting speakers like James to participate in our annual “The Body of Christ and the Public Square” conference. But my reply is always the same: First, don’t get your panties in a bind. It’s a conference. Second, if I were on trial for murder, my chief concern wouldn’t be whether the expert witnesses testifying on my behalf were Christians. I’d want the best in the field. And regardless of anyone’s pious pomposity, Christians are not experts in everything. And when someone like Dr. James Lindsay has peered into the shadows of false religion, having tracked the corruption of language and belief as intently as he has, ignorant Christians like me should listen. Regardless of his confession, God is clearly using his talents in a very particular way.

I’m guessing He’s using our friendship in a particular way, too.

And so, let the critics rage. They will anyway, no matter the speaker. Personally, I think it’s some sort of weird jealousy. But that’s another eNews message for a different day. In the meantime, let them scoff. My answer will remain the same. The situation before us is too urgent to waste time on pious posturing. The woke gospel is nothing less than old Gnosticism with a fresh coat of paint, and it is devouring our institutions, our families, and even our churches. If a man like James Lindsay can map these lies with surgical clarity—and his map is accurate—then shame on those who throw stones and plug their ears because they dislike the messenger. Even Saint Paul quoted the pagan poets and philosophers when their words were true (Titus 1:12 [from Epimenedes’ Cretica]; and Acts 17:28 [a combination from Aratus’ Phaenomena and either Epimenedes’ Cretica or Cleanthes’ Hymn to Zeus.])

In other words, truth is not less true because it comes from an uncomfortable source, nor does it lose its weight when it is shouted down by a mob with good intentions.

In the end, God has always used unlikely instruments to shame the wise and awaken the complacent. In my humble opinion, we don’t need any more critics hiding behind pews. We need a few more folks on the field, willing to see, to listen, and to do the heavy lifting. The fall is here. The nights are long. But Christ is the Light—and the darkness will not overcome Him.

Now, take your place on the wall. And perhaps, I’ll see you at the conference. Visit here to register: https://bodyofchristandthepublicsquare.org.

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