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.
I’m sure you’ve heard about the shooting in Minneapolis by now. I waited to write something until this morning, if only because I wanted more information first. But now I know the dreadful details in full.
A 23-year-old man, Robert Westman—his transgender name, Robin—opened fire during Annunciation Catholic School’s morning mass. Two children are dead. Eighteen more were wounded.
Why did he do it?
Well, he left a thorough manifesto behind. The theme scribbled through its pages: hate. He hated Trump. He hated Christians. It seems he hated anyone unwilling to embrace and perpetuate his dysphoric condition. Strangely, he wrote of hating children. He fantasized about killing them, ultimately writing across his weapon, “This is for the children,” and “Where is your God?”
I heard political commentators asking last night, “What normal person dreams of killing the most vulnerable among us?” I thought to myself, “Well, abortion and transgender rights are fundamental planks in the progressive left’s platform. With that, the hatred of children is not as strange as it might sound.”
I say that because, within these ideological places, a devilish concoction is being brewed.
First, someone like Robert likely grew up learning that life in the womb is disposable, therefore making him more than capable of interpreting children outside the womb with the same diminished value. Then mix in a child’s natural lack of acceptance for things that are obviously ridiculous. In other words, children see things with a kind of uncluttered honesty—able to distinguish a man from a woman without mental gymnastics or political jargon. I can imagine that when Robert went out and around as “Robin,” children stared. Children do that when they see something weird. Understanding this, it’s not that hard to see why Robert, a deranged transgender, would hate and therefore target them. Anyone who can pierce through self-made illusions and preferred confusion with the plain light of truth becomes, by nature, an enemy.
And then, of course, relative to truth, we’d expect him to hate Christians. In these situations, that detail never surprises me.
The question he wrote on his gun’s magazine—“Where is your God?”—isn’t surprising either. That same question echoes through history whenever tragedy strikes. The psalmist wrote, “My tears have been my food day and night, while they say to me continually, ‘Where is your God?’” (Psalm 42:3). Evil has always taunted God’s people, daring us to believe that He is absent, indifferent, or even nonexistent when trouble comes. It is Satan’s go-to sneer. It is his preferred avenue for mockery.
But what Satan tends to forget is that the One inside of us is so much stronger than the one in the world (1 John 4:4). And so, the witness of God’s Word, and therefore, Christ himself, remains something far different than what this godless world would propose.
By the power of the Holy Spirit at work in us for faith, given through the Gospel (Romans 1:16), a Christian knows God is by no means absent. He is in no way blind. The Gospel proclaims (and imputes the capability to believe) that at the cross of Jesus, we see God in the flesh entering into our suffering, bearing the fullest weight of sin and death (Isaiah 53:4–6; 1 Peter 2:24). The question, “Where is your God?” finds its answer there: our God is with us, even in the valley of the shadow of death (Psalm 23:4; Matthew 1:23). He is not far off—He is present, even grieving, and ultimately, redeeming this confused and fallen world (John 11:35; Revelation 21:4).
The hope Christians bear in these moments is not that evil will never strike, but that evil will never own the last word (John 16:33; Romans 8:18). Christ’s resurrection is the exclamation point of Christian hope. Death itself has been defeated (1 Corinthians 15:54–57). And now, through all moments of darkness, Christ—the light of the world—forever shines, and the darkness cannot overcome Him (John 1:5).
For a time, this may be incredibly difficult for the families and friends of Annunciation Catholic School’s community to grasp. It may be difficult for many of us, too. Still, that’s the hope we’re given. It’s also the message we’re charged with bringing. Indeed, Christ is the answer to Westman’s question. Christ is the answer to every question that requires hope. That’s because in Jesus, we behold a God who comes near (John 1:14), who suffers with us (Hebrews 4:15), and who promises to make all things new (Revelation 21:5).
May God bless and keep you in this as you pray for and serve the victims of this tragedy. But don’t stop there. Jesus declared, “Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you” (Matthew 5:44). That command is never easy, but it is essential. It reminds us that no one is beyond the reach of God’s mercy, and that our battle is not against flesh and blood but against the powers of darkness (Ephesians 6:12).
So while you pray for grieving families and a wounded community, also pray for those on the left who are already blaming conservative Christians for Westman’s actions, directing their ire at “conservative intolerance” or whatever. Pray that the light of Christ would break through their foolishness. Pray that God’s mercy might yet turn their visceral hatred into genuine repentance. Pray that the Gospel would consume their confusion and instill faith.
Because only the love of Christ can truly silence the enemy’s mockery and answer once and for all the question, “Where is your God?”
Typically, by the time I’ve arrived at my office on Sunday morning, I already know what I want to write about. When I arrived this morning, I wasn’t sure. I thought I might scribble something about the wedding I preached at yesterday. But it only took a moment for something else to catch my attention, and if you’ll bear with me, you’ll understand why something so simple could be so important.
I’d only been in my office a few minutes when I heard a bird singing somewhere outside my window. Well, singing might not be the best description. It was calling out, and its voice was distinctly rhythmic. It made the same sounds in the same patterns for quite some time. Essentially, it made two longer calls followed by six shorter ones. Three or four seconds would go by before it repeated the pattern exactly.
It started as little more than background noise. Birds sing in the morning. And others were. Who cares? But then, it became more distinct among the other birds’ tunes. And because I know very little about birds, after a minute of focused listening, I went outside to find the one that had my attention.
There, on one of the tree branches not far from my office window, was a cardinal. I tried to get a little closer, but he stopped mid-song and flittered away.
I went back inside and did a quick Google search on cardinals and their reasons for singing. It turns out that cardinals typically sing in the morning, often well before the sun rises. Their chirping serves one of two purposes—either to attract a mate, which usually happens in the spring, or to announce their presence in their territory, sending a clear message to any rivals that they’ve staked an official claim on the space.
Now, as I tap away at my keyboard, I realize that seemingly small melody was far more than part of the landscape’s noise, random and of little interest to me. First, it was deliberately communicative, carrying a message of invitation or warning. As a preacher, that’s familiar to me. Second, even though more than a few birds were singing, the cardinal’s message remained steady and consistent. That’s familiar to me, too. Third, I suppose the cardinal wasn’t necessarily concerned with whether I, or anyone else, was actually listening. Still, it sang because it had a reason to sing, and it kept singing until its message had been delivered to the right audience. Again, something very familiar to me.
In one sense, I suspect all of this suddenly mattered to me because I just told someone on Friday that I sometimes feel like my words are little more than background noise being drowned out by the louder, flashier sounds of everyday life. I imagine many pastors feel that way. The culture shouts. Entertainment blares. So many things clamor for attention. When it comes to what pastors are to be, do, and deliver, temptations to compete with these things increase tenfold.
Maybe we should change worship styles to be more entertaining. Perhaps we should shorten the sermon, or at least deliver it in a way that seems more like a TED talk than preaching. Maybe we should thin out the Gospel a little, too, so that it’s less offensive. I mean, preaching about a God who was crucified isn’t all that attractive. It just doesn’t seem to compete with the world’s message of success. In fact, maybe we should avoid speaking about sin while we’re at it. Preaching repentance can get somewhat uncomfortable. Perhaps we should first focus on attracting the crowd. We should trade theological depth in doctrine and practice for a less demanding piety. Even better, maybe we shouldn’t be so creedal, so strict with our boundaries. The culture will never accept us if our expectations are too rigid—if we require the culture to assimilate into us rather than the other way around. The same goes for consistency. Everyone knows that flexibility and innovation and newness are the ways to keep people interested.
But then there’s the cardinal. He simply is what God has made him to be.
The cardinal doesn’t change his tune depending on who’s listening. He doesn’t speed it up to keep up with the noise around him. He doesn’t change his pattern. He sings of warning and invitation, sin and grace, Law and Gospel. He sings the song he’s meant to sing, over and over again. It’s as if he does it without concern for the results—as if he’d been sitting on a tree branch listening when the Lord said, “He who has ears to hear let him hear” (Matthew 11:15).
In the same way, the truth a pastor speaks—whether in the pulpit, in a counseling session, across the table with someone at lunch, or before this world’s kings—doesn’t have to out-shout the chaos (1 Corinthians 2:1–2). This morning, the cardinal was a reminder that consistency definitely matters more than volume (Galatians 6:9). The call that seems ignored in one moment may be heard by exactly the right ears later.
In the end, my calling as a pastor—and in a sense, yours as a Christian parent, friend, co-worker, or neighbor—is to be clear, steady, and faithful to God’s Word. We may feel small or irrelevant, but our task is not to dominate the air. It’s to fill it with the sounds—His Word—trusting that He will make sure the right ears hear it at the right time. Interestingly, some will receive the words as invitation. Others will hear them as warning. But either way, the message will reach its hearers and cut through the noise (Hebrews 4:12). How could it not? The Gospel is the most potent message there is. That’s because it isn’t just words. It’s the means by which the Holy Spirit works to convert and convince the human heart and instill faith (Romans 1:16, 1 Corinthians 2:4–5, Romans 10:17). Unlike all other messages, its delivery is actual presence, and its truth marks very real territory.
To close, I suppose I’ll simply say that while the world may shift its tune a hundred times over, the Gospel never changes (Galatians 1:8–9, Hebrews 13:8)—and neither should the voices that carry it. Sing it in season and out of season (2 Timothy 4:2), in joy and in hardship (Philippians 4:12–13), in full confidence that the Lord who gave you the song will see to it that, in His time, it will be heard (Isaiah 55:11).
Maybe you heard recently that the Earth’s rotation appears to have sped up a little. Jennifer laughed at me when I told her. But that’s only because I was in the early stages of a migraine when I mentioned it, and I blamed my crackling brain on the whole world suddenly accelerating.
Apparently, scientists have been tracking the phenomenon for years. It seems that some days have been ending a fraction of a millisecond sooner than they used to. Like a gazillion other wonders in the natural world, they still don’t know why it’s happening. Some say it’s because of changes in ocean currents. Others suggest it’s due to variations in atmospheric pressure (which I’m certain is responsible for my migraines). But whatever it is, in the end, it’s not something any of us would actually notice while making breakfast or driving to work. However, in the more precise world of atomic clocks, even these tiny shifts are enough to spark curiosity.
Of course, it’s easy to laugh at these things as whimsical. But it’s obscure bits of information like these that remind me just how fascinating God’s handiwork really is. Our planet is not a static stage beneath our feet. It’s part of a vast choreography, spinning, tilting, and gliding through space in concert with the sun, moon, planets, and stars.
Based on something Jennifer shared with me recently, it seems that every so often, the great dancers of our solar system move into rare, harmonious formations that catch our attention and, perhaps, set before us in unmistakable terms the divine order woven into the chaos. What I mean is that just this past week, on August 10, six of our solar system’s planets gathered along a single line, forming a planetary alignment. To the naked eye, it appeared as if these distant worlds had agreed on a meeting place, shining together in the same stretch of sky like old friends who rarely get to visit together. I looked it up. A planetary alignment is not necessarily unprecedented. They happen from time to time. The next one is February 28, 2026. Seven planets will align on that day. Still, the rarity lies in their visibility and timing. For me, a guy who is consciously looking at everything through the lens of the Gospel, it’s another reminder that so much around me is keeping a schedule that I didn’t set, and yet it’s one that, even if I wanted to push against it, I’m inevitably bound to follow.
If you’ve ever stood beneath a dark, unpolluted sky and just looked, I’d be willing to bet you were moved in some way. It’s hard not to be. Jennifer and I went out onto our deck and took pictures of the Northern Lights last spring, and then again in June. Admittedly, it was pretty amazing. Especially when you realize what’s causing those multihued streaks. They happen when charged particles from the sun, carried along on solar winds, slam into Earth’s magnetic field and collide with the atmosphere’s protective layers. The collisions become bursts of light in greens, pinks, purples, and reds, painting the sky like an undulating canvas. It’s already breathtaking from our deck in Linden. And yet, Jennifer wants to visit a dark park, which is a reserved area where artificial light is largely restricted, set aside for seeing the night sky free from light pollution. Jen showed me images taken in dark parks. We’re so used to light pollution, we don’t know what we’re missing until we see it. And when we do, it’s breathtaking.
For me, I’m not necessarily moved by the vastness of space. I’m more astounded that the heavens above me are not random. They operate under laws that have held since the beginning, laws that both govern and reveal the Creator’s design. These are the same laws that govern the tides, the seasons, the migrations of birds, and probably so many other things we’ll never even know.
But this carries me further, especially as we get closer to our forthcoming conference on October 4. Along with folks like Trey Gowdy, Dr. James Lindsay, and William Federer, we’ll also hear from Chloe Cole.
Now, before I say anything more about her, it’s worth noting that what I’ve written so far, whether about planets or humans, ultimately comes down to the same foundation: natural law. Just as the heavenly bodies move according to fixed principles, so too does human life. And both flourish when aligned with natural law’s order. Sure, we can ignore that order, setting aside laws we don’t like for this or that ridiculous reason—say, we don’t want to use Kepler’s Law because someone named Kepler once hurt our feelings. But do this while engineering a satellite and you’re destined for failure. Your plans might look neat on paper, but in reality, you’re going to end up designing something that’ll likely get destroyed before leaving the Earth’s atmosphere. And if it does make it into space, it’ll immediately become nothing more than a piece of space junk hurling toward who knows what.
In other words, your opinions do not affect reality. Reality is constant, steady, and unshaken by what it carries in its calculations.
As a young teenager, Chloe began questioning her gender identity, and instead of being guided with care and patience, she was rushed into “gender-affirming care.” This included puberty blockers, cross-sex hormones, and ultimately a double mastectomy—all while she was still a developing child. At the time, she was assured these interventions would solve her struggles and bring her peace. Instead, they left her with deep regret, permanent physical changes, and a realization that she had been led down a path built on ideology rather than truth.
Now, still only twenty years old, Chloe has become one of the most outspoken voices in the nation, warning about the dangers of pushing minors into irreversible medical procedures. She speaks with a rare combination of clarity, courage, and compassion—sharing not only her own painful experience, but also urging others to protect children from similar harm. Her testimony is more than a cautionary tale. It’s a living and breathing example of what happens when a society rejects the natural order God has established.
It’s also a demonstration of the hope inherent in returning to it.
For those who will hear her in person, I think that the impact will go far beyond what anyone might normally experience from headlines or soundbites. Chloe’s presence among us—her vulnerability, and also her ability to speak truth without bitterness, even as she continues to be relentlessly attacked for her detransition—it gives her story a weight that must be experienced in person. Essentially, she embodies everything I just described. She’s living proof that when we live in step with God’s design, not in defiance of it, there is hope for restoration, even after deep hurt—even after it seems like we’ve already hurled our satellite into deep space. Her journey reminds us that truth isn’t an abstract principle. In fact, in her case, it not only governs her existence, but God also put it in place as a lifeline. She reached out to grab what was real and found her way back to a better life.
Now she wants that for others who are suffering from the same dysphoria. By God’s grace, she has discovered a world she didn’t know existed, and yet, was already there. In that world—the real world of faith—she was pulled into Christ’s gravitational embrace. And within that embrace, she discovered a courage to reach out and pull others in, too.
In the end, whether we’re talking about the Earth’s rotation, the precise timing of planetary orbits, or the moral order woven into human existence, the truth remains the same. Reality is fixed because its Author is unchanging (Hebrews 13:8). The heavens declare this with every sunrise and celestial alignment (Psalm 19:1). And lives like Chloe’s affirm the otherworldly blessings and strength God grants to those who, by the power of the Holy Spirit given by the Gospel, turn to Him in repentance and faith, choosing to walk in His ways rather than their own (Isaiah 40:31, Proverbs 3:5–6). It’s this loving God, the One who keeps the planets in motion and the seasons in balance (Genesis 8:22, Job 38:33), who is also holding our lives in His hands (Isaiah 41:10), desiring us to live in harmony with His design (Micah 6:8). And when we do, whether in the wonder of a night sky or the courageous witness of a life recalibrated, we find ourselves anchored in His truth and, ultimately, aligned with His eternal purpose: the salvation of our soul (2 Corinthians 4:18, John 3:16-17, John 6:40).
Most who know me—at least those who know me well—will affirm that I’m a people watcher. Though I spend much of my life standing in front of rooms, I’m far more comfortable sitting in the back, watching others in motion. I might contribute to the conversation on occasion. But more often than not, I’m content to absorb rather than radiate.
This past Thursday, I was given the chance to do just that.
Our Savior’s Stewardship Committee hosted its first-ever Golf Outing and Silent Auction at Dunham Hills Golf Course in Hartland. If you weren’t there, I mean it when I say—you missed something extraordinary. Not just because the food was good or the auction items impressive. Not even because the day couldn’t have been sunnier and the venue more beautiful. But because something profound happened, and I was privileged to behold it.
Let me start by saying I don’t play golf. I’ve been known to tee up with the kids and launch a few into the wetlands behind our house. In truth, it’s been almost 25 years since I’ve stepped foot on a course. It’s not that I wouldn’t. It’s just that golf is an all-day thing, at least it is for me, and I don’t usually have all day for anything. And besides, knowing my abilities, folks should consider themselves blessed that I didn’t sign up to be on any of the teams. I’m with Mark Twain, who said something about how a round of golf is the best way to ruin a walk in the woods, which is where I’d most likely end up.
So, in short, I didn’t play this past Thursday. But I did attend the banquet afterward. Indeed, I am far more skilled with a fork than I am with a sand wedge. And it was with a fork in hand that I did what I do best: observe. While watching, I absorbed something far more meaningful than a hole-in-one ever could be.
First, a casual glance around the room revealed people I simply adore. And I don’t say that lightly. I would die for the people at those tables. That may sound dramatic, but I mean it. “Greater love has no one than this,” Jesus said, “that someone lay down his life for his friends” (John 15:13). It was that kind of room, and it was that kind of evening. We’ve been through a lot as a congregation over the years. And yet, there we were, laughing across tables and recalling our togetherness with joy. Even better, as familiar friendships were celebrated, and in some cases rekindled, I watched newer church members (and some non-member guests) welcomed into the family as though they’d been there for decades. That alone was extraordinary.
I should say it doesn’t surprise me. Our Savior in Hartland is that kind of place to begin with.
In the meantime, I think a second, more important thing I took from the event was that I saw a number of individual “teams” come together as a single team and dedicate themselves to something important: our tuition-free school. They were there, not for the self, but rather, they were all in for something and someone else—namely, to preserve the Gospel’s legacy for children they might never even meet.
That kind of selflessness stands in stark contrast to the culture swirling around us.
In most corners of the world, it seems people don’t often gather with selfless intentions. Unfortunately, I can say this is true, even in the Church. I’ve noticed it at conferences. Some, not all, but some gather to compete. They gather to be seen. They gather in a posture of self-promotion. Beyond such things, you can certainly see it on social media, where platforms meant to connect now primarily serve as stages for applause. I’m a member of a few Facebook groups relative to Linden schools, and from what I can tell, too often the driving force isn’t mutual care but mutual comparison.
I didn’t see any of that on Thursday.
There were no cliques. No undercurrents of competition. No one was keeping score of who contributed what. In fact, I heard more golf stories akin to Paul’s “Chief of sinners” theme. In other words, I believe that for everyone in the room, there was only one scorecard that mattered—and it wasn’t in anyone’s pocket. It was being carried in the hearts of people who gave, not to get, but to build and preserve something lasting, something sacred, which is precisely what we have at Our Savior in Hartland.
Again, that’s not how the world typically works. You know as well as I do that the world teaches that fulfillment often comes through accumulation. Gather wealth. Stack your achievements. Build your platforms. Be more important than everyone else. But Christ moves His people in an altogether different direction. “Whoever would be great among you must be your servant, and whoever would be first among you must be slave of all” (Mark 10:43–44).
That’s what I saw at Dunham Hills. It was true greatness, and it was forged in humble faith.
I suppose that’s why the event grabbed hold of me enough to write about it this morning. As a pastor, I’m forever concerned for the spiritual strength of the people God has placed into my care. In fact, I thought a lot about it while on vacation the last two weeks. So much so, that I spent time formulating some new Bible study ideas instead of leaving that all behind me until I returned home.
Then I came home, and the first church event I was privileged to attend was the “Fairway to Heaven” golf outing. Wow.
In a world of algorithms and noise, of hustle and burnout, of spiritually draining clutter, I returned to something infinitely more powerful. Sure, we talk about our churches and the friendships they naturally accommodate. But here it was for real. The friendships I saw weren’t just byproducts of church membership. The Gospel created these friendships—made them family—and it gave rise to a far better byproduct. It was and is the kind that can stand at the gate, lock arms, and be generous with its muscle. And not for anyone’s own glory, but for the sake of the same Gospel that established it, and from there, for the benefit of parents and children, we may never know this side of heaven’s fairway.
I suppose to close, if you have a moment, take a look at the promotional video we made a few months ago for our school. You can watch it here:
I’m sharing it because a few lines from it were shared before the meal. I’m glad they were. They were more than appropriate to what I was seeing.
Initially, the video was created and then sent to me with some text overlays—short theological and educational phrases that appeared intermittently over scenes with music. It was nice. But as I watched, I sensed it needed more, a clearer heartbeat. So, I sat down and wrote a short script—a few minutes to scribble a few lines that I felt captured what our school truly is. I recorded it in one take using my computer’s microphone. Nothing polished. Nothing flashy. I didn’t intend for it to be used exactly as it was. It was just my tired voice from an already long day of orchestrating and maintaining what the video would eventually promote more publicly. Still, I wanted others to know why it mattered so much to me, to the people of Our Savior—why so many of us pour ourselves into the work and then give it away to the community for free. Because, make no mistake, the world doesn’t give its content away. Whether it’s entertainment, education, or influence, there’s always a price. You pay for it, and increasingly, the price is your soul. But the Church, when it’s actually being the Church, flips that economy on its head. We give it away—truth, grace, the love of Christ—not because it’s worthless, but because it’s priceless.
The video’s director ended up using what I sent. He didn’t change anything, except to have his audio team clean up my less-than-quality recording.
Again, if you have a moment, watch it. It’s only a minute and thirty-five seconds long. If you listen closely, I think you’ll hear elements of the same theme that filled the banquet room at Dunham Hills: selflessness. You’ll hear me say how we’re doing all we can at Our Savior to lift up generations of children who know something better than what the world gives, and with that knowledge, are equipped to go out and be the kind of people I saw gathered at the golf outing on Thursday.
I saw Christian people who know what is objectively and immutably true. I bore witness to human beings shaped by the Gospel trying to make it so others could be, too. They were standing shoulder to shoulder, not for applause, but for a Godly purpose. For a people watcher like me, it was one of the most beautiful things I’ve seen in a long time, and I can’t wait for next year’s event. I have a feeling it’s only going to get bigger and better.
Returning from vacation always puts me in a contemplative form.
When we landed yesterday at Detroit Metro Airport, having returned from our annual two weeks in Florida, I can assure you that I had one of those invisible moments where even the “ding” sound as the overhead seatbelt light went out seemed to carry a lot of weight.
Things were going to be very different from what they were only moments before.
And then there’s the aura inside the airport. Sheesh. Maybe it’s just me, but the people departing are far different than the people returning. The people preparing to board for vacation look bright-eyed and ready. Among those returning, some are wearing flip-flops and theme park shirts. Others are carrying totes probably filled with things they bought while away. All are carrying the quiet resignation of a settling reality. They’re sort of shuffling through the terminal, not like the people who are getting ready to leave. Those folks are eager for what’s next. The returning folks aren’t so eager for what’s next. Although they’re not resisting it, either. They appear to know that a vacation is precious. However, it can only be held for so long before you have to let go.
I suppose in a culture dominated by the relentless pursuit of pleasure, vacations run the risk of feeling a little bit like a secular salvation. That’s probably why resorts market themselves as paradises promising renewal through pleasure-seeking. Secularism pretty much champions the idea of this kind of escape. It suggests that genuine rest comes from detaching oneself entirely from the reality of responsibility, feeding the myth that fulfillment can only be achieved far away from who or what we actually are in the lives we regularly inhabit.
While waiting for our luggage at carousel 3, a man walked by in all black and high heels. He was trying his best to be womanly. He wasn’t fooling anyone, except maybe himself.
I share this because it’s an easy example. The modern push of transgenderism seems like an embodied form of what I’m describing. It’s driven by the notion that someone’s identity is actually apart from biological realities, and therefore, satisfaction can be attained by remaking oneself according to personal desire, rather than embracing the givenness and goodness of what’s real—of what God has designed.
In both cases, whether with gender or with the more benign realm of vacation marketing, the cultural message is the same: “Escape who you are. Reinvent yourself. That’s where fulfillment lies.”
But is any of this really true? While I can appreciate a resort’s marketing allure, I also recognize that a vacation’s escape is indeed a marvelous thing, but perhaps not in the way our culture imagines.
Vacations make space for things that generally have to wait. There’s more time for anything and everything, or nothing at all. It’s a moment in time to do whatever might ease life’s usual burdens. In the meantime, bills wait. Work waits. Life’s duties wait.
But here’s the thing. The duties do not wait idly. They wait hungrily. When we got home, I saw that the weeds in the flower beds continued to grow. The grass did, too. I found that one of our cars sat and leaked a steady stream of transmission fluid for two straight weeks, all over the driveway. The pre-vacation refrigerator that was emptied had to be refilled. The milk we forgot to dump was quite the clumpy sight. The house had that strange, unlived-in scent, and dust had settled on things that were cleaned before we left, reminding us of our absence.
And yet, even as I came home to these things, I’m not so bothered by them. There’s a goodness in them, too.
The dinner table was ours again last night. We all sat in our usual spots. Well, four out of the five of us did. Harry went to see some friends. And admittedly, we were all very tired. We woke Saturday morning at 2:30 AM to catch a 6:00 AM flight home. Either way, the discussion was as it always is. It wasn’t the novelty of vacation. It was something more rooted. By way of another example, I can say I experienced what I’m doing my best to describe when Jen and I drove back from a quick visit last night with Josh, Lexi, and Preston. Passing through town, I mentioned Linden’s landscape—its trees and such. They look and sound nothing like the manicured palm trees and flora in Florida. And while I didn’t say it, they looked and sounded more like home than paradise ever could.
That’s because Linden is home. And perhaps it is precisely this feeling that helps me understand why God’s Word might speak of rest—of vacationing—not as an abandonment of reality, but as a renewal within it (Matthew 11:28-30; Hebrews 4:9-11). Jesus, when tired, often withdrew to quiet places (Luke 5:16; Mark 1:35). He certainly didn’t do it to escape the burden He knew He would bear (Matthew 26:39, 42). He did it as a very real and very human in-between for re-engaging with strength (Mark 6:30-32). Unlike the secular goal of continually fleeing responsibility, God’s Word reassures us that work and rest, engagement and withdrawal, each have their sacred roles (Ecclesiastes 3:1-8). They are not opposed. Instead, they weave together to form a life that can actually be very good.
I think there’s something holy about returning to your place in the world, even if the transition is difficult. You belong there. You are needed there. I think if you’re listening closely enough, something around you may even whisper, “Welcome back. It’s good to have you home. And now, let’s get back to work.”
Don’t get me wrong. You’ll never hear me say that coming home from a vacation is easy. It isn’t. In fact, for the Thoma family, it’s one of the most challenging transitions there is. I can assure you there were tears. With as busy as our lives can be, vacation sees that busyness out the door for a little while.
However, I think we can all admit there’s something wonderfully reassuring about stepping back into the familiar spaces. As much as we crave what vacations can offer, there’s relief in sleeping in our own beds again. There’s reprieve in reclaiming the familiar routines that, in some ways, define us. After all, home isn’t just a building to which we return. It’s far more than that. It’s where the richness of our story unfolds. That story is layered. Within those layers, we experience the ordinary rhythm of work and rest.
As I’ve already more or less said, for as good as “paradise” may feel, there’s a holiness in the “ordinary.” In the end, coming home from vacation isn’t so much about losing something precious as it is rediscovering the beauty of that ordinary. For me, it’s a precise moment on the timeline when I’m forced to remember that rest doesn’t mean escape. Indeed, God sets something better—actually, something extraordinary—right in front of me every single day. Looking through that Gospel lens, I can make it through to next year’s getaway 365 days from now.
Even on vacation, as always, I’m up and at it. Soon, the rest of the Thoma family will awaken, and then we’ll be off to Zion Lutheran Church in Winter Garden. The service is at 9:00 AM if you’re in the area and interested.
We never miss worship. Not even on vacation. Why would we? God doesn’t take vacations from us.
Until it’s time, I’m sitting in my usual early-morning writing space, a swimming pool just beyond the wall to my right. What to write about? Well, the first thing that comes to mind is that we’re already about halfway through the summer. Thankfully, that realization comes to mind at a relatively impenetrable moment. What I mean is that, first, I’m typing this from what is, more or less, my happy place: Florida. And second, we just arrived here last night, so we have almost two full weeks of rest and relaxation ahead of us. Together, these two facts form a perfect moment for perspective—a kind of balance that vacations alone seem to offer.
In the early days of time away, there is an abundance of freedom. You look ahead and think, “We have so many days for anything and nothing. The time is wide open, and we can fill it however we’d like.” But then, something subtle happens a little past the halfway mark. It’s a quiet shift. Without warning, instead of looking toward a seemingly endless expanse, a countdown of sorts begins: “Only five days left. Now four. Now three.”
Maybe it isn’t this way for you, but it can be for me. And if I’m not careful, it can become almost like a thief. It steals my mind away from the present and into a kind of preemptive grief over what hasn’t even ended yet. And so, I do my best to savor rather than tally. If anything, my family makes that easy to do. They’re so much fun to be around, and the blessing is that when the vacation ends, we end it together. When we go home, we go back home together to just be what we were before we left—and for me, that’s enough.
There’s a well-worn line in Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s epic poem “Evangeline: A Tale of Acadie” that takes a straight aim at the tallying urge I described before. For me, it translates into pondering what’s left of anything and instead dwelling in the enchantment of right now. As only Longfellow could scribble, he sets before us, “Then followed that beautiful season… Summer… Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light; and the landscape lay as if newly created in all the freshness of childhood.”
I’m 52 years old. Childhood seems so far away. And yet, I get what he means. He wraps his words around something that doesn’t seem to fade with age. He describes a kind of freshness that isn’t necessarily about being young, but about being present in something that has been given.
I don’t want to get too esoteric this morning. And yet, vacation time certainly does provide access to an entirely different and yet unrestricted level of thinking for me. I just feel good, more thoughtful. It’s the one time during the year when I can better see the things I already know. For example, as a Christian, I already know that life is far more than droning schedules. But on vacation, I can actually see it. It isn’t just symmetry on a calendar. It’s not something mathematical. Instead, life is a great big grace-filled opportunity that doesn’t need to spend any of its time worried about its end.
By faith, there is no end, and so, this is good, and it’s enough, whatever it is.
Maybe that makes sense to you, and you agree. Maybe it doesn’t, and you don’t. Well, whatever. For me, it’s enough. And either way, God’s Word agrees with me. Or better said, I agree with God’s Word.
If and when I find myself worrying about life’s fast-fleeting days, my Lord is there to remind me, “Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own” (Matthew 6:34). These words are not intended as motivational poster material. They’re powerful. By the Holy Spirit’s power, they instill what they commend, which is a divine permission to stop counting what’s left of anything and simply receive what is. They’re words that stir believers to begin each day ready to hum along with the Psalmist, “This is the day that the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it” (Psalm 118:24). The Psalm-writer didn’t say “was made” or “will be made.” He said, “This is the day.” This one. For me, it’s the one that begins with this little eNews message, a cup of tolerable coffee, and eventually a trip with my still-sleeping family to church at Zion Lutheran Church in Winter Garden, Florida. I don’t know what comes after that. Although it’s more than possible it’ll involve laughter echoing from the pool after eating a meal that makes it far too hard for me to swim.
Whatever the family and I decide to do, Lamentations 3:22–23 will rise and shine over all of it, even more brightly than the Florida sun. We’ll soak up the time remembering that the “steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.”
I suppose I’ll end with that. Indeed, life is not dwindling by the day. Not with Jesus. By faith, I know that even if I only have a few more days of vacation or a few more days of mortal life, it’ll be perfectly enough.
It might be old news, but one of my all-time favorite films, Jaws, celebrated its 50th anniversary this past June—the 20th, to be precise. Of course, the Thoma family observed the special day by ordering a pizza and watching it.
What brings this to mind right now is that I just learned that a documentary about the making of the film was released on July 11. I haven’t watched it yet, but I plan to. I’m sure it’ll bring back memories.
I remember the first time I saw the film. I wasn’t very old, maybe seven or eight. My brother and I watched it on a Betamax player my dad borrowed from a friend at work. At least, I think that was the context. I can’t say for sure. Either way, I loved the movie, and I dare say it played a huge part in my fascination with horror films. Although Jaws wasn’t really a horror film. It was more of an adventure-like thriller with horror elements. It was slow-building and suspenseful. But its charm was that it was grounded in something that could happen.
Ask my family, and they’ll tell you there isn’t much that I fear. Scary movies never bothered me. I’m rarely startled when surprised. I was never afraid of the dark as a kid. I never felt the urge to rush up the basement steps after turning out the light. But I can admit, I’m no fan of sharks. I have my reasons. And as such, I can admit, even when I was a 20-something lifeguard working at a freshwater lake in the summer, I thought about what might be lurking beneath the surface every time I went for a dip.
Harrison and I were listening to movie soundtracks on Spotify several weeks back. Jennifer and the girls walked in just as I played the soundtrack from Jaws. Right away, they all knew the iconic two-note motif, even without me telling them. Go swimming in a pool, and at some point along the way, it’s the resident father’s job to dip lower, his mouth just above the rippling surface, and begin, “Dun-dunt… dun-dunt… dun-dunt-dun-dunt-dun-dunt…” When that happens, no matter how old the children are, there’s a crazed splashing as they dash for the pool’s edge.
I finished the fantasy-fiction book I was writing and sent it off to the publisher. I’m glad to say it has been accepted for publication. Two more are expected. Now I’m five chapters into something completely different—a thriller. For the record, I’m loving every minute of its creation. Stepping beyond myself for a moment to observe the writing process, I think movies like Jaws did more than just spark my interest in all things scary. I believe it played a role in introducing me to the power of storytelling, particularly in terms of tension and pacing. It taught me that what you don’t see is often more frightening than what you do. Spielberg’s restraint—the decision to show the shark sparingly—was brilliant. It left space for the mind to fill in the fear.
It’s hard to believe it’s been fifty years. But then again, some stories never truly grow old. They just circle beneath the surface, waiting to rise again.
I read a reply to one of my Facebook posts this morning. It more or less supported the point in a cultural sense. Ultimately, I deleted the reply, if only because it was crass and attacking. Essentially, the person believed that LGBTQ issues should be seen as entirely normal and, therefore, acceptable. His premise was that LGBTQ relationships have existed as long as heterosexual relationships. So, in other words, longevity equals legitimacy.
For the record, that’s just silly.
Age alone doesn’t validate something. Throughout history, plenty of things have been long accepted, yet we now easily recognize them as absurd. The Spartan culture, for many centuries, considered it honorable to dispose of newborns with birth defects by throwing them from cliffs. Although I wouldn’t put it past Michigan’s current leadership to write the practice into the state’s constitution. We already have an amendment that allows abortion up to birth, and in some instances, afterward.
But before I stray from my original thought, my point is that the age of a thing, or even its level of acceptability in cultures throughout history, says nothing about its morality or truth. Ultimately, sin has been around since Eden. Pride, murder, greed, envy, idolatry—all of these things have endured. Not one of them is new. And all along the way, God’s Word has spoken clearly against them. Just because something has endured doesn’t mean it’s good or right.
Indeed, the enemy of God’s truth has always worked subtly, patiently, and yes, sometimes through the slow-building suspense of cultural conditioning—until finally, it’s time once again for the fin to break the surface and for the attack to come.
By the way, that Facebook reply itself was a tired example of the premise. The desire to justify one’s sin is an ever-lurking predator. It waits patiently just below the surface of the conscience, always ready to offer an excuse, always prepared to snap with, “This is who you are,” rather than, “This is what Christ came to redeem.”
It’s no coincidence that the Bible often describes devilish things in predatory terms. Sin crouches at the door (Genesis 4:7). The devil prowls like a lion (1 Peter 5:8). These things are purposely framed as ensnaring and deceiving. The cultural arguments we hear today try to steer away from these descriptions. But in the end, they’re little more than recycled lies with polished packaging—that is, for the lifeguard who’s paying attention. They see the appeal to emotion or history. They recognize the labeling of objectively true things as “fascism” and “bigoted,” and they see the same old fin circling the swimmers.
I suppose my concern these days is that the Church, the appointed lifeguard, is too often lulled by the quiet of the water. Too many in our ranks are too often asleep in the chair, thinking all is well. Perhaps worse, among those who know the dangers, many are afraid to swim out into the crimsoned waters to help. We know we, too, could be attacked, and that the effort to help might have an irreversible cost to our reputation, our comfort, our families, and so much more. In other words, not unlike the tension that Jaws portrayed so well, there’s a fear of what you don’t see but know could happen.
But here’s the thing. Christians are not called to fear, but to faithfulness. Our calling is not to retreat. We’re not to remain on the beach. We are sent into the waters knowing full well what stirs beneath. I’d say this is true because we’ve already been carried into and through the better waters of Holy Baptism, which is a washing that doesn’t remove fear, but transforms it. Our LCMS President, Rev. Dr. Matthew Harrison, once described this kind of Christian courage in a way that I’ve never forgotten. He said something about how Christian courage is nothing less than fear that’s been baptized.
He was right in so many ways.
Grafted into Christ, fear becomes something altogether different (John 15:4-5; Romans 11:17). It doesn’t necessarily vanish. Instead, it bows. It gets reordered by the Gospel, and as a result, it no longer rules the heart (Philippians 4:7; Colossians 3:15). That’s because it has been fixed to Jesus. Indeed, “we were buried therefore with him by baptism into death, in order that, just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, we too might walk in newness of life” (Romans 6:4-5). This is to say, we are joined to the One who has already gone into and through the depths of darkness and emerged alive again (Revelation 1:17-18).
That said, we’re not here to tread water or stay dry on the shore. We’re here to swim, and sometimes that means swimming right into the blood-stained mess. We do this not because we’re immune to fear. We’re no fools. We know so many unseen and fearful things are gliding quietly beneath us (Ephesians 6:12). This is especially true in the waters of culture. But the point is that for Christians, fear is not preventative. We know that the worst that could ever happen in any situation—death—has no dominion (Romans 6:9; 1 Corinthians 15:54-57).
Two of the little girls washed away in the floodwaters were sisters. Blair and Brooke Harber were their names. Blair was 13 years old. Brooke was 11. When they found their lifeless bodies fifteen miles downstream, they were still holding hands.
When Jennifer shared this with me last night, I thought this couldn’t possibly be true. Then I looked it up. It seems it is true. The New York Post reported it. So did the Houston Chronicle and the Associated Press.
But here’s the thing. I have two daughters. If there’s one thing I know for sure about them, had they been swept away in a similar tragedy, we’d have discovered them in a similar embrace.
Madeline and Evelyn are as different as night and day. One loves to fly. The other could spend the whole day fishing. One prefers all things scary. The other is most comfortable in cowboy boots. One slips into unfamiliar scenes with quiet grace. The other makes sure everyone in the room knows where she stands on pretty much everything. But for as different as they are, the love they have for Christ, their family, and each other has never needed them to be alike. It has only needed them to be near.
So, while Jen was reading to me about those two girls, I’ll admit I got a little choked up. Who wouldn’t? Although I didn’t let her see it. She was already struggling to read the article, and a husband needs to be sturdy at these times and in these ways. Still, it was hard to hear, not just for the sorrow of it, but for the unseen truth, something familiar to me, that stirred in the swirling muck of a dreadful situation. The kind of love those girls had, I see it in my own daughters. That kind of final grasp isn’t made in a moment. It’s made over the years through late-night whispers, shared stories, and tearful apologies. It’s born from a wordless understanding between two sisters who know each other sometimes better than they know themselves. It is a love that holds on.
I know Madeline and Evelyn would have held on, too. And I believe they still will, no matter how far the current of life carries them. Because love like that just doesn’t let go. Even better, they have a Savior who won’t let go of them. And together, as sisters, they know it. They know even if the world gives way beneath them, He is there. By faith, they know, just as the seemingly simple and yet incredibly profound song goes, “Little ones to Him belong. They are weak, but He is strong. Yes, Jesus loves me.”
The news out of Mystic, Texas, was shocking. The flash floods brought more than water. They brought terrible sadness. I just checked. As of only a few hours ago, forty-three people are dead. Fifteen of them are children. The Associated Press article I was reading reported that “27 girls from Camp Mystic, a riverside Christian camp for girls in Hunt, Texas, still were unaccounted for about 36 hours after the flood.”
There’s something especially jarring about the death of children. It’s a primal ache. The little ones among us are meant to be protected. I can only imagine how helpless the parents of those children are feeling right now. They sent them to camp, expecting them to return. But in the middle of the night, a cabin of eight-year-olds was swept away.
Tragedies like this awaken something deep in us. They are reminders that being an adult is, in part, about standing guard. Even when, as children, we resisted the watchfulness, something changed the moment we became parents ourselves. We began to understand. We realized that protecting children is one of the most fundamental callings written into the human frame.
At least, you’d think it was. It seems more and more that this essential truth has been blurred by design. It seems that deliberate choices are being made by adults that not only fail to protect children but actually drop them right into the rising ideological deluge, insisting it’s for their good, even as the current pulls them under.
A long-time friend of mine, Martha, stopped by my office this past Wednesday while in town on business. It was good to see her. We spent a little over an hour catching up.
When it comes to what’s going on in the world, she’s a lot like me. She wonders how things got so backward. At one point along the way, we touched briefly on the recent U.S. Supreme Court decision upholding the Tennessee law. Essentially, the law bans transgender hormone treatments and surgeries for minors. I was glad for the 6-3 decision. Martha was, too. At its core, the law is a step toward protecting children from irreversible harm.
I mentioned to her in passing that Michigan has similar legislative efforts in motion. For example, House Bill 4190 would prohibit doctors from prescribing hormones or puberty blockers to minors. It also bans gender reassignment surgery on kids. My friend, Jason Woolford, is the one behind this worthwhile piece. He is an example of someone willing to step into the gap and defend children where others hesitate. I don’t think I mentioned the like-minded Senate bills that would criminalize healthcare providers while giving parents the right to sue for damages. One is Senate Bill 291.
These are all noble efforts, for sure. Still, I told Martha that someone should at least consider drafting a bill identical to Tennessee’s law. Make it word for word. I realize that with Governor Gretchen Whitmer at the helm and the Democrats controlling the State Senate, it’s unlikely that anything will get through and become law. Nevertheless, a shift in power could be on the very near horizon. And so, push the identical bill. Tennessee’s law has already been stress-tested in the nation’s highest court.
I’m sure not everyone agrees with this approach. Some might argue that simply copying another state’s legislation overlooks the subtleties of Michigan’s political landscape. I wonder if that’s part of the problem. Perhaps we’ve become too concerned with tailoring bills to conciliate rather than to confront. In fact, the longer I stand at the intersection of Church and State, the more convinced I become that we’re overcomplicating things. Too often, bills are laced with endless nuances, providing this exception and that concession, all in hopes of pleasing as many as possible, and yet resulting in the legislation being neutered before it even reaches the Governor’s desk. The more I see this, the more I question whether the bill drafters truly grasp the dangers posed by the ideologies they’re supposedly trying to address.
Chiseling away at devilish ideologies is virtuous, but only insofar as truth continues to meet squarely against anti-truth. To do this requires both unwavering clarity and legislative precision. When it comes to radical gender ideologies in particular, anything else risks the grotesqueness embedding itself deeper into our schools, our medical systems, our laws, and our souls.
Now, I should probably steer preemptively into two critiques I expect to receive from what I’ve just written.
First, I have plenty of friends in government who’ll step from my seemingly simple-mindedness, calling me naïve—that I don’t know how things work in Lansing, or, bigger still, Washington, D.C. I expect that assessment. And to some extent, they’d be right. However, I would respond by saying that if political realism leads to bills that ban surgery but affirm the worldview behind it, even if only a little, then perhaps a little naïveté is exactly what’s needed.
That said, rest assured, I’m not ignorant of the legislative process. I am aware that the political world involves negotiation, committees, amendments, and such. Rest assured also that I’m not necessarily an absolutist. Like Jesus during His earthly ministry, I’m more of an incrementalist. Indeed, divine absolutism will eventually play out, and everyone everywhere will know when it does (Philippians 2:10–11). On that day, “He will judge the nations with justice and the peoples with equity” (Psalm 98:9). Meanwhile, the Lord didn’t reach into this world, taking upon Himself human flesh, and instantly demanding complete comprehension from those He encountered (John 1:9-14). He preached, He taught, and He walked with people (Luke 24:27; Matthew 4:23; John 3:2). He led them step by step into His identity and truth—patiently, deliberately, and with perfect clarity (Mark 4:33–34; John 16:12–13).
But take note: He did this, never compromising truth’s substance for the sake of palatability (John 6:60–66).
That’s the balance I prefer. I want to do everything I can to move the ball down the field, avoiding any plays that risk giving up ground. In other words, incrementalism must never become appeasement. I’ve seen how the slow erosion of truth so often hides behind the phrase “what’s politically possible.” Refusing to give ground is the only respectable posture.
But that means we must first understand and then acknowledge just how backward things are. Until we do, we’ll remain a society that embraces madness, the kind that creates bills that still allow exceptions in some instances for surgically mutilating its citizens under the banner of compassion.
The second thing I should probably steer into is likely to come from a now former friend (unfortunately) who I can hear saying something like, “Look, no one wants to see kids suffer. But we need to get the government out of this altogether. We need to let families and doctors make these deeply personal decisions without government interference.”
And that, right there, is a big part of the problem.
Even apart from Christianity’s boundaries, personal liberty has never equated to moral neutrality. Liberty understands that truth exists and that citizens must be free to seek, speak, and live according to that truth without fear of coercion or punishment. But liberty untethered from truth is no longer liberty—it’s radical individualism. When radical individualism invokes the Declaration of Independence’s “pursuit of happiness” phrase to justify the mutilation of children, then freedom has become a twisted version of itself. We end up using our nation’s founding documents, not in pursuit of truth, but as permission-granting sources for redefining it. And again, it’s the children who pay the highest price for such redefinitions. They are both the battlefield and the collateral.
“But that’s more or less a spiritual argument, Pastor Thoma.”
In a sense, yes. But so is the counterargument. Right now, the prevailing narrative in our world says that someone can be “born in the wrong body.” Having spent enough time around Dr. James Lindsay, I’ve realized this is a deeply Gnostic concept—one that severs the soul from the body and declares the physical form irrelevant or even hostile to the true self.
The Christian faith insists otherwise. Body and soul are not at war but in union, created by God in perfect harmony (Genesis 2:7). Our Lord took on flesh, not as a costume to be shed, but as the very substance of our redemption (John 1:14). Christ’s incarnation affirms the goodness of the human body—male and female—as God designed it (Genesis 1:27). To mutilate that body in the name of self-actualization is not compassionate liberation. It’s a spiritual act, and a desecrating one at that (1 Corinthians 6:19–20). To slice away organs or pump anyone, child or adult (because age does not sanctify the level of one’s error), with cross-sex hormones in pursuit of an impossible transformation is not compassion or the pursuit of happiness. It is bodily harm, sanctified by pseudo-Gnostic jargon cloaking a lie, one that is easily detected in Natural Law (Romans 1:25).
Ultimately, I hope that future generations will look back on this time in America as a dark age. I hope everything that’s happening relative to so-called “gender-affirming care” will be remembered with the same horror as lobotomies. Whether such somber reflection will ever occur, I don’t know. What I do know is that a generation of legislators did not defeat slavery with bills that allowed “grandfather” exceptions.
There’s one more critique I should probably address before wrapping up, mainly since much of this has focused on gender dysphoria.
Per usual, I will be accused of hatred for what I’ve written. I will be told that I just don’t understand and that I am invalidating someone’s identity. Someone may even wield dissenting Supreme Court Justice Sonia Sotomayor’s argument that my position is nothing short of advocacy for suffering.
To that, I suppose I might say, “Yes, I am advocating for suffering. Just not the kind you think.”
I’m advocating for what we Lutherans call the “Theology of the Cross,” a path marked by humility, struggle, and self-denial. It’s what Jesus meant by saying, “If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow me” (Matthew 16:24). The one following Jesus is less interested in worldly accommodation, but instead, is inclined to suffer all things, even suffering against internal desires, rather than be separated from Him and His redemptive work on the cross. All this stands in stark contrast to the world’s “Theology of Glory,” which seeks affirmation and comfort at any cost.
Every human being is born with backward desires. That’s the reality of sin. Taking up the cross in life’s combat, some fight against lust. Others wage war against drinking. Others fight dysphoric tendencies. Right now, we live in a culture more inclined to affirm and celebrate these disorders rather than restrain them. Still, Christ bids us to follow Him, not the “self.” It is not dangerous or unloving to say this. It is, however, unloving to affirm a lie, and it’s risky to give it room.
In the end, I expect to be called hateful for my positions. However, in every aspect of life, the courage to suffer for the sake of truth is the only way forward. It’s the best levee for holding back the water. That’s because its strength lies in a divine kind of love that brings truth, even when it costs something. Look to Jesus on the cross and see for yourself. There, love and truth are not in conflict but are inseparably joined—and in the most wonderfully protective way.
I wasn’t going to write anything this morning relative to the Fourth of July celebration. I intended to wake up, get some coffee, and just relax.
However, just a few minutes ago, I read an online piece about what actually went into planning and executing particular liberty-securing special military operations in early American history. It was dangerous. It was the embodiment of diligence. It was the deliberate offering of one’s own life for the sake of others. It was early mornings without the certainty of evening rest. It was calculated suffering, guided by conviction, and sustained by the hope that a freer nation might actually be built—brick by brick, battle by battle, prayer by prayer.
In other words, for our Founding Fathers, it was anything but waking up, drinking coffee, and relaxing.
Maybe we should set aside our barbecues and eat turkey instead. It sure feels a little like the Fourth of July could be interchangeable with Thanksgiving Day. We could sing our anthems, light our fireworks, and gather around tables not because we have earned this freedom, but because God has so graciously granted it, and for that, we are incredibly thankful.
The Apostle Paul wrote, “For freedom Christ has set us free; stand firm therefore, and do not submit again to a yoke of slavery” (Galatians 5:1). He wasn’t talking about national liberty. He was talking about freedom in Jesus. This is freedom from sin, death, and Satan. Still, where Christian liberty exists, there is true liberty in every sense of the word. It makes sense, then, that we would give thanks for the national freedom to gather and to worship our Lord without fear.
This is, in fact, a place where Church and State meet—not by confusion of their roles, but by acknowledgment that God rules over both. By His rule, we have the greatest freedom secured by a Savior, and another freedom He has so graciously given, made sure by patriots.
That carries me to something else.
Liberty rightly understood is not license. It is a gift to be stewarded, not an idol to be polished. God’s Word reminds us: “Live as people who are free, not using your freedom as a cover-up for evil, but living as servants of God” (1 Peter 2:16). In other words, liberty is not measured by the expanse of its seemingly endless boundaries. A person is not truly free if freedom means indulging in that which destroys. You are not living in liberty if you believe a person is free to murder an unborn child or redefine human sexuality. Genuine liberty pursues what is good, right, and true.
So, I guess what I’m saying this morning is that I’m thankful for liberty and the price paid for it, both on the cross and the mortal trenches. And yet, looking up from the trenches, I’m thankful for the preservation of this nation only insofar as she continues to understand liberty rightly, that she repents where needed, and that she pursues righteousness where lacking.
Yesterday, I was on a national phone call with Dr. Ben Carson. He asked me to speak. Of course, I agreed. One thing I said was that, in a sense, any nation with Christians living in it is blessed. That’s because they know what to pray for. Not only that, but they can hold the line on truth (1 Corinthians 16:13), and they can speak that truth in love (Ephesians 4:15). Their love for Christ always supersedes their love of country, and in that sense, they serve as purifying elements, whether they realize it or not.
Now, I don’t mean these things in a dominionist way—as if to say only Christians should run the government. What I mean is that when Christians live in faithfulness to Christ and therefore live faithfully according to their vocations, loving their neighbor and fearing God, the nation is naturally enriched, even when it doesn’t know why. Christians truly are any nation’s salt and light (Matthew 5:13-16).
I suppose I’ll close with that.
Remember that as Christians, we are dual citizens. While we walk the soil of this great republic, we belong to a Kingdom not of this world (John 18:36). And yet, when considering America by comparison to so many other nations, we are bound to be thankful for both. In such thankfulness, keep the proper perspective. When you see the fireworks booming, remember the thunderous response of the dark sky and cracking rocks at the Lord’s crucifixion. He won your truest freedom there. When you see the fireworks flashing, remember that His divine light has shattered the darkness. When you see the flag waving, remember that the banner of Christ’s cross is forever raised over every nation, tribe, and tongue. And by the power of the Holy Spirit alive in you by the Gospel, you go forth in service to Him with a bit of extraordinary insight. You know, “Blessed is the nation whose God is the Lord” (Psalm 33:12).
Cruciform Stuff 