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Similar is Not the Same

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I should begin by saying I learned a valuable lesson a few years ago, one about which my family is often obliged on occasion to remind me. The reason it came to mind this morning is that it was brought up this past week during the Thoma family dinner discussion. I suppose if I share the lesson and its value with you, I’ll inevitably betray a measure of my own foolishness relative to it. In other words, if I tell you what I discovered, you’ll learn something about me I’d typically prefer to remain hidden. Therein lies a general problem with humanity. We’re all faulty. And yet, we’re often unwilling to let anyone else know just how faulty we are.

This puts me in a jam. It’s not that I’m required to reveal every misdeed I’ve ever committed. But I have written and said on countless occasions that the people I trust the most are the ones who can admit when they’ve done wrong. I believe confessing one’s failings takes genuine courage, the kind that needs no witness to confirm it. It’s honest and brave in public and private.

Conversely, the folks inclined to deny or defend their errors are the ones I typically keep at arm’s length—especially the ones who’ve convinced themselves they can do no wrong. If they cannot be honest with themselves, how can they be honest with me? If they cannot admit to the truer nature of their imperfections, how can they ever take hold of the treasures brought by repentance, faith, and the amending of Sin?

Repentance makes things better. Amending is betterment’s glorious display.

This brings me back to where I started. I learned a valuable lesson some time ago, one uncovered by way of personal failure.

As the story goes, my son, Joshua, was four or five years old. He was sick, and I was at home caring for him. Lunchtime arrived. And what is the universal remedy for anyone of any age suffering from illness? Chicken noodle soup. And so, that’s what I fixed him. Well, sort of. I went to the cupboard to retrieve the magic elixir, but alas, there was none. But we did have a can of crème of chicken soup.

“I suppose that’s close enough,” I thought. But it wasn’t, and I am forever scarred by the poor parenting moment.

No sooner than Josh tasted the soup did he start gagging as though he would vomit. He didn’t have the flu. He had a bad cold. But an observer would’ve thought I was trying to put him into the flu’s orbit.

The lesson learned: Even with the littlest details, it is a fantastic delusion that “similar” could ever be equal to “same.” Crème of chicken soup is by no means chicken noodle soup. Regardless of their occasional reminders, my family may or may not know that I apply this lesson to my life with regularity. For example, I was rewiring the lights above the pool table in our basement a few weeks ago, and at one point along the way, I needed a smaller twist connector for holding some wires together than what I had within reach. Ready to simply apply the larger twist connector, I whispered to myself, “Crème of chicken soup is not chicken noodle soup,” and then I searched for the right-sized connector.

Perhaps not as big a deal as it is continually made out to be, this relatively insignificant blip on my life’s timeline remains a parable of sorts. We more than live our lives thinking that similar is the same. We tell our spouses we love them without actually showing it. We avoid attending worship, figuring we can just pray and read our bibles at home. We claim a pro-life position while supporting self-proclaimed pro-life candidates who believe abortion is an option within the first trimester. A man dresses as a woman and is in every way accommodated as one. Similar is not the same, and if anything, to live as such is to embrace logical and empirical contradictions. It is a logical contradiction to believe that red can also be blue, and as such, red is a viable substitute for blue. It is an empirical contradiction to act as though a penguin is a feasible substitute for a carrier pigeon.

Logically, red will never be blue. Logically, the mandate to study the scriptures is not the same as the mandate to be present among the worshipping fellowship. Logically, love spoken is not the same as love displayed. Empirical evidence proves penguins are flightless. Empirical evidence shows it’s a human child from the moment of conception. Empirical evidence proves men cannot menstruate.

Crème of chicken soup is not chicken noodle soup.

There’s one particular aspect of orthodox Christianity that the Bible presents unequivocally. I’d say Psalm 25:5 enunciates it reasonably well: “Lead me in your truth and teach me, for you are the God of my salvation.”

Christians desire truth. Not something similar to truth. We want actual truth. We want God’s truth. And not only do we want it, but we want to be immersed in it, and we want Him to teach it to us continually. And why? Because He is the God of our salvation. His truth saves.

Thankfully, truth has been revealed. The Word of God—the Bible—is truth. Christians stake a fundamental claim there because they know that the Savior, Jesus Christ, is the Word made flesh (John 1:14). To hold fast to His Word as truth is to hold fast to Him, the same One who announced that He is the way, the truth, and the life, and the only viable avenue to the Father (John 14:6). Another way—something similar but not the same—will only ever be a half-truth and unable to save us. Who among us would want half-truths, anyway? Who would accept a glass of water with even the tiniest drop of urine mixed into it?

Similar is not the same. We want and need the real deal. Anything less is crème of chicken soup and won’t measure up.

A Better Season

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October has essentially come and gone. November is at the door. With it comes Novembery things. Into the trash, the weeks-old jack-o-lanterns will go. In exchange, some Thanksgiving décor will adorn front porches, bookshelves, and kitchen windowsills. Some among us won’t be able to resist putting out a few Christmas-leaning decorations, not necessarily a fully decorated tree. Maybe just a miniature Dickens-style village here and a snowman character there. Perhaps a wreath on the front door.

Henry David Thoreau called November the calendar’s mite, reminiscent of the gift given by the widow in Mark 12:41-44. He implied it doesn’t give much, but what it does offer—the last yellowing lights of autumn—are “more warming and exhilarating than any wine,” ultimately making it “equal in value to the bounty of July.” I’m not so sure I agree, being the summer man I am. July offers a steady repertoire of pleasantries that few other months can match. Although I suppose following Thoreau’s poetic lead, if I did have to compare November with July, one thought does come to mind. I’d say July gives us one particular day with a splash of color: Independence Day. The annual fireworks celebrations typically conclude with a minutes-long sky-filling grand finale. Autumn renders a far lengthier and much more extravagant array of colors, and November is its grand finale. Until the first snow pulls what’s left of autumn to the ground, November will spend its days bursting with fantastical hues.

The only other real praise I’m willing to give to November is for my wife’s birthday. I’m thankful in that regard.

Still, apart from playing a role in my wife’s entrance into this world, I prefer to look past November. Better yet, I prefer to look past winter altogether. Although, it’s been said that if you’re always looking to the future, you’ll ruin the present. Or maybe it’s the other way around. Either way, the autumn and winter months weigh heavily on me. They have me wishing for sun-beaming warmth pouring down from cloudless skies, days when I need to be more concerned about sunburn than bone-stinging windchill.

As you may already know, I was pretty sick for almost two weeks. I didn’t start feeling like myself again until this past Friday night. I went to bed at 10:30 p.m. and woke up twelve hours later. It was obvious I needed the sleep. I share this because I spent almost every day during this recent illness looking to the future, continually reminding myself, “This is only a season. Another season is coming, a better season. Tomorrow will be better.” This was not an exercise in the power of positive thinking. I would speak this way only after praying to my Lord for the hope He alone can provide. In other words, my regular exercise was one of anticipating something better.

I know I can only reach spring and eventually enter summer once I have first traveled the blustering valley of winter. Similarly, I know I must pass through the harder seasons of mortality before entering something better. But no matter the circumstance, whether the melancholy of actual winter or the failing flesh in sickness, I’ll have no strength to endure anything this world wields against me without the hope Christ provides. And each challenge will be nothing less than a microcosmic image of God’s promised grace in struggle and deliverance for eternal life. This is the ongoing exercise of Christian hope, a challenging but powerful regimen. It not only teaches us to trust that God has us well in hand right now, but it has eyes for a far better tomorrow, one where hope is no longer necessary because it has been completely fulfilled in the glories of eternal life.

Considering Titus 2:13, Luther described it this way:

“But how long shall we wait for that blessed hope? Will it remain but a hope forever, and will it never be fulfilled? No, [Saint Paul] says, our blessed hope will not always remain a hope, but it will eventually be made manifest, so that we shall no longer only hope and wait for it, but what we now believe and hope for will then be made manifest in us, and we shall possess with full certainty what we now await. But meanwhile, we must wait for that blessed hope until it be revealed.” (Sermons from the Year 1531, W.A. 34. II. 117.)

The waiting is the hard part. It’s life’s winter. It’s the season of bodily illness, job loss, dysfunctional families, persecution, and so much more. Still, we know by faith we bear an otherworldly strength that can “rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us” (Romans 5:3-5).

I pray you are well and enduring whatever the world insists on throwing at you right now. Winter is coming. But it’s only a season. Another season is coming, a better season.

Wasting Away

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You’re receiving this very early, I know. All I can say is that it’s been somewhat of a rough week, and this morning bears very little difference. I’ve been dreadfully sick for most of it.

I haven’t been this sick in a while. Also, when I have been unwell, I don’t remember past illnesses taking this long to overcome. Typically, I can bounce back in a day or two—at the absolute worst, three days. With a proper regimen of hot showers, Tylenol, whisky, and rest, I can usually turn things around relatively quickly, enough so that I don’t miss much. But I lost this whole week, from Monday to Sunday. And a few more days at home are undoubtedly in the cards.

I turned 51 this past Thursday. I spent the day wrestling with the same cerebrum-searing headache, body-riddling aches, and lung-tearing cough that I’d had since Monday evening. I did manage to visit a doctor on Friday morning. No COVID. His diagnosis? More or less what I’ve already told you. I’m sick.

That’ll be twenty dollars.

That said, I am willing to admit I’m not dying, although I’m not yet willing to say I’ll make it to 52. Of course, only the Lord knows for sure.

I suppose as I get older, I should expect my body to be less resilient. That’s part of Saint Paul’s point when he wrote that “our outer self is wasting away” (2 Corinthians 4:16). However, it’s not easy to accept, especially when mankind’s propensity is to see himself other than as he is. In other words, what I see in the mirror doesn’t match my self-perception. In many ways, I still feel like an unstoppable twenty-something, and I live as though “old age” will always be thirty years older than whatever age I might be at any moment. This past week was a reminder of just how untrue that perception is. Truth be told, it reminded me that I’m likely well into the last half of my life. Another truth be told, that feeling caught me off guard. That must have been the surprise Trotsky meant when he said something about how old age is the one thing that happens to a man that he least expects.

What I’m saying might seem negative, but I don’t necessarily mean to take it in that direction. Yes, I’m forever coming undone and realizing it more daily. Still, there remains a distinguishing reverence to getting older. God gives a kindly nod to it when he describes the grey hair of his eldest believers as a “crown of glory” (Proverbs 16:31) and when He acknowledges, “Wisdom is with the aged, and understanding in length of days” (Job 12:12). And Paul didn’t end his description with “wasting away.” He continued that “our inner self is being renewed day by day.” Perhaps inspired by texts like these, we’ve been blessed with lyrics from the likes of Joseph Campbell, who scribbled so eloquently:

As a white candle
In a holy place
So is the beauty
Of an aged face.

I think one of the most sublime thoughts on aging came from King David. His words are relatively simple. Still, they make for an insightful observation that he could only understand in his sunset years. He wrote by divine inspiration, “I have been young, and now am old, yet I have not seen the righteous forsaken” (Psalm 37:25).

His point is an easy one. Every age promises its challenges. Nevertheless, the Lord remains faithful. Young or old, He is with us. He will never leave nor forsake His people (Hebrews 13:5). This is a saying we can trust whether we’re 3 or 93. But when you really think about it, only the 93-year-old has the genuine perspective to comprehend and confirm it. The aged among us can look back across the expanse of life’s plentiful years to recall the events they were sure would destroy them but didn’t.

Accepting My Pastoral Fate

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As is always the case following our “The Body of Christ and the Public Square” conference, I took some time to read the event evaluation forms submitted by the attendees. As in previous years, most took the time to fill one out, offering uplifting commendation and valuable information upon which to reflect. From the hundreds submitted, only three or four betrayed humanity’s jagged propensity to demand something beyond normal. In other words, every crowd always has a miserabilist or two. One shrew’s comment-pocked page threatened not to return if we didn’t upgrade the chairs to ones with cushioning. Another I received by email insisted that the event would be better if we offered a menu, perhaps expanding our food options to include pasta and possibly providing a more comprehensive array of desserts. I replied, “Thanks for the suggestions.” But that was after I typed and deleted, “That’s a great idea. And since we’ve decided to upgrade all our chairs to recliners, we thought we might hire some foot masseuses to go from attendee to attendee. There’s certainly nothing better than kicking back in a La-Z-Boy at an in-person conference with tier-one speakers while getting a foot massage and eating red velvet cake.”

Seth Dillon reminded the audience that foolishness needs to be ridiculed. Regardless of what some would say, foolishness needs pushback from equally foolish humor. He reminded his listeners that we often miss opportunities to redirect people away from untruth when we meet their folly with seriousness. By treating them seriously, we imply their ideology is worthy of consideration. If a man insists he is a woman, while mindfulness is necessary lest we underestimate the societal dangers, ridiculing the ideology is also an essential part of the resistance. Thus, Seth’s company, The Babylon Bee. The Babylon Bee is devoted to making fun of ideological idiocy—or, as Seth put it, he’s a professional troll.

We talked a little about this in the Sunday morning adult Bible study following the event. The story of Elijah and the Prophets of Baal came up. Elijah ridiculed the prophets, taunting them mercilessly. When you read his words in the biblical Hebrew, you know just how crass Elijah’s words were. Saint Paul does the same in Galatians 5:12, mocking the Judaizers who demand circumcision as a requirement of faith. When you can, look at what Paul says the Judaizers should do to themselves. It isn’t polite, but it is funny.

I told the Bible study group I intend to do more trolling. I’m certainly capable.

Regardless, I had something else on my mind when I sat down to tap on the keyboard this morning, most of which began forming last night during a dinner conversation with friends. There was another thread of commentary I discovered in several of the commending evaluation forms. Essentially, folks pleaded that I do more advertising in the churches, explaining that they only heard about the event from friends or shared social media posts.

Apart from my social media efforts, I sent direct mailings to 240 churches across three states. Less than twenty were returned as undeliverable. Each mailing had a brief letter of explanation and one (sometimes more) 11” x 17” color poster advertising the event’s particulars. Of the four-hundred-plus attendees, twelve were pastors from congregations that had either received those mailings or didn’t receive one only because they knew me personally and were promoting it on their own. Admittedly, I don’t know how many attendees were there due to those men.

The first thing I should say is that I know pastors are busy. I am one. If you knew my schedule, you’d think I own a teleportation device or I’ve somehow figured out how to clone myself. Just glancing at my schedule right now, I can assure you that every day is pretty much spoken for until Christmas Day. After Christmas, I have four days free before it all starts again. Anything added to the schedule until then is little more than fanciful dance moves employed to fill in its fast-fleeting cracks.

Second, I know that when it comes to anything sent to a congregation communicating events like ours, most folks in that congregation will only learn about it if their pastor chooses to share it. He’s the gatekeeper to such information, and rightly so. He’s deciding what goes on the bulletin board and what doesn’t. He’s deciding what gets shared in the announcements or newsletter and what doesn’t. Speaking for myself, such decisions often happen when I first get the information. If it’s a letter, I open the envelope, scan it, and either keep it or toss it into the trash. Then, I move on to the next item. If it’s an email, I read it. If I intend to pursue it, I tag and save it. If not, I delete it and move on.

More to my point. It’s not that I didn’t sufficiently advertise in the churches. It’s that the pastors withheld the information. Their reasons? I don’t know. At least, I should say I don’t know for sure. I have my suspicions.

If you watch the video of the panel discussion from our recent event, you’ll observe a question directed to the group that resulted in a near-unanimous expression of optimism. I said “near-unanimous” because I chose not to answer. Essentially, each panel member agreed that the tide is turning in America. People are waking up and pushing back against radicalized school boards, LGBTQ Inc.’s jackboot agenda, and countless other issues tearing at the fabric of this great nation. As the microphone was passed from panel member to panel member, you’ll notice James Lindsay leaning toward me to speak. He asked if I wanted to respond. I said no. Keep watching. You’ll see we spent those next few moments whispering to one another. I told him I agreed that things were looking better. People are sick and tired of leftists seizing control of and destroying everything. However, that’s not what I see among pastors in the Church. From my perspective, my circle continues to shrink. As a pastor intent on leading God’s people toward faithful engagement in the public square, I’m becoming more and more of an island unto myself. I’m going to shoot straight on why I think that is.

On the one hand, it could be because my reach is increasing. With that, I’m running into what has always been a more significant percentage of pastors holding an absolute separationist view of Church and State, which ultimately betrays a thin understanding of genuine American history and a weak grip on the Two Kingdoms doctrine. More will come on this when I finish my doctoral work.

I also get the sense there may be an inhibitive spirit of competition in the Church. In other words, promoting another congregation’s event, especially a prominent one, makes the pastor feel as though he could be doing more. Depending on what that pastor does all day, I won’t say if that feeling is right or wrong. I’ll just say I think it’s there. And it’s dangerous. Faithfulness is required, not achievement. But faithfulness is by no means lazy.

I most suspect pastors withhold the information because they are simply doing what people fearful of losing their jobs do. It could be as simple as knowing that if they hang a poster promoting an educational event that any one of their parishioners misinterprets as offensive, they might make enemies.

As a pastor, I know what happens when enemies are made in a congregation. People transfer to another congregation or self-dismiss. Attendance goes down. Giving goes down. And who gets blamed? I do. Please know that I’ve long since lost concern for these dynamics. In fact, after unsuccessful attempts at reconciliation, I’ve taken the lead on showing particular folks the door. In short, I know I’ll always teeter at the edge of offending people when it comes to preaching and teaching the Word of Truth, maintaining church discipline, defending the congregation’s identity, and preserving her integrity. Of course, I’m not trying to offend anyone. I don’t associate with any pastors who are trying. But it does happen. I’ve accepted that fate, and as a result, the Lord continues to bless these efforts in ways I only wish I had time to describe.

Many pastors haven’t accepted that fate. And the fear is crippling. It keeps them holding to far easier things while preventing them from helping their people navigate the harder things—the all-consuming dreadfulnesses destroying human lives, both physically and spiritually. Doing this, those pastors become caricatures of Hosea’s divine accusation: “For with you is my contention, O priest…. My people are destroyed for lack of knowledge; because you have rejected knowledge, I reject you from being a priest to me” (4:4,6).

I told Dr. Lindsay later that night while sharing samples from my various whiskeys that I’ve long since begun weaponizing this pastoral fear. Knowing that pastors are terrified of their people, I’ve turned to reaching their people. If the pastors are afraid, I’ll use that fear, not in a sinister way, but in an encouraging one. In other words, I urge the people visiting from other congregations to encourage their pastors to get in the game and lead the way. I plead with them to do this, first doing what they can to create opportunities for their pastors to use the skills they already possess. For example, folks could call the local paper and ask about sharing a portion of their pastor’s latest sermon as an editorial. When the paper’s editor agrees, ask the pastor to send it. Put the pastor right out in front of an issue. Another example might be for church members to invite their pastor to speak at a community event, such as a Right to Life rally, School Board meeting, or an education forum. Perhaps a parishioner might arrange for his pastor to be the invocator before a congressional session in the state capitol building.

It’s not exactly the same, but this reminds me of my whisky epiphany in the early 2000s. It took a deliberate introduction to a few fine whiskies during an out-of-the-ordinary visit to London, England, to realize I had strange facilities for sensing things in drams that others could not. Like most anything else, once a pastor realizes he has additional skills he never even considered relevant to his typical duties, it’s like a light switch being flipped on. Of course, most of his efforts occur in the Kingdom of the Right—the Gospel’s kingdom. Still, when he discovers that some of those same efforts meet with the Kingdom of the Left—the civil domain—he goes about his work with a broader awareness and a more profound capability for his vocation. Together, these only add to his service, and they do so in ways that serve the Gospel rather than detract from it.

I’ll keep working in this way. It continues to result in more and more Christians stepping up to push back. Perhaps along the way, more pastors will have no choice but to join their people—and maybe even lead them. We certainly need what they’ve been put in place to bring.

A Commendation

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A Commendation to God’s People at Our Savior in Hartland

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I must confess that our “The Body of Christ and the Public Square” conference (which we just enjoyed yesterday) is both a highlight and a burden for our lives each year. It’s a burden because much work is necessary for its success. We plan all year for a single day’s labor. Precious time and resources are given. Sweat is spent. In short, it does not happen unless we fully put our backs into it. For me, its burdens include occasional verbal beatings from friends and foes alike. To be clear, I’m not complaining. This is one of the price tags attached to the chances I take. Thomas Jefferson said something about how anyone who assumes a public role must inevitably consider himself public property. I get it. Anyone putting himself out for public consumption should expect to be chewed on from time to time. I certainly get my fair share.

Pondering the highlights, I assure you that our conference efforts always prove themselves well worth the exertion. Over the last ten years, spanning twenty educational events, big and small, this congregation’s determination to communicate a right understanding of Church and State engagement has been unquestionably fruitful across countless denominational boundaries. Without being too bold, I dare say the handful of Christians who call Our Savior in Hartland, Michigan, their church home has influenced local and national landscapes in ways few other churches of a much larger size can claim. This isn’t boasting. It is a fact. God has used these efforts to effect significant change while holding the line on what’s good.

Along those same lines, I suppose it isn’t far from some who volunteer at the event to thank God for the unique opportunities to work alongside guest speakers most folks only know from a distance. For example, my son and future daughter-in-law shepherded Riley Gaines through her time with us, ensuring she made it to and from the event. I can understand the excitement of being near one of history’s boldest. Even better, something must be said for building genuine relationships with national policy architects and influential newsmakers. After the conference, I spent a few hours at my basement bar with Dr. James Lindsay. We chatted about anything and everything—politics, philosophy, theology, you name it. It was indeed an exceptional time, feeling more like minutes than hours. We parted company as new and better friends, intent on reconnecting whenever we might find ourselves within one another’s vicinity.

Of course, as starstruck as anyone might be with these folks, we don’t idolize them. If there’s anything I’ve learned from these relationships, they are people like the rest of us. Nevertheless, I also know that to live according to the tenets of faith (1 Timothy 2:2-6), ultimately protecting the Church’s freedom to preach and teach the Gospel apart from the shadows, these people are part of the calculus in twenty-first-century America. They’re included in Saint Paul’s phrase “πάντων τῶν ἐν ὑπεροχῇ”—all who are in high positions (1 Timothy 2:2). To influence them is to influence the public square and, as a result, to have a role in steering the outcome of the game. To what end? Again, to the preservation of what Saint Paul continues to describe in verses 2 through 4: “that we may lead a peaceful and quiet life, godly and dignified in every way. This is good, and it is pleasing in the sight of God our Savior, who desires all people to be saved and to come to the knowledge of the truth.”

We’ve been blessed with those relationships as an organization, so we form, maintain, and enjoy them accordingly.

As the pastor at Our Savior, I’m glad for God’s people here. Seeing your vigor in all of this certainly makes me smile. Moreover, your joy in the task is one of the reasons I’ll likely continue to take the punches. Your joy brings me joy. Truly. You’re forever proving their commitment to Christ. For one, you’re miles beyond mere words. You’re not willing to simply rah-rah from the bench, saying to those who need help, “Be warm and well fed” (James 2:16-17). You’re in the game, and you’re playing hard. With or without accolades, you’re moving the ball down the field in ways that serve even your detractors and will resonate for generations.

Unfortunately, as I’ve already hinted, we often do this to our peril. I’ll give you an example.

I had a conversation yesterday with someone who, no matter how gently she explains religious liberty’s benefits to her liberal family members, is viciously attacked as a mean-spirited and bigoted conservative who wants to force her opinions on others. I did what I could to encourage her. Apart from sharing God’s Word relative to the matter, at one point, I shared a thought Ralph Waldo Emerson once penned. He wrote about how there will always be a certain meanness to conservatism. Unfortunately for conservatism’s opponents, the meanness always comes bearing superior logic and facts. In other words, it brings truth. Relative to her conversations with family members, confining someone with anything will always seem restrictive, inhibiting, and mean. Still, as mean as truth’s confinement might seem, it’s good.

What’s more, the only people we should trust are the ones calling to us from within truth’s boundaries. Those people are not trying to keep us from living; they’re beckoning us to a life endowed with the greatest access to truth’s arsenal of facts—to what makes truth true. As biblically conservative Christians, we have this in spades.

Quite simply, truth—whether it be moral or natural law—is unphased by opinion; or, as I heard first-hand from Ben Shapiro long before it ever became a bumper sticker, facts don’t care about your feelings.

This congregation gets it. You know it isn’t an easy road. Still, it’s a road you want to travel because you know the One who is Truth in the flesh—Jesus Christ. He is the way of eternal life. Those who cling to Him have been set free from Sin’s foolish desires to trust anyone or anything beyond truth’s borders. You want others to know this, so you do what you can to preserve the Church’s freedom to preach and teach it. Our conference is one way you do this.

By the way, we’re already taking aim at next year’s effort. As was mentioned yesterday at the conference’s end, it looks as though Tucker Carlson will be with us in October of 2024. And Jim Caviezel is in tow for an after-Easter event of some sort. I haven’t sorted the details yet, but rest assured that I will.

Imperishable, Undefiled, and Unfading

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One would think I should’ve been a weatherman because I’m so obsessed with the seasons. Although, it isn’t an obsession. It’s frustration. I live here, but I’m not meant for this climate, especially not the back-and-forth Michigan is currently enduring.

I dare say even the ones who adore autumn in this state will know what I’m talking about. The days are becoming wildly different.

I suppose one way to describe this is to say that, indeed, summer is over, and as a faithful doorman, autumn is watching for winter, preparing to hold open the gates when it arrives. Until then, autumn fidgets. It keeps opening and closing the door, stepping out to scan the horizon for winter’s caravan, and then stepping back inside again to watch and wait. By this, autumn stirs wildly different weather, sometimes all in one day.

Again, Michiganders will know what I mean. One moment, the sky is clear, and the sun is shining, warming all within reach of its bright array. It’s as if August locked the door, barring September and its followers from entering. But with little more than a glance to the horizon, thick clouds are invited over and into view. The door is thrown open. The sun is nudged away, its beaming warmth exchanged with chilly darkness and drizzling rain. In other words, to endure Michigan’s autumn means to be in August one minute and then October the next. One moment, the sky’s sapphire happiness is vast and cheerful. The next, you’re in deep space, a hundred million miles from our solar system’s star.

But then winter finally arrives, and that’s that—no more confusion.

I began by saying I’m not meant for this climate. I mean that in more ways than one. Interestingly, one of those ways, in part, explains why I’d never willingly leave Michigan. In truth, physically, I’m suited for Florida. My body feels better when I’m there. My back feels better. I have fewer migraines. However, God put me in Michigan. This is where my vocation’s muscle is flexed. I’ve come to realize my vocation—my combined roles as a husband, father, pastor, and the like—are less about location and more about devotion. I really can live just about anywhere when I’m confident that God has me right where He wants me. Where He puts me is a part of what He wants for me. What He wants leads to eternal life (John 6:40), which is eternity’s joyful location—an inheritance far beyond this life’s comforts.

When a Christian trades interest in this life’s comforts for the joy of the life to come, it’s incredible what can be endured. This world, steeped in its undoneness, is seen for what it is. Still, even as we endure, it’s amazing how the sun perpetually shines when, by faith, you know you’re not an inheritor of this world but of an altogether different sphere.

Saint Peter referred to this inheritance as “imperishable, undefiled, and unfading, kept in heaven for you” (1 Peter 1:4). He went on to say that this remains true, even as we are “grieved by various trials, so that the tested genuineness of your faith—more precious than gold that perishes though it is tested by fire—may be found to result in praise and glory and honor at the revelation of Jesus Christ” (vv. 6-7). Luther explained:

“This means that our hope is not set on possessions or an inheritance present here on earth, but we live in the hope of an inheritance which is at hand and which is incorruptible, and which is undefiled, and that does not fade away. We possess this good eternally, only we cannot see it yet. … All things that are on earth, even though they may be as hard as iron and stone, are perishable and cannot last. Man, as he grows old, grows ugly; but the eternal good does not change, but remains fresh and green forever. On earth, there is no pleasure so great that it does not pall in time. We see that men grow tired of everything, but this good is of a different nature.” (Luther’s Works, Weimar Edition, 12:269.)

“…there is no pleasure so great that it does not pall in time.”

In this life, the seasons change. The cold moves in. The clouds pall the landscape. The light dims. And yet, eternal life’s season—our inheritance—remains unphased. It’s ready and waiting (John 14:2-6). It stands sturdy and cheerful and sure, beaming brightly beyond this world’s veil of tears (James 1:17). What’s more, as Luther remarked, not only do we know this, but we own its resplendence right now. “We possess this good eternally,” he wrote, “only we cannot see it yet.” It’s true. Our mortal eyes cannot see heaven’s glory. But faith sees it. And it’s aware that the light feeding heaven’s extraordinary brilliance—Jesus Christ—is alive with us right now, and He’s radiating luminously through us to a darkened world in dreadful need of rescue (John 8:12; Matthew 5:14-16).

For Christians, when life in this world becomes attuned to this hope-filled future, there’s little that the temporal darkness can disrupt. Knowing I’m not an inheritor of this world—that my time here is quite temporary—I see everything this life throws at me differently. More importantly, courage for faithfulness to Christ, my Savior, is within reach every moment of every day (Ephesians 6:10).

Having said all this, I need to be clear. I still intend to live in Florida one day. If God intends it, it’ll happen. Until then, I’m where I need to be.

Somewhere in Time

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I’m writing this note from the lobby of the Grand Hotel on Mackinac Island. I was one of the invited speakers at the Michigan Republican Party’s leadership conference. In truth, I almost didn’t feel like writing this, mainly because when I crept from my room at 5:00 a.m., not only did I discover I was the only guest awake in the whole place (as you can see from the photo), but the landscape was entirely void of coffee. If there’s one thing I require before typing this early morning note, it’s coffee.

Now, for a relative story before moving on to something else.

Carlos, a man traveling through and cleaning the lobby light fixtures, greeted me warmly. I asked if he knew where I might find a cup of the elusive brew. His apologetic answer: None would be available until 6:30. Downcast, I situated myself in a chair to begin typing. However, barely a moment passed before Carlos, having just climbed a ladder to start cleaning a chandelier, descended that same ladder and invited me to the workers’ cafeteria. He poured me a fresh cup of the elixir I so desperately craved. Of course, I expressed my deepest gratitude, and after chit-chatting for a few minutes, I promised Carlos that no matter what I decided to write, I’d be sure to mention his kindness.

Thanks, Carlos. As is often the case, God is gracious to me through others. Sometimes, something as simple as a cup of coffee and a moment of kindly conversation is the glorious proof. And now, on to something else.

At the present moment, it would seem I’m sitting not all that far from where the character Richard Collier slept while trying to meet his love interest, Elise McKenna, in the film Somewhere in Time. Christopher Reeve played Collier. Jayne Seymour was Elise. I’ve seen the movie and appreciate both actors. This being my first visit to the Grand Hotel, I can see why the filmmakers chose the location. Few places compare, especially when displaying the reverence that tradition is due. The Grand Hotel is a moment in time no longer accessible yet seemingly still visible.

Men are not called guys or bros but gentlemen. Women are nothing less than ladies. In stride with these standards, there are rules. The rules maintain while at the same time catechizing. Gentlemen or ladies are forbidden from classless attire. None may don mid-riff baring tops or sleeveless shirts. Why? Because modesty is extolled, and public displays of sensuality are dissuaded. Sweatpants and cut-off shorts will see you sent to your room to change. For what reason? Because self-attentiveness and its production are lauded, while slothfulness should be no respectable person’s way. After the 6:30 p.m. hour, what was politely casual must reach even higher. In all corners of the hotel, suits and dresses are expected for adults. Any attending children must wear the same.

I’m fascinated by this. For a guy like me who sometimes spends his energy writing and speaking about things relative to these lessons, it’s just short of magical. It makes me wonder how the hotel’s management has continued to get away with doing it for so long, especially since such practices are contrary to the nature of the world in which we currently live. Few get away with telling anyone else what they can or cannot do. All are free to be, do, and say whatever they want without consequence. Moreover, men are not men, let alone gentlemen. They’re women. Women are not women, let alone ladies. They’re men. Few are willing to contest this. Even fewer, if any, are eager to pinpoint morality’s demonstration genuinely. A young girl’s parents smile as she receives her diploma wearing little more than a stripper’s dress. A young man’s parents shout expletive-adorned congratulations from the audience to their son. Show more skin, not less. Say whatever you want as loudly as you want. Be a self-serving individual, not an others-minded part of a community.

Indeed, the Grand Hotel is somewhere else in time. Or maybe a completely different world altogether.

In a roundabout way, it reminds me of what I’m seeing happen to northern Michigan’s trees as summer turns the corner into autumn and eventually winter. It won’t be long before Michiganders will see with their own eyes a divided cosmos. One day, we’ll climb into our beds, the scenery beyond our chilly windowpanes completely unobstructed. The next, we’ll awaken to a thickly covered landscape blanketed in drifting snow, the phone ringing for some of us with school cancellation news.

It’ll be like crossing from one world to another, both having different rules.

Inherent to winter’s rules is the awareness that while the season can be beautiful, it can also be perilous. Mindful of these dangers, a winter’s drive can be calming. Playing in the snow can be joyful. A walk in the woods can be refreshing. Doing any of these things as though the rules don’t apply—as though one’s preferences will be best—could cause terrible things to happen. A winter’s drive at 80 miles per hour could kill you and others around you. Building a snowman with your bare hands could result in frostbite and permanent nerve damage. Walking through the wintry woods wearing your favorite summer clothes could end in frozen death. For anyone denying these realities, a person willing to step up and enforce rules is an asset.

I experienced a combative conversation a few weeks ago. The person called more or less to let me know what a horrible person I was for saying publicly that certain behaviors were indeed sinful. According to this person, I had no right to impose morality on anyone, especially since I am just as imperfect as everyone else. This is a typical argument many make and often aim at the clergy. She went on to say that she’d never think of imposing morality on anyone. I asked her if such thinking applied in her home with her children. She stuttered a little at that point. She did everything she could to make “yes” her answer, explaining how she raised them to be free thinkers unbound by legalistic principles. I asked what she would have done if her daughter had come to her, admitting she intended to kill a friend at school. Would she say her daughter was wrong, that killing someone was against the rules? Her answer was one of avoidance: “My daughter would never do that. Because of the way I raised her, she’d know better.”

“So, there is such a thing as ‘better’? What or who established that better standard, and why does it appear to apply to everyone, including you?”

The conversation didn’t proceed much further. I didn’t expect it would, anyway. And by the way, I wasn’t trying to win an argument. There’s no winning in such situations. There’s only giving a faithful witness while enduring. Still, I suppose this came to mind because of what I’ve said here. If we establish our own standards apart from reality, not only will we discover ourselves in conflict with natural law, but we’ll never be able to see beyond ourselves what’s actually true. Perhaps worse, we’ll never know what it’s like to be part of a community held together by that truth—a group naturally built to outlast all others.

Still, there’s another angle to this that comes to mind.

While the rules here in the Grand Hotel’s world do not apply to the mainland’s rules, both are held by the same standards, whether or not they acknowledge it. Summer or winter, right is right, and wrong is wrong. They may look different by context, but they’re rooted in truth, and they are what they are. One day, everyone will realize this. In a sense, it’ll be like the scene I described before. You’ll close your eyes in one world and open them in another. When you do, you’ll realize that human standards never applied in either. Instead, there was all along a deeper standard—God’s standard. It will be the only standard of measurement at that moment. A world of people choosing unbridled sensuality, gender confusion, and so many other dreadful standards will finally discover if they were right in their cause. They’ll learn, in a sense, if the Grand Hotel’s rules were better than Walmart’s.

Thankfully, we have Christ. He’s the hope we have for that inevitable day. He’s the One who forgives us of anything that might make that day a dreadful one (Luke 21:28). He’s also the One who gives His Holy Spirit so that we are remade into those who desire His will and ways, not our own (Romans 5:5; Galatians 5:22-23). That’s important. When I want what I want, the Spirit fights that fleshly inclination, making it so that I prefer instead what Christ wants. I want what Christ wants because, by faith, I know it will always be better. It is a higher standard. According to Saint James, it’s the law of liberty (James 1:18,25-27)—the freedom from sin’s guilt and the liberty to live according to God’s way of righteousness (2 Corinthians 3:17). This is a change in eternity’s conversation. In Christ, I don’t have to keep God’s rules perfectly to save myself. Jesus did that. But now, through faith in Him, I want to keep his rules. I know they’re good. In fact, I know they’re not just better but the best.

Context and Meaning

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I spent some time last night walking on the treadmill and reading. Some of what I read was from a theologian named Stephen Paulson. You may know his name. He’s an ELCA pastor and Senior Fellow at 1517. I woke up this morning still troubled by what I’d read. But it also made me concerned for you. Here’s what I mean.

There’s a book I keep within reach of my office chair. I visit it on occasion if only to refresh my memory.

The book is Literary Theory: A Brief Insight by Jonathan Culler. The book’s ultimate goal is to ask and answer questions about writing’s purpose. I appreciate the book because it deals with the dangers of writing for public consumption. It also examines a writer’s duty to prospective readers. Believe it or not, a writer cannot just scribble whatever he or she wants without at least considering some of the ways it could be reasonably received. Culler shows similar concern for the reader, insisting that the reader must know something of the writer to connect more intimately with his or her meaning. Along the way, Culler points to context as the principal conduit. He suggests that the most precise meaning for anything written arises from context, insisting that “context includes rules of language, the situation of the author and the reader, and anything else that might conceivably be relevant” (p. 91). He goes on to say that when the writer or reader enlarges context, genuine meaning comes more into focus.

Culler’s words are insightful. Indeed, context is significant. I’ve occasionally written pieces that discourage people from swimming in the ocean. I’ve shared logical reasons. But a reader will only fully realize why I do it after learning a particularly sharky story from my youth. In other words, I have a very good reason for staying on shore. The more context I provide, the more readers can align with my intended meaning. It doesn’t mean they’ll agree. But they will, at least, grasp my objective rather than impose theirs.

As a writer, the Apostle Paul is the perfect candidate for this exercise. In certain ways, Saint Paul’s context is more significant than many realize. For one, Paul went into his role equipped with human qualities few of the other apostles had. His Roman citizenship was a crucial factor. Paul testifies to his citizenship fervently (Acts 9:11, 21:39, and 22:3), recalling his birth and upbringing in the metropolitan city of Tarsus, a prominent municipality—one that Paul himself would describe in Acts 21:39 as “no obscure city.” A relatively sizeable trade location on the Mediterranean coast, Tarsus was steeped in philosophical schools, classical literature, public orations, and other such things. Life in Tarsus offered pursuits unavailable to most others in the known world. Interestingly, a stadium was built in the city’s northern part to host Olympic-style games. It’s likely that Paul, like the rest of the city’s residents, attended the stadium’s events.

Based on these contextual details, it should be no surprise that Paul often illustrates his points the way he does. He quotes poetry. He quotes philosophers. Remarkably, while Saint James speaks of the Christian life in the traditional Judaic sense—that is, as testing (δόκιμος) leading to divine approval—Saint Paul often describes it as a race, or translated literally, stadium-running (σταδίῳ τρέχοντες). The context of his upbringing sheds light on why he wrote as he did. A grasp of the context gives us readier access to his letters—his narrative style, logic, humor, quotations, apologetics, and so much more.

And since Paul is a divinely inspired writer, I can better understand what God means to say through Paul when I know the broader array of details communicating his meaning.

Relative to meaning, however, the tables are drastically turning, especially in the 21st century, where there seems to be a limitless trajectory to what words actually mean to their recipients. The devil is behind this. He lives to twist language. Language is the chosen means for communicating God’s Word. If he can make the transmission between giver and receiver unreliable, he can ultimately confuse salvation itself.

It’s no coincidence that the word gender no longer means biological sex but instead means a subjective interpretation of personal identity. Indeed, in this peculiar sense, context is boundless, as Culler mentioned. And so, writers must be careful because there’s no telling the strange filter someone will use to interpret what’s been written. Knowing this, writing becomes a more complicated task—a minefield of sorts. Doing it for public consumption requires micro-managerial care.

I don’t necessarily know if I have that skill. I certainly do try.

This brings me closer to where I began with Paulson. I mentioned a writer’s duty to readers. I would argue that duty and responsibility are nearly the same thing. Von Goethe asked, “What, then, is your duty?” He answered himself, replying, “What the day demands!” I would say that each day’s duty requires that I be responsible with the talents and treasure God has given me—that I would care for my family, work diligently in my vocation, seek faithfulness to my Lord, and the like. Because I’m a writer at heart, one who writes hundreds if not thousands of pages of content each year, I also have a duty to readers to handle language responsibly. As this meets with the remaining 99% of our world who would never consider themselves writers, this means managing information intake honestly. It means doing everything you can to understand a speaker’s or writer’s intentions relative to his words and the context birthing them. One writer many should be examining very closely these days is Stephen Paulson.

Again, Paulson is becoming popular among Lutherans in particular. He uses words that often sound sanctified. But dig deeper into the broader contexts of his words. Suddenly, they no longer mean what we assumed they meant. For example, the Bible speaks of the atonement as Christ’s substitutionary sacrifice for humanity’s sin. He had to die. It was necessary for our salvation. From there, the Bible communicates faith as the avenue for receiving the merits of this great exchange. For Paulson, he sure does go out of his way to communicate the atonement as more of a display than a necessity. It’s less about Christ fulfilling the Law’s demands or assuaging the divine wrath aimed directly at sinners and more concerned with God’s ability to show His love and say to all who believe, “You are forgiven.” With this as the baseline for the atonement, who really needs the crucifixion? Apparently, not anyone. Jesus didn’t need to die. He merely did it to show us how much he loved us.

Does the Lord’s gruesome death show us just how much He loves us? Yes. I say that in sermons all the time. But is it the atonement’s deepest purpose? No. Confusing this, Paulson can ultimately claim that God completely “disregards the Law when He forgives sins.”

But He doesn’t do that. God’s Law is never irrelevant. It cannot just be disregarded as though, by His divine omnipotence, He’s somehow capable of turning a blind eye to what is innate to His nature. God is good. His Law is good. It is fixed. And it must be kept. Either we do it, or Jesus does it and applies the benefits to us. The thing is, we’re imperfect. We can’t do it. Jesus can. And He did. He lived perfectly in our place. Even though innocent, He suffered the consequences we deserved and died beneath their incredible weight. Faith believes and receives this. By the power of the Holy Spirit at work through this Gospel, we are recreated to love His Law—to want to keep it. That’s typically referred to as the Third Use of the Law. Believe it or not, the Third Use is not apart from genuine atonement theology.

When Paulson speaks of Jesus’s atoning work, his context is different. He’s using the same word, but has an entirely different meaning. He does not mean what the Bible means. As a result, we should expect other theologies he espouses to be just as confused. How could they not? To confuse the atonement even in the slightest is to confuse the entire Gospel, making phrases like “outlaw God” and “radical grace” suspect. In fact, in his latest article, Paulson claims Moses made up the doctrine of sanctification because he couldn’t understand how God could simply declare him righteous apart from the Law. That’s a stretch and then some. However, it makes sense when I know that God’s Law is more or less irrelevant to Paulson.

I suppose I’m trying to say that a reader can thwart this confusion and avoid this nonsense when better acquainted with the writer’s contextual meanings. Of course, discerning these things takes work. But preserving truth is a laborious trade. Writer or reader, Christians are called to deal in language’s stock exchanges. When we see misdealing (the deliberate or accidental redefining of words), we call it out, enlightening others of the potentially bankrupting information swap. When we see prized opportunities communicating beautiful truths, we herald them, encouraging others to reap the same lovely benefits we did.

Smiles and Laughter

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School is back in full swing. I know this not only because I see youthful academia’s vibrant commotion swirling into, through, and around every square inch of this church’s school building but also because I can most certainly hear it. Summertime is a quiet time around here. Autumn is not. It’s audibly occupied.

Perhaps the most notable sound is the laughter. Melancholy stands little chance when gleeful children are laughing. And the younger the child, the more potent his or her laughter is. A laughing baby is a room’s own sunshine. Anyone caught in the child’s sparkling beams will be swept up into laughter, too. Even a deaf person will experience it. That’s because a laughing child isn’t just heard but sensed. Anyone unmoved while children are laughing is either unconscious or paralyzed. There can be no other explanation.

Laughter is nuanced, though, isn’t it? It arrives in multiple carriages. I’ve always believed you can learn a lot about people by what they find funny. Life provides plentiful opportunities for humor. Laughing is healthy (Proverbs 15:15, 17:22). Still, a man drawn to filthy humor, laughing at sexually explicit, curse-word-laden comedy rather than disgusted by it, tells you something about him. Unfortunately, there is no age restriction relative to laughter’s sinister side. A playground of happy children running and jumping is one thing. A child who shoves another child and then points and laughs at her scraped knee is another. In such moments, laughter betrays humanity’s darker inclinations.

Since I’m already pondering these dichotomous things, I think smiles work the same way.

Speaking only for myself, a smile offered by a random passerby almost always brings me joy. No matter how I feel before receiving it, a chance smile can only nudge me toward better spirits. I don’t have to know why the person did it. The act is all that was needed.

This changes in other circumstances. Parents know it. While one child endures a parent’s reprimand, a nearby sibling smiles. Something else is happening in those moments. Through the character Donalbain, Shakespeare describes such scenes intuitively, saying, “There’s daggers in men’s smiles.” Sometimes, a smile communicates a gladness for our demise.

I suppose this means that a smile can also serve as a veil. It can be inexact or precise. A person trying to hide disappointment might do so through a passive smile. Staring, arms crossed, and tapping one foot, a smiling wife communicates disgust with her husband’s announced plans for a guys’ night out on her birthday.

The Bible doesn’t say much about God smiling. At least, I don’t know of texts that speak specifically of God smiling. Many folks use the phrase “God smiled on me,” and there are plenty of texts in which His smile might be implied. For example, the Aaronic Benediction in Numbers 6:24-26 comes to mind. There, God promises to shine His face on His people. This certainly has the sense of God’s gracious smile accompanying His compassionate care. Still, the word for shine (אוֹר) really only means to illuminate. In that sense, knowing that Christ is the Light of the world, I’m more inclined to say that God smiles on His people through His Son. Jesus is God’s friendliest glance and kindliest gesture. To see Jesus is to know God’s desire that we would be His friends, not His enemies.

On the other hand, the Bible does tell us that God laughs. Unfortunately, the Lord’s laughter is typically stirred by human foolishness. Indeed, we can be a funny bunch. King David describes sinful humanity’s pompous bellowing and God’s subsequent amusement (Psalm 59:7-8). In other words, God will sometimes laugh (שָׂחַק) at the ones who believe (as the saying goes) they’re “all that and a bag of chips” before Him. These same people tend to act viciously against God’s people, often thinking they’ve gotten the upper hand on us. As a result, God laughs, knowing a final day for vindication is coming (Psalm 37:12-13).

Whether smiling or laughing, the one thing we need to know is that God is not rooting for our destruction or doom (Ezekiel 18:32; Ezekiel 33:11; 1 Timothy 2:4-6; 2 Peter 3:9; Titus 2:11). With that, He does not find enjoyment in our pain. He does not grin at our sadness. He does not delight in losing us. It hurts Him as nothing we’ll ever fully know. This brings us back to Jesus.

God smiled at us at Golgotha when He frowned at Jesus, giving His Son over and into Sin’s deepest dreadfulness. God did this to make us righteous (2 Corinthians 5:21). He did this so that we would, by faith in Christ’s sacrifice, know the truest joys found only among heaven’s laughter (Philippians 3:20-21; Romans 6:23).

There’s indeed nothing like the laughter of children. However, nothing will compare to the ruckus made by the joyful children of God wandering the halls of eternal life’s mansion (John 14:2).

Genuine, joy-filled smiles.

Triumphantly authentic laughter.

By the person and work of Jesus Christ, these are guaranteed, and it’ll be impossible not to join in when you get there.

A Shelter, Fortress, and Resting Place

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Near the end of the Lutheran marriage liturgy, a prayer is prayed. Technically, three prayers are prayed. The first is for the groom and bride. The second is for all marriages and the homes they produce. The third is the Lord’s Prayer. The prayer I’m thinking about right now is the second prayer. It reads:

“O God, our dwelling place in all generations, look with favor upon the homes of our land. Embrace husbands and wives, parents and children, in the arms of Your love, and grant that each, in reverence for Christ, fulfill the duties You have given. Bless our homes that they may ever be a shelter for the defenseless, a fortress for the tempted, a resting place for the weary, and a foretaste of our eternal home with You; through Jesus Christ, Your Son, our Lord, who lives and reigns with You and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever. Amen.”

I suppose the prayer comes to mind for a few reasons. First, my son, Joshua, and his fiancé, Lexi, will start their premarital counseling classes with me soon. Anyone who wants to be married in this congregation must take these classes. Being related to the pastor provides no exception. Of course, I did offer to step aside and let someone else do it. Nevertheless, they insisted that I be the one, and I’m happy to help.

Perhaps the second reason is that very soon, two longtime and beloved members of this congregation will celebrate their 65th wedding anniversary.

Wow. Sixty-five years.

We can all admit that such marital spans are almost unheard of today. Not necessarily because it’s sixty-five years, but because marriage has more or less become disposable. Before I continue, I should say right away that I appreciate the folks who work hard to preserve marriage, especially those whose marriages may have been undone by divorce. It’s a sensitive subject, I know. Still, I commend the ones who did as their Lord required. They endured a proverbial meatgrinder, pursuing every avenue to preserve the sacred bond. Emotionally thrashed, they didn’t give up, even when they had the biblical license to do so. They kept their eyes fixed on what God said was better. They’ve more than demonstrated their verve as spouses. They’ve more than proven their desire for a home described by the above prayer, one that is “a shelter for the defenseless, a fortress for the tempted, a resting place for the weary….”

I suppose these things relate to another reason this prayer came to mind. Each time I’ve prayed it during the marriage liturgy, I’ve been moved by the words. In a sense, it isn’t necessarily describing a perfect home, but instead, the kind of home produced by marriage to a perfect friend. Or maybe a better way to say it would be the home God makes possible when He pairs a person with a genuine best friend.

For as uncertain and cruel as so many circumstances and relationships in this world can be, in marriage, God provides that one unfailing friend with whom to endure all of it. “It is not good that the man should be alone” (Genesis 2:18). God was right. Speaking from experience, my wife has been a reliable shelter whenever I’ve needed refuge from the pelting world. Through times of seemingly endless attacks, Jennifer has been a fortress. Through one exhausting event after another, going home to my bride has been the fulfillment of promised rest.

I’ll bet if I asked the folks who’ll be celebrating their sixty-fifth year of marriage about these things, they’d likely agree.

Now, don’t get me wrong. Even the best marriages aren’t perfect. Whether one day or sixty-five years into the marriage, trouble is likely to appear. There’s a saying that few men or women are so perfect that their spouses do not regret marrying them at least once daily. Maybe that saying bears a little bit of truth. Humans are born sinful. I can promise that I give Jennifer plenty of reasons for strapping me to a golf tee, pulling out her driver, and thwacking me into the woods. Of course, I’d never say the same thing about her—at least, not in print. (I’d likely need a sand wedge with her.) Still, with the Lord’s promised grace enveloping a marriage, the kind born from the person and work of Jesus Christ—a divine grace that immerses both the husband and wife in a tidal wash of daily forgiveness—not even the worst of marital catastrophes can parch such a relationship, let alone the annoyances that plague one day to the next.

This is what the above prayer means when it talks about being embraced in the arms of God’s love. It’s a good prayer. Of course, it stands in the shadow of the greatest prayer: the Lord’s Prayer. The Lord’s Prayer says all this and more, especially when you consider that everything it asks passes through the hope-filled words “Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done….” If you’re familiar with Luther’s explanation in the Small Catechism, then you know that to ask for God’s kingdom to come is to pray that “our heavenly Father gives us His Holy Spirit, so that by His grace we believe His holy Word and lead godly lives….” To ask, “How is God’s will done?” is to hear Luther reply:

“God’s will is done when He breaks and hinders every evil plan and purpose of the devil, the world, and our sinful nature, which do not want us to hallow God’s name or let His kingdom come; and when He strengthens and keeps us firm in His Word and faith until we die. This is His good and gracious will.”

A marriage rooted in God’s mercy delivered by His Gospel Word for faith rests in the Savior’s wonderful embrace. His protective care is a sturdy bastion capable of withstanding the devil’s terrible assaults. This is true not because the spouse He gives in marriage is perfect but because the Lord is. With Him, a marriage has everything it needs. With Him, sixty-five years with the same person becomes an immeasurable life-long joy shared with a best friend.