I pray all is well with you this morning. I, for one, am performing my usual early Sunday morning routine, even in Florida. Again, I continue to tell myself I won’t write and send anything on Sunday mornings. But then, I do. I already know the disease’s name. It’s called hypergraphia. It’s a neurological condition marked by an intense desire to write or draw.
I’m just kidding. I don’t have hypergraphia. People suffering from hypergraphia will do something like spend an afternoon writing the lyrics to a favorite song fifty times. I wouldn’t do that. I’d be more inclined to spend a free afternoon writing fifty new songs. I see writing—especially free writing—as a means of creative probing designed to discover what I think about something. The particular prompt is never an issue. I look around at things. I sip my coffee. In a moment or two, I see something, then I’m off and following. In the early morning Florida sun, there are plenty of mental meadows for such wandering. Michigan has its share, too. Every place has an abundance. You need only to pay attention.
In a little while, the rest of the Thoma family will awaken. Soon thereafter, we’ll make our way to Zion Evangelical Lutheran Church in Winter Garden. We visited there last week. The guest pastor, a kindly gent, preached a fine sermon. At one point along the homiletical way, he spoke of being part of a group. Specifically, he described seeing a family gathered in a park for a reunion. He mentioned the picnic tables, the food, the laughter, the sunshine, and all the things that make for a friendly gathering of loved ones. From there, he described a lonely onlooker’s desire to be a part of such things—to have a place of belonging. The point of the illustration was to describe the Church, and he did so in an interesting way.
Admittedly, I drifted a little while the pastor described. Seeing the familial picnic in my mind, I imagined the conversations. In particular, I thought of how families often retell the worst about themselves, ultimately adorning their conversations in laughter rather than tears. They tell the story about so-and-so’s new carpeting and how their son, now a grown man, once ran diaperless through the room, ultimately doing his business and leaving a stain that remains to this day. Or they reminisce about the time Uncle so-and-so pushed Grandma on the park swing, and when she came back on the upswing, he grabbed her wig and ran away, leaving her helplessly embarrassed and angry.
Everyone listens and laughs at the former foolishness. The carpet stain is still there, forever remembering something good now soiled. Grandma is still there, too. She still wears her wig. And yet, she’s not embarrassed, and she’s no longer angry. Why?
Family.
I firmly believe that the only type of human love that will ever come close to demonstrating the love God shows us is the familial kind. When I look at my wife, when I look at my children, I see Jesus there. They know pretty much everything there is to know about me. More importantly, they know my worst, most detestable self. Still, they love me. And I love them—enough to give my life in their place. This love changes me. Self-love is pushed aside, making room for being the best husband and father I can be.
Even if only in a minimal way, all these things give a sense of Christ’s divine view. What’s more, all these things demonstrate just how wonderful things can be in a community desiring to live in the shelter of repentance, forgiveness, and amending the sinful life. It’s in gatherings like that where former sins become memories worthy of little more than a laugh.
Strangely, this sounds a lot like God’s blueprint for the Church. That being said, I hope you’re making plans right now for this morning’s family reunion. We are. We won’t see you, but we will be with you.
While I can’t quite see the Florida sun from where I’m sitting, I know it’s there. Its morning beams have already gone out to paint the sky like flower girls scattering petals before the bride in a wedding procession. Sunrise is coming. It’s at the day’s gate.
Every year I say I will not write any eNews messages while on vacation, that I will leave everything behind and simply simmer in the joy of minimal obligation. But then I end up doing it anyway. I told Jennifer yesterday at the airport that perhaps I’d fight the urge this year. Truth be told, I had another factor prompting today’s early morning rise. In the house where we’re staying, the same place we visit every summer, the owners got a different mattress for the master bedroom—a horribly cheap mattress. I don’t know why. What I do know is that I have a terrible back, and the new mattress has got to be the worst, most pain-inducing one I’ve ever slept on in my entire life. I’ll try one of the other beds tonight. I’ll sleep on the dining room table if they’re all the same. Or a lounge chair near the pool. Or the bathtub.
Since today is Father’s Day, I certainly have the gem-filled occasion in mind this morning as I sip my coffee and down some ibuprofen. I’ve learned a few things as a dad, many of which have only come to fuller bloom in recent years. For example, as the father of two daughters, I’ve learned that, in a way, I’ll always be my girls’ first love. I mean that they’ve likely learned the type of man they want to marry from observing the man I’ve been. I can promise you the day either of them stands beside a husband-to-be at the Lord’s altar will be a conflicted moment of joy and sadness. I’ll be happy, trusting the Lord’s promise to bless them. But I’ll also be sad, foolishly convinced that no one will ever love my daughters like me.
As the father of two sons, I’ve learned a similar lesson. I’ve learned that any words of advice I’ve given them through the years are of fractional value compared to the things they’ve seen me do. Again, the day my sons become husbands—and by God’s grace, fathers—will be a day of mixed emotions. I’ll be blissful, trusting in the same blessings of God. And yet, I’ll be torn. I’ll know I’ve reached a certain point of irrelevancy in their lives. In other words, they’ll have set sail. Once at sea, a ship’s builder is no longer needed.
I suppose these concerns are ridiculous. Of course, someone can love my daughters like me. Maybe even better. And certainly, I won’t be irrelevant to my sons. They’ll meet with situations that, even as husbands and fathers themselves, will prompt them to ask their own dad’s perspective. I know these things. And I know they’re all a part of one generation carrying on to the next.
“…one generation carrying on to the next.”
Now and then, when I write something, I must examine my own words. Plenty in God’s Word describes how that carrying on is to happen. There is plenty more revealing what a parent’s truest goal in the process must be, namely, to raise their children in the faith. Still, one text resonates more with me this morning than the others. Psalm 103:13 reads, “As a father shows compassion to his children, so the Lord shows compassion to those who fear him.”
Firstly, an underpinning of this text has to do with demonstration, of learning behaviors from someone else. Secondly, the text isn’t teaching a single step in a broader course but instead is looking at every stage and showing what’s necessary to each—what’s actually binding each of life’s efforts to the next. Interestingly, it does this by way of three assumptions. The first assumes that fathers will show compassion. The second considers the Lord’s compassion as the standard to replicate. The third believes the Lord’s compassion will be given to those who put their faith in Him. That’s His promise, and it can be trusted.
At the root of the denominative verb used for “shows compassion” is the noun “racham.” Chasing this word around the Old Testament for a few minutes this morning, I discovered other interesting uses relative to sympathy, nurturing, brotherly fellowship, and the like. One of the more unique connections has to do with a mother’s womb and the reality of birth. This connection matters most to me this morning, especially as a parent with a mind for Father’s Day. Although, it might not be for the reason you’re thinking.
I think it matters most because, even though I’m the one God put in place to shepherd my children, I’m no different from them regarding human birth. We’re all born into the sinful predicament of human dreadfulness (Romans 5:12-18). As a dad, when I observe their failings, I must be aware of my own. I must recall my place beside my children in this rumpled and grimy world, where I own just as much Sin-stained guilt as the next person. In other words, I must parent them, realizing we’re in this together. We’re standing before God on the same footing and need something.
Admitting this, I’m drawn to remember what that “something” is. Nicodemus’ conversation with Jesus in John 3:1-21 frames it. It was there Jesus told Nicodemus—a man who’d soon experience faith’s stirring to defend Jesus in John 7:50-52 and then assist in His burial after the crucifixion in John 19:38-42—that even as one is born of the flesh, God is compassionate, and a rebirth is possible. Most people today use the phrase “born again,” but it’s really better translated as “born from above” (γεννηθῇ ἄνωθεν). In other words, just as a child can’t choose to be born, the rebirth of faith is God’s laboring. He births us into His family. It’s no wonder the same disciple who recorded this interaction with Nicodemus also wrote in 1 John 4:7 that a believer who truly demonstrates Godly love—a person who shows compassionate care—proves “out of God he has been born” (ἐκ τοῦ θεοῦ γεγέννηται).
I was born in the flesh, but I was also reborn in faith. From this vantage, I can clearly see the Lord’s fatherly demonstration of compassion, and I can carry that demonstration to my children. God did not give me what was owed for my crimes. He loved me. He had mercy, and He birthed me for something better. Child or adult, did I suffer the natural consequences of certain behaviors? Yes. But am I eternally condemned by them? Have I crossed beyond the border of God’s compassion? No. That’s the most reliable assumption woven into Psalm 103:13. For those who, by repentance and faith, know their Sin, they’ve been reborn to know a God who stands ready to receive them, One who promises never to leave nor forsake them (Hebrews 13:5). He is compassionate. He demonstrated it fully through the person and work of His Son, Jesus Christ. He moves Godly fathers to emulate the same compassionate care, principally as they introduce their children to Christ for the sake of salvation but also as they demonstrate the humility of repentance and trust in Him. It’s God’s will for this powerful Gospel display to surge forth from one generation of fathers to the next.
I want to instill these reliable assumptions in my children, both in their relationship with Christ and in their relationship with me. The time is coming—very soon, in fact—when they’ll work to instill the same unfailing assumptions in their own families. God willing, I’ll be here to help when they ask and for as long as the Lord allows.
Happy Father’s Day. I pray it’s an enjoyable one for all.
Here in Michigan, with the summer weather comes the bluer skies—the endlessly deeper sapphire skies. They’re beautiful, and they’re more than worth one’s staring. It’s supposed to rain today. That’s okay. We more than need it.
I installed a new stereo in my Jeep. The previous stereo had become somewhat rebellious. For example, it preferred to pause the music when I pressed the mute button. Also, it tended to begin its life anew at every stop. Five minutes at the gas station, and it would reset its clock, lose all the stations, and so much more. Sometimes, it wouldn’t even acknowledge me. I’d press a button, and it wouldn’t do anything. It’s now in a box in my basement.
The new stereo connects to my phone and its music applications, one of which is Spotify. On the way to school one day last week, Evelyn and I listened to whatever Spotify sent us. Elton John’s “Rocket Man” was one of its suggestions. Listening to that song beneath what was gradually becoming a clear blue sky stirred a particular memory for me. I described it to Evelyn. I told her that I heard that song while driving a week or so after my brother Michael died. It was in July 1995. The sky was a seamless blue. I remember leaning a little bit into the steering wheel of my truck to look upward through the windshield for a better view. I did this as Elton sang, “And I think it’s gonna be a long, long time….”
I was 22 years old at the time. My brother—my only brother—was 24 when he died. I remember looking into that infinitely vast sky and thinking it would be a very long time until I’d see him again.
After sharing that memory, I’m pretty sure I noticed Evelyn moving as inconspicuously as she could to wipe away some tears. She’s truly a lovely girl, empathetic in every way. Of course, I didn’t end the story without the Gospel truth, which I’d already shared in a simpler way. Yes, it would be a long time before I saw Michael again. It’s already been almost three decades since we were last together. Still, I will see him. That’s the promise. And I believe it.
My oldest daughter, Madeline, just graduated from high school. Her graduation party was yesterday. What a joy it was to spend time with so many friends. Naturally, as it is with many events in my life—my wedding, the births of my children, my ordination, and so many others—I’ve looked around each event’s scene and wished Michael could’ve been there. That happened at Madeline’s party. Certainly, I’ve always wished my children could’ve known him. And yet, I wasn’t thinking that way yesterday. Instead, more than once while visiting with so many people I cherish, I thought, I wish Michael could’ve been here to meet you. I know he’d have liked you as much as I do.
As the saying goes, each day, a day goes by. But when you love someone, the person’s absence hurts, and each day apart seems to have a thousand hours instead of only twenty-four.
I suppose for many of you, I’m not describing something unfamiliar. You know the sensation. You’ve experienced those moments when you’ve heard a song, taken in a scent, or seen a sight that swept you backward to a time with someone who right now is permanently out of reach.
Having just used the word “permanently,” I realize how strange that word is for Christians. Even with synonyms like “perpetually” and “forever,” for Christians, the truth is that these terms have an expiration date when paired with the out-of-reach nature Death seems to bring. For Christians, Death isn’t permanent. It isn’t forever.
There’s another saying that Death has a thousand doors, and we all find one. There’s truth in that statement. However, no matter its form, because Christ conquered Death, it becomes just another event in a believer’s mortal life—an entryway to a timeless unending with Christ so beautifully described as the shelter of His glorious presence, a place where believers “shall hunger no more, neither thirst anymore; the sun shall not strike them, nor any scorching heat. For the Lamb in the midst of the throne will be their shepherd, and he will guide them to springs of living water, and God will wipe away every tear from their eyes” (Revelation 7:16-17).
And by the way, this wonderful reality will occur among what Saint John called “a great multitude that no one could number” (v. 9). All believers in Christ will fill that multitude’s ranks. Michael is already there, along with all who’ve gone before us in the faith. I’ll be there one day. Someday my wife and children will be there. By faith in Christ, you’ll be there, too.
Until then, in a mortal sense, I think it’s gonna be a long, long time. But that’s okay. Time will end. But eternal life won’t. Knowing this, I can hear a song that prompts a glance toward the heavens and have a different longing as I do it, realizing that for every hour we’re apart from those who’ve died in the faith, there will be a limitless cadence of eternal hours together with them in our Savior’s presence. That same Savior, Jesus Christ, gives this to us because, in perhaps the simplest way, He knows the feeling. Believers are a part of His family. By His relationship to the Heavenly Father, He calls us His brothers and sisters (Mark 3:34-35, Romans 8:29, Philippians 2:8-11, Hebrews 2:11, 2 Corinthians 5:21). He loves us more than anything—enough to shed His blood—and He doesn’t want to be without us.
One last thing.
Don’t get me wrong. I don’t mean to make Death out to be no big deal. It is. That’s why, as I’ve said countless times before, I always give Death a capital “D.” Death is not our friend. It isn’t our helper. But also, it isn’t something we must fear because it isn’t our master. The real Master, Jesus, has declawed, defanged, and defeated it. That’s why Paul can recite rhetorically, “O death, where is your victory? O death, where is your sting?” (1 Corinthians 15:55).
Again, Christ loves us more than anything. Not even Death can keep Christ’s brothers and sisters from Him. Instead, Death must hand them over to the Lord every single time. That’s something worth pondering, no matter the sky’s demeanor.
Summer is nearly upon us. The weather is finally admitting as much. I give thanks to the Lord for this. Throughout the school year, the pace is much swifter around here, to be sure. Summertime allows more scheduling freedom, and as a result, things slow down a little. Of course, the calendar’s empty slots always fill up. There’s plenty to do. I can tell you that I’m already sufficiently booked into and through the first week of August. Still, as Michigan’s colder weather shrinks back into hiding for a few months, so also goes the guilt I might have for stopping to actually engage in something that has almost nothing to do with pastoring, something I might also enjoy—like figuring out how to lift my Jeep’s suspension an inch or two, or replacing the toilet in our downstairs bathroom, or putting a drop ceiling in our basement guest room.
One thing I do every summer is read. Of course, I read the scriptures. But I also pick away at classics. I’ve already decided on Jack London’s The Call of the Wild. That won’t take me long, so I’ll need something more. I decided to do something a little different. Those who know me best will know I’m keen on sci-fi/horror films. Although, I’ve never spent money on books from that genre. I decided to give the Rage War series by Tim Lebbon a try. It’s a three-volume series about the Yautja (the creatures from the Predator films) invading the earth, only to team up with the humans to fight against another unknown force unleashing xenomorphs (the creatures from the Alien films) across the galaxy. I likely wouldn’t have purchased these volumes if our school’s wonderful PTL hadn’t given me a gift card to Barnes and Noble. I blame them for this eagerly anticipated distraction.
I don’t expect these books to be anything but outlandishly fun, and I doubt I’ll discover anything worth quoting. Perhaps like me, you don’t like to mark up the pages of your books. I’ll usually bend the page’s corner if I find something worth revisiting. Plenty of books I own have these little bends. However, on occasion, I’ll underline something. Flipping through my edition of The Call of the Wild, on page 100, the following is underlined: “It was idle, he knew, to get between a fool and his folly….”
Thorton, a character well-versed in the Yukon’s ways, mulls this thought relative to Hal, an inexperienced and ignorantly vain character who has no idea how to care for, let alone drive, a dog sled team. Regardless of the context London has fashioned, the point is memorable, if not for its simplicity. Human beings are going to do what they want to do. Being the time of year for graduations, I’ve begun noticing this in the ever-increasing irreverence at commencement ceremonies. Ask the crowd to hold their applause, and they’ll clap anyway. Expect solemnity from the onlookers, and you’ll get airhorns and ear-piercing woot-woot screams. Moreover, people have the uncanny ability to be so prideful that they’ll do incredibly foolish things, even things that could ruin or destroy them. Perhaps more tragically, no matter how hard a person—a trusted friend, a sibling, a parent—might try to get between a person and self-destroying things, doing everything possible to coax them away from folly’s edge, unless they realize the nature of their self-centered predicament and accept the better direction, tragedy is all but guaranteed. They will fall. And it won’t be pretty.
I’ve noticed something else in my time as a professional church worker, this being my 29th year. The one trying to help often holds the most guilt, wishing more could have been done to prevent the disaster. A son, even after his mother’s tearful warnings, makes a life-altering mistake, and it’s Mom who cries herself to sleep, wondering where she went wrong. A daughter strays into an abusive relationship, and it’s Dad who grows visibly older with burdensome worry, wondering if he could’ve been a better, more affectionate example.
Erma Bombeck referred to this kind of grief-stricken guilt as the gift that keeps on giving.
Saint Paul said something a little different about it. He wrote, “For godly grief produces a repentance that leads to salvation without regret, whereas worldly grief produces death” (2 Corinthians 7:10). The word Paul uses twice for grief is λύπη. Essentially, it means mental turmoil. It’s a pain of the mind marked by agony and regret. As a father, I can assure you that parents are more than prone to this kind of grief. Close friends are, too.
Interestingly, in both instances, Paul takes care to modify the word. The first time, he couples it with “godly.” In the second instance, he attaches “worldly.” By doing this, he’s not saying that grief isn’t real or that it doesn’t hurt, but that there’s a distinct difference between the guilt-ridden heartache we endure by faith and the sorrow-laden regret borne according to human capacity. In short, godly grief has hope. It finds a footing in repentance and is met by God’s loving promises for a regretless future. The other has none of this. The other leads into the sinister depths of eternal sorrow and the end of all human hope, namely, Death.
If you were to visit the verse before verse 10, you’d see Paul commends godly grief, saying he’s glad for the harder moments that stir repentance. He’s not reveling in the pain, but he’s glad for what the pain produces.
There’s something going on here. If anything, a byproduct of godly grief is clarity. Saint Peter hinted at this in a way when he encouraged us to remember something. He wrote: “The Lord is not slow to fulfill his promise as some count slowness, but is patient toward you, not wishing that any should perish, but that all should reach repentance” (2 Peter 3:9).
When all human effort to help a loved one seems long spent and all hope appears lost, Peter brings us to something else. He reminds us that God’s timing rarely aligns with ours. God’s pace is His own. But no matter His stride, He’s dealing with us patiently. His desire for all human beings is to reach the uplands of repentance. What does this mean relative to what I’ve written so far? Well, let me think about that out loud for a second.
Firstly, I’d say we need to realize that we can’t live others’ lives for them. A mom cannot live her son’s life. Likewise, a dad cannot forever make his daughter’s choices for her. A friend does not control another friend’s will. The sooner we accept this, the better.
Secondly, Mother Teresa was right when she said, “We are not called to be successful, but faithful.” She didn’t come up with that on her own. The Bible taught her to say it (Luke 16:10-12; 2 Corinthians 5:7; Revelation 2:10; Matthew 10:22; and countless more). The point is that by the power of the Holy Spirit, we seek faithfulness to God in any given situation, even when we feel completely powerless to do or say anything of significance. Still, be faithful. Trust Him. Faith knows He’ll take even the most insignificant of one’s words, gestures, or whatever and put them to good use. He’s got you.
Thirdly, things might appear to go south no matter what we do. And when things don’t go as planned, there will be guilt. There will be grief. But let it be godly grief. Again, godly grief still hurts. This is only true because it’s honest. It’s self-examining. It wonders if it could’ve been more attentive, less critical, or whatever. That’s what desiring faithfulness often feels like. It wishes it could be more faithful. But amid its sadness, godly grief remembers something of God. It knows His forgiveness, the kind that covers regret. It also knows the game isn’t necessarily over. It knows that even though nothing we do seems to bring the results we want, we’re not in charge. God is, and He’s moving behind the scenes at His best, most perfect pace according to His steadfast love. Godly grief knows He’s listening to our prayers. It knows the kind of love driving Him aims at rescue—at working to instill repentance and faith.
That’s hope. That’s confidence in God’s love. God’s love dispels the gloom. There is no fear in that love (1 John 4:17-18). It knows that just as we don’t want to lose our loved ones to ungodliness leading to eternal separation in Death, neither does God.
And so, we continue praying while standing ready to act when necessary. This process may last a lifetime. We may never live to see anything change. Still, we know by faith that it could. Who knows for sure if it will? Only God. Either way, we can be at peace. We can continue to be faithful, not necessarily successful.
Like many of you, I have vacationing on the brain.
Memorial Day is meant to remember those who gave their lives in service to the country. Still, judging by the weekend’s typical worship attendance, it’ll be akin to a test run of the forthcoming summer’s getaway potential. In other words, it’s a practice vacation. It doesn’t offer much time to rest, but it gives a sense of what rest could be. And if not rest, then at least the liberty to spend a long weekend with friends and family—some we like and some we don’t—doing something…or nothing.
I just used the word liberty.
I’m not above reminding anyone why the rest they enjoy in America is possible. People died to provide it. Considering that Thomas Jefferson once called religious liberty “the most inalienable and sacred of all human rights,” I’m not above reminding folks to consider churchgoing as one of liberty’s best exercises. A far more critical death sits at its center—the death of God’s Son. His death won far more than freedom from earthly tyranny or foreign threats. His death stole you away from eternal condemnation and the power of Death. That’s certainly worth a day or two of any vacation.
At our Church Council meeting last week, our new Youth Board chairman, Jason, spoke about future opportunities for our youth to enjoy fellowship together and serve in the community. As he explained, I drifted back to my days as the youth leader, a time when we were heavily invested in international mission efforts, going to places like Russia and Lithuania. I share this because later that night, on the treadmill, I visited a travel website to check on airfare prices to Lithuania, figuring it might once again be a possibility. Of course, Russia seems like a stretch right now. Anyway, while ticket shopping, one of the side advertisements was scrolling quotations about vacationing. I don’t usually pay much attention to advertisements. The sayings caught my eye in this case, probably because the Thoma family is precisely 20 days away from our annual two-week getaway to Florida.
The first quotation I jotted down was from Robert Orben. He said, “A vacation is having nothing to do and all day to do it in.” Another from Hal Chadwicke offered, “A vacation is a sunburn at premium prices.” I also saw one by Susan Sontag. She wrote, “I haven’t been everywhere, but it’s on my list.” Finally, there was the following from Gustave Flaubert: “Travel makes one modest. You see what a tiny place you occupy in the world.”
I know who Robert Orben was. In fact, he died just this year. He was a comedy writer who later became a presidential speech writer. I only know this because he managed to do something I’d appreciate doing, which is speech writing for political candidates. Other than that, I’ve never been a fan. I don’t know who Hal Chadwicke is. I’ve never heard of him. I’ll probably look him up after typing this. Known or unknown, he said something insightful that was worth sharing. Susan Sontag was a leftist crazy. She did all she could to depict America as a villain. For example, she was the kind of person who could visit an orphanage in Africa built by Americans and figure out how to blame America for the local warlord’s murdering the children’s parents. I’m not a fan of Susan Sontag. Still, she wrote at least one thing worth sharing.
Gustave Flaubert’s observation resonated with me the most. He was a nineteenth-century French novelist. He wrote Madame Bovary. I’ve never read it. It’s a classic, so I probably should. I guess I’ve never been that interested, mainly because of its reputation for having a class-envy theme. Still, Flaubert’s words about travel are pinpointedly accurate. Stepping beyond the front door of our lives has a way of revealing the uniqueness of one’s place in the world.
Vacations are inherently good for this.
Relative to this ramble’s start, I think I’ve sorted out a few things. One lesson learned concerns my being completely disinterested in spending a Memorial Day weekend with any of the authors I mentioned. However, even though I might not be fond of particular people, situations, or tasks, I can garner something of value from almost anyone or anything if I’m paying attention. Even Saint Paul found value in the pagan poets. With that, no matter where you are or what you’re doing, pay attention to what’s happening around you, even when you’re doing absolutely nothing. You’re bound to discover something worthwhile. This leads me to something else.
I suppose vacations are designed to provide rest. But they’re also supposed to be rejuvenating. Rejuvenation isn’t necessarily a do-nothing event. It’s restorative. It’s a creative act. It’s also self-contemplative. It takes in information and applies it to the self. It has a heightened awareness, one that’s undistracted from the usual day-to-day bustle and capable of looking around at life for new ways of making one’s regular days healthier and, perhaps, more productive. I can promise you that’s one of the only reasons I try new things while on vacation. I rarely do nothing. But I rarely do something to say I’ve done it. I eat food I’ve never eaten or try activities I’ve never tried so that I can decide if I want to add them (if possible) to my life back home. I discover things about myself and my everyday routines as I do this. As Flaubert hinted, I’m reminded how small my corner of the world is compared to the rest of God’s beautiful creation. The older I get, the more aware of this process I become. And it really is a splendid process.
Now, I didn’t set out at the beginning to sound like some new-age therapist bent on meditative self-help techniques. Instead, I’m thinking about my upcoming vacation, realizing I’m going away to a place that’s not my home. I will return to the real world and its seemingly endless tasks.
I’m also thinking about what I read in Ecclesiastes 3 this morning. Chapter 3 is that memorable portion from King Solomon that talks about how there’s a time for everything under heaven. I noticed vacationing fits into what Solomon wrote.
Interestingly, after Solomon lists various seasons in life, some good and some bad, he appears to connect all of them to man’s general toiling—his day-to-day vocation. In verse 13, he summarizes that God wants man to take pleasure in his work. His phraseology implies that the toil and its fruits are God’s gifts to us, not simply a package of things we endure until retirement. They’re proof of God’s love.
In verse 22, the final sentence of the chapter, Solomon adds one more thing. He once again restates that man should rejoice in his work, but then he ends by asking the rhetorical question, “Who can bring him to see what will be after him?” I won’t dig too deeply into this question because I’ve already been long-winded. In light of everything Solomon has written, it sounds like he’s assuming a life of labor in gratefulness to God produces a job well done. A job well done benefits those who come after us.
Finally, reading Solomon’s concern for times of laughter and healing—and knowing they’re relative to our daily labors—I think one of the “vacation” takeaways is that we shouldn’t necessarily be thinking about our time off as an escape from work. Instead, we vacation for the sake of our vocation. In other words, we take time to rejuvenate—we grow and learn and take in new mental and physical resources—so that we can return to our daily labors better equipped for faithful laboring to the glory of God and the good of the neighbor.
Returning to the real world after vacation can be depressing for some. I get it. Still, I think Solomon is telling us there’s a way to take a little bit of it with you. My advice: pay attention. Ask yourself while away, “What can I bring back to my corner of the world that’ll make my vocation more of a joy in thankfulness to God and a blessing to my neighbor?”
Now, if I can only figure out how to fit Florida’s sunshine, a few palm trees, and a swimming pool into my suitcase. I’ll bet that would make everyone in Michigan happy. Florida can keep its sharks.
It has begun. Multiple times a day, the Thoma children announce how many days remain until the last day of school. I bet they’d be ready with the hours, minutes, and seconds if I asked any of them. I’m certainly not annoyed when they do this. I know why they do it. For youth, summer and freedom are synonyms. Besides, I did it, too. As a kid, I counted the days until my only schedule-consuming responsibilities would be jumping ramps on my bike, hunting crawdads in muddy creeks, playing army in the forest behind my best friend’s house, participating in socially recalibrating neighborhood scuffles, watching late-night scary movies, and just about anything else summer could conjure.
Thinking back to those days, even though I stayed up pretty late almost every night, I don’t really remember sleeping in the following day. I remember wanting to get as much from my summer as possible. And so, I’d hop out of bed no later than 8:00 or 9:00 a.m., throw on the cleanest clothes from my floor, have a bowl of cereal, and then fly out the back door to the rusty shed where I kept my bike. I’d throw up a dust trail speeding down our gravel driveway or go off-roading through our bumpy backyard, my bike clanking and rattling all the way. But whichever direction I went, the horizon’s possibilities were limitless.
Some of the summer’s possibilities were great. Others, not so much. I remember one summer hearing that my friend, Todd Smart, fell from the tree in his front yard and died. It was July of 1983. I was ten years old at the time. My dad told me the news. I certainly knew the tree. I’d climbed it, too. If I had to guess, I’d say it was at least twenty feet tall. Although, things seemed so much bigger when you were a kid. As the story goes, Todd had just about reached its peak when the branch he was standing on broke, and he fell to the ground, hitting branch after branch all the way down. A couple of days later, my friend, John, told me he’d heard Todd looked like a pinball bouncing off the bumpers as he fell. Oddly, John and I had that conversation about ten feet from the ground in a tree near my grandmother’s apartment.
It’s strange the things one remembers from childhood. Before telling me the news about Todd, I remember the look on my dad’s face. It was uniquely unordinary. I knew I was going to hear something I didn’t expect. I remember the tree near my grandmother’s apartment. I remember which branches a kid needed to grapple with to climb it. I remember my friend John’s home phone number. I just typed it into Google. A woman with an extraordinary name—Drewcylla—appears to own it now.
Whether winter, spring, summer, or fall, each season holds more across its horizon’s boundary than what’s right in front of us at any given moment. What we experience in those lands will be with us well into the future—well into forthcoming seasons. Some things we’ll remember in detail. Other parts we’ll forget. Some we’ll observe from this side of life and realize how we didn’t fully comprehend the event’s particulars because of our immaturity at the time. Remember, my friend died climbing a tree, and a few days later, another friend and I discussed the tragedy while climbing a tree. I’m well past ten years old, and I only recognized the irony just now as I typed this. Still, the Christopher Thoma tapping on this keyboard this morning is the same one who dangled from that tree near Valleyview Heights Apartments in Danville, Illinois, forty years ago. And yet, I’m not the same person. I’m entirely different after meeting each season’s moments. That’s life. That’s development. That’s growth. And it’s normal.
Seasonally speaking, I’m absolutely certain that growing up in the 1970s and 80s barely compares to childhood today. For one, I don’t remember any of my classmates identifying as cats. (Honestly, the neighborhood scuffles I mentioned before would’ve fixed that weirdness in a hurry.) I don’t remember any of my teachers encouraging me to explore my gender identity or encouraging anyone I knew to consider gender reassignment surgery. The 70s and 80s could get crazy, but not this kind of crazy. I certainly don’t recall any of my teachers attempting one of the worst kinds of crazy: to undermine my Christian faith or divide me from my parents. For example, my son, Harrison, came to me this past week to tell me that his AP US History teacher at Linden High School overheard him talking to a friend about a scene from the Monty Python film “The Life of Brian.” Harrison hasn’t seen the movie, but I have shown him a few of its more hilarious scenes. The conversation unfolded something like this:
“Isn’t your dad a priest or something?”
“He’s a Lutheran pastor,” Harrison answered.
“He actually let you watch that movie?” the teacher pressed.
“No, I haven’t seen it. I’ve only seen a few scenes. They don’t really want me watching it.”
“Of course not,” the instructor replied. “He probably doesn’t want you watching it because it’ll challenge what he’s taught you to believe and teach you another way to look at the Christian religion.”
Nice try. But most certainly a hit and a miss. Jennifer and I haven’t kept the movie from Harrison because we’re his cruel overlords. Thankfully, he knows this. And thankfully, he talks to us openly about things like this. For the record, Mr. History Teacher, his mother and I don’t want him to watch the movie because it employs a few choice words we’d prefer for him to avoid and has full frontal male and female nudity. Other than that, it’s hilarious. And if anything, the “I want to be called Loretta” scene makes you and your dreadfully woke automaton colleagues look imbecilic by comparison.
Right now, even as Harrison is sixteen, he’s developing. It’s our job to help him along. We do this by ensuring he knows we love him more than anything, second only to Christ. When Harrison’s beyond this season of our responsibility, we’ll be happy to let him take the helm. That’s how it works. He’s already proving his ability to make his way without us. He’s already showing that he’s seeing and enjoying the world in ways far different than what the world would prefer. I’ll come back to this in a second.
In the meantime, as sure as I am of the vast differences between the 1970s/80s and today, I’m just as confident that the nature of humanity hasn’t changed all that much. Kids are developing—spiritually, socially, physically, and psychologically. What happens right now—how we talk to them, what we allow to happen to them, whom we allow in their circles, whom we allow to teach or influence them—all these things might seem irrelevant in the moment. And yet, like it or not, every one of the atom-sized occurrences relevant to each situation is affecting them. Twenty years, thirty years, forty years from now, each situation’s truest impact will be remembered and likely demonstrated. As I already said, that’s life. That’s development. That’s growth. And it’s normal.
But know this: The Lord’s normal differs from the world’s normal. And so, with Christ as one’s north star, “normal life” itself is affected. Both the good and bad seasons meet first with the One who promises to go before us, pledging to never leave nor forsake those who are His own (Deuteronomy 31:8). With that, all things meet the child quite differently. In any given moment, recognizable or not, this Gospel will be doing what our faithful God says it’ll do: cultivating joy, resilience, and a necessary endurance that will only strengthen as one matures toward a final breath and then enters eternal life (Proverbs 22:6; Deuteronomy 6:7; Isaiah 54:13; Jeremiah 29:11; Matthew 19:4; 2 Timothy 3:14-17; and the like). As parents, we bear no insignificant role in this exchange. God included us in His baptismal mandate, insisting that we teach our little ones the Christian faith and support them in it (Matthew 28:19-20).
I suppose one reason I’m probably thinking about these things leads back to where I began. We’re coming to the end of the school year. My kids are counting down. As I look around at the children in this congregation’s school, I’ll bet they are, too. Even so, I’m hopeful for their forthcoming summers. I can be. For any of our good or bad seasons (which every community experiences), each child and his or her family has enjoyed the opportunity to meet first with the Gospel of our faithful Savior. Myriads of parents and children in countless schools worldwide don’t enjoy that. In our little corner, on this fractional portion of each of our students’ developing timelines, they do—and in abundance. Forty years from now, when I’m ninety—if I’m still alive—I expect to hear retellings of the memories associated with these things. I’m sure it’ll make me smile then, just as it does right now.
What book are you reading right now? Maybe you’re not much of a reader. If so, which TV show currently has your attention? I don’t watch much TV. I read far more than I watch. When it comes to people, I do both. I watch, and I read.
I suppose, hypocritically, I don’t like being watched. Unfortunately for me, it happens a lot. I wear a clerical collar pretty much everywhere I go. Because far too many clergymen have ditched the traditional pastoral garb, trading it for whatever is more acceptable to the secular culture at the time, for many onlookers, a guy dressed in priestly duds is little more than a traveling relic. He’s weird and out of place. Spend five minutes in Walmart with me. You’ll see. Ask Jennifer. Ask my kids. They’ll tell you, too.
I hope she doesn’t mind me sharing it, but I think Jennifer has far too much fun with the staring. For example, we’ll be walking near to one another in a store, not necessarily close enough for people to assume we’re associated. She’ll see someone watching me, and immediately she’ll come over and take my hand. If she’s feeling somewhat rambunctious, she may even give me an affectionate kiss on the cheek as she leads me past the stunned spectator like a prized bull. I don’t use “prize” as though I’m exceptional. I mean “prize” in the sense that she’s exceptional. In other words, experience continually proves that anyone wearing clerical attire must be a Roman Catholic priest. When an onlooker sees Jennifer attending to me tenderly, I’m guessing they think that she must be exceptionally divine among all women, having managed to rope a man sworn to celibacy.
Once again proving the “Roman Catholic priest” theory, I took Evelyn to the dentist on Tuesday. Standing together at the receptionist’s desk before leaving, a high school girl watched us closely. As we departed, I heard her say to the gentleman beside her, whom I assumed was her father, “I didn’t think priests could marry and have kids.” Her dad replied, “The churches are way different now.”
He’s not wrong. Many churches are different now. I offered a subtle hint before as to how this is true. The hint: they’re becoming indistinguishable from the secular world. Regardless of your agreement, this is an important point. As people watch, they are also reading, or perhaps better said, interpreting. This interpretation reminds me of another recent incident. When I told my family about it at dinner, they were astonished.
Two weeks ago, I’d just left the self-checkout area at the Meijer in Hartland and was making my way to the exit doors. About fifty feet from full escape to the parking lot, a woman reached out and grabbed my arm as I walked by. Can you believe it? She actually took hold of my arm to stop me.
“What church are you from?” the bold woman asked, almost gruffly.
Stunned by her aggressive approach, I’m surprised I replied relatively peacefully, “I’m from a Lutheran church just down the street.” After that, she did all the talking. And her reason for stopping me, that is, what did her words directly imply? Assuming the conservative nature of my Christianity by looking at me, she needed me to know there was nothing special about my church compared to hers. In her words, all faiths worship the same God and lead to the same place. Taking a hint from both her demeanor and her “Love is Love” shirt, I interpreted her. The result: I assumed the nature of her church and the minimal likelihood that I’d convince her of its dreadful heresies. With that, I said absolutely nothing. I mean that. I did what one of my former seminary professors would do. He would meet illogically incoherent commentary with an uncomfortable smirking stare.
When the woman finished with her foolishness, the awkward nature of my grinning silence was enough for her to say, “Well, okay, thanks for chatting, and have a great day,” or something to that effect. I can’t recall for sure. The end of her final sentence met the back of my head.
Now, for all the seasoned people-watchers reading this note, had you watched this scenario unfold, you would have accurately interpreted the tenor of my response without me having to explain it. People-watchers are highly attuned to visual cues, making them adept conversationalists and skillful navigators of humanity. In other words, when a person learns to see what someone is likely thinking, the communication game changes. It elevates to another sphere.
Alfred Hitchcock once said something about how the dialogue in his films was just sound among sounds. For him, the real story was told through the characters’ movements, facial expressions, and the like. This is probably why he famously said, “If it’s a good movie, the sound could go off, and the audience would still have a perfectly clear idea of what was going on.”
How might this principle apply to so many churches embracing a seemingly secular trajectory? What is the “perfectly clear idea of what’s going on” the unchurched onlooker will likely have?
Perhaps from another perspective, I wonder if that’s part of what Jesus meant by His words, “You are the light of the world…. In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father who is in heaven” (Matthew 5:14, 16). He knew the world was watching. Saint Paul certainly knew the same. For example, in Colossians 4:5-6 he calls for behavioral distinctions before unbelievers. He urges the same in Philippians 1:27, insisting on observable behavior unique to the Gospel.
Don’t think for one second that I believe Jesus and His great apostle, Paul, are saying that words don’t matter. They do. The power for faith leading to salvation is given by way of the Word of the Gospel (Romans 1:16). However, feel free to accuse me of believing that the Word produces communicative behaviors that both carry and display it. These behaviors are distinct from the world. How do I know? The flesh gives birth to flesh while the Spirit gives birth to spirit (John 3:6). This is Christian faith. It produces visual cues, ones that, whether you’re speaking or not, transmit to others who you are in Christ and what you think is true and untrue about Him. If your church believes the LGBTQ, Inc.’s mantra that love is love—which is to say, homosexuality is perfectly acceptable before God, you’ll demonstrate it. That’s how it works.
By the way, silence is a demonstrative behavior, too. No matter the situation, it communicates. My cold silence that day in Meijer told the woman in unmistakable terms what I thought of her goofy theological impositions. On the other hand, how does the world interpret a Christian’s passive silence relative to abortion, gender confusion, and so many more gross atrocities happening in our world?
As a pastor, I know what God thinks of his pastors’ who prefer to keep a safe distance from their voices: “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” (Hosea 4:4,6).
The world is watching and learning what we believe. Our worship—the depth of its substance—demonstrates. Christian silence in the face of ungodliness does, too.
I recently listened to a new album from a band I’d been introduced to a few years ago. One particular song told the tragic story of a young girl stuck in a life of prostitution and drugs, leading to her eventual death. Along the way, the singer blamed the absent father, reminding the listener that it wasn’t the girl’s fault he wasn’t around to guide her—to teach her right from wrong, protect her, and love her like the precious gift that she was. The song ended. Another of the same band’s songs started. The new song spoke of carefree sex, and it did so in an encouraging way. The singer—a man and father—referred to himself as enjoying the activity with multiple people from various walks of life and in countless places.
Do you get it? If not, how about this?
I don’t watch much TV. But I happened to plop down in my usual chair while one of my kids watched an episode of “Castle.” It’s a typical cop show with a twist. The main character, Richard Castle, is a famous author who collaborates with a hard-nosed detective, Kate Beckett, to solve murder cases. As the seasons unfold, the handsome Castle and the beautiful Beckett become an item. Eventually, she moves in with him, and of course, the two begin engaging in everything you’d expect from such a situation.
I happened to sit in my chair during an episode in which Castle’s teenage daughter, Molly, had met and started dating a young boy. Of course, the episode portrayed Castle as a bumbling father wrestling with how nosey he should be with the relationship, getting all his advice from Beckett. More than once, Castle spoke aloud about how he didn’t want Molly to do anything she shouldn’t do. In other words, he didn’t want her to have premarital sex.
Again, do you get it? Not yet? Well, how about this one?
I’d gotten home late, and as is my custom, no matter the time, I took to the treadmill. Just as I pressed the start button, my cell phone rang. I usually try to avoid taking calls at such a late hour, especially when the person isn’t a member of my congregation—which this caller wasn’t. Still, I’d failed to return the person’s call earlier in the day, so I owed the caller a moment of my time. The heart of the caller’s concern was essentially this: “How do I get my sexually confused child to understand the importance of living biblically?” My first inquiry was, “Where’s your home church, and how often do you attend?” The person couldn’t claim a home church. When pressed for history, the caller admitted to barely a handful of visits to church over the years.
Do you get it? I sure do. In fact, after experiencing the series of comparative examples I described, I understand what the American poet, Amy Lowell, meant when she wrote, “Youth condemns; maturity condones.” She indicated that we often hold different standards for our children than we do for ourselves—double standards that prove our iniquitous nature. In other words, we don’t want promiscuity for our children even as we might practice it. The point: If you don’t want your child to do something, then don’t do it yourself. When you do it, you condone it.
Don’t use swear words if you want your child to avoid and condemn swearing. If you’re going to be crass, they’ll be crass, too. If you smoke weed, it’s likely they will, too. If you act abusively toward others, they will, too. If you gossip about others, it’s expected they will, too. If going to church means very little to you, it’ll also mean very little to them.
The premise really isn’t that hard to understand. In a way, I made the point in a brief social media post I wrote years ago. In fact, I pinned it to the top of my “Rev. Christopher Thoma” Facebook page. I wrote:
Go to church. And take your children. Yes, yes, I know that, in general, children are not very good at listening or sitting still, and this can make worship very challenging. Still, I say go to church—and take your kids—because, for the record, there is something that children do magnificently. They imitate adults.
The Scriptures certainly weigh in on the discussion. Solomon’s child-rearing advice in Proverbs 22:6 lends substance to it. Hebrews 12:11 points out that while it can be challenging for parents to hold the line for godliness, in the end, doing so produces immeasurable blessings for both the parents and children. In 1 Corinthians 15:33, Saint Paul reminds his readers that bad associations (ὁμιλίαι κακαί) result in corrupt habits (φθείρουσιν ἤθη). The word he uses for “habits” is from the root word “ethos.” A person’s ethos is the storehouse of his core beliefs. It supplies his character, which is demonstrated through action. Paul’s point is that a poisoned ethos will produce poisoned behavior. That’s how it works. And lest you doubt him, Paul begins this admonition by urging, “Do not be deceived.” In other words, don’t fool yourself into thinking it could ever be otherwise.
These things said, it’s unfortunate how adults are so often the “bad associations” Paul is describing—the hypocrites we so often accuse others of being. The Scriptures are pretty clear that how a person lives in front of others influences them (Proverbs 12:26, 13:20, Matthew 5:13-16, and others). It’s no secret that parental behavior shapes children. The way a parent lives in front of little ones will impact them, eventually forming how they live in front of their children—good or bad—and so on.
Do what you can to be mindful of this. And when you fail to demonstrate godliness for your children, the best advice? Confess your failing. Do it openly. What does a child learn from a hypocritically impenitent person? They learn to reject Christ. What do they learn from a penitent one? They learn to live within the better sphere of Christ’s mercy, holding fast to His grace.
But there’s another practical benefit to this, which helps make families even stronger, especially when the parents feel like they have no authority to lead the child because they’re guilty of some of the same harmful behaviors they’re trying to prevent.
For example, parents who lived together before marriage instructing their child to avoid doing the same thing presents an apparent contradiction that naturally negates their authority to steer the child in this circumstance. But if the parents admit that what they did was counter to God’s design—that they’ve repented, been forgiven, and are glad to be living in that grace—their parental authority is restored. The child cannot say, “Well, you did it, so why can’t I?”
“Yes, we did,” will be the parents’ answer. “We’ve confessed to this. God has forgiven us fully. Having been lifted from this self-defeating behavior, it’s our job as parents to help you avoid it altogether. We do this because we love our Lord, and because we love you.”
This is the way of things in a Christian family. We labor to help keep ourselves and each other fixed firmly to Christ. Living this way, neither the family’s victories nor defeats can crush it because every situation becomes an opportunity to demonstrate the Gospel of forgiveness. And it’s this same Gospel that, by the strength of the Holy Spirit, stirs an equally powerful desire to demonstrate faithfulness.
I’ve said it before, and I’ll repeat it: when I get to heaven, after reconnecting with my brother, Michael, I want to meet the disciple, Thomas. The people here at Our Savior in Hartland know I think that of all the apostles, he seems to get a bad rap. That being true, there are some things I want to ask him.
Before actually asking any questions, I’d probably commend him first. After the Lord’s resurrection, he really was the only one demanding the evidence the Lord had already promised would be given (Matthew 16:21). In other words, he demanded to see a living Savior who’d recently been crucified. Once again, that’s what Jesus said on multiple occasions they’d see—a formerly dead Jesus now very much alive, wounds and all (Luke 9:22, 24:7; Matthew 17:9,23; 20:19, 26:32; John 10:17, 20:9). Even the angel at the tomb affirmed this, telling the women that Jesus had gone ahead of them into Galilee and that they’d see Him just as He said they would (Matthew 28:7).
Knowing this to be an essential part of the Lord’s regular teaching to His disciples, I suppose I’d ask Thomas what he was thinking when he refused to accept the other disciples’ message. Was he actually doubting, or was he simply unwilling to accept anything other than Jesus’ own words? Of course, Jesus somewhat answers the question when He eventually visits with Thomas in the upper room after the resurrection. It’s there He encourages him, “Put your finger here, and see my hands; and put out your hand, and place it in my side. Do not disbelieve, but believe” (John 20:27).
“Do not disbelieve….”
There’s something in that phrase. In Greek, the Lord’s words are, “μὴ γίνου ἄπιστος”—do not right now become unbelieving. This is to say, “You’re heading in that direction. Don’t go any further.” Personally, that’s all the wiggle room I need for saying Thomas was not underwater in doubt. Moreover, he certainly doesn’t deserve the unfortunate (and absolutist) title “Doubting Thomas.” He had faith. It was just wobbly.
A scene like this isn’t unfamiliar to any of us. Jesus spoke similarly to the terrified disciples during the storm on the sea in Matthew 8:26. He said, “Why are you afraid, O you of little faith?” Again, His words are precise. In Greek, He calls the disciples “ὀλιγόπιστοι”—little faiths. Each of the disciples had faith. But their faiths were just beginning to sprout. They were little. How much faith does one need to be saved? Jesus has already said multiple times that whoever believes will be saved. In these scenarios, perhaps one of the lessons we learn is that focusing on quantity has the potential to be distracting. Again, did they have it or not? Yes, they did. They likely wouldn’t have slipped and slid across the boat to wake the sleeping Jesus for rescue if they didn’t. But they did go to Him. They went to the One they somehow knew could save them. The same goes for Thomas. For whatever human reasons may have been involved, he was back among the disciples (even though it didn’t make much sense to be there), fiercely demanding what Jesus had already promised. These are clues. Jacob did a similar thing in Genesis 32:22-32. He wrestled with God, demanding a blessing before he’d let God go. The Canaanite woman in Matthew 15:21-28 did, too. She nagged and pestered until the seemingly cold Jesus finally relented in the test. These people had faith. Large or small, they were moved to hold God to His promises.
In a way, by demanding the signs, Thomas was doing the same. But still, it goes deeper.
I think faith was more than stirring in Thomas because, by his words and actions, he forced out into the open the Church’s confession that Jesus had risen in bodily form. In other words, for Thomas, it would be one or the other. Jesus was either fully dead in the body or fully alive in the body. As He couldn’t be both, He also couldn’t land in between. He couldn’t be a ghost. He couldn’t have risen only in a spiritual sense. That’s not what Jesus promised. The resurrection would be physical.
Having nowhere near the disciples’ specificity concerning the resurrection, even the Pharisees understood this. For the record, the Lord never once said in the Pharisees’ presence that He’d die and rise again in the flesh. But He did say, “Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up” (John 2:19). This was to affirm that they’d kill Him, and yet, He would rise from death three days later. After the Lord’s burial, the Pharisees and Teachers of the Law revealed they knew what He meant. They demanded that Pontius Pilate place guards at the tomb, saying, “Sir, we remember how that impostor said, while he was still alive, ‘After three days I will rise.’ Therefore, order the tomb to be made secure until the third day, lest his disciples go and steal him away and tell the people, ‘He has risen from the dead,’ and the last fraud will be worse than the first” (Matthew 27:63-64). Why a guard? Again, to stop a bodily resurrection. Genuine or fraudulent, that would exist at the heart of the Christian Gospel.
Even the Lord’s enemies knew it could only be one or the other.
So, what’s the difference between Thomas and the Lord’s enemies? Faith. Jesus kept His promise and visited Thomas. The disciple declared, “My Lord and my God!” (John 20:28). Even after countless eyewitness accounts, the Lord’s enemies denied Him, doing all they could to kill the message and the messengers. That’s hardened unbelief. That’s real doubt.
Today the Church retells the Lord’s resurrection, and as it does, it includes Thomas’ important role. As you listen, go easy on him. Remember, he’s a believer like you and me. Times get tough. Things get confusing. We find ourselves calling out things like, “Why are you allowing this to happen?! How can you claim to love me?!” Still, we’re calling out, right? And to whom? The only One who can hear and save us. With that, follow Thomas’ lead. Look for the wounds of Christ. Look to the cross. See the Lord’s passionate display. Look there and, as the Lord said, do not right now become unbelieving. Be empowered to go no further in that direction. And then remember, He actually had you in mind when He said to Thomas, “Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed” (John 20:29).
That’s you He’s talking about. That’s me, too. We were on His mind. And He called us blessed. His blessed ones are His believers. Big or little faith, believers go to the One with the gifts that strengthen faith. That One is Jesus.
We offer plenty of cheerful statements at various times and for multiple reasons. “Happy birthday” is one. We say that year after year as we recognize the passage of another twelve months in a person’s life. “Congratulations” is another. We’ll use that word for many reasons, never just one thing. We’ll offer it if a person lands a new job, gets engaged, wins at bingo, or any other significant or insignificant occasion.
But then there’s, “Alleluia, Christ is risen!” No other declarative assertion in history compares, and only one event can claim it.
Jesus of Nazareth, the One mocked and physically abused into gross malfiguration, and then spiked to a cross until His body could take no more, He met with the last enemy, Death (1 Corinthians 15:26). And yet, He is beautifully, brilliantly, wonderfully alive! “He has risen,” the angel told the women visiting His tomb, “he is not here. See the place where they laid him” (Mark 16:6).
It’s likely they looked. But they didn’t need to. They already knew the scene well—the terribly dreary place palled by Death’s sights, sounds, and smells. They were sitting across from the tomb’s entrance watching Nicodemus and Joseph of Arimathea take the Lord’s limp body—battered, hemorrhaging, and likely beginning to stiffen—and wrap it in a linen shroud and place it inside (Luke 23:55). The women saw the Lord’s end—His brutally gruesome end. How could anyone survive such a thing?
They don’t survive it. No one does. Even in Jesus’ case, Death came, bit down hard, and then carried Him away.
At least, Death thought it had a hold on Him.
To call out, “Alleluia, Christ is risen!” is to know that at one particular moment on the timeline, somewhere out of sight, and sometime between Good Friday and Easter Sunday, a cosmic encounter ensued. Death’s trophy opened His eyes and took back His own life (John 10:18). Having never lost His divine authority over all things but only hidden it, He enacted His ambush. He pushed apart Death’s jaws, and in between its now fully realized predicament noted by terrified whimpers, took to His feet. And in the next few moments, as His body was restored, keeping only the scars from the nails and spear (for our sake), He leaned into Death and made it His trophy.
Jesus accomplished and forever sealed the death of eternal Death.
Calling out “Alleluia, Christ is risen!” is so much more than “Happy birthday” or “Congratulations” ever will be. It’s a phrase that genuinely meets with every single moment of life—from one’s birth to one’s final breath. Easter, a singular event, celebrates the defanging and ridding of humanity’s last enemy, the one residing at the center of all human fear: Death. Death has forever lost its power. There is no longer any reason for hopeless concern in this life, no matter how challenging life may be or what the devil or the world might bring our way. Jesus defeated such concern’s master. All who believe this—those who cling by faith to Jesus and His sacrifice on the cross—receive the merits of the same conquering Christ.
And what are these merits?
The forgiveness of sins. And, of course, where there is the forgiveness of sins, there is also life—eternal life—and salvation (John 3:16-17 and 6:40, Hebrews 10:10, 1 Peter 2:24, Matthew 26:28, 1 John 1:7, and so many others).
Indeed, alleluia, Christ is risen! May God continue to bless you by the power of the Holy Spirit for faith in Jesus. May He keep you enveloped by Easter Day throughout every moment of every day.
Cruciform Stuff 