For Dust You Are

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The imposition of ashes on Ash Wednesday is accompanied by the admonition to “remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

It has already begun—the seasonal bemoaning of Ash Wednesday. As always, some call it and its ceremony—the imposition of ashes—a liturgical innovation, as if the Church had just started employing the practice last week. Since similar liturgies for the “Day of Ashes” can be found on the scene as early as the eighth century, the Gregorian Sacramentary being one particular source, it’s hardly an innovation. What’s more, when one discovers Early Church Fathers casually prescribing ashes as a sign of repentance—as though such prescriptions were normal—it’s likely the ceremonies themselves can be found among the first Christians.

Still, when this escape hatch won’t open, the next angle is the apparent counterintuition of Matthew 6:1-6, 16-21, which, so strangely, is the appointed Gospel reading for Ash Wednesday. I say “strangely” because it’s a reading that appears to discourage Christian pieties observable to others. Ash Wednesday, if it’s done right, certainly isn’t discreet. It smears an ashen cross right in the middle of its participants’ foreheads. That must be what Jesus means in the text.

I guess what I can’t figure out is if the critics truly believe the rites and ceremonies of Ash Wednesday are bad practices. Maybe it’s as simple as particular churches having never done it before. Perhaps that’s true because they simply strayed away over time. Or perhaps they exchanged ancient liturgies and their aesthetics for things deemed more modern. I mean, the phrase “historic rites and ceremonies” just sounds so primitive—as though we Christians see ourselves as distinct from the surrounding world, as having our own culture and vernacular. Besides, ashes are not easily scrubbed clean from coffee cups and stadium seating cushions.

Or perhaps instead, somewhere deep down inside, there’s an exceptional fearfulness of the event’s deeper stare into the human soul—a gaze that’s far heavier, far more personal, than so many other pious practices they already employ the rest of the year. Kneeling is a Christian posture that demonstrates, among other things, the distinction between the Creator and the creature. We kneel in humility because God is great, and we are not. Kneeling, and then smearing ashes on one’s face, takes that posture into much deeper strata. It is far more than a juxtaposition. It makes visible what the one kneeling is owed. But before I go there, let’s stay with Matthew 6.

I should ask, do you volunteer at a soup kitchen? Well, apparently, Matthew 6:3 says you should only give in that way if you can sneak in and out without being seen. If not, do not do it. How about making the sign of the cross, folding your hands, and praying before eating your meal at a public restaurant? It sure seems that Matthew 6:6 prohibits such things, reserving such behaviors for one’s closet.

I suppose I could go on. In fact, I will. All of chapters five through seven in Matthew’s Gospel comprise Jesus’ infamous “Sermon on the Mount.” Remember, a reader (or listener) doesn’t arrive at Matthew 6’s content without first traveling through Matthew 5, which includes verses 13-16, a text encouraging the public demonstration of one’s Christian faith through word and deed, all to steer onlookers to the one true God who can save them.

But if I trust the wisdom of the Ash Wednesday nay-sayers concerning Matthew 6, it sure seems as though chapters five and six are in conflict. That is unless the Lord’s words in Matthew 6 mean something else entirely—words showing the distinction between genuine faith’s expression and works-righteousness leading to damning hypocrisy.

Honestly, I think if the Ash Wednesday critics dug a little deeper into the Lord’s words in Matthew 6, they’d marvel at how such a seemingly contradictory reading could be chosen for such a day, especially since, at first glance, it does appear to swim against Ash Wednesday’s thrust. Moreover, they might even see how such a reading, adorned by Ash Wednesday’s penitential shadows, leans into the very first reading Christians will hear four days later. Genesis 3:1-21 is the Old Testament reading appointed for the First Sunday in Lent. There, believers will hear the fateful words so stunningly embodied by Ash Wednesday’s instinctive momentum. Because of Sin’s terrible grip, we are reminded that each of us will “return to the ground, for out of it you were taken; for you are dust, and to dust you shall return” (Genesis 3:19). Forward from that moment in history, dust and ashes would be stark reminders of Death’s wage, first earned in the Garden in the beginning.

The thing is, if you somehow miss that essential part of Christianity’s teaching throughout the rest of the year, Ash Wednesday just won’t allow it. You can’t leave its classroom without its message painted on your face.

It’s a quick guess, but if I remember correctly, there were about 2,000 years between Adam and Abraham. Of course, if I’m wrong, I’m sure someone will correct me. But whatever the time frame, long after Eden’s events, Abraham approached God with a humble awareness of what he truly deserved: Death. How do I know? Because in Genesis 18, Abraham called himself “dust and ashes” (v. 27). In other words, God’s words to Adam were so piercing they could not be shaken loose by the believers who came after him. Dust and ashes had become a visible reminder of what awaited everyone. Abraham knew his mortal fate relative to the initial curse announced in Eden, and he knew it was not only inevitable but also world-encompassing. Others throughout the Bible’s pages knew and spoke similarly. Job is one (Job 30:19). Solomon is another (Ecclesiastes 3:20). In fact, Solomon quotes Genesis 3:19 almost word for word. In Matthew 11:21, Jesus commends by example the imposition of ashes as relative to repentance. How could He not? Again, His faithful prophets did. Joel called for it (Joel 2:12-18). Jeremiah did, too (Jeremiah 25:34). Jonah saw Nineveh’s king implore his entire kingdom to do it as a sign of sorrow (Jonah 3:6).

In every instance, the ashes marked humanity’s bondage to Sin coupled with sorrow and the admitted need for rescue from Death—the need for God’s mercy. That was at the heart of Abraham’s petition. He approached God, first admitting his ashen worthlessness. But he dared to make a request at all because he knew God to be merciful. That’s what he was pleading—to spare Sodom from absolute annihilation if a handful of righteous could still be found there. And because Abraham was right about God, the Lord promised to be merciful. Unfortunately, Sodom proved its inevitable fate in destruction.

I don’t want to ramble on too long. Suffice it to say that Ash Wednesday is not an event swallowed by doom and gloom. It’s also not something born from and marked by hypocritical self-righteousness. Instead, it’s carried along by hope, not in the self but in Jesus. It divides Law and Gospel in the most extreme ways. We’re marked in ash—marked for Death. But that mark is in the shape of a cross. We are not left without help, without rescue. We’re told God acted. Jesus is the promise’s fulfillment given to Adam in Genesis 3, just four verses before God described Sin’s unfortunate consequences. Adam didn’t meet the bad news without having first been awash in the good news, the Gospel. He met the consequences equipped with a divine promise. Ash Wednesday demonstrates this, and it does so viscerally. Its entire message is that Christ bore the deathly burden of dust and ashes. He went to war with Death and its terrible powers and won. “The last enemy to be destroyed is death” (1 Corinthians 15:26), Paul said. And just as Ash Wednesday doesn’t stop at Death’s identification but instead carries its participants to the Gospel, so does Paul continue, “Thanks be to God, who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ” (1 Corinthians 15:57).

I suppose if pastors want to forgo Ash Wednesday, withholding the imposition of ashes from their people—and with it, the timeless benefits of such Law and Gospel piety demonstrated throughout biblical history—they’re free to do so. The practice is not mandated among the churches. Here at Our Savior in Hartland, we intend to stay the course, just as we’ve done for the past 68 years. In fact, there will be a brief “Imposition of Ashes” service for all the school children (and anyone else who wants to attend) on Wednesday morning at 8:10 a.m. After that, I’ll get into my car and take Word and Sacrament and the ashes to any of the shut-ins who’d desire them. Later that same night, at 7:00 p.m., the congregation will gather for the Ash Wednesday Divine Service.

The imposition of ashes will be more than accessible here at Our Savior.

That being said, as the Christians depart any or all of these services, the critics can feel free to think of us however they’d like. Although, we’ll be too busy wandering around our lives silently proclaiming that Christian piety still exists in this world. In other words, yes, there are still people in this world who believe they are filthy sinners in need of rescue—and that rescue was won by the Son of God on a cross. And as with any silent demonstration of genuine Christian devotion, maybe, just maybe, it will become something else.

“Hey, you have some dirt on your face.”

“Oh, I forgot about that. It’s not dirt. It’s ash. Let me tell you why it’s there.”

Momentum

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It’s been a busy week around here. Much has happened.

Henry David Thoreau said, “Success usually comes to those who are too busy to be looking for it.” That sounds nice. And perhaps it’s true. Still, it’s a gamble. Discovering oneself overcome by busyness, both reflection and recalibration are probably needed. Socrates knew as much, which is why he mused, “Beware the barrenness of a busy life.” In other words, just because you’re busy doesn’t mean you’re doing anything genuinely worthwhile or productive.

My wife, Jennifer, has been treating Madeline and Evelyn to episodes of “I Love Lucy.” I’ve missed out. Why? Because I’ve been too busy. It’s likely Lucille Ball would understand my reason. She allegedly said, “If you want something done, ask a busy person to do it. The more things you do, the more you can do.” She was describing momentum. Right now, my studies require incredible momentum, the kind that must be established and maintained. I’m capable of multitasking, and yet, I’ve noticed that if I slow down, get distracted, or become busy with something other than the reading and writing at hand, I get frustrated and produce less in almost every task across the board. For the record, I wrote a little more than seventy single-space pages of material this past week. That number doesn’t include two sermons, an editorial, or even this eNews, for that matter.

In your way, it’s likely you know what I’m describing. When you’re on a roll, things come more easily. Yardwork, remodeling, paperwork, you name it. Pace is important. It’s getting into the rhythm that’s hardest. For example, it’s no secret I despise exercising. If slamming my head in a door and walking on a treadmill both produced the same health results, I’d choose the door-slamming. But since I’m pretty sure head trauma burns far fewer calories than walking, the treadmill it must be. Even so, making my way to the treadmill is like walking the Green Mile. And once I get to the dreadful torture device, the sixty seconds it takes to put on my walking shoes, climb aboard, and then press the start button is nothing short of an Olympic-sized chore.

But once I get going—once momentum is built and I meet a reasonable stride—an hour on the treadmill seems like nothing. In fact, I discover I’m energized enough for a quick go at pushups, sit-ups, and planks. In other words, I find the strength for other things, not to mention my body feels better, and because I didn’t choose the head-slamming method, my skull is unbruised and pain-free.

I suppose one reason I’m sharing these rambling thoughts this morning is that we’re at the edge of Lent. Being more or less literarily exhausted by this past week, I’ll keep this shorter than usual, offering two things to consider.

Firstly, thinking Christologically and devotionally, Lent is a penitential time—a time for reflection, fasting, and spiritual recalibration. Its solemn color—the deepest violet—is a clue to this. Solemnity can influence. It can steer. By Lent’s prodding, one can find a way back into a healthy regimen of corporate worship, Bible study, and devotional self-care. If you’ve fallen prey to worldly busyness that leaves little time or energy for the God who loves you, Lent can be good for you. Beginning with Ash Wednesday, the six weeks that follow will involve a spiritual “exercising” of sorts. The human heart and mind will be immersed in what Saint Paul calls “the word of the cross” (1 Corinthians 1:18) in ways relatively unmatched by the rest of the Church Year. And as the routine progresses from one week to the next, momentum builds until finally meeting its stride in Holy Week and the Triduum—the great “Three Days” of Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and the Vigil of Easter. It’s there a Christian realizes (if he or she hasn’t already) the great goodness to be had by a seemingly dreadful regimen—the cross’s dripping mess; a bludgeoned, bloody, and weakened Savior pinned to its gibbet; a terrible black sky palling the whole scene, leaving one to wonder if anything Christ said and did produced anything of value. Indeed, Easter’s stride says, “Absolutely! Everything He said was true! His resurrection is proof. By the power of the Holy Spirit through this Gospel, I have the strength to go on—to flex the muscle of Christ’s divine love until my last breath!”

Secondly, while the word “Lent” might carry some gloomier baggage for many, it’s actually a word of hope. Its root is an Old English word meaning “springtime.” Its Dutch and German crossovers mean “longer days.” In other words, inherent to Lent’s momentum is not necessarily a spiritual drudging through misery. Instead, its heart is set on counting down to the perpetually sunlit springtime of new life. Again, Easter—the festival day that proves the promise of heaven will be the longest, most wonderful summer day for all who believe in Jesus, the One who conquered the eternal night of Death on the cross!

And so, my point is twofold. Firstly, take advantage of Lent. Use its regimented traditions of fasting to your benefit. Let them help you build momentum toward a steady stride of faithfulness for the rest of the year. And secondly, do this knowing that even as building momentum may be challenging, remember your goal and then be blessed by its stride. The longer days, blossoming trees, bright-beaming sun filling pleasant days—all these things are hints to the world to come, and Lent and Easter display the scene magnificently.

Boots with a Rifle

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I’m guessing some of you may be as exhausted by winter’s burden as I am. It’s right about this time every year that I begin calling out to the heavens, “I can’t take it anymore. Enough, already!” The ever-overcast sky ensures bitter coldness wrapped in seemingly perpetual darkness; these things make much of what we must endure as humans that much harder.

There are other moments in life when this phrase seems appropriate, moments when our thresholds have been met and exceeded, causing us to wash our hands clean of the situation. This happened to me recently in connection with the new edition of Luther’s Large Catechism printed by Concordia Publishing House, my Synod’s official publisher. The latest edition is subtitled “with Annotations and Contemporary Applications.” Much of the controversy concerns particular contributors and various applications relevant to current issues made throughout. Thankfully, our Synod’s president, Rev. Dr. Matthew Harrison, halted the book’s printing to investigate the concerns being raised by critical readers. I did not criticize the volume publicly, but I had my concerns. Did I actually read the book? Much of it, yes. I was provided a PDF copy. A few days later, President Harrison returned the book to the presses.

Staying out of the controversy (primarily because I’m far too busy with my studies right now), I posted a quick note on social media:

“I’ve read quite a bit of this volume in PDF form, notes and all. I’m glad this has been resolved. Bishop Matt Harrison handled it well. Admittedly, I still struggle to fathom Steven Paulson’s inclusion as a contributor. I can guess why he was brought into the project. Nevertheless, including him here encourages trusting him elsewhere. I fear that’s something we’re going to regret. My two cents…as useless as they might be.”

I deleted the post two days later. Here’s why.

I received two private messages asking why I was concerned with Steven Paulson as a contributor. Short on time, I wrote, copied, and pasted a reply to both:

“Not just Paulson. Some of the commentaries use language betraying woke infection. This edition clearly shows that some nasty things have infiltrated the LCMS. But you asked about Paulson. He has dangerous theology. You might think I’m repeating talking points from others, but I’m not. I’ve read Paulson. He firmly believes Christ had sins of His own. He denies the vicarious atonement. And these are just a few of the things that make him dangerous. I think it’s a bad idea to include folks like him because what they write serves as a breadcrumb trail back to their tragic theologies. I think people will read Paulson’s essay—which, admittedly, is well done—and then they’ll travel outside the volume to discover him elsewhere. When they do, the problem will become exacerbated because the words he used among us, which seem fine, do not mean the same things within the context of his own theological world. The volume “Justification and Rome” by Robert Preus comes to mind. Rome and Lutheranism used the same words, but with far different meanings, so we remain divided. Including Paulson, we have established a platform of trust in him as an expert with some pretty crucial things. In other words, we’re essentially saying, “If we consider him an authority, you should, too.” I think this is dangerous. Again, my two cents. Take the two pennies I offer or leave them.”

I only received one reply, and it was telling. He didn’t debate my concern but teetered at the edge of ad hominem, asking, “You have guys like Charlie Kirk and Dinesh D’Souza endorsing your books. How do you justify that and still criticize the new LC?”

Do I really need to explain the difference? First of all, CPH—the official, doctrinally-monitored publishing house for my Synod—did not publish my books. Secondly, they’re not all theological. Thirdly, an endorsement is not content contribution. I do not let Charlie Kirk or Dinesh D’Souza contribute essays to my books interpreting my meaning. They are readers, just like everyone else. In short, if Charlie or Dinesh like what I’ve written, they’ll say as much and endorse it. But in the end, the breadcrumbs in my writings are leading folks from their spheres to mine. That’s how endorsements work. Essays and annotations are far different. They interpret, explain, and apply. They’re catechetical. They reverse the trail’s direction. In this new authoritative volume, Paulson (and other commentators) are propped up in ways that lead our people into their theological spheres of influence—and relative to our confessional documents, no less. In my opinion, this is a dangerous move on an already slippery slope. I don’t see any reason to include them, especially when we have hundreds of capable writers in the LCMS who could have done the job and probably far better.

I have my suspicions as to why folks like Paulson were included. I’ve attempted to confirm these suspicions through direct dialogue. I have nothing to show for it.

So, I deleted that original comment, primarily because, while I understand why my Synod’s president did what he did, I remain bothered. The private messages demanding that I recant the Paulson concerns became an “Enough already!” moment that drove me to wash my hands of the volume’s benefit and walk away from it entirely. I suppose the only benefit to the private interactions was the opportunity to reflect and then put handles on my concerns, and by doing so, to realize that my social media post might enigmatically lead people to a publication I have no intention of buying or using.

That being said, you do what you want with it. It’s in print and available. If you do, think about a few things. Firstly, read it critically. Pay attention to the details—the speech’s seasonings. Secondly, when folks go on the offensive against the volume’s critics, weigh the reasons for and the arguments inherent to their attack. Are they one of the book’s contributors? Are the ones raising concerns being accosted for this or that ad hominem reason? Are they being accosted because what they’re saying is embarrassingly accurate? Remember, many of the critics are pastors. They’re in the trenches using these materials. They’re the ones who have to match the so-called “contemporary applications” with what’s actually happening in the world around them. With that, it certainly seems they have a right to share their concerns with their commanding officers.

Remember one more thing. There’s truth to the saying that soldiers win the war while the generals win the credit. If you can, watch “All Quiet on the Western Front.” I just finished watching the 2022 version on Netflix over several days. As you do, pay close attention to the character Paul. You’ll see him change from a wide-eyed, do-whatever-I’m-told participant (in what is later learned are little more than his commander’s personal pursuits) to a dreadfully burdened soldier who discovers the reality of war while losing everything left of his own will—his own ability to discern right from wrong—because he’s continually pressed to blindly accept and do terrible things that he shouldn’t. In particular, pay close attention to the dialogue around the 1 hour and 40 minutes mark. You’ll hear Paul finally confess to his friend Kat the trajectory of his confused hopelessness. But then you’ll hear Kat reply, “What do I know? I know nothing. I’m a pair of boots with a rifle.” Kat has already been entirely crushed by his commanding officers’ demands for discussion-less obedience, and he can do nothing to help Paul know why he fights or, perhaps worse, what’s truly at stake if they lose.

You are more than boots with a rifle. You are a discerning, thinking Christian. You are the soldiers that win or lose the war. Order is important. Rank is helpful. Respect in between is Godly. Still, I’ve written in other places that history continues to prove all too often that the cause of honor has always been an easily tradeable amenity to people in seats of authority. But for the rest of us in the trenches—the war zones, the places where the ideologies take shape, where they become flurrying bullets peppering our defenses and shattering the lives of real human beings—honor for the cause remains a requisite. A clear-sighted grasp of our identity and cause must dwell in the camps of the soldiery. Without it, loss is inevitable. And while the generals share after-battle drinks at the club, all agreeing that some efforts to take ground must be fought and others must be conceded, the reality is that if the soldiers ultimately lose the war, those generals will end up in shackles, too. The boots with the rifles hold the line. Pray. Discern. Hold the line.

Humanity Is Not Free. Christians Are.

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Lent is nearly upon us. The next three Sundays—Septuagesima, Sexagesima, and Quinquagesima—prepare us for its spiritual throttling.

In a way, worshipping communities that employ historic liturgies already have the upper hand on Lent’s penitential nature. They’ll easily recognize the following words’ shackling character used at the Divine Service’s beginning:

“Most merciful God, we confess that we are by nature sinful and unclean. We have sinned against You in thought, word, and deed, by what we have done and by what we have left undone. We have not loved you with our whole heart; we have not loved our neighbors as ourselves. We justly deserve Your present and eternal punishment.”

Or perhaps you know it another way:

“I, a poor, miserable sinner, confess unto you all my sins and iniquities with which I have ever offended You and justly deserved Your temporal and eternal punishment.”

Present and eternal punishment. Temporal and eternal punishment. Same thing. The spheres of this world and the next are both included.

Indeed, these words are incarcerating, leaving no room for escape.

Essentially, we first approach God’s altar admitting to something. Even as believers, the nature of faith has a sense of what that something is. Faith reminds the believer to think twice before approaching God according to our human virtues. We should never think He hasn’t the right to send us away in shame. We should never be so comfortable with ourselves that we begin to think His wrath is something we don’t merit. And so, before anything else occurs in the service, believers go to their collective knees in confession. We fold our hands. We keep our heads low. We establish a posture before the One who has every right to eradicate every swirling atom of this fallen creation. We do this agreeing to His description of humankind, not our own, a description rendered so eloquently—so searingly—in His holy Word.

I’m doing more reading these days than ever before, almost to the point of it being unenjoyable. I read somewhere along the way that Frank Lloyd Wright designed his unique structures in ways that communicated his heart’s greatest love for nature. What stirred in his heart caused him to say, “The space within becomes the reality of the building.” I get what he means. He was an architectural artist. And his words sound nice. However, I’ve seen some of Wright’s buildings. In my opinion, they’re as impractical as they are impressive. But what do I know? That being said, if you really want to see a genuine architectural rendering of a human heart, stop by any of the thirty-one prisons in Michigan. There you will see a more authentic representation of humanity’s viscera in an architectural form. You will observe an exterior adorned by multiple rows of massive fences decked in razor wire surrounding windowless cinderblock. What will you discover within? Through the facility’s massive metal doors, you’ll find wall after wall securing one human cage after the next.

A prison is the human heart’s best interpretation because, of itself, humanity is not free.

As I said, I’ve been reading quite a bit lately from lots of sources. Cyril Connolly is a writer I discovered by way of Rudyard Kipling. Connelly said something about how everyone is serving a life sentence in the dungeon of self. For as depressing as that might sound, he wasn’t that far from what Saint Paul meant by a number of phrases employed throughout his Epistle to the Romans. He writes things like “the law of sin and death,” “enslaved to sin,” and “the wages of sin is death.” Paul is trying to tell us something.

For one, he wants us to know we can’t keep God’s Law rightly. As humanity is enslaved to Sin, so is humanity dragged along by the innate desire to break God’s Law. Paul says as much, writing, “For the mind that is set on the flesh is hostile to God, for it does not submit to God’s law; indeed, it cannot. Those who are in the flesh cannot please God” (Romans 8:7-8). Naturally, when laws are broken, a judicial wage is earned: punishment. With this, we find ourselves closer to what Paul needs us to know by these phrases. Even apart from their proper context, we know something more about humanity. We not only begin to sense the handcuffs—the very real restraints that bind us to our treachery—but also the eternal punishment we’ve earned in destruction’s terrible cell.

And yet, God’s inclination has never been to punish, imprison, or destroy. He wants to show mercy (Luke 23:34, 6:36; 1 Peter 1:3; Lamentations 3:22-23). He wants to forgive. He wants to redeem—to buy back the criminals from their fate. He wants to set humanity free. Already knowing that the Gospel “is the power of God unto salvation” (Romans 1:16), the rest of the text surrounding Saint Paul’s select phrases brings this Gospel and instills the freedom God desires:

“We know that our old self was crucified with him in order that the body of sin might be brought to nothing, so that we would no longer be enslaved to sin” (Romans 6:6).

“For the wages of sin is death, but the free gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord” (Romans 6:23).

“For the law of the Spirit of life has set you free in Christ Jesus from the law of sin and death” (Romans 8:2).

The Good News is that Christ has won your freedom. He has paid the price. Faith in Christ binds the believer to Christ, thereby binding that same believer to the certainty that he cannot be condemned to Sin’s chains or held captive by Death’s cell.

The forthcoming Gesima Sundays are delivering us into this news in unique ways. Listen carefully. Lent will display its combat. Pay close attention. Good Friday will demonstrate the great exchange. Don’t miss it. All these things will culminate in a horrendously wonderful trial resulting in a hideously sweet verdict: Christ must take humanity’s place in judgment on the cross. The guilty ones are free to go.

And then Easter. Oh, Easter!—the joyful proof of the debt’s payment followed by the prison’s absolute demolition from the inside; a glorious work accomplished by the only Prisoner who could do it!

You Can Be Lifted

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An interesting conversation between two women occurred beside me at my super-secret restaurant hideout this past week. I was alone with a gift card, my phone, a chicken salad sandwich, and a desire to get a moment of solitude with some required reading materials.

You should know I don’t try to overhear anyone’s conversation. On the contrary, to avoid distractions of every kind, I prefer to sit as far from everyone else in the room as possible. And yet, you know the sort of dialogue to which I’m referring. No matter where you sit, one person is speaking with uncomfortable volume and animation—almost as if she craves the admiration of everyone within a ten-table radius. And the other person at her table isn’t saying a word, only bobbing her head in agreement with everything shared.

As it would go, the story she told was dreadful. She spoke of their mutual friend’s shortcomings in the worst ways, pinning this and that personal injury upon her, making her seem like a ruthlessly unfeeling villain. After a few minutes of unrestrained mockery, it became clear that the two conversing women were related, and the target of their ill-witted ire was also a family member. However, I couldn’t quite figure out the person’s exact location on the family tree. Nevertheless, so goes William Thackeray’s observation that if “a man’s character is to be abused, say what you will, there’s nobody like a relation to do the business.”

Amazingly disheartening. And vicious. I couldn’t imagine living in such a family.

If you recall, I began by calling the conversation interesting. I meant that. Nearly all the grievances described by the blustering woman (and heard by everyone else in the restaurant) occurred while serving together at their church. Fascinatingly, this woman was utterly ignorant of the Christian witness she was portraying. And the fact that a man wearing a clerical collar was sitting a few tables away betrayed her confidence in her behavior. She knew I was there. Usually when someone is misbehaving, so to speak, and a clergyman happens by, they tend to alter their behavior, if only to keep from embarrassment. They go from cussing about their neighbor to suddenly explaining how often they read their Bible. That happens in my presence quite often. Not this time. In fact, I think she was counting on my approval.

Firstly, I’ve learned over the years that people who speak about others this way are usually far more capable of the actual atrocities in any failing relationship. I’ve also learned that in the economy of offenses given and received, they always ensure the scales are tipped in their favor. In other words, their sins are never as horrific as those committed against them. They’re bad, but not that bad. In fact, they’re pretty good—much higher up the ladder of decency and deservedness than so many other wretches.

There’s a portion in John Bunyan’s The Pilgrim’s Progress that goes:

“He that is down needs fear no fall, he that is low no pride. He that is humble ever shall have God to be his guide.”

Saint Paul’s words concerning the truest depths of our guilt are Bunyan’s inspiration. He wrote, “Therefore let anyone who thinks that he stands take heed lest he fall” (1 Corinthians 10:12). Of course, inspired by the Holy Spirit, Paul’s instruction is undoubtedly born from his Savior’s words, such as the Lord’s concluding remark to a parable about a wedding feast: “For everyone who exalts himself will be humbled, and he who humbles himself will be exalted.” (Luke 14:11). Four short chapters later, Jesus would repeat this teaching word for word, once again demonstrating in unequivocally crisp detail what He meant by His preceding parable.

“To some who were confident of their own righteousness and looked down on everyone else, Jesus told this parable: Two men went up to the temple to pray, one a Pharisee and the other a tax collector. The Pharisee stood by himself and prayed: ‘God, I thank you that I am not like other people—robbers, evildoers, adulterers—or even like this tax collector. I fast twice a week and give a tenth of all I get.’ But the tax collector stood at a distance. He would not even look up to heaven, but beat his breast and said, ‘God, have mercy on me, a sinner.’ I tell you that this man, rather than the other, went home justified before God. For all those who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted” (Luke 18:9-14).

I think what’s most interesting about this particular parable is the tax collector’s words. In English translations, he’s portrayed as humble, but it seems little more than humility that knows its sinfulness in a basic way. The English renders quite plainly, “God, have mercy on me, a sinner.” In the original Greek, it’s so much more than that. He doesn’t just call himself “a sinner” but refers to himself with the demonstrative definite article “τῷ,” which means he is calling himself what Paul called himself in 1 Timothy 1:15—the chief, the epitome, the sinner of all sinners. In other words, Jesus is portraying the tax collector as someone unconcerned with the sinfulness of everyone else in the room by comparison, preferring to take his place before God not as one of many but as the only one—and the worst one. No one is lower. No one is more horrible. No one is more deserving of God’s rightful wrath.

He is not a sinner. He is the sinner.

Jesus ends the parable so abruptly that it must have shocked His listeners. He didn’t describe a propitiating sacrifice, which would have been expected. He didn’t mention negotiations between the tax collector and God—that he would work harder to be a better person. Jesus simply describes the man as calling himself the worst sinner and then caps the parable by saying, “I tell you that this man, rather than the other, went home justified before God” (v. 14). A contrite confession born from faith was enough at this moment. Knowing his truest identity as a contemptible sinner, he asked God to give him something other than what he deserved, something he knew was relevant to God’s innermost character: mercy. And that’s what God gave him. The tax collector left God’s presence forgiven.

Bunyan’s words ring true. You cannot fall if you’re already as low as you can be. But you can be lifted. And for all who know their sins, as Jesus describes, God promises to be the One to do the lifting. Look to the cross. You’ll see the One who submitted Himself to depths far lower than any of us could imagine. That’s the mystery inherent to Paul’s words, “For our sake he made him to be sin who knew no sin, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God” (2 Corinthians 5:21).

I’ll never get my mind around what it means that Christ actually became Sin in my place. But I don’t have to understand it for it to be true. I believe it. That belief, established by the power of the Holy Spirit through the Gospel, moves me to remember my place before Him. I was as low as is humanly and spiritually possible. He lifted me up. I was Sin through and through. He took my place in its dust. But then He went even lower, taking into Himself anything that Sin, Death, and hell could ever inflict. As He did this, He won my innocence before the Father. Humble repentance and faith receive this victory in its absolute fullness.

It’s much harder to pummel others for their crimes when we know this about ourselves.

I want you to know I did two things before I left the restaurant. First, I paid for the women’s meal. It wasn’t that much more than what I had left on the gift card. Second, I left a note for them. I wrote one thing on it: Luke 18:9-14. I don’t know if they read the text. I’m hoping my first gesture stirred them to at least consider it. If they do eventually read it, I don’t know if they’ll get the point. What I do know is that God’s Word is powerful. It has everything necessary for converting and convincing proud hearts. I also know that our reflection of the Gospel’s light before the world around us has muscle, too (Matthew 5:13-16). I hope they read the text, take a chance on what Christian humility truly is—what it means relative to Sin—and then beam that humble trust in Christ to others.

Peeling Back the Layers

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Maybe I should share it and maybe I shouldn’t, but Jennifer asked me recently if I’d ever thought about using a content subscription service like Patreon. I know why she asked. Because as it may also be for you, the need to make ends meet is never far from us. Thinking creatively, she knows that I put out thousands of words a week across various platforms, and I do all of it pretty much because I can, without personal benefit. I’ve said before, I often consider my writing proclivity to be more of an affliction. I’m stricken with the need to observe and then scribble into words what I’ve observed. Most folks with the same disease use it to make a living. I can’t even imagine writing for a living, other than to consider the basics of what I’m already doing as a pastor in service to the Gospel.

Either way, Jen’s questioning prompted at least two thoughts worth considering this morning.

The conversation continued with me saying, essentially, no, I haven’t thought of using Patreon. Although, my response was more, “I’ll look into it when things slow down a bit.” That’s my default reply. It’s not a lie. I’m always hoping for things to slow down. But she and I know they never do. She went on to ask if I sometimes feel like I’ll look back on my life with regret, concerned that I’ll have spent too much time running myself ragged. I didn’t tiptoe around that question. Yes, that thought has crossed my mind. I’ll bet it has crossed yours, too. I do my best to be honest when it does, admitting I’m sometimes to blame for my own busyness. Not always. But sometimes. And I say that with a caveat.

For one, the simple truth is that pastors are often treated like genies in bottles. (By the way, I wrote about this in my book Ten Ways to Kill a Pastor.) No matter the relevance of the need, people rub the pastoral lamp through an email, text, phone call, private message, or whatever (at any given moment at any particular hour of the day) with the expectation the pastor will immediately pop out with a willingness to do whatever is needed. Like other pastors, I struggle with this. But before you take offense at this, let me explain.

For me, the struggle comes because I have a tendency to look at everything as an opportunity for ministry, and as a result, I have a hard time saying no. A real-world instance of how this gets me into trouble could be, for example, those moments when a non-member who just so happens to know me—or is referred by someone—reaches out to ask me to come and pray with a dying friend or a sick relative. As it relates to my official duties, this is not necessarily my responsibility. As it relates to my calling as a Christian, it is. I know this, and so, I wrestle with what to do. More often than not, I find myself willing to commit to just one more thing (on top of an already overwhelming stack of things in a bustling congregation and school requiring a lot of attention) because I’m hoping there’s a chance the Gospel will be heard and take root. I do this fully aware that if I say yes, it’ll be an overtax on my family, my actual duties, and my health. If I say no, it’s likely I’ll be interpreted as cold, ultimately representing the congregation as uncaring, and possibly seeing an extended relationship come undone.

Believe it or not, these types of situations happen more than you might think. I get requests like this regularly. If you don’t believe me, just ask our office administrator, Georgine.

Still, even when I say no, admittedly, I’m more than capable of making bad choices with the limited free time I do have. I almost always fill it with something I hope will be productive. Perhaps it’s inherent to pastors to be as Longfellow described, which is “up and doing, with a heart for any fate; still achieving, still pursuing….” There’s always something that needs doing in any congregation. Personally, I’d argue that if the pastor isn’t relatively tempted by countless opportunities for service, it’s likely he’s not all that attuned to his role and its surroundings.

Carrying this back around to Jennifer’s question about Patreon, a second thought comes to mind.

I suppose when it comes to using something like Patreon, I also mentioned to Jennifer that I’m not so sure people would subscribe. I say this because the kind of writing I do is far different than what’s popular.

Just look at what’s in front of you right now. My content is rarely brief.

I know, I know. Countless people would say less is more. Mindful of this, I try to be as crisp as I can. It’s just that when I start thinking about something I want to say, I often get lost in the layers, feeling the need to share with the reader what I’ve discovered—or at least pondered—and then fill any potential holes. As a result, a paragraph turns into two, followed by a free-thinking examination of those first two paragraphs that becomes two more, and so on.

I can’t just give a little. I want to be thorough. Remember, everything is an opportunity for ministry. This includes everything I write.

Digging deeper, I’m not sure people would pay a couple of bucks a month to read that deeply. As a society, we no longer exist in an age designed for that kind of content. We’re living in a time of memes, mic-drop soundbites, and pithy Tik-Tok videos created and uploaded while driving. Unfortunately, people aren’t just being entertained by these things. They’re being trained by them, too. They’re learning that life’s important things can be received and understood in 15-second intervals.

In short, the exchange of humanity’s thoughts seems to have become little more than an ever-streaming attempt at witty succinctness that really has no handles, nothing to grab onto. People think what they’re hearing is a truth bomb. But it really isn’t. It’s a superficial statement filled with gigantic holes. Its hook is more emotional than substantial. I suppose folks working at genius levels can accomplish hole-less truth bombs that do both. Admittedly, Jordan Peterson seems capable of such things. Ben Shapiro, too. But that’s two people. Last I heard, there were almost five billion people using social media on any given day. The best any of the rest of us non-geniuses can do is to be as lucid as possible—to take a chance at presenting an intelligible case made from the best words in the best order and sent along with the best of intentions. That takes work on both sides of the digital screen. Most people don’t want to work in this way. They want to be spoon fed the sweeter things. In our internet age, anyone willing to work—whether it be a person wishing to write substantially for public consumption or someone eager to be taught and then employ what they’ve learned in the surrounding world—nowadays, these people risk vicious cancellation. And why? Because sinful human beings prefer what pads the throne upon which they’re already sitting. Soundbite communications are designed to be that padding—to be emotionally comfortable, and ultimately, subjectively moldable to almost anyone’s closely-held ideology.

I don’t recall who said it, but someone once observed that few people would bother speaking at all if they actually knew how much of what they were saying was being misunderstood. To overcome this—to actually understand other people and their ideas in a way that benefits society—we must be working from points of origin that are far more than witty posts from our favorite influencers. It takes deeper levels of interaction, concentration, and contemplation—far more than what Tik-Tok videos and Facebook stories can provide.

Saint Paul wrote in Colossians 4:6 that Christians should be capable of giving an answer to anyone who asks. Saint Peter said something similar in 1 Peter 3:15. He noted the need for “always being prepared to make a defense to anyone who asks you for a reason for the hope that is in you….” Giving an answer and making a thorough defense means being equipped for conversation with content. It means study. Study takes work. It understands that being able to answer one question is possible with a little work. But it’ll take more to answer a second and third, or a fourth and fifth. Normal human conversations are rarely one or two sentences in length. They’re dialogues. They require content.

Mindful of people’s New Year’s resolutions, maybe a worthy exercise would be to start thinking through and then challenging (if necessary) your friends’ one-sentence social media posts before clicking “like.” After a little more thought, you might realize the foolishness in the meme I stumbled upon this morning which reads, “You don’t need a lot of friends to be happy, just a few real ones who appreciate you for who you are.”

Neat picture. Very moving. Two women toasting with a bottle of wine between them. However, these emotional hooks don’t change how stupid the meme is. It sounds nice, but it’s foolishly shallow. And it’s inviting moral disaster. I won’t tell you how. Take a minute to think about it. Just know there are a gazillion of these narcissistic messages feeding the egos of billions. I think folks will need to dig deeper to avoid becoming one of the billions.

Theological Etiquette

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I don’t know about you, but my early morning startup process is a mixture of ingredients. Coffee in hand, it typically involves a brief interaction with the Bible as prompted by a devotional resource. After that, as long as nothing is pressing, I spend a few minutes reading, whether that be an article or a casual scroll through social media. Last Sunday’s routine enjoyed a visit with John 1:14 followed by commentary from Luther, a portion of which encouraged believers to “further and increase [God’s] kingdom, which is in so many suppressed and hindered by the devil and the world.” Luther continued by saying this happens when we “open to Christ our treasures and present them to Him, as the wise men did. And how? Behold, His Word is written (Matthew 25:4): ‘Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.’”

Not long after visiting with these things, I read a relatively intuitive quotation from Edmund Burke, a member of the British Parliament during the American Revolution and a critic of Britain’s treatment of the colonists. He said, “All men that are ruined, are ruined on the side of their natural propensities.” In other words, pay close attention to your natural inclinations in any particular situation. Doing so can spare you some of life’s biggest headaches, the kinds that will inevitably do you in.

This is incredibly insightful, so much so that it came to mind later that morning during the Adult Bible study. We’re currently studying Saint Paul’s letter to the Ephesians. Last week, we continued our walk through chapter 5, which began with revisiting:

“Therefore, be imitators of God, as beloved children. And walk in love, as Christ loved us and gave himself up for us, a fragrant offering and sacrifice to God. But sexual immorality and all impurity or covetousness must not even be named among you, as is proper among saints. Let there be no filthiness nor foolish talk nor crude joking, which are out of place, but instead let there be thanksgiving. For you may be sure of this, that everyone who is sexually immoral or impure, or who is covetous (that is, an idolater), has no inheritance in the kingdom of Christ and God. Let no one deceive you with empty words, for because of these things the wrath of God comes upon the sons of disobedience. Therefore, do not become partners with them; for at one time you were darkness, but now you are light in the Lord. Walk as children of light (for the fruit of light is found in all that is good and right and true), and try to discern what is pleasing to the Lord” (vv. 1-10).

Relative to this, Burke’s words seemed strangely appropriate. They understand that restraining the types of behavior Saint Paul forbids requires self-awareness, the kind born from genuine honesty.

I didn’t know it, but philosophically, Burke appears to have been a man after my own heart. He wrote a book entitled A Vindication of Natural Society. I managed to read about ten pages of it on Google Books before ordering a hard copy for myself. In the book, Burke chisels away satirically at deism’s popularity while also showing how proper manners help steer and uphold morality while fortifying the boundaries of natural law. He doesn’t necessarily use the following example, but it came to mind as I read those ten pages—and I shared the thought with the Bible study attendees.

Consider a man opening a door for a woman. When a man does this, he isn’t just being properly polite. He’s also acknowledging essential distinctions between men and women. There are things men can and should do that women cannot and should not. The same is true in the opposite direction. There are things women can and should do that men cannot and should not. And yet, while these things might be otherwise offensive to some, the distinction is acknowledged and upheld by an act of humility. Burke argues that the practice of manners—which are, for all intents and purposes, societal rites and ceremonies—restrain darker inclinations.

Now, think back to Burke’s original quotation insisting that one’s natural propensities, if unguarded, can be ruinous.

Everyone has improper tendencies. Let’s say a particular man has a propensity for lording over women, treating them as shameful lessers. By making a conscious effort to begin opening doors for women, this man takes a step toward restraining this unfortunate inclination. He’s submitting himself respectfully to the role of caretaker without unnaturally emasculating himself. The process acknowledges a man’s biblical role of headship, yet it does so in love. The practice of manners—the societal ceremony—helped maintain this framework. I’ll give you another, more personal, example.

I had a good circle of friends in my earliest high school years in Danville, Illinois. Believe it or not, even as testosterone-enriched athletes, we were never inclined to swear. The rest of our teammates were. Outnumbered in this regard, as a result, there came a time when swearing began infecting our circle. To stop it, the four of us pledged to punch one another anytime an inappropriate word crossed our lips. A few days and lots of bruises later, we brought what was becoming a natural propensity under control.

It’s too bad I cannot continue employing such tactics as a clergyman. But I digress.

In short, my friends and I knew ourselves. We were honest about what was becoming a dreadful propensity. We were Christians, and we sensed foul language’s incompatibility with our faith (and, as Burke might suggest, its erosive effect on a moral society). With that, we warred against the tendency with a ceremony capable of maintaining the boundaries (Ephesians 4:29-30, 5:1-13). We did this before the propensity ruined us. Interestingly, the ceremony was unpleasant when used. It hurt. But it was worth it. I should say, it’s likely even Saint Paul would have approved. In 1 Corinthians 9:27, the verb for “discipline” (ὑπωπιάζω) means to strike something physically. Paul appears willing to use extreme techniques to keep his own body under control. Getting punched, perhaps by Timothy, wasn’t off the table.

During last week’s Bible study, I wondered out loud if any of this was relevant to worship style. Of course, my wondering was rhetorical. How could it not be? That’s one of the benefits of traditional worship’s maintaining of historic rites and ceremonies. In a way, they’re theological manners.

Tradition understands man’s propensities. It knows we want things to be our way (anthropocentrism). To restrain this more-often-soiled-than-not tendency, rites and ceremonies—spiritual etiquette—carry the worshipper along in ways designed to exchange anthropocentrism with Christocentrism. In other words, their purpose is to force man out from the center of his own universe and put Christ firmly in the middle.

Understandably, rites and ceremonies are multifaceted, and like getting punched by three friends all at once, they can sometimes be uncomfortable. I get that. They’re strict means of exercise. But the most rigorous kinds of training often produce the best results. In this case, the singular goal of each word and motion is a heart fixed securely on Christ by faith and a new propensity—a Spirit-driven inclination—to imitate Him in the world around us (Ephesians 5:1).

Little by Little

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I hope all is well with you so far this year. That might seem a strange thing to say, especially since we’re only a week into 2023. Still, we both know a lot can happen in a week. In truth, a lot can happen in mere seconds. Anything can change in an instant. An honest person—someone who knows by faith the inner workings of this fallen world—will not only admit to this but will embrace it as inevitable.

I’m guessing that for those looking in on faith from the outside, a Christian who rolls with change’s inevitability might appear to be living a disinterested life. Amid good or bad change, a Christian can speak alongside Job, saying, “The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord” (Job 1:21). Such a person might appear to be drifting through life as though it were a mighty river sweeping him away feebly in its current.

On the other hand, perhaps the Christian can roll with life’s punches because he understands the intricacies of life and its changes in a way that onlookers cannot.

Admittedly, I’m somewhat of a mixed bag regarding change. Some people thrive on change. I don’t. I prefer most things to remain the same. There’s certainty in the steady things. Although, like most people, now and then, I get the urge to move things around in my personal spaces. I’ll be sitting at my desk, and then suddenly, I’ll rise and move an entire section of books from one shelf to another. I’ll be sitting at the bar in my basement, and then somewhat abruptly, I’ll rearrange the movie memorabilia sitting on cabinets and hanging on the walls. Those landscape alterations might not seem like a big deal to most. However, the urge that stirs them is genuine, and it acknowledges something deeply relevant to life. The seemingly innate need to change things is a reminder that something is seriously wrong with this world, and whatever it is, it needs to be made right.

But there’s something else proven by the exercise. The urge to rearrange things returns. It might be a week later. It might be two years later. Either way, it returns. This proves that no matter what I do to get things in the right places, the deeper disorder remains.

By faith, Christians can get along in such a world, no matter the changes. Good or bad, we’re the kind of people who endure.

I’m sure I’ve shared before that I appreciate Washington Irving. I read his infamous The Legend of Sleepy Hollow at least once a year. I do this not only because he spends his best energy delving into classical tales from early America but because, unlike modern writers, Irving handles the frightful things with a poetic style. Or perhaps a better way to say it is that he seems to take hold of scary things and presents them nonchalantly, almost as though they ought to be expected even while they are surprising. For a Christian, that kind of storytelling makes sense. As someone fitted by the Holy Spirit to endure, Irving makes sense to us when he writes, “There is a certain relief in change, even though it be from bad to worse…it is often a comfort to shift one’s position and be bruised in a new place.”

Perhaps that’s part of what the Lord meant when He instructed His followers to turn the other cheek (Matthew 5:39). He doesn’t intend for His Christians to be punching bags. He means for us to know we should never expect to be hit only once. More will come. And so, don’t be foolish. Situate yourself for endurance.

Thinking about these things, I should mention that Christians are by no means complacent about change. Christian endurance is far different than giving up and floating helplessly downstream. The knowledge of the deeper disorder keeps us vigilant. Because of this, we’re far more attuned to change than the rest of the world around us. It seems for most people in the world, change is of little consequence so long as it doesn’t bring personal inconvenience. In one sense, that’s how things got so bad in Nazi Germany. The United States Holocaust Memorial Museum attempted to memorialize that reality with a wall plaque of Rev. Martin Niemöller’s words, which were:

“First, they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out—because I was not a socialist. Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out—because I was not a trade unionist. Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—because I was not a Jew. Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.”

Little by little, changes were made that targeted particular groups of people. Eventually, those changes crossed over into Niemöller’s sphere. But when they did, it was too late. Collectively, the little modifications had become unstoppable juggernauts. Truth be told, for as many people who lived relatively untouched lives during the 1930s and 40s, Christians were the first to see the dangers and sound the alarm, ultimately doing all they could to trip the Nazi jackboots. Many died trying. Rev. Dietrich Bonhoeffer was one. But he wasn’t the only one. There were plenty of others.

I suppose with the New Year comes both the awareness of and inclination for change. Mostly, I’m guessing a person’s New Year resolutions exist within the Niemöller-type frame. They’re personal, and it’s likely they’ll only allow inconvenience if a personal benefit is involved. People try to eat better, to exercise more, to be healthier. The intent in these things is good. And I’m certainly one to root for their success. I suppose what’s coming to mind this morning is not only the need to encourage continued endurance amid discomforting changes in our world but to encourage awareness of change beyond the safety of self. In other words, just because it doesn’t affect you doesn’t mean it isn’t worth your attention. It might be hurting someone else. That should matter to you. If it doesn’t, the time may come when you’ll have no choice but to be concerned.

For example, back in 2021, Scott Smith could have cared less about the demands of LGBTQ, Inc. in schools. But then his 15-year-old daughter was raped by a transgender student in the women’s bathroom at her high school. He responded angrily against the Loudoun County School Board (as any loving father should have), was arrested, and branded a domestic terrorist by the National School Boards Association, Merrick Garland, and President Biden. Interestingly, it took such a startling tragedy to stoke nationwide parental concerns for these and other issues. Now countless seats on School Boards across America have been seized by parents intent on jettisoning these radical—but already very entrenched—ideologies from our schools. They’re discovering and unbinding the dangerous grip of Critical Race Theory. They’re uncovering and dismantling the attempts by progressive ideologue teachers to read pornographic literature to 1st graders. They’re finding all these things and more, and they’re waging war against the disorder.

As the saying goes, Rome wasn’t built in a day. Little by little, changes were made. And now we’re cleaning up some pretty big messes. As Christians, we know the sources of these messes: Sin, Death, and Satan.

These are the powers at work in the deeper disorder.

Again, be encouraged to pay closer attention in the New Year. Perhaps a personal resolution for change might be to become more aware of what’s changing around you—whether the change is good or bad, who it affects, and what you can do to help. Doing this, I’m certain you’ll find ways to flex the already empowered muscle of faith in a world that desperately needs what you have to offer, not only for the sake of living peaceful and godly lives (1 Timothy 2:2) but for leading others to the only One who capable of bringing an all-surpassing order to the deeper disorder. Jesus accomplished this on the cross. He proved it by His resurrection. Now we live in this Gospel, owning the spoils of His victory, and employing them in the world around us.

We are not drifting through life. We are engaging in it with an altogether different kind—a divinely impenetrable kind—of endurance and discernment amid change.

The Epiphany of Our Lord, 2023

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I’m writing this note to remind and invite you to the Epiphany Divine Service tonight at Our Savior in Hartland at 7:00 pm. Epiphany sees Christmas depart, and a new season begins. In a way, and considering the meaning of the word epiphany, it’s almost paradoxical.

Epiphany comes from the Greek word meaning “to make known.” When someone experiences an epiphany, something is revealed, and the person becomes aware of something previously unknown. In a sense, Christmas is itself a preeminent epiphany event. God gives His son to the world. By His birth, so much is made known. The angels break through fantastically from heaven to declare it. Shepherds so wonderfully announce it to everyone they meet. There’s Jesus, the Son of God, in the flesh. Emmanuel, God with us. But then January 6 arrives, and with it, the season of Epiphany begins. It begins with the account of the Magi being led by a star to the humble residence of the Christ-child. Traditionally, and suddenly, January 6 sees that all of the seasonal pomp of Christmas is put away—hidden out of sight, put back into the boxes under the stairs, in the closet, in the basement. If epiphany means to make known, then this seems counterintuitive to the season’s message.

But it isn’t. Throughout the season of Epiphany, Christ is being revealed in incredible ways that Christmas could not fully deliver. For one, the hiding of Christmas’ divine pomp hints at Christ’s veiled divinity. As the Christmas Gospel declared, He is God in the flesh dwelling among us. And yet, unlike all other human beings walking around, their souls similarly veiled, Jesus is both the creator and deliverer of souls. Epiphany sets the stage in unmistakable terms that Jesus is who He says He is. His identity is revealed throughout as He does things no one else can do. This man is no ordinary man.

I can’t remember who said it, but someone noted that the Lord’s miracles toll an epiphany bell. They point to Calvary. They ring for the human senses a divine awareness of what’s actually occurring when this man suffers and dies on the cross. Human senses cannot fathom such an event as being anything so wonderfully divine, yet it is. The One who accomplishes the work of mankind’s salvation has proven by His miracles the merit of His words and deeds. He can say to a dead girl, “Arise,” and she does (Mark 5:21-43). He can speak to a vicious sky, “Be quiet,” and it submits (Mark 4:35-41). Beholding these things, He can say to you, “I will go to Jerusalem. I will suffer for your sins. I will die in your place. I will rise from death and give to you the merits of my effort” (Matthew 20:18-19). When He says this, you can believe Him. Epiphany is the clarion call of His trustworthiness.

As a side, Epiphany has the potential for tolling other bells.

For one, Epiphany encourages Christians to pay attention to the revelations of faith itself. For example, and perhaps on a personal level, I suppose the strangest epiphany born from faith is the realization (and the otherworldly sensation) of love for a Savior so secure that I’d be willing to die for Him rather than forsake Him. He saved me from eternal Death. The world may do its worst. Like the Magi, I’m willing to risk life and limb to be with Him. What do I have to fear?

When that realization lands on you—when that genuine aspect of faith becomes known—life takes on an altogether different hue.

Consider joining us for worship tonight at 7:00 pm. Be strengthened in this alongside your brothers and sisters in Jesus. I’m preaching tonight, and I hope to look out and discover you in the pews.

New Year’s Day 2023

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I don’t intend to take much time with this morning’s scribbling. I’m functioning on very little sleep, and I think I’d rather sit, drink coffee, and rework the sermon I’ve already prepared. I mean, why not. With the New Year comes new thoughts, new intentions, new perspectives—all aimed at doing what one can to get things right, to shore up the previous year’s holes.

Lots of folks humbug the usual New Year sentiment of self-betterment. They mock resolution makers, chuckling at the exercise equipment boxes leaning against trash cans at the curb. Their chuckling becomes full-throated laughter when they see the equipment that arrived in those boxes at the same curb a few months later. Still, I won’t slight anyone willing to try. I’m glad for people who want to do better, who walk in hopeful stride alongside the starry-eyed poets who wrote, “It’s never too late to be what you might have been.” In other words, they know that it’s never too late to start a new course, be healthier, have a brighter spirit, and see each moment as an opportunity for fresh beginnings.

Christians own the corner market on these things. How could we not? Every time we fail, our Lord lifts us by His Gospel, reminding us that He succeeded in all things in our place. He drenches us in this forgiveness. All year long, he continues to wipe our slates clean, continually announcing He remembers our wickedness no longer (Hebrews 8:12). I can’t begin to tell you how many times I’ve heard a struggling Christian end a moment of sorrowful reflection with the phrase, “And yet, every day is a new day in the Lord.” To say this is nothing short of reciting the divine comforts leveled in Lamentations 3:22-23 and 2 Corinthians 4:16. Indeed, “the steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.” Indeed, “we do not lose heart. Though our outer self is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day.”

Praise God for this! As I preached in last night’s New Year’s Eve sermon, we’ll need this divine love every day of the oncoming year.

Aware of this love, there’s something else to keep in mind.

For starters, I don’t know too many genuine Christians who are comfortable with their sins. Christians want to do better. They want to be faithful. This means they want to exchange faithfulness to “self” with a better alignment to Christ’s will. Of course, they will struggle to accomplish this, having trouble jettisoning certain behaviors that haunt them, finding themselves in a perpetual wrestling match with these ever-stalking ghouls. Still, they’ll be honest about it, craving Word and Sacrament gifts of Gospel love that strengthen them for the bout. They know that only by the gifts God gives can they rise from the previous day’s struggles and say, “Every day is a new day in the Lord.” This is the voice of faith. This is proof of the Holy Spirit alive within them. This is evidence that they know what Saint Paul meant when he said, “For the desires of the flesh are against the Spirit, and the desires of the Spirit are against the flesh, for these are opposed to each other, to keep you from doing the things you want to do” (Galatians 5:17). Aware of this dynamic, Christians make conscious commitments to fight.

I say, get fighting. Take advantage of the New Year tradition of resoluteness and go to war against these things. Start the New Year reenergized for doing so. Commit to waking each day, remembering that in Christ, “every day is the best day in the year” (Ralph Waldo Emerson).

God bless and keep you for this. Trust Him. He certainly is “able to do far more abundantly than all that we ask or think, according to the power at work within us” (Ephesians 3:20).

By the way, if you find yourself struggling with this assurance, find a crucifix and take a long hard stare. In fact, I recommend putting one where you’ll see it first thing every morning. The reality symbolized by that gruesome scene is the “power at work within us.” Christ’s death has freed you from Sin, Death, and Satan’s power. Every day of each oncoming year that can be pitched against the events of Calvary will be a new day bolstered by the Lord’s marvelous love.

Again, God bless and keep you for this. It’s my prayer for you this New Year’s Day.