Tag Archives: christ

Almost Winning

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Ask my family, and they’ll tell you I don’t like to lose. I’m a “go big or go home” kind of guy. When I endeavor to do something, I expect to pursue and achieve it in a top-tier fashion. When an A is possible, a C is not an option. If my potential is not A-worthy, I’ll go sleepless until it is.

In a way, I demonstrated this personal boundary several Sundays ago during worship. My voice was struggling because of a lingering (but not contagious) cough. During the sacramental liturgy, when I arrived at the Words of Institution (which I usually chant), for the first time in a while, I elected to speak them. Why? Because I could feel the itch in my throat getting worse, and I knew it wouldn’t go well. Second-rate chanting is not edifying. It’s a distraction. I knew if I couldn’t do it well, I’d wait until I could.

Good or bad, this stickler mentality is one reason why the game of Monopoly is also relatively off-limits in our home. I’ve shared with you before that it can get pretty brutal. When it’s possible to buy every property on the Monopoly board and fill all but the utilities and railroads with hotels, why not do it? And while we’re at it, win big. Drain each player of every dime. Do not win some. Win all. Is there a strategy that accomplishes this? Yes? Then use it. Go big or go home.

But for as driven as any among us might be, a lesson I learned early in life is that losing is incredibly important. In other words, winning is nice, but almost winning is sometimes better. This is true because it often prompts self-analysis leading toward the determination needed to improve. Sure, hitting a home run may be the batter’s ultimate goal. Nevertheless, the road to home run hitting is one of insight and opportunity for actual betterment. Babe Ruth, a champion home run hitter, insisted that there was nothing so motivating as a bunch of strikes. In his words, every strike is one swing closer to a home run.

I watched a video last week while walking on the treadmill. It was a compilation of youthful progressives tearfully complaining about Trump’s victory. It was clear they simply could not process the loss. They just didn’t have the skills. As a result, one by one, they droned toward and over illogic’s cliff. For example, one insisted that anyone who opposed Trump was destined for a concentration camp. Another mentioned she was fearful she might have to spend time in prison for the multiple abortions she’s had. Still, another chimed in with Oprah Winfrey’s ridiculously obsolete warning that because Trump won, all future elections would cease. Humorously, some of the video’s teary-eyed characters threw their faces into pillows and screamed as loudly as they could. Honestly, I felt like I was watching a documentary about the participation-trophy generation—or a research study of toddlers who’ve only ever been told they’re the best of the best and can never lose.

As I watched, I was also reminded of something else.

An artificial victory is no victory. While occasionally playing a video game in “god mode” might be fun, there’s no invulnerability in real competition. In other words, the video game “Call of Duty” in no way compares to actual combat. I was listening to Joe Rogan interview a former CIA operative who executed countless missions in the Middle East. He told Rogan that when he had to go to the bathroom in a firefight, he went in his pants. That’s it. He didn’t say it, but I’m guessing he knew well enough that there’s no pressing pause in a firefight. There’s certainly no game reset button when you die.  Real victory is dangerous, and it is sometimes unpleasant. In all, it takes effort. It takes perseverance through struggle. It requires diligence even when diligence seems foolish.

Victory takes a whole lot of almost winning to reach.

People who somehow avoid second place’s more arduous road—whether it’s because they’ve insulated themselves against loss or because what they have was given to them without any effort or personal risk—are missing out on growth’s genuine joys. I suppose relative to faith, this leads me to something else.

For starters, don’t get me wrong. Salvation has nothing to do with our efforts. We do not earn it. Through the person and work of Jesus Christ, we actually do receive a magnificent “get out of jail free” card. However, after faith (or perhaps better said, because we’ve been grafted to Jesus [John 15:5, Romans 6:3-6]), some pretty unearthly struggles will likely come (Matthew 5:11-12, John 15:20, Mark 10:29-30, 2 Timothy 3:12, and countless more). Jesus did not hide this prospect from us. And yet, Saint Paul offers an intriguing perspective concerning these struggles. He writes in Romans 5:1-5:

“Therefore, since we have been justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ. Through him we have also obtained access by faith into this grace in which we stand, and we rejoice in hope of the glory of God. Not only that, but we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us.”

His first point is to make sure we understand that when bad things happen, we are not to think we’re somehow at war with God. He clearly states that we have been justified by faith in Jesus Christ and are at peace with God. His very next point is a crisp reminder that we exist now by God’s grace. This grace brings about something extraordinary.

First, we’re found capable of finding hope in the glory of God. Do you know what the “glory of God” is? It’s the gruesome death of Jesus for the sins of the world (John 12:23-28, Mark 10:35-38). It’s the absolutely dreadful cup of suffering that Jesus tipped back and gulped down in its entirety. Saint Paul insists we can rejoice in this glory primarily because Jesus endured it. The cup’s contents were ours to consume, but the Lord took them for us. However, even as Jesus made it clear that we could not endure absolute suffering’s cup—the kind that wins salvation—He did say we’d at least sip from it on occasion (Mark 10:39). That’s where Paul goes next. However, his tone remains constant. His mood is joyful. With a grammatical smile, he describes faith as having the ability to rejoice when rejoicing seems ridiculous.

Who can rejoice during suffering? Christians can. And this is where my previous thoughts about winning and losing come back into view.

Paul describes an essential process of spiritual maturation that can only occur through suffering. He describes suffering for Christ as a seed that produces endurance, character, and, ultimately, hope. But not just any hope. It’s the kind of hope that genuinely knows the value of the Lord’s work to save us. It’s a hope that knows the Lord’s road was not easy. It’s a hope that gathers more and more strength as our own roads become seemingly less and less navigable. It kind of reminds me of another video I happened upon demonstrating the properties of a substance called Oobleck. It’s a non-Newtonian fluid that, when pressure is applied, gets stronger. In the video, a person dips his hand into it like water. But then he punches it, and suddenly, the substance is like a rock. Oobleck might just be Christian hope’s best mascot. It steers through and meets the mortal journey’s end, and no matter how hard the world beats on it, the Lord continues bolstering it to stand victorious above shame, eventually receiving the gold medal of triumph gifted entirely by the love of God through the Holy Spirit for faith.

In short, God had no intention of making us earn our salvation. He did all of it. However, He does train us to embrace and live in its value. Before we receive Christ’s first-place prize, we should expect to spend a lot of time almost winning—or, in other words, enduring struggle. But again, the struggle is good for us. And we can rejoice through it. We keep our eyes on the prize, equipped with faith’s otherworldly tenacity for knowing that a home run is fewer strikeouts away today than it was yesterday.

Perspective Is A Tricky Thing

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Perspective is a tricky thing. What you see or hear is only sometimes the whole of something. There is a saying that people who are dancing are considered crazy by people who cannot hear the music. In other words, there are layers of information necessary for communication. When they don’t match up, things go sideways. Add to this that everyone transmits and receives information through filters. These filters affect perspective. Some are easier than others to discern. A person who says, with a kindly smile, “I love you” communicates something far different than another person using the exact words while rolling their eyes. But you only know this from the perspective of sight. A text or email can hide it. If it weren’t for the intuitive clues inherent to tone, a phone call could potentially conceal it, too.

In the end, when perspectives differ in ways resulting in conflict, one-on-one conversation is always best. Admittedly, when face-to-face interaction is not possible, a phone call is the next best thing. Allow me to show you how this is true.

I received an early morning email last week from Amber Roseboom, the president of Right to Life of Michigan. It pinged on my phone just as I was putting my coat on to leave for a visitation. Pausing for a moment to skim the first few lines, I could see she was somewhat unhappy with me. With that, I read the message thoroughly. I won’t go into the email’s finer details. Just know that I took my coat off, sat back down at my desk, and called her. We talked for quite some time.

To start, she was surprised that I called so quickly. Nevertheless, my immediate return call and her willingness to put aside what she may have been working on fostered a shared perspective that the other person’s concerns mattered to us.

Amber began the discussion. I listened. In short, an eNews message I wrote in October was making its rounds. In it, I expressed specific concerns for the newest advertising and online commercial campaign effort (“Life: The Other Choice”) from RTL of Michigan. Amber read the eNews message and, as she mentioned both in her note and on the phone, felt somewhat betrayed. The betrayal was two-fold.

First, she believed the message was harmful to an organization I’d proven myself so incredibly devoted to for so long. Indeed, I have been and remain devoted to RTL of Michigan. Plenty know I’ve gone to the furthest reaches in Michigan to iterate life’s message at rallies, conferences, or evening dinners, only to drive hours through the night to get home in time for my usual church and school duties the following day. I’ve done this countless times, often resulting in maximum exhaustion. But I do it because life is important to me.

Second, and perhaps more intimately, Amber was saddened that I didn’t express my concerns to her first.

For the record, I did not broach either of these first concerns directly. In context, they seemed rhetorical. My fidelity to the cause needs no defense. Beyond that, had I defended the appropriateness of a public response to a public campaign, Amber and I would’ve likely ended up in some rabbit holes that didn’t lead to what we both already knew was true: We were not opponents. We were teammates with different perspectives who, having already proven ready to preserve the comradery, were willing to explore those perspectives and adjust our thinking if necessary. So, instead of a defense, I continued listening. She continued to explain the rationale behind the campaign.

Initially, I interjected on occasion where appropriate. For example, I made a passing comment that doing anything for public consumption, whether writing or creating commercials, is risky. I didn’t take the time to explain the comment, but what I meant was that we both know the external dangers we face out there. I get my share of hate mail, as I’m sure Amber does, too.  Beyond that, what we do is risky internally, too. Sometimes, the team doesn’t agree. In this particular situation, we were experiencing the downside of the internal risk.

I also recall saying that I don’t remember half of what I write, especially when it comes to my eNews messages. I write them on the fly. Whatever comes out of my nine-volt brain is what ends up on my computer screen, most often with minimal editing. Of course, I pray before the first finger hits the keyboard, asking that my words would be faithful. That said, I actually had to search for what I wrote. I found it, took a moment to skim it, and found I remained comfortable with what I’d written. We went on from there.

Along the way, we more than cemented our collegiality. We acknowledged the importance of maintaining creedal boundaries, especially for the sake of protecting organizational identity. We discussed the cruciality of shaping the culture rather than allowing the culture to shape us. Together, we agreed that RTL of Michigan must remain immovably fixed to its North Star—life—and that no room can be given to anyone or anything that would distract from life’s heading. In tandem, we confessed a common faith in Christ, one that desires faithfulness to Him as we search for the best ways to bring the message of life into a world fostering death as a viable choice during pregnancy. That angle of discussion led us to momentary examinations of our Lord’s ways of bringing His listeners from point A to point B. It led us to consider the way Saint Paul interacted with people he met along the way of his ministry. It led us to these and more. By the time we were done, we had landed at a fundamental realization, which I had already mentioned.

We are not opponents. We are teammates with different perspectives. However, these perspectives turned out to be similar after all. They were just in a different order and being considered with varying prominence. I did my best to frame it for both of us.

Essentially, I’m an incrementalist. I’ve learned that very rarely can anyone be carried from one perspective to another without taking a whole lot of deliberate steps in between. Yes, my goal is always a touchdown. However, a touchdown is rarely available at kickoff. Most often, plays are needed to get the ball down the field. I work that way in pretty much everything I do. That said, the forward motion happens within absolutist boundaries. A football game occurs on a field and is governed by rules. The steps I’m willing to take—the things I will or will not do or say, the plays I’m willing to make during the game—are influenced by absolutist principles. Relative to these two perspectives, my October eNews focused more so on the absolutist nature of the effort—the language I believe we must use, the North Star heading, what protects the organization’s position relative to culture and objective truth—rather than the incrementalism involved in the plays themselves. I did make it plain that any play resulting in lost yardage is a foolish one. But beyond that, the absolutist position—the boundaries—was my precise perspective. If we don’t hold the line on certain things, the game is lost before it even begins. Amber was reading what I wrote from a purely incrementalist perspective, and as such, she felt that one RTL of Michigan’s worthwhile plays was being misjudged.

In the end, we realized we did not disagree on much of anything. Instead, our opposing perspectives were, as I already said, just differing measures of emphasis applied to different aspects of the work. Perhaps best of all, we understood one another better, and as a result, we rejoiced in continued fellowship. In fact, I told her I’d write something saying as much. You’re reading it right now.

Amber Roseboom and Right to Life of Michigan have my full support.

Also, I asked Amber if she’d be willing to speak at Our Savior’s upcoming event with Seth Gruber on January 30, 2025. I thought it would be an opportunity for anyone in the RTL community who may be thinking we’re opponents to see us together on stage as friends—because we are. Serving alongside one another would provide this far better perspective.

In closing, I think there’s a lesson to be learned.

W.B. Yeats once wrote, “The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.” In a way, he’s talking about untapped perspectives. As it relates to what I’ve shared, I think the key to sharpening perspectives is being humble enough to listen and patient enough to process what we hear in a way that doesn’t lose sight of the goal. It’s both incremental and absolutist. That said, the key to this hangs on the hook of bravery. Unless we’re daring enough to reconcile while at the same time being willing to search our own thinking for error, there’s no chance of seeing through to something better. But when we take the time to do this, blessings emerge. Perspectives can shift, relationships are strengthened, unique skills each player brings to the game come into sharper focus, and efforts toward the goal line endure.

I think that happened. I’m pretty sure Amber believes it happened, too. And so, we go forward. We know the boundaries. We see the goal line. We understand the fundamentals. With the playbook in hand, we’ve come to execute. We take the field, grab the ball, and move it relentlessly down the field as a team, no matter how the world might try to stop us.

Amber and I are in it. Are you?

The Thanksgiving Day Nudge

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There is something I’m very much looking forward to tomorrow. It’s something for which I am incredibly thankful. Without simply telling you what it is, I think the best way to describe it is to consider its comparisons.

Have you ever been going about your day and stumbled upon something that made you chuckle? I have. Has someone ever told you something that was so intuitively funny that you couldn’t help but laugh out loud? That has happened to me. Have you ever watched a comedy and found yourself in stitches at the outlandish interactions between characters? I have.

All of these are patterns of happiness resulting in happiness’s chief expression: laughter. That said, none of the examples I shared can compare to what will be happening at the Thoma family Thanksgiving Day table. We’ll be laughing. However, the laughter’s source will be far different than the prompts I previously described. It won’t need a joke to coax it. It won’t necessarily be prompted by comedic behavior or a funny story. It’ll just be there. That’s because its prompt is genuine joy, the kind that not only understands the Thanksgiving feast on the dinner table as a gift from the Lord but also because it knows the people gathered at the table as gifts, too.

I’m thankful for this, and I’m looking forward to experiencing it tomorrow after worship. But still, there’s something else.

Whether it’s a holiday feast or just any ordinary day, our family dinners are always very lively. We laugh a lot. Jennifer will sometimes pester me for remaining strangely quiet when it’s happening. For the record, it’s not that I’m disinterested or disengaged from what’s happening. It’s just that I’m often overwhelmed by a profound awareness of God’s goodness to me unfolding in real-time. When this happens, I become very nearly entranced. To snap me out of it, Jennifer abruptly says my name or nudges me with a look. It’s good that she does. If she didn’t, I’d remain fixed in my distant pondering, ultimately missing out on priceless opportunities to actually participate—to interact with these walking, talking gifts of God. Missing out would mean forfeiting the blessings God intends to bestow upon me through them.

I suppose I’m sharing this with you today because the Thanksgiving Day holiday has a way of being a pestering nudge, too, making it worth our attention. Personally, I find it strange that some in the Christian Church would be bothered by a National Day of Thanksgiving being treated by some congregations with the same reverence and devotion that other Christian holidays receive. Here at Our Savior in Hartland, we gather on Thursday, Thanksgiving Day, for a Divine Service at 10:00 AM. We have done so since 1955. And why wouldn’t we? Yes, it’s a civil holiday. Still, for us, it’s just one more opportunity to consider and express gratitude for the many gifts God has given us. We recognize it for the pestering nudge it is—a moment to remember Christian gratitude’s trajectory. In other words, being thankful for God’s gifts (family, togetherness, food, vocation, home, and everything else we have) is not apart from the source of the gifts: God. We don’t sit back and thank Him while forgetting to actually interact with Him. And so, Christians go to church on Thanksgiving Day. Who cares if it’s a civil holiday? It just seems right.

In the Bible, the greatest gift is Christ and His Gospel. God has established a way of distributing the Gospel. Referring to one of the avenues, Saint Paul described the heart of his own preaching by saying it was “to bring to light for everyone what is the plan of the mystery hidden for ages in God who created all things, so that through the church the manifold wisdom of God might now be made known… (Ephesians 3:9-10). What Paul means by “the plan of the mystery” and “the manifold wisdom of God” is not complicated. He means the Good News of the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ for the forgiveness of our sins. Here in Ephesians 3, he makes sure to tell us who has been officially tasked with making sure this Gospel gets into the world. Paul wrote plainly that the manifold wisdom of God is made known through the Church.

This is more than just an abstract point of awareness. It’s an actual point on a map. It’s a place with a table. It’s a place where God promises to be present. You’ve been invited to join God at that place. Certainly, we can take a day devoted to giving thanks, sit back, and marvel at His gifts. But even better, we are called to come and get them, thereby receiving the blessings God intends.

God has invited us to His feast. And so, we go to church (Hebrews 10:24-25). We go to His house. We encourage one another to go. We join Him at His table. We do so surrounded by our Christian family—fellow baptized believers we know and love and cherish. Except at this table, we experience so much more than a holiday meal. We sit with our Lord. He’s there by His verbal and visible Word—the Gospel preached and proclaimed, and the Sacraments administered. We participate in a foretaste of the heavenly feast to come, where fellowship is unbroken and joy is everlasting.

I encourage you to consider joining your Christian family for worship tomorrow morning. Don’t just sit by pondering your thankfulness. Go to the Lord’s house. Engage in the feast. Receive the blessings. Regardless of what some might say, for Christians, the National Day of Thanksgiving can be so much more than a few days off from work or school. It can be assumed into the posture of faith, becoming one more opportunity to taste and see that the Lord is good (Psalm 34:8) and that His mercy endures forever (Psalm 107:1).

God Is Not Mocked

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Someone asked me this past Wednesday before midweek worship if I was ever concerned about the possible outcome of the national election. I told her I was but that there was a distinct moment for me when my uneasiness became something more like attentive anticipation. By “uneasiness,” I mean that it looked to be anyone’s game. President Trump was doing relatively well. But so was Kamala Harris. For as weak a candidate as she was, donating gaffe after gaffe to Trump’s campaign, her numbers still looked strong.

But then, as I said, my concern went away, instead becoming attentive anticipation. By this, I mean I was no longer wondering who would win but rather what was going to befall the Democrats for something they’d done.

Here’s what I mean—and by the way, I shared these same things with my questioner and a few others who’d gathered to listen.

On April 15, 1912, the captain of the Titanic, Edward John Smith, was reported to have said of his new charge, “Not even God can sink this ship.” Hubris was at the helm, and Captain Smith made good on his taunts. He barreled dangerously through icy North Atlantic waters. However, he sideswiped an iceberg at 22 knots. The unsinkable Titanic sank on April 15, 1912, the ship’s maiden voyage.

Another similar story came to mind. Tancredo Neves ran for the Brazilian Presidency in the mid-1980s. During his campaign, he famously noted that if his party managed to rally 500,000 votes, not even God could prevent him from the Presidency. He was elected on January 15, 1985. He was to be inaugurated a few months later, on March 15. However, the night before his inauguration, he got very sick. He died thirty-eight days later, having never assumed the office.

There are other stories like these that I could have shared. But I didn’t. And I won’t do so here, either. I think you get the idea. That said, Saint Paul wrote rather crisply in Galatians 6:7, “Do not be deceived: God is not mocked.” When God scribbled these words through Paul’s pen, He wasn’t kidding around. Come to think of it, Jesus more than tipped His hat to potential repercussions for mocking Him in the Gospel reading appointed for this morning’s worship. In Mathew 9, just as the Lord enters Jairus’s house to raise his daughter from the dead, Jesus tells the professional mourners to leave, implying their services were no longer required. Specifically, the Lord said, “Go away, for the girl is not dead but sleeping” (v. 24a). But what was their response?

“And they laughed at him” (v. 24b).

The next verse is crucial. We learn that before working His miracle, Jesus put the crowd outside (v. 25). Interestingly, the word used for “put outside” is ἐξεβλήθη. It’s the same word used to describe Jesus’s actions relative to demons in texts like Matthew 9:34 and Mark 16:9. It means to cast out or expel. In other words, it’s an exorcism term. In the situation involving Jairus’s daughter, the scoffers were treated like demons and cast out.

Before I tell you why I’m sharing these things, let me say two things. First, Jesus was mocked horribly during His passion, and He did nothing about it. It had to be that way. He submitted Himself into the domain of darkness (Luke 22:53), letting it have its way with Him for our rescue. Second, I should admit that God is mocked daily. Every time we sin, we mock Him. Unfortunately, that’s the sin-nature’s way. Only by the power of the Holy Spirit given by the Gospel for faith are we enlivened to repent of this disposition and instead be found desiring to love and seek faithfulness to Him. Furthermore, God reminds us that when this re-creation happens, it’s very likely we’ll join Him in being hated (John 15:18-27). We’ll be mocked, too.

But remember, this also works in reverse. When we’re mocked, God is mocked. Indeed, Jesus said, “The one who hears you hears me, and the one who rejects you rejects me, and the one who rejects me rejects him who sent me” (Luke 10:16).

In most cases, I think we can say that people rejecting us, ridiculing our supposed backwater ways as Christians, and calling us names is no big deal. You know, “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me” and all that. Sure, the words sting a little, but we survive. Nevertheless, America is on an increasingly aggressive trajectory toward employing those sticks and stones alongside the hurtful words. Christians are being physically attacked, going to court, losing their jobs, suffering permanent reputation damage, and so many other dreadfulnesses, all for the sake of faithfulness to Christ. Some of you may remember I just received a rather offensive glitter bomb in the mail this past Thursday. Still, that’s nothing. I’ve been spit on before, too. My point: The contempt for God and His people is no longer harbored secretly, only revealing itself in conversation at elitist cocktail parties. It’s out in the open, and it’s getting worse. Concerning those at the highest levels of government, for the most part, it seems they’ve been careful enough politically to avoid vocalizing the contempt. However, not anymore. In the same spirit as Captain Smith, Tancredo Neves, my glitter-bomb-sending fan, the lady who spit on me, and the laughing crowd thrown from Jairus’s house, Christ and His followers were brazenly mocked on the world’s stage by the Vice President of the United States, Kamala Harris.

On October 17, 2024, Grant Beth and Luke Polaske, two college students attending a Harris campaign rally, were moved to call out “Christ is King” and “Jesus is Lord” when Harris began a full-throated commendation for abortion during her speech. Immediately, the surrounding crowd began taunting and shoving them. No sooner than this happened, Harris paused and spoke directly to Beth and Polaske, saying laughingly, “You guys are at the wrong rally.” Stoked by her seemingly pithy words, thousands of event-goers erupted in jeering applause.

In one sense, and likely unwittingly, Harris betrayed her secret belief. Christ and His people were not welcome at her rallies. In another sense—and somewhat ironically—she affirmed the truth of Saint Paul’s rhetorical questioning, “For what partnership has righteousness with lawlessness? Or what fellowship has light with darkness?” (2 Corinthians 6:14). Indeed, Christ is the light of the world (John 8:12). He calls His Christians the same thing in Matthew 5:14. Harris and her crowds behaved as darkness. But what should anyone expect from the party that calls for abortion on demand and at every stage of fetal development, the spreading of LGBTQ Inc.’s infectious mind virus ideologies, and the promotion of so many other atrocities? What fellowship can there be between light and darkness, between Christians and such ungodliness?

In his own words, Polaske remembered Harris offering a wave and an accompanying “evil smirk” as security escorted him and Beth from the arena. Go figure. Beth told Fox News, “We were heckled at, we were cursed at, we were mocked, and that’s the biggest thing for me personally. In reflection of the event, Jesus was mocked. You know, his disciples were mocked.”

But God is not mocked.

Harris lost her election bid. In fact, I heard on the news driving into the office this morning that she lost by margins in particular states few believed were historically or mathematically possible.

I will not assume that I know the hidden will of God. Candidates win, and candidates lose. Still, God’s revealed will—His holy Word—has declared, “God is not mocked.” This is not a complicated saying. Knowing this, when I first heard about Harris’s words to Polaske and Beth, I went and listened for myself. As I said at the beginning, what I heard turned my uneasy concern into attentive anticipation. I was no longer anxious that Trump might lose. Strangely, I knew in my gut he wouldn’t. Instead, I waited and wondered what might happen in response to the broad-sweeping mockery demonstrated by a world leader with mass influence. I assumed an electoral exorcism at minimum.

Observing only the election results, it sure seems like the “Christ doesn’t belong here” position was cast out. Still, I think more is coming. But that’s just me. I’m not necessarily looking for something more, but as I said, I am attentively aware.

In the meantime, we go forward and rejoice in what promises to be a breath of fresh air in America. But whether it is or isn’t, we go “not as unwise but as wise, making the best use of the time, because the days are evil. Therefore, do not be foolish, but understand what the will of the Lord is” (Ephesians 5:15-17).

I can tell you one thing for sure: mocking God is not in accordance with His will. If you do it, there will be consequences.

Unavoidables

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I received an email this morning from someone I met for the first time at a dinner in early October. Seeing her name reminded me of something she asked during our in-person conversation. Essentially, she wondered if I was at all concerned with people knowing so much about me. Her point was that I share an awful lot about my life and family across multiple online platforms. She was right. I do.

I told her that writing for public consumption does have its dangers. Anyone familiar with my writing efforts will know my wife, Jennifer, is not above reminding me, “Chris, you’re only ever one sentence away from making people angry.” She’s right. I am. Still, I do it.

My new friend asked me if I have limits to what I share. Of course I do. Although, I don’t really think about them. I just know them. For example, while the more uncomfortable and sometimes even embarrassing lessons I’ve learned in life are just as likely to be shared as a humorously insightful comment from one of my kids at the dinner table, you’ll never hear about anything shared with me in confidence. You’ll never know the intimate details of anyone in my circles. Excluding my family, I’m not above sharing my own. I’m also not above analyzing general contexts that relate to most human beings. I know this sometimes makes folks feel like I had them in mind while writing. But I didn’t. I won’t share anything that isolates or identifies one person’s secrets, even if they give me permission to do so.

My conversation partner asked if there was anything about myself that I hadn’t shared. Yes, there’s plenty. For example, I’ve never shared that I have an observable “tell” when I’ve reached my combined physical and emotional level of exhaustion. You’ll know I’m there when my right ear turns bright red. If you were to walk up to me and touch the ear, you’d know it gets hot, too. It’s weird, I know. But it’s been happening for years. One day, I looked it up. It’s called “Red Ear Syndrome.” There are plenty of theories about what causes it, even though no one really knows for sure. Some say it’s thalamic-related. Others say it’s a form of migraine—which I do suffer on occasion. Some theorize that it’s just one more way the body collects and demonstrates stress. I’m not a doctor, but after years of one plus one equaling two, I can assure you it’s my body’s red alert. When my right ear gets warm and red, it’s my body saying, “Chris, you’re done. Go home.”

I mentioned before that writing for public consumption has its dangers. But there are just as many blessings, too. For example, when I’m warmly greeted in public by someone I’ve never met but knows the things I’ve written, in a way, I realize a friendship is already half-formed. They know my family and church, my peculiarities and interests, my likes and concerns. With that already in place, I’m standing on the welcome mat of opportunity to enter their lives—to walk in and form the other half of the friendship by getting to know them. That’s pretty great because, in a sense, we already have a history together. They were already invited to the Thoma family dinner table. They’ve already been laughing alongside us about this or that. They already went with me to the hospital to meet my grandson, Preston, for the first time. They sat beside me during a Church Council meeting when tough decisions were made. They now know that if my ear starts turning red, I need a break, and they can be sensitive to the need and maybe even offer some help.

That said, there’s another layer of significance to this process, especially when it comes to our lives together in Christian community, most especially as it relates to the forthcoming presidential election.

In these critical times, what any of us might tap through our keyboards for public consumption is about far more than sharing personal anecdotes or life experiences. It’s also about using those stories to communicate what’s true and what isn’t. It’s an opportunity to visit someone’s home and in casual conversation, to demonstrate for them how faith in Christ informs every aspect of our lives. Whether a menial event or a life-altering moment, faith in Christ is the lens you use for interpreting and acting on both. Some would put politics into the carefully guarded silo they call “non-sharable.” Of course, you already know I disagree. Again, the Christian faith—built on God’s holy Word—informs every aspect of our lives, especially life’s unavoidables.

The realm of politics is one of life’s most expansive and invasive unavoidables. It affects everything. Therefore, discussions about candidates and their positions are not off-limits. And so, Christians talk about these things. They openly include in their conversations God’s opinion concerning the sanctity of life, religious freedom, human sexuality, the importance of family, and so on. They encourage support for candidates who most closely align with God’s opinions.

Yes, these conversations can be dangerous. For example, I once received an email from an elected member of the Democrat Party in Florida who read what I wrote about abortion and threatened to drive up and curb-stomp me. But curb-stomped or not, our open confession of Christ in public conversation offers blessings, too. Sometimes friends are convinced, and when they are, lives are changed. Sometimes families are preserved. Sometimes moral and natural law are reinforced, not weakened.

The stakes are high in this current election, and the consequences of silence are too great. Be who you are in Christ. Do this out in the open, not in the shadows. The dangers and blessings will vary, but in the end, it’s the blessings that matter most.

The Gentle Man

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You likely need very little help from me to know the dreadfulness of Hurricanes Helene and Milton. From its center to its malicious extremities, Hurricane Helene was estimated to be 502,000 square miles in size. I did a little math. For perspective, that’s larger than France, Germany, and Italy combined. And then, with seemingly very little breathing room, Hurricane Milton—125,000 square miles of viciousness—tore through Florida in a little more than 24 hours. Thankfully, it weakened from a Category 5 to a Category 3 when it hit land. Nevertheless, it left more ruin in its obliterating wake.

I’m sure, like me, you were attuned to the events. I watched videos of the awful winds. I saw the overwhelming storm surges in Florida and swollen rivers sweeping away entire hillsides in North Carolina. I gave my fullest attention to the reporters visiting and describing the devastation. I listened to the tearful pleas from people who’ve lost everything in mere moments. And by everything, I mean family and friends. As of this morning, Helene claimed 260 lives. Milton took 17. It’s all very heartbreaking.

But there’s more to the story.

Even as the winds were still shaking walls and rattling glass, neighbors were helping neighbors. People were coming to one another’s aid. Everyday people cleared washed-out roads. Local business owners delivered generators. Strangers sheltered strangers from danger, giving them food, water, and a place to sleep.

All this happened long before FEMA arrived sharing online links to emergency loans to people with no internet access. All this continued even as Kamala Harris, the nation’s Vice President, went on Stephen Colbert’s show in full campaign mode for a “beer summit” and an opportunity to laugh about this and that, with no mention of the crisis. All this continued as President Biden, when asked by a reporter if the people in the storm zones were receiving the help they needed, fumbled to remember what the reporter meant by “storm zones.”

In all things political or civil, the ones who are so often piously “above it all” tend to lean on their favorite engagement escape hatch text, Psalm 146:3, which reads, “Put not your trust in princes….” In this case, they’re right to do so. The text refers to rescue. It refers to feeding the hungry and caring for the widows and the fatherless. Of course, the psalmist names God as the only trustworthy one when trouble strikes and needs are abundant. That said, Jesus told His listeners that when He returns in judgment on the Last Day, He will say to His believers, “Come, you who are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you clothed me, I was sick and you visited me, I was in prison and you came to me” (Matthew 25:34-36). From there, Saint James offers rather straightforwardly concerning the Christian religion’s contours, “Religion that is pure and undefiled before God the Father is this: to visit orphans and widows in their affliction, and to keep oneself unstained from the world” (James 1:27).

To be clear, none of these things are teaching that salvation is dependent on our deeds. Good works are fruits of faith, and they are fully orchestrated by the Holy Spirit, who dwells in the believer (Ephesians 2:8-10). However, what we learn from these texts is that God regularly accomplishes the human care ascribed to Him in Psalm 146 through people. And so, I was by no means surprised to learn that neighbors were providing the initial and most crucial material and human resources, and in many cases, their help exceeded what the federal government was willing and able to provide. Where FEMA promised $750 to a hill-dwelling family to cover a catastrophic loss, churches both near and far, along with their denominational institutions, were already gathering funds to rebuild that same family’s home entirely.

Go figure. That’s what Christians do. We are the salt of the earth and the bright-beaming cities on this world’s hills. The deeds done are nothing more than the powerful glory of God at work through His people (Matthew 5:13-16).

I read very little modern fiction. However, someone who knows my appreciation for Lewis and Tolkien recommended I give Patrick Rothfuss a try. For the record, I probably won’t. Still, to investigate, I typed his name into Google. Along the way, I stumbled upon a potent quotation from his book The Name of the Wind. Rothfuss wrote, “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”

That’s an intuitive sentence. The ferocity of nature, such as a stormy sea, is something a wise man fears because he knows its potential for danger. A moonless night of pitch-blackness provides cover for enemies and creatures we can’t see and yet would harm us. Therefore, a wise man avoids being out on such evenings. That same wise man also knows that when a person with an ordinarily gentle persona—someone from whom we’d only ever expect passivity and calm—when that person is moved to action, watch out. It’s likely an unstoppable conviction that’s driving him.

All of this prompts another thought. Well, actually, two.

First, I think we heard from the gentler man after the recent hurricanes. I think Helene and Milton juxtaposed the fire hose of billions of free-flowing cash to foreign countries with so many of our own citizens who couldn’t get the help they needed when they needed it. Because of this, I think the ordinarily quiet man is going to make himself heard in the forthcoming election. I think his voice will resonate long after. The hard truth is that people who just want to go to work, go to church, enjoy their lives and families, and all the things that a peaceful and dignified societal context provides are becoming frustrated. They don’t want to be forced to say a man is a woman when he isn’t. They’re tired of people like Gretchen Whitmer, Michigan’s governor, mocking sacred things like Holy Communion and then gaslighting them, saying what they saw is not what they saw. They’re tired of being forced to sit through DEI and CRT training at the office. They don’t want to feel as though they’re inherently and unforgivably racist because of the color of their skin. They don’t want their children’s teachers to indoctrinate them with confused sexual ideologies. They don’t want their parental rights stripped away. They don’t want their already exorbitant taxes to become monthly paychecks to illegal immigrants. They don’t want those taxes to pay for the same illegals to stay in posh New York hotels while their neighbors in North Carolina receive a few dollars during a disaster. They don’t want any of this.

Second, we heard another quiet man’s voice before, during, and after the hurricanes. We heard from those who live quiet lives of Christian conviction. Their faith proved capable of transforming fear into hope and ultimately showing a strength that could rival both the storms and the Federal government. Their Godly concern for genuine human suffering became a visible force that this sin-infected world and its princes just could not match.

I suppose Hurricanes Helene and Milton are reminders that while nature’s fury is something to be respected, there’s something else—or I should say someone else—far more awe-inspiring and worthy of our reverence: God. His rule has no limits, and His reign is forever, just as the Psalmist declared. More importantly, He cares. He is not distant. He’s close—closer than close can be. Faith knows that He’s so close that He’s often extending a helping hand through a friend or even a stranger. That moves us to thankfulness, first to Him and then to the agents of His manifested care.

Amid these current disasters, I’m not surprised the Christians have made an incredible showing. I bear Godly pride for my own Lutheran Church-Missouri Synod’s response. What a tremendous response from gathered Christians whose eyes are firmly fixed on Christ! But what else should I expect? That same Christ told us it would be this way. His servant, Saint James, did, too. God promised there would be people ready to step into the gaps—neighbors who would help when help was needed, who would ride out the storm while sheltering others through it, and then would remain in the aftermath to rebuild. We’re seeing this.

God be praised for His faithfulness!

A Tiny but Divine Juggernaut

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The feeling is always the same. The day after the conference here at Our Savior, there’s a lingering sense of exhilaration and anticipation. For most in attendance, I’d say the exhilaration erupts not only from the opportunity to meet people they usually only see on TV but also from a newfound passion to engage in the world for the sake of preserving our nation’s founding ideals, which is nothing less than the societal context Saint Paul insists that Christians pray for and intercede to maintain (1 Timothy 2:1-6). He said we do this so that “we may lead a peaceful and quiet life, godly and dignified in every way” (v. 2). But to what end? Again, Paul helps us, writing that such a context “is good, and it is pleasing in the sight of God our Savior” (v. 3) because He “desires all people to be saved and to come to the knowledge of the truth” (v. 4).

All of this is to say that when religious liberty is secure, the freedom to preach and teach the most important message the world has ever known is more widely available. And what is that message? Paul tells us: “For there is one God, and there is one mediator between God and men, the man Christ Jesus, who gave himself as a ransom for all, which is the testimony given at the proper time” (vv. 5-6).

There’s an excitement that comes with playing a role in this preservative action, especially when it so often seems at every turn that Christians have their backs up against the wall. Of course, we’re not inserting ourselves because we somehow think God needs our help to maintain His world. We engage because He invites us to. Interestingly, the same Gospel we’re supporting has already moved us to love Him in ways that embrace His invitations, no matter where they may lead. Luther referred to this Spirit-driven compliance as a believer’s duty. In his explanation of the First Article of the Apostles Creed in the Small Catechism, he wrote that in response to God’s “divine goodness and mercy, without any merit or worthiness in me… it is my duty to thank and praise, serve and obey Him.”

Indeed, this is most certainly true. And so, we do.

I talk with a lot of people at our conference every year, and each conversation is an enlightening one. I learn something from every person I meet. One particular takeaway from this year’s conversations happened after everything had concluded and we were cleaning up. I spoke with a woman who expressed feeling helpless to change things for the better in America. But no sooner than she said this did she thank God for what she received from our conference, describing it as superbly educational and, thereby, motivational. And then, as if wrestling with her own premise while speaking, she found herself insisting that even the slightest, most insignificant effort to engage has a way of eclipsing that helpless feeling.

I grew happier as she spoke. Why? Because without even referencing it, she essentially reiterated the conclusion to the speech I’d given only a few hours prior. She was even now digesting what was said and talking herself toward the realization that faithful engagement comes in different shapes and sizes. The size and shape are determined by God and the gifts He gives.

Stepping from this point of origin into the public square, worry’s inevitable hopelessness is overshadowed by hope’s possibilities born from God’s gracious care.

That’s what I meant at the beginning of this note when I mentioned the lingering sense of exhilaration and anticipation. Again, the exhilaration comes from getting into the game and playing hard. The anticipation is the perpetual hopefulness that, while I might not be the best player by any worldly league’s standards, God still put me on His team. His squad is not made from this world’s muscle. If you doubt this, consider Saint Paul’s perspective in 1 Corinthians 1:26-30:

“For consider your calling, brothers: not many of you were wise according to worldly standards, not many were powerful, not many were of noble birth. But God chose what is foolish in the world to shame the wise; God chose what is weak in the world to shame the strong; God chose what is low and despised in the world, even things that are not, to bring to nothing things that are, so that no human being might boast in the presence of God. And because of him, you are in Christ Jesus, who became to us wisdom from God, righteousness and sanctification and redemption, so that, as it is written, ‘Let the one who boasts, boast in the Lord.’”

Paul isn’t just implying that each and every Christian is on God’s team by faith, lest any of us think that our salvation is based on deeds. He’s also making sure we understand that to look in the mirror and determine one’s value or potential for service to His kingdom according to worldly standards is to make a grave error. God doesn’t work that way. If He did, then the innocent Son of God would not have been given over to death for the sins of the guilty. He’d have left us behind right after the events in Eden, inevitably allowing us to get what we deserve. Instead, Jesus, the epitomizing demonstration of God’s backward way—God’s Son pinned to a cross in what appears to be pathetic weakness—is the mightiest of death blows to Sin, Death, and Satan.

This Gospel is itself the muscle and skillset that outmaneuvers our wisest and strongest opponents. It strengthens its team to suffer the heaviest tackles while still getting up and getting back into formation. It is, by all means, the best play in God’s playbook—the one that, since the beginning of time, Satan and his knuckleheads just can’t seem to figure out how to stop.

We are on God’s team. We didn’t get there by trying out. He baptized us into our respective positions. He has endowed us with what’s necessary for making a difference. And so, we play as hard as we can. We use the gifts God has seen fit to grant us, putting them to work to move the ball down the field toward the goal.

The after-conference conversation I mentioned began with a sense of individual irrelevance and ended with courageous invigoration. For as challenging as it is to assemble and administer a conference like ours, I’ll be forever glad that we do it if only to be reminded that, as the saying goes, where there’s one, there are another five. In other words, my momentary conversation partner—a relatively small woman by human measurements—was by no means the only one refreshed for gameplay. And the thing is, if God continues maneuvering as He does (which I know He will), the world is never going to see this tiny but divine juggernaut coming.

Self-Deceit

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Lying to others is wrong. Lying to oneself is deadly. These were just a few of several recurring thoughts I experienced while watching the film Gender Transformation: The Untold Story, which the Life Team here at Our Savior in Hartland, Michigan, presented during a public forum this past Friday. Our world is right now living the dreadful compounding of lie upon lie to others and to self concerning God’s magnificent design of male and female.

But here’s the thing. While perhaps not as conspicuously awful or with such unalterably horrible results as the deceit presented in the film, we all lie to others and ourselves. If we believe we don’t, then we’ve already proven we’re self-deceived.

I think one reason we end up self-deceived is because of the way we so often prefer to process reality. We have interpretive filters. We experience something, and as we do, rather than its meaning simply being its meaning, we wittingly or unwittingly recraft it to fit us more comfortably.

For example, have you ever said something you intuitively knew was hurtful, and even as you meant the words to cut your opponent, when they did, to protect yourself from feeling bad, you insisted he or she misunderstood you? That was an interpretive filter you used. Specifically, it’s called gaslighting. Most folks might say gaslighting is more others-deceptive than it is self-deceptive. Perhaps. Either way, it’s a self-insulating barrier preventing what’s real from getting through as it should.

But enough psychoanalysis. The better exercise is figuring out why things are this way and what to do about it.

The “why” is easy. The Bible says it’s because of Sin (Psalm 51:5, Romans 3:23-24, Ephesians 2:3, etc.). Concerning self-deception, Saint John digs into the why’s soil and discovers the contaminant’s results, writing, “If we say we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us” (1 John 1:5). Paul digs beside John and finds more ruined soil: “For if anyone thinks he is something when he is nothing, he deceives himself” (Galatians 6:3). Shovel in hand, James hops into the hole and discovers the same, adding: “But be doers of the word, and not hearers only, deceiving yourselves” (James 1:22).

Again, the why is easy. But now, the harder part. What do we do about it?

I have two things to say in this regard. The first is Christological. We must always start with Christ and His Word.

As John, Paul, and James went deeper into the strata, other discoveries were made. Right after discovering Sin’s potential for self-deception, John also found the fertile soil of God’s gracious invitation, noting, “If we confess our sins, [God] is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness” (1 John 1:9). Paul found something else, too. Back in Galatians 3:11, he wrote, “Now it is evident that no one is justified before God by the law, for ‘The righteous shall live by faith.’” James made the same discovery. After nudging his readers from complacency, urging them to be more than just hearers but also doers of what the Lord desires, he dusted off a glistening stone etched with the words “the perfect law, the law of liberty” (James 1:25), which is James’ rhetorical way of pointing his readers to Jesus, the One who is the law’s perfection, the One who sets us free from the law’s burden so that we can be those who not only hear His Word but keep it (Luke 11:28).

While the three dig deeper still, the Psalmist arrives singing a faith-filled work song, one that asks God for help against deceit. The Psalmist sings, “Put false ways far from me…” (Psalm 119:29), and “Save me, O Lord, from lying lips and from deceitful tongues” (Psalm 120:2).

The second thing I want to say is as practical as it is Christological. Essentially, the Gospel nuggets are enough for faith (Romans 1:16). The faith it produces results in repentance. That’s what it does. The word “repent” (μετανοήσατε) literally means to turn around and go the other way—to change the direction of one’s mind or purpose. From a human angle, repentance is incredibly self-analytical. It wants to rid itself of faulty filters. It wants to remove anything that might deceive the self. It wants to boil things down to their mineral elements, see what’s actually there, and fix what’s broken.

For example, consider the following scenario.

Let’s say one of my daughters was troubled about something and asked for a moment of my time, but I reasonably replied, “I’m sorry, honey, but maybe later. I just don’t have time right now.” I had a sermon to write. I had a phone call to make. I had a meeting to attend. Repentance removes the filters and sees the situation for what it is. Relative to this situation, among the long and varied list of things a person should do, repentance understands the role of priority. And so, it hears what was said as, “I’m sorry, honey, but you’re just not a priority to me right now.”

Saying it that way doesn’t feel so good. That’s true, in part because of repentance’s natural direction. Remember, repentance is a reversal. The process of going one way becomes one of moving in the opposite direction. As a preacher, I think there’s more than one way to experience this reversal’s impact. Similar to exchanging the phrase “I don’t have time” for “you’re not a priority,” the same astonishing swap is possible when we invert our language, saying out loud the opposite of what’s actually true. Here’s another example.

I mentioned to Jennifer last week that one day, I’m going to preach a sermon in which everything I say is the exact opposite of what the listeners would expect me to say. The reason? It’s one thing for the average pew-sitter to make excuses for sinful behavior. But what if those same excuses were being commended from the pastor’s mouth? I can only imagine the congregation’s response to me preaching that presence in worship isn’t all that important. How startling would it be to hear me say from the pulpit that fidelity to Christ is just as important as fidelity to all the other things taking up space on our calendars? Would there be wide eyes as I say there’s nothing wrong with putting God’s Word in the back seat on occasion? Would there be gasps when I say God knows we sometimes need a break from Him and that He’s perfectly content playing second fiddle in our lives?

I’d go on and on, never once saying what you’d expect from a Christian pastor. I think the language reversal would be overwhelmingly eye-opening. Like telling my daughter she’s not a priority, it just wouldn’t feel right.

The people here at Our Savior will undoubtedly know if and when I attempt this. Until then, think about what you’ve read so far. Ask yourself, “Do I have interpretive filters that make lying to myself easier? Do I shield myself with excuses that do little more than keep me comfortable doing the things I know I shouldn’t?” If the answer is yes, then contemplate the dangers of insulating yourself in this way and repent. Turn around and go the other way. If the answer is no, then consider that you may already be self-deceived and don’t know yourself as well as you think you do. And then, as with the first answer, repent.

A Little Bit About Grace

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Grace is an amazing thing, especially when you are fully aware you need it and yet, in every way, are undeserving of it. If you don’t know what I mean, then the only thing I can think to say is that you’re a textbook narcissist who’ll never know grace’s fuller impact because you sense no need for it. That’s unfortunate. Most normal people know the downcast feeling of causing harm. Most folks likely even sense the need to admit it. When they’re all alone with their thoughts, they experience the familiar urge to ask themselves, “Why did I do that? What on earth was I thinking?”

It’s also likely that most normal people know the overwhelming exhilaration that comes from expecting retribution but receiving grace instead. I’ve certainly had my share of moments when, whether in a flurry of imposed frustration or I was just being me, I acted in ways I later regretted. I said something I wish I hadn’t. I did something I wish I hadn’t. I remember once saying something to one of my children that I felt so bad about later that I nearly couldn’t sleep for a week. I felt so terrible afterward. Still, on the very same day of my crime, there was no lack of love bestowed upon me by the one I hurt. I was treated graciously, even hugged, long before a lowly father’s sad heart materialized with a verbal apology.

Yes, grace—undeserved kindness—is an amazing thing. When you experience it, you’re different afterward.

I read somewhere that grace is proof that a person means more to you than what he or she did to you. I suppose that’s another way of saying you love them no matter what. Mark Twain wrote something somewhere about how forgiveness is the fragrance a flower leaves on the boot that crushed it. If I had the power to recraft Twain’s words, I’d swap “forgiveness” with “grace.” Grace and forgiveness are two very different things. Grace—undeserved kindness—can be extended to both the penitent and the impenitent. Forgiveness is the actual removal of sin from the sinner (Psalm 103:12). God won the whole world’s forgiveness through the person and work of Jesus. It’s there and available. Penitent faith receives it. A person who is not penitent sees no need for forgiveness. In that sense, it remains apart from him. In the meantime, grace more than sets and maintains the stage for it. When we show grace, we’re showing patient love. We’re making it so that when penitence emerges, we’re ready to bestow the kind of forgiveness that knows the full removal of guilt and the beginning of a brand new day.

Lots of folks disagree with me on this point. They point to texts like Matthew 6:15, Ephesians 4:32, and so many others. I would argue they’re missing the penitent undertow of the texts. In other words, these texts understand we ought never to withhold forgiveness from anyone desiring it. If they request forgiveness, we give it, no matter if we think the penitence is real or fake.

There’s an element of this in Jesus’ answer to Peter’s question about how many times he was required to forgive a penitent brother. “Lord,” he asked, “how often will my brother sin against me, and I forgive him? As many as seven times?” Jesus essentially responds by saying people who ask for it get from us as much as they want. “I do not say to you seven times, but seventy-seven times” (Matthew 18:21-22). That’s hyperbole. It means we never stop doling it out.

In Luke’s version of the same narrative, Jesus turns the challenge back upon the forgiver. He says, “Pay attention to yourselves! If your brother sins, rebuke him, and if he repents, forgive him, and if he sins against you seven times in the day, and turns to you seven times, saying, ‘I repent,’ you must forgive him” (Luke 17:3-4). The point here is that we should determine our own motives in the exchange. We’re not in the business of reading a person’s heart. We’re not the ones to determine if the person genuinely desires reconciliation. We’re also not in the business of making it hard for someone to be forgiven. No matter how mad at them we may be, or how much we want to get them back for their crimes, or what we think their motives might be, we get out of forgiveness’ way. We stand infinitely ready to forgive, no matter how many times they reach out to us for it.

That said, can forgiveness be given to someone who sees no need for it or, worse, rejects it outright? Knowing that human-to-human forgiveness is to be an imitation of God’s forgiveness, is that how it works between us and God (Colossians 3:13, Matthew 6:14-15)? The text from Luke 17:3-4 assumes no. John 20:23 assumes no, too, saying, “If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you withhold forgiveness from any, it is withheld.” The doctrine of excommunication taught in Matthew 18:15-18 and Titus 3:10-11 assumes the same. So does 1 John 1:8-9.

“But what about the Lord’s words from the cross?”

Even the Lord’s words to His Father from the cross to “forgive them for they know not what they do” (Luke 23:34) is not an insistent decree that those who were murdering Him in absolute unbelief should somehow be granted the privilege of skirting unbelief’s result. For starters, the word here for forgive is ἄφες, and it’s equally translatable in this context as “dismiss” or “disregard.” In fact, a language scholar and commentator I trust, R.C.H. Lenski, wrote concerning this verse:

 “‘Forgive’ is not expressive enough: ‘remit,’ ‘dismiss,’ ‘send away’ render the true sense. The object is not stated but is plain from the added clause: dismiss ‘what they are doing.’”

Essentially, Christ is asking His Father to be what He already knows He is: gracious. He is asking Him to put aside His wrath at this moment, knowing full well that if there was ever a time for wrath, it was now. Still, the Lord tearfully pleads for the Father to look away, to dismiss what they’re doing, to let this one go by unpunished.

By the way, grammatically, the pronoun “them” refers to the Roman soldiers performing the crucifixion. They’re its antecedent, not the Pharisees and crowd demanding the Lord’s torture and death. That’s no small detail.

In the end, this is not complicated. Christ did not upend what we know of forgiveness. He simply continued doing what He always did during His earthly ministry. He was gracious, continuously showing concern for others before the self. On the cross, He unwaveringly emitted this others-focused grace perfectly, wanting the Father to look away, perhaps even giving His fiercest enemies time to come to their senses. Again, why? Because the Lord knows better than all of us the truest nature of Sin. He knows that humanity is influenced and held captive by something we cannot fully grasp. Indeed, far too often, we do not know what we do.

I think some of my theological critics—the ones who will say I’m mistaken in this regard—believe as they do more so because pop psychology’s understanding of forgiveness has been so ingrained in our post-modern psyche. For many therapists, forgiveness is more about personal healing and the ability to move on with a normal life. For example, forgiveness has come to mean that to get beyond a traumatic marriage, a woman must learn to forgive her abusive husband. I read a story last spring about a mother who confronted her son’s smirking murderer in court, saying, “I forgive you for what you’ve done.” The killer was by no means sorry. In fact, he was glad he did it. Can he lay claim to the forgiveness she offered? No.

But her grace can be imposed on him, whether he wants it or not.

The mother can pray for her son’s killer, asking the Heavenly Father to grant him what’s necessary to come to his senses and repent. She can write Gospel-rich letters to him in prison, knowing that the Gospel is “the power of God unto salvation” (Romans 1:16). She can visit him in prison, too, and share that Gospel face-to-face. She can show him that, as a human being, he means more to her than what he did to her son. That’s grace, and it smears a perpetrator’s filthy bootheel with the kind of scent that can lead a person to the One who, ultimately, bestows the only kind of compassion capable of instilling repentance and faith (Matthew 5:13-16, 43-45; John 13:35).

I’m sure you have situations in your life to which this little rambling might be applied. We all do. The Lord knows we’re neck-deep in a political season that’s going to require a lot of grace between so many. Of course, to those who wrong you, don’t be a pushover. Make sure they know what they’ve done. Beyond that, be gracious, and then step back and see what happens. You may be surprised. There may come a time when you hear them say with sincerity, “I’m sorry.” And because you were still immersed in grace’s patience, what a joy it will be to say, “I forgive you.”

What if Aliens Were Real?

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Those who know me best are not surprised each year by my autumn discontent. The leaves fall, and with their pixie-like twirling, so goes a portion of my enthusiasm. Add to this autumn’s brisk breezes and its chilled and misty rains pulling down more and more of the landscape’s adornments, and it’s as if an unseen prison guard is escorting me to a dank and lightless cell. Michigan’s naked oak, maple, and dogwood trees surround and stretch skyward as its bars. My sentence? Six to eight months in the sunless cold.

I’m summer’s boy, and that’s that.

The thing is, I know it. And because I know it, I can war against the returning urge to pack up and move closer to the equator. Although, that reminds me of something. I had a phone conversation yesterday morning with one of our forthcoming conference speaker’s assistants. As is typical of many conversations, I was asked about the current weather. I was sure to mention my disdain for autumn and winter. The young woman I was talking with jokingly said she remembered hearing that space aliens appear to visit warmer regions more so than cold, which means my chances of abduction increase the closer to the equator I get. I told her I thought I’d heard the same thing from one of Joe Rogan’s podcast guests.

Familiar with Rogan, she noted his fascination with aliens, and then, to further the friendly conversation, she asked what I thought about the topic. I told her that while I appreciate sci-fi cinema, I don’t spend much time thinking about aliens, that is unless we’re talking about the millions of illegals crossing our southern border.

“What if they’re real, though?” she asked. “Then what?”

I knew what she meant. Even though we both considered the topic a relatively silly one, I could tell she had given it some thought. She wondered what the discovery of sentient beings from beyond our solar system might mean for Christianity. I think about lots of things, but I don’t spend much time thinking about things like this. Nevertheless, it certainly was an opportunity to shift gears in the way Saint Peter anticipated when he urged that we be “prepared to make a defense to anyone who asks you for a reason for the hope that is in you” (1 Peter 3:15).

My initial thoughts were that if extraterrestrial life was ever discovered, first, I don’t think its existence would obliterate Christianity in the ways so many atheists and agnostics assume. Faith doesn’t work that way. It’s far sturdier than onlookers may realize, and history proves it. Christianity has been through the proverbial ringer, the kind of turbulence that has undone so many other religions, and yet, it’s still here, and it’s encompassing the globe’s entirety. Extraterrestrial life’s existence would be interesting, but it would not disprove or smother Christianity. Of course, my ultimate baseline for saying this is that Christianity is true and all other religions are false. Truth withstands—falsehood crumbles.

From there, I went ahead and admitted to the widely held belief that alien encounters are likely spiritual in nature—but not the good kind. They’re probably demonic. I think Tucker Carlson believes this, too, which makes us kin to this perspective.

I know how that sounds, of course. It sounds relatively backwater. Nevertheless, I shared it openly. And so, you can see how unconcerned I am for being labeled “backwater.” So much of who I am and what I do so often gets that label, anyway. I believe a man cannot be a woman. For many, that’s the old way, the ignorant way. I believe all abortions are murder. That’s indeed becoming an outdated premise. It’s fashionable nowadays to grind both early and late-term infants into hamburger. I believe sin is actual. I believe Jesus was God in the flesh. I believe He suffered, died, and rose from the dead to rescue me from sin. To the onlooking culture, anyone believing these things is considered an intellectual dullard clinging to ancient myths and their accompanying superstitions.

Again, as you can see, I’m far more bothered by autumn and winter than I am by derogatory labels.

“For conversation’s sake,” she continued, wanting something more, “what if we actually discover they aren’t demons but real beings from another solar system? What then?”

Accepting her premise purely for discussion’s sake, I restated my initial premise. For me, it wouldn’t change anything about my faith. But then I went a little further. I told her just how important God’s Word is to me—that I believe every bit of it. I’m not a “Tim Walz” Lutheran.

Walz believes that while the Bible contains worthwhile but negotiable principles, it is, by no means, the inspired Word of God. In his view, we can take and leave whatever it says as we choose. I don’t believe that at all. I certainly believe it is far more than a guidebook. I absolutely believe it is divinely inspired. It is God’s revelation to man concerning salvation, and Jesus is the epicentral purpose of both its Old and New Testaments. I also believe the Bible is inerrant and immutable. It does not contain mistakes, and its doctrines do not change. If we find what we think is a mistake, then we’re not understanding it correctly. If any of its teachings don’t fit well with our time, culture, or modern understanding, then too bad. The Bible shapes us; we do not shape it. When God gave it through His inspired writers, He knew future generations would be reading it, and therefore, it applies to all of them.

Drenched in these qualities, the Bible sure does tell us a lot about God. He’s just. He’s loving. He’s redeeming. He’s not far away from us, but near. He cares. He creates. Concerning His work as the divine Author, one thing I can say for sure is that God is incredibly imaginative. Limited only by His nature, He can make whatever He wants. He’s God. And by limited, I mean things He cannot do, such as sin. Apart from that, look around at the countless varieties of life on Earth if you doubt His creativity. With every new documentary Jennifer and I watch (because most other shows are garbage), we’re both amazed to learn about new creatures we never even knew existed.

There’s something else I know relative to this. Within the Bible’s pages, God shows mankind to be His most prized work. In all the cosmos, He claims us as His beloved. That doesn’t mean we’re the only creatures He loves (Matthew 6:25-34). His love isn’t limited to us and nothing else. He loves and cares for the birds of the air and the lilies of the field, too (Matthew 6:25-34). It means that even as the birds and lilies are trapped alongside us in this sinful world, He didn’t take upon Himself human flesh and die to save them. His sights were set on us. He died to save us. Our rescue was His love’s aim. Our redemption was the purpose for His suffering and death. That’s a whole different kind of love—an extraordinary love, by comparison.

All of this together means two things to me. First, if we ever discover that aliens exist, God made them. I can say that because I’m in concert with all the Christians who’ve knowingly or unknowingly implied it for generations in the Nicene Creed. Together, we’ve been announcing God as the “maker of heaven and earth, of all things visible and invisible.” In other words, He made everything we can see and everything we can’t see, everything we know, and everything we are yet to discover.

Second, if there are aliens, like everything else God made, He loves them. Beyond that, all sci-fi-becoming-reality speculation ends for me.

Why am I sharing all this? Well, because it came to mind this morning, that’s why. Remember, I mentioned before that this whole conversation seemed a little silly. That’s because I think it is. It was a transitional interaction designed to carry two people from an introduction to the business at hand. But looking back, I can see its benefit. I was given the opportunity to think through and express my hope. Moreover, by measuring one of the strangest topics out there against Christianity’s deepest convictions, faith and its relationship to God’s inspired, inerrant, and immutable Word were hardened, not rattled.

In the end, no matter what’s going on around us, a Christian holds to the Bible as the sole source for faith, life, and practice. That’s because the Gospel of salvation through Christ is its core. Trust in this eternal truth is the fuel for Saint Paul’s confidence as he writes, “For I am sure that neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord” (Romans 8:38-39).

Understand that “space aliens” fits into Paul’s phrase “nor anything else in all creation.”