We conservatives love to grumble about the indoctrination of children. I know I do. And why wouldn’t I? Every other week, there’s another headline about this dreadful thing and that horrible thing happening in a classroom somewhere, followed by another outraged post or podcast about how schools these days are poisoning our children.
Trust me, I get it. I’m frustrated, too. It’s why I do everything in my power to serve and maintain our tuition-free Christian school here at Our Savior in Hartland. I figure that apart from caring for my own family, the best way that I can help is to provide an alternative for the community—and not just a substitute, but something truly exceptional that puts Christ and His Word front and center as the chief interpreter to all that we are and will ever be.
That said, there remains an uncomfortable truth that everyone else out there is afraid to say out loud. Public schools are shaping our children because parents stopped doing it first.
We wring our hands over what the public schools are teaching about sexuality, identity, history, morality, or whatever. But the average Christian home spends more time watching Netflix in one evening than it does talking or teaching about Christ in a year. We shout at the school board about why our children are disrespectful, but the school didn’t raise them. We did, along with that glowing rectangle that’s been in their hands since they were two years old.
There’s a vacuum. The world is only doing what the world does to fill it. That’s not hard to see. Still, we take some strange comfort in blaming a system that’s true to its nature rather than taking a long, hard look at the parent in the mirror. We let the world form our children. And why? I think it’s because we’ve forgotten how. Or perhaps worse, we’ve decided we shouldn’t have to. Moral formation has become a subcontracted task—outsourced first to the church (if we have time to attend one). But for the most part, we leave it to whoever stands in front of the classroom—or the most popular TikTok influencer. And when the results disappoint us, we demand reform.
How about parental repentance first?
I just read a study saying that American parents, on average, will spend ten hours a week driving their kids to sports, at least four hours scrolling social media, and maybe—just maybe—a minute or two discussing what they learned at church—again, if they even go, because only around 22% of Americans attend church weekly. Only 33% attend at least monthly.
I think the truth in all of this is really pretty simple. You cannot demand values you yourself have never been willing to establish and maintain. You cannot expect anyone or anything to build character on a foundation you never laid.
I began this rant talking about public education. If you haven’t figured it out, that was just the lead-in to my frustration. Although, don’t get me wrong. I’m not excusing the failures of public education. It’s a hellscape of dreadfulness in many paces, filled with ideologies that are sending our children into moral and conceptual death spirals that many simply cannot escape. But that’s mostly because they cannot navigate it. Ultimately, that translates into any parental outrage without serious self-examination being nothing more than self-deception.
So, how about this… Before you get an itch in your craw to do all you can to tear down a Marxist curriculum, how about you also work on rebuilding the family dinner table? Before you demand traditional moral character formation in the classroom, how about you monitor the morality of your own mouth and behavior in the living room? Using the F-word in front of the kids, if ever at all, is not good parenting. Sorry to have to break this to you.
And so, before you go off to fight for your kids’ souls in a public forum, how about shepherding those souls at home? If we want a different outcome, we need different parents. Period. It’s not just that the schools stopped teaching our values. It’s that we stopped teaching them first.
This past Thursday, while many of my dearest friends were gathering in Lansing for the March for Life—a trip I genuinely wanted to make—I found myself in places far less energizing: doctors’ office waiting rooms. I was in two different locations that day. One of the appointments I’d scheduled mid-summer. And it was one of those “you’d better not reschedule this” kind of appointments. The other was one I didn’t anticipate. Regardless, I’ll admit I felt a little restless sitting beneath the fluorescent lights and watching the time tick by, all the while thinking of the better effort in Lansing. Of course, I prayed that the march would be impactful.
At the “you’d better not reschedule” appointment—a cardiologist’s office—I ended up in a conversation with someone a few seats away. We somehow wandered into the topic of death. I think I know why. At one point, I mentioned a friend from High School who had died this past Tuesday, someone I still considered relatively young, barely fifty-one. The exchange set the tone for what’s on my mind this morning. You may or may not appreciate what I’m about to write. Although it’s my keyboard, so there’s that. But more importantly, what I’m going to tell you echoes some of what we talked about.
I’ll just state the premise plainly: When death visits, it has become all too common for sentiment to replace reality. Now, let me explain.
Imagine for a moment you’re at a funeral. There, before you in the casket, is the deceased. It’s someone who had no time or inclination for faith—or maybe even denied the faith outright. Nevertheless, in death, suddenly—almost magically—the deceased is a believer. Suddenly, everyone gathered around the casket is speaking and acting as though the person had a devout (but entirely undetectable) trust in Jesus. And so, “He’s in a better place,” someone says. Or “She’s with the angels now,” another whispers.
How does this happen?
I suppose one reason people speak this way (although not the genuine point of what I intend to say) is that so many want to believe death is good. We say things like, “Death was her friend at the end.” But the Scriptures never speak of death as a friend. Death is the enemy (1 Corinthians 15:26). It is sin’s wage (Romans 6:23). And it is final (Hebrews 9:27). It is the moment when the curtain falls between time and eternity, when what a person believed—or refused to believe—is laid bare before the living God. And when death comes, this enemy reports there are no do-overs. I imagine the people hovering around the casket are secretly hoping there will be. They’re hoping that death, in its supposed kindness, will go easy on them.
But no matter how we try to recraft the moment, no matter what we do to make the moment palatable, death remains what it has always been. It is the world’s final intruder. And to pass death off as some sort of friend who comes along to take a person’s hand, in the end, is to cheapen the Lord’s war against death on the cross.
Christ did not come to make death poetic. He came to destroy it. If this is true, then the moments when death confronts us deserve a clarity that matches its seriousness. In other words, it’s no time for pretending.
Regrettably, I think some pastors, caught in the strange nether space between compassion and conviction, are pulled into this gush. I’ve experienced the pull before. Not so much anymore. But I do remember in the earlier days of my ministry the urge to choose words, not necessarily for truth’s sake, but to avoid offending onlookers during a sensitive moment. And yet, when the Church and her pastors do this—ultimately confusing comforting sentiment with truth—we’re really just betraying both.
I guess what I’m saying is that when we do this, we pave the way for so many to go wandering off into vague spirituality. And forget for a moment syrupy sentiments like the deceased is “looking down from heaven.” I’m talking more about faith-identifying descriptors that would somehow imply that an unbeliever is “at peace” or “in heaven now.” In other words, too many speak as though heaven were a natural right granted to the well-meaning with relatively respectable qualities. But again, the Bible knows nothing of such generalities. Salvation is not the automatic destination of the nice, the kind, or the merely religious. It is the gift of God through faith in Jesus Christ alone (Ephesians 2:8-9). If you are not a believer, when you die, you are not at peace. You are in terrible suffering. And that place of suffering—hell—isn’t imaginary. It’s real, and it’s eternal.
I know that’s not easy to hear. I warned you at the beginning. But I suppose that’s also why I’m writing this. God’s standards are the ones that apply. Never our own. That means faith in Jesus is no small thing. That also means that funerals become unique opportunities for the living.
A few weeks ago, I happened to be sitting in a funeral director’s office near the facility’s front door when I heard an unfortunate conversation between a teenage girl and someone I’m guessing was her mother.
“Why are we here?” the young girl asked. “Funerals are stupid,” she continued, sounding half-annoyed, the way young people do when confronted with something they don’t understand. Her mother replied, “We’ll just stay for a little while and then go home.” I didn’t see the girl’s expression, but I’m guessing by her sigh that she rolled her eyes before adding, “I don’t want to be here. And who cares, anyway? He’s gone.”
Her words echo a world that no longer knows what to do with death. It doesn’t know what it means.
Of course, I don’t know the complexity of the girl’s relationship to the deceased. But let’s just assume the young girl meant exactly what she said. Had I been her parent, I would’ve shepherded her to a quiet corner and explained that of all places, a funeral is the time to know what’s true, not what’s comfortable. If there’s any moment when eternity should press in upon human hearts, it’s when we’re standing beside a casket. That’s when the thin veil between life and death is most real. It’s when our mortality is undeniable. Then I’d walk her to the casket. “Look in there,” I might say. “One day, that will be me. One day, that will be you. Then what?”
That’s the intrusive question no one wants to ask at a funeral, and yet it’s one of the only ones that matter. In one sense, funerals are mirrors held up to the living. They’re opportunities to strip away the noise of daily life and, if anything, to at least recall three very important things.
First, our time is unknown. Second, eternity is real. Third, what we believe—or refuse to believe—matters more than anything someone might say about us when we’re in the casket. A room full of mourners saying nice things and grasping at a hopeful but false future won’t make that future real. Not for the dead. Not for them.
I suppose that third detail brings me back around to where I started. When churches speak and act as if every soul is saved—as if everyone who dies is owed a Christian burial with Christian hymns, Christian prayers, and a Christian sermon, they teach the living that faith and its fruits don’t really matter, that repentance and trust in Christ are optional extras that can be conjured after the fact. This unclarity does not comfort the grieving. It anesthetizes them. It teaches them to believe in a sentimental fiction rather than in the Savior who conquered the cruelest enemy, death.
Plenty of folks have asked me what I like most about being a pastor. My first answer is always, “Baptizing babies!” I just love it. Next, I appreciate funerals. Funerals are where the rubber hits the road. If ever there was a time to proclaim the Law and Gospel clearly—the fact that we are sinners in need of a Savior, and that Savior is Jesus—it’s at a funeral.
At the same time, a funeral sermon is one of the heaviest burdens a pastor has to bear, especially when he somehow finds himself standing beside the casket of someone he knows was without faith. (And in case you think I’m “judging” someone’s heart, take a quick trip through the following texts: Matthew 7:16-20; Matthew 12:33-35; Luke 6:43-45; James 2:17-18; 1 John 1:6; 1 John 2:3-4; 1 John 3:9-10; Titus 1:16; Galatians 5:19-23.) Don’t get me wrong. Great care is needed when choosing one’s words in such situations. Still, there will be the temptation to believe that speaking truth in that moment is cruel and speaking falsehood is compassionate. But actually, the reverse will always be true.
To proclaim a false peace over the unbelieving dead is to rob the living of the Gospel’s urgency. It implies that Christ’s sacrifice was really no big deal—maybe even unnecessary—and that sin has no real consequences, and ultimately that heaven can be had without the narrow way of repentance and faith (Matthew 7:13-14). This kind of preaching might comfort for a moment in the funeral parlor, but in the end, it can only lead away from Christ and condemn for eternity.
A Christian pastor must lead the people to mourn honestly. He’s wasting oxygen when he points to the moral résumé of the deceased. His job is to point to the mercy of God in Christ—mercy which had been available to the one in the casket but is still available right now for the listeners. Doing this, the pastor is careful to communicate that God’s mercy is not cheap. It came at great cost to Christ. But He went into that combat supernal because He loves you, and He knew you could not defeat the last enemy, death.
That sits at the heart of the Gospel. When the Church loses this clarity, it loses its reason to exist. To be clear about these things is not cruel. It’s love. Real love.
Of course, Christians do not gloat over judgment. We grieve for the lost. But it’s a strange kind of grieving. It’s strange because we do it as ones who have hope (1 Thessalonians 4:13), but we know better than to hope in ourselves. Our hope is in Christ, who died for sinners. Holding to this hope, we are careful not to rewrite God’s Word to make the Gospel cheap, punching holes in it and then wiggling to fit every opinion through faith’s narrow gate.
The task of the Church is to proclaim what Christ has done, not to invent an easier gospel when death makes us uncomfortable. The world may prefer gentle lies. The Church must love her listeners enough to tell the truth.
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.
Cruciform Stuff 