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First Impressions

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I’m writing this morning’s note from an Airbnb in Morton, Illinois. Rather than rent a hotel room, for barely a fraction more, Jennifer managed to locate a spacious two-bedroom first floor of an early 20th-century home just around the corner and down the street from where I used to live. It has a full kitchen, dining room, and living room to boot. As I said, Jennifer found it. Although, she isn’t here. My daughter, Evelyn, is traveling with me. We’re in town to visit my family.

For starters, I just got back from a quick trip to the local McDonald’s for my usual Sunday morning coffee. You can be pretty sure I’m sipping one while tippity-tapping these Sunday messages. It took a little longer than normal to get the coffee. Usually, I’d just zip through the drive-through and be on my way. However, after sitting for a while unnoticed, I decided to go inside.

It doesn’t matter where you are; there’s something about restaurant dining rooms. They’re either bustling with vigor—people coming and going, conversations echoing from the walls—or they’re eerily quiet, as though the building itself is holding its breath. This morning, it was the latter. It felt as though I was the only one awake in the town—well, besides the three workers I saw behind the counter and one other person who was already inside ordering something, too. Where I am right now, a house on Adams Street, is just as still. Evelyn is still sleeping, and the only noticeable sounds are the taps at my keyboard and a faint machine hum coming from what I’m guessing is the furnace.

I don’t mind the quiet. Stillness has its charm. Because I’m almost always on the move, when I do have a moment like this, especially one that occurs in a relatively unfamiliar location, it becomes an opportunity for a unique kind of reflection. Typically, I’m in my office when I write these notes. I can observe my surroundings—or whatever might be swirling around in my head—without distraction almost every Sunday from my computer chair. But in this particular space—a hardwood chair at a small round table in a unique corner of a much wider world—there’s an exclusive character to its ordinariness. This is to say, while the room’s décor might not win awards, and the coffee I drink ritually is barely up to par, there’s no place like this place right now. If I’m willing to consider that even the simplest things bear a treasure trove of inspiration, then I’m just as blessed to be where I am at this very moment as I would be if I were roaming the gilded halls of the Hermitage.

But to grasp this, I need to pay attention. I need to look around and take notice of what’s happening—what others are doing, what objects are involved in the moment’s stillness as well as its commotions. For example, I mentioned before that I wasn’t the only one who stopped at McDonald’s this morning. Another person was there. Admittedly, he looked rigidly serious in his dark suit. If I’m being completely honest, he reminded me of a funeral director—or maybe a character from the film Men in Black. Had the shadow government sent an agent to Illinois to abduct and mind-wipe me? Who knows. Either way, I wondered further when taking his two bags of food in hand, he followed me out the door. But then I watched him climb into a silver minivan with two bumper stickers on it that made me laugh out loud. One sticker read, “I identify as a toaster,” and the other, “Citizens Against Bumper Stickers.”

For as serious as the man appeared to be, I’m guessing we have a similar sense of humor. Or he’s married to someone who has the same sense. Either way, I’ll bet if we spoke, we’d get along just splendidly. But to know this, I had to let more than first impressions determine our future. I had to give him a little more time and space to be his fuller self.

I suppose the congealing thought this morning is that as Christians intent on bringing the Gospel into a world of countless personalities, this is important to keep in mind. People are complex. They rarely fit neatly into the categories we might initially assign them. I’ve told my own children on occasion that when I first see a homeless person—or anyone who might be relatively off-putting—I try to remember that the person was once someone’s baby, and then eventually a toddler, and then eventually a child, and so on. This person was given life just like the rest of us. That alone deserves reverence. Stepping from there, even as someone’s first impression might communicate a hard and filthy life, or even an all-business and rigidly humorless demeanor, a closer look can reveal a human being with personality and depth, someone with an undiscovered past and an untold future, and among all of it, a human being who bears the fingerprints of the Creator’s artistry in ways we might never expect.

This is just one more example of something I continue to insist among any and all who read the things I write. I’m pretty consistent in encouraging my readers to look at the world through the lens of the Gospel. When the Gospel becomes a way of seeing, our surroundings become more than things, and people become more than strangers, acquaintances, or friends. Saint Paul knew this. He at least winked at it when he wrote, “From now on, therefore, we regard no one according to the flesh…. Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation. The old has passed away; behold, the new has come.” (2 Corinthians 5:16-17). He knew that observing the world and its inhabitants through the lens of Christ’s life, death, and resurrection was to see beyond humanity’s exterior to its divine value. To do otherwise is the old way—sin’s way. In Jesus, the new way has come.

Of course, and once again, Jesus is the ultimate demonstration of this perspective. The first example that comes to mind this morning is Zacchaeus, a despised tax collector in the sycamore tree (Luke 19:1-10). The Lord saw him for all that he was in his sinful past and present, and yet, He called to him, fully intent on giving him a better future. Why? Because Zacchaeus was innately valuable. Another example is the woman at the well in John 4:7-26. He knew her past. In fact, He proved it by telling her things about her life that no stranger would ever know, not even from a first impression’s hints. And yet, His goal was not to harness her to that past. It was to give her a new future. Again, why? Because she was His divine creation, and she was valuable.

In the end, my point is one of encouragement. I’ve written before that I have no problem finding plenty to write about every Sunday morning. That’s because there’s plenty around me to observe and investigate through the Gospel’s lens. And so, again, be encouraged to do the same, especially when it comes to people. Pay attention. Do so, remembering that each is a unique creation of God. I mentioned before that Saint Paul knew this. Truth is, the whole Bible knows it. The Psalmist certainly did, reminding us, “For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made” (Psalm 139:13-14). Every individual carries this intrinsic worth. With that as the starting gate to any first impression, no one should be dismissed offhand, but rather, there’s always room for second, third, and fourth impressions.

Somewhere in Time

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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