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Reverend Doctor Advent

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The Advent season is upon us. Not Christmas, but Advent.

“So, what’s the difference?”

Well, there’s a big difference, actually. A person can understand the difference by first admitting that not all teachers are human. Seasons are professors, too. If we’re paying attention, even the earth’s varying seasons teach us something. Ralph Waldo Emerson described summer as a time that teaches us to swim and to drink in the wild air, which is to say, it’s a time for getting out and occupying creation. Conversely, John Steinbeck noted that the value of summer is best known in the depth of winter. Shakespeare added to the wintry lesson, “Here feel we the penalty of Adam, the season’s difference; as, the icy fang.” In other words, we can blame the devilish serpent and Adam for winter.

Again, seasons teach.

I’ll add that the Christians who jump straight from Thanksgiving to Christmas without experiencing the season of Advent are truly missing out on something extraordinary.

Advent means “coming.” When you know someone or something is on the way, you prepare. No small part of the Advent season’s purpose is to stir thoughtful anticipation and to refresh Christianity’s two-fold longing for the arrival of Christ. Here’s what I mean by “two-fold.”

If an Advent pilgrim is paying attention, he’ll first sense Advent’s deep concern for a savior from the perpetual nighttime of Sin and Death. He’ll notice the season’s explicit call to contemplate this unfortunate predicament, and he’ll be urged to look toward a little city with a manger. He’ll be prompted to prepare for Jesus, the One whose incarnation was the very inbreaking of God to save us. He’ll also notice an underlying promise: the One who first came in lowliness won’t return in the same condition. The next time He comes, it will be in glory as the divine Judge over all things. When He returns, He’ll set all things right and take His people to be with Him forever.

Advent ponders these two arrivals. The season is in place to help us, mainly because if left to ourselves, we’ll be enticed toward the first of the two—and this will happen for all the wrong reasons. Setting aside the reality that we are not inheritors of this world but of the world to come, we’ll begin to see Christmas for everything that it isn’t—an opportunity to accumulate things. It becomes little more than a glittering season of commercialism, inevitably resulting in fast-fleeting joy. Advent, by contrast, is designed to exchange the superficial for the depth of a divine event—the breathtaking moment when God actually entered our world to fulfill His promise of salvation, claiming us as His own, and inaugurating a hope and a future that extend far beyond what this temporary world could ever promise or give.

By the way, I should interject and say it’s entirely fine to put up a Christmas tree, string lights on the front porch, and decorate our homes in jolly anticipation during Advent. Some would disagree. I’m not one of those folks. The Thoma family put up their festive decorations the weekend before Thanksgiving. For one, we had to. It was the only weekend we’d all be around to help accomplish it. Besides, I’m not so rigid as to think these traditions are incapable of adding to the anticipation. They can help prompt the warmth and expectation I mentioned. Still, even as the Christmas tree twinkles and the tiny Dickens-like villages adorn our fireplace mantles, Advent calls us to make sure our hearts remain focused on something that glistens with a brighter shine. Advent’s appointed lessons keep our gaze steady, reminding us that everything we see—the tree, the lights, the gifts we receive at Christmas, whether wrapped or unwrapped—all have an expiration date on them. We might not be able to see it, but it is there. Indeed, this world is passing away (1 John 2:15-17, Matthew 6:19-20, James 4:14, 1 Corinthians 7:31, and the like), and while the surrounding décor might represent a sense of our joy, it’ll only ever be a hint at the unsurpassed joy Christ brought in His birth and will bring again in its fullest at the Last Day.

Advent zeros in on these things. It whispers to the soul, “Prepare in this world for the next. Prepare not just your home but your heart.” It readies us for Jesus, the Divine Gift that does not fade, the Hope that does not diminish, and the Joy that is truly everlasting.

Your Home is Worth Fighting For

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Vacations are nice, but home is better. I’ve heard it said that anyone can make anywhere a home—that our roots are portable. That may be true for some. For the rest of us, there’s another, more deeply rooted instinct. No matter where we are or where we’re going, at some point in any adventure, it’s likely we experience home’s gravitational pull. We find ourselves amazed by the exotic only to be equally astounded by the powerful need for what’s familiar. One of my favorites, Charles Dickens, wrote in his second volume of Martin Chuzzlewit that home is a word “stronger than any magician ever spoke, or spirit ever answered to in the strongest conjuration.” Maya Angelou described the desire for home as an ache that lives in all of us. For most, the ache means that no matter where we are or who we are with, the one place where we’re loved the most—where our absence is noticed the most—is home. As such, home always wins.

Today is my first day back from vacation. I needed the time away. I needed a burdenless pace for two uninterrupted weeks. It’s likely you know what I mean. It’s also possible you’ve experienced the jarring contrast of a vacation’s end. One minute, you were countless miles away, floating neck-deep in a swimming pool, and the next, you were neck-deep in man-made complications—two completely different pools of existence with very different demands.

Still, and once again, the ache proves stronger than the vexing differences. I’m home, and I’m glad for it. Measured against the “everyday” of life’s good and bad, it’s the place from which I set out each morning and the place to which I return each night. I go into the world to tackle or be tackled, and I return to my home knowing it’s where I most belong.

Interestingly, when I arrived at my “other” home (my office) this morning, things were a little different. It wasn’t anything significant. A few things were moved or added to my desk, a couple of books had been borrowed (thankfully, appropriate notes were left behind to track the borrowers), and my message box in the main office was no longer empty but full. Because these changes were slight, the overall vibe of “home” was intact. Imagine if I’d returned and my desk was gone, or cement blocks existed where my windows used to be. The ache would likely be lessened; maybe even gone altogether.

Before leaving for vacation, Pastor Pies, our emeritus pastor and my predecessor, stopped by with a copy of his doctoral thesis. I’d asked if he might allow me a copy to take along on the plane. He graciously obliged. The title of his thesis (which he tested among God’s people here at Our Savior in Hartland, Michigan, back in 1991) is “Christian Preaching as Dialogue in an Evangelical Lutheran Church.” Fancying myself more interested in the science of sermon preparation than most, I was glad to read it. For example, I appreciated that after making the case for preaching as God’s work through faithful ambassadors (2 Corinthians 5:20), Pastor Pies insisted, “Neither the power of God’s Word nor the operation of the Holy Spirit should be punctuated so as to excuse or justify inept preaching.” He went on to say that while God’s Word is efficacious, preachers have a “responsibility to preach it in a relevant way, sharing its timeless message in a timely manner…. This necessitates, in addition to prayer and the guidance of the Spirit, hard work under the blessing of God.”

I appreciated those words. They’re quite valuable. Still, something less conspicuous near the thesis’ beginning stood out for me, too. While explaining the setting for his study, Pastor Pies described Hartland, Michigan as a like-minded community attempting “to preserve everything they believe worth preserving while incorporating that which they consider to be valuable and useful.” He went on to describe the useful and valuable things as traditional social values, home and family, neighborhood unity, and community cooperation.

I had a thought. If, after writing this in 1991, had Pastor Pies been suddenly abducted by aliens, only to be returned to Hartland in July of 2024, would the ache he likely felt for home all those thirty-three years had been soothed? I ask this because a man who thinks he’s a female cat is currently running for a seat on the Livingston County Board of Commissioners. I ask because I’ve been in the company of elected officials openly commending the idea of biological boys being allowed to compete in female sports and use female bathrooms. I ask because local cohabitation rates are very nearly eclipsing traditional marriage. I ask for other reasons beyond even these.

In short: so much for Hartland as a place of traditional social values. So much for Hartland as a place for home and family. By the way, how’s it going in your corner of the nation—the world? Did you happen to see the opening ceremony for the 2024 Olympics in Paris this past Friday? Leonardo da Vinci’s portrait of the Last Supper was parodied grotesquely. Drag queens and all, it was a deliberate mocking of Christianity. Some are now trying to say it wasn’t, but most honest observers aren’t buying the new back-peddling. The similarities were far too obvious, and it’s nothing less than gaslighting to say we didn’t see what we saw.

I remember watching the Olympics as a kid. The opening ceremony was always a heart-lifting demonstration of world unity through competitive excellence. Not so much anymore. And, of course, Christianity is forever the easiest target. The Parisian magazine Charlie Hebdo printed a cartoon image of Muhammed a few years ago. The magazine’s office was firebombed, and nineteen people were attacked and killed.

As I prefer to remind folks on occasion, today’s world is a distant and alien land compared to what it once was. That said, there’s something else that can be said about your home.

It’s worth fighting for.

I’ve heard it said that fighting to preserve one’s home is not a choice but a duty. I agree. And while I’m no fan of Friedrich Nietzsche, he once wrote, “He who has a why to live can bear almost any how.” Again, I agree. Considering one’s home, the genuine ache we experience for it is, for many of us, the only “why” we need to push back against and endure almost anything that would threaten it.

Threats against one’s home abound. In America, one of the most important ways to protect your home is by voting. It’s not an end-all action by any means, but it is a significant one. Here in Michigan, several key voting dates are approaching. For example, Friday, August 2, is the deadline to request an absentee ballot for the upcoming Primary Election on Tuesday, August 6. Sunday, August 4, is the last day for early voting in the Primary Election. Concerning the 2024 General Election on Tuesday, November 5, early voting begins on October 6. October 21 is the deadline for registering to vote in the election in any form. November 1 is the deadline for requesting an absentee ballot.

Let these dates meet with your aching for home. Let each be an opportunity to remember its value. In faithfulness to the One who gave it (Hebrews 3:4), act to protect and preserve it. Choose candidates who will lead in ways that uphold God’s moral and natural law so that, if you’re ever absconded for thirty-three years, when you return home, it will still be home, not only for you but for generations to come.

New Year’s Eve, 2023

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What I’m about to share happened while waiting in line at the Ace Hardware near my home a few days before Christmas. Jennifer and I stopped there for some miscellaneous items. Essentially, the visit went as follows:

Finishing the sale and handing the man in sleep pants his receipt, the youthful cashier said with a smile, “Thanks for coming in. And Merry Christmas.”

His trajectory already toward the door, the man stopped mid-stride and turned back, pausing long enough to stir concern among us for what he might say.

“Ma’am,” he started, “thanks for saying that.” But before relief could form in any of us, he continued, “You know, I’m so G*# D@*%ed tired of people saying ‘Happy Holidays’! It’s Christmas, for cryin’ out loud! People need to stop with the ‘Happy Holidays’ %*@# and say ‘Merry Christmas’!”

Nodding to the elderly woman in line behind him as if expecting her agreement, he looked back to the cashier. “Keep it up,” he said, walking backward toward the door. “You’re doin’ God’s work.”

Forcing her smile, the cashier replied, “Thanks again,” followed by an equally strained, “Merry Christmas.”

The elderly woman was visibly bothered. And why wouldn’t she be? She comes from a strange and alien land by comparison. Where she’s from, they don’t speak that way to one another, let alone adorn Christmas in vernacular sludge. I’m an inhabitant of a similar land, often considering myself a part-time resident of the 21st century. In many ways, I only visit out of necessity. I said as much to the woman in line.

“I’m not from that man’s world.”

She knew what I meant, responding, “Me either.”

Before I go any further, it might surprise you that I’m skipping over the man’s vocabulary choices. That seems too easy. You already know that his defense of “Merry Christmas” was an obnoxious contradiction in terms (Romans 12:1-2). Instead, I prefer to approach the event from a less obvious angle: the man’s sleep pants.

For starters, I know that 21st-century culture prides itself on self-pleasing individualism. That pride sometimes produces a desire to buck the system. Admittedly, bucking the system is sometimes required. But that’s not necessarily self-pleasing individualism. It can sometimes be a response born from the knowledge of right and wrong. God’s Law is written on our hearts (2 Corinthians 3:3), and if a person digs deeply enough, he’ll know when to abide and when to push back. Examining the strata, he’ll also discover that societies have their written and unwritten rules. It might not seem all that important, but I’m pretty sure an unwritten rule common to most is that what a person wears to bed is not what he or she should wear in public. The rule has little to do with what a person may or may not find most comfortable. Instead, it deals with liberty’s responsibility, namely, one’s role relative to context and the people in it.

No, sleep pants in specific public settings aren’t inherently wrong. A person wrestling with illness might be found wearing them at a doctor’s office. But that same person, healthy or sick, would not wear them to a court appearance or wedding.

Why?

Most normal folks don’t need to be told the answer, which proves the unspoken rule—the innate standard that fosters and preserves dignity, resulting in mutual respect. In its simplest and most broad-sweeping form, it knows that a society of conscientious and dignified citizens makes life better for everyone. More precisely, it understands that personal liberty does not mean a person is free to do whatever he or she wants. Liberty comes with responsibility. A society of citizens who think they can be, do, and say anything they want without consequence is doomed to act in ridiculous and contradictory ways. It’ll end up insisting that men can be women and women can be men, and it’ll expect everyone to agree. On the road toward doom, it will have increased its production and acceptability of crass scenarios like the one in Ace Hardware. That was a snapshot of the confused self-centeredness that acts without any concern for the people around it, that paradoxically slathers the dignified greeting “Merry Christmas” with the foulest words any world’s vocabulary can afford and then, unsurprisingly, nods to others, expecting them to praise its irreverence as noble.

What foolishness.

A new year begins tomorrow. An online friend shared the following quotation: “Every year, you resolve to change yourself. This year, resolve to be yourself.” I don’t know who spoke those words initially, but I disagree. I don’t want to settle for being myself. I want to be better than myself. This isn’t only for my benefit but for yours, too.

I’ve written plenty about how New Year’s resolutions are a good practice. Every year, I attempt to make personal changes. I do this because I know myself. I know I’m incredibly flawed. And so, by faith, I’m less inclined to remain settled in these flaws. I want to fight them (Galatians 5:16-18). I want to be better. I want to reach higher, just as Saint Paul encouraged: “If then you have been raised with Christ, seek the things that are above, where Christ is, seated at the right hand of God. Set your minds on things that are above, not on things that are on earth” (Colossians 3:1-4).

However, remember: “Whoever walks with the wise becomes wise, but the companion of fools will suffer harm” (Proverbs 13:20). In other words, to change, sometimes one’s surroundings must first be changed.

Thinking about the man at Ace Hardware, if I could make a resolution for him, it would be to spend a little time each day with citizens of the alien worlds owned by the elderly woman behind him in line. I’d have him binge-watch I Love Lucy or Bonanza instead of the drivel on Netflix. Or better yet, I’d send him to Dickens and Twain, to Austen and Fitzgerald. I’d send him to places where men respected shop clerks and the elderly, where men were women’s protectors, where language mattered, and so on. I’d send him to those distant realms for a few moments each day of the forthcoming year.

I don’t know what the effects might be. Still, it couldn’t hurt. I know someone who once spent a year in England and returned with the hint of a British accent and afternoon tea as routine. We become that in which we immerse ourselves.

Since we’re talking about it, how about this for a New Year’s resolution?

If you’re a Christian who’s been apart from your church family for a while, imagine how you’ve changed since you’ve been away. Now, imagine the benefits of returning. Imagine the eternal value of regular visits with the Gospel of Christ’s wonderful forgiveness. By extension, I’ll bet it wouldn’t be long before certain tendencies were traded away as strangely foreign. Receiving a steady diet of Christ’s forgiveness (which God’s Word promises will produce fruits of faithfulness [Galatians 5:22-23]), a person is bound to stumble into agreement with Saint Paul’s instruction to “not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewal of your mind, that by testing you may discern what is the will of God, what is good and acceptable and perfect” (Romans 12:2). That same person will likely align with Paul’s instruction to “stand firm and hold to the traditions that you were taught by us, either by our spoken word or by our letter” (2 Thessalonians 2:15), and to “let no corrupting talk come out of your mouths, but only such as is good for building up, as fits the occasion, that it may give grace to those who hear” (Ephesians 4:29).

Who knows? Either way, it’s worth considering. And may I suggest giving it a try in the New Year?

The Mists are Lifted

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timelapse cloudscape with bright sun shining with clouds passing.

If you were ever to borrow my copy of Charles Dickens’ classic novel Great Expectations, one hundred and sixty-seven pages into it—nearly at the end of chapter 19—you’d discover the following line underscored in pencil: “Heaven knows we need never be ashamed of our tears, for they are rain upon the blinding dust of earth, overlying our hard hearts.” Dickens scribbled those words into the protagonist’s mind. Pip is his name. Well, his nickname, that is. If you were to read a little further along, you’d find more of Pip’s thoughts underlined in pencil, leaving clues to his sadness. Riding along in a coach, he ponders, “I was better after I had cried, than before—more sorry, more aware of my own ingratitude, more gentle.” And then Dickens tells us plainly the avenue Pip used to discover his painful awareness: Pip was deliberating “with an aching heart.”

In other words, sadness was not necessarily Pip’s enemy, but instead, a tool for discovering something better, a more honest sense of “self.” And the honesty led to more sunlit possibilities. Less than a paragraph later, Dickens uses the last lines of the chapter to demonstrate this literarily. He concludes, “and I went on. And the mists had all solemnly risen now, and the world lay spread before me.”

Like Dickens, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow captured a similar aspect of sorrow in his poem “The Rainy Day.” In between a few short lines describing intense grimness, he hints at the winds and rains as useful for clearing away lifeless debris. Resting there, he knows something far better behind the clouds, something promising. And so, he ends the poem accordingly:

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall.
Some days must be dark and dreary.

Dickens and Longfellow are onto something here. Being the season of Lent, their intuition is useful, even if only to describe the human condition relative to the hope God gives. For Dickens, sorrow leading to honest confession discovers hope. For Longfellow, a hopeful heart can see through the inevitable clouds and know something better is most certainly hovering there.

These are Christological things, and the scriptures speak very clearly to them.

For starters, Christians know the difference between attrition and contrition—that is, the difference between sorrow for getting caught and a heart that aches because we sinned against someone we truly love. Attrite sorrow produces shameful excuses intent on preserving what’s most important—the self. Contrition can’t bear the sadness it has brought to someone else, and its only aim is to fix it, while at the same time being willing to bear the consequences owed for the crime. Attrition is selfish sorrow. Contrition is sorrow born from love.

King David, a man who knew both forms, wrote by divine inspiration that “the sacrifices of God are a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise” (Psalm 51:17). But he didn’t jot those words before informing his readers that the “Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit” (Psalm 34:18). In other words, God stands as close to the desolate sinner as anyone can. He is there. And He brings hope, the kind of hope that has a name—Jesus Christ. Through the person and work of Christ, hope takes shape beside us—for us—laboring to win our rescue from Sin’s despairing darkness, changing our attrite hearts into contrite ones.

God promised He’d do this. He announced, “I will give you a new heart, and a new spirit I will put within you. And I will remove the heart of stone from your flesh and give you a heart of flesh” (Ezekiel 36:26). That’s incarnational language. That’s the heart of the God-man Jesus replacing our hearts of stone. With this Gospel-infused heart, we have ears to hear, know, and be comforted when the Lord says, “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. Not as the world gives do I give to you. Let not your hearts be troubled, neither let them be afraid” (John 14:27); or “Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls” (Matthew 11:29). We know what He means by these things.

He means He has won our salvation. The peace between God and Man that none of us could win has been accomplished by the Son of God on the cross. He has taken our sorrowful and burdensome yoke, placed it on His own shoulders, and given to us His yoke of righteousness. Recreated by this wonderful Gospel, as we face off with the winds and rains inherent to Sin, Death, and Satan—all sadness-inducing things they’d use to impose despair—a contrite heart is a hopeful one, and it stands ready to meet these turbulent accusations knowing that God stands right beside the confessor ready to give love as no one in this world ever could or would.

For the sorrowful, behind this world’s clouds, there’s always sunlight. Bearing the knowledge of forgiveness, the mists are lifted, and new life lay spread before us. Christ is its embodiment.

Again, today is the First Sunday in Lent. Whether the first or last Sunday, all of this is a part of Lent’s message. Listen carefully. It’s there. Know that in your penitential sorrow, a light is beaming. And even as it might appear to be snuffed out at Calvary, know it’s on the cross that it beams most brightly. Your hope is fulfilled in the death of Christ for you. And His resurrection—oh, the glorious resplendence of Christ’s power over Death—is the proof!

Christmas Day, 2022

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Merry Christmas!

What cheer that greeting brings, wouldn’t you say?!

Discounting the exceptions—that is, the humbugging Scrooges of this world who’d be rid of Christmas if they could—“Merry Christmas” is one of the few salutations with the muscle to stoke the cooling embers of a tired heart. Indeed, a weary soul is made young again, even if only for a moment, when a smiling passerby says, “Merry Christmas.”

Truly, it’s a greeting like no other.

I heard the greeting countless times last night at the Christmas Eve service. As I did, I was reminded of days long since spent, past seasons from childhood to adulthood. In a way, it could be said that unlike other greetings, this one stands at the door of here-and-now inviting memories to come inside. “Remembrance, like a candle,” Charles Dickens said, “burns brightest at Christmastime.” He might be right. “Merry Christmas” is spoken today, and a favorite toy from decades ago is remembered. It remembers a special moment with family. It remembers bygone friends. It remembers so many things.

Rarely would I add anything to Dickens’ wisdom, except to say it’s not just our pasts being invited to join us. I think our hopeful futures enter, too. Hope comes in to sit beside memory’s flickering flame.

I slept here at the church last night, mainly because I’m getting a little older and more easily tired. I don’t usually get home until well after 1:00 AM on Christmas Eve. Knowing I’d need to turn right around and come back in barely a handful of hours, combined with the treacherous roads, this year I decided to stay. I’ve done such things before. Besides, those who know me best can assume I was accompanied by a warming beverage before bed, one furnished by the Scots. I also happened upon a poetic scribbling from Alexander Smith, another product of Scotland. “Christmas,” he wrote, “is the day that holds all time together.” Like Dickens, I think he might be onto something. The very event of Christmas, if anything, begins the divine intersection of past, present, and future.

The Lord’s birth is the first effort of God’s plan to save us. As it begins, a much fuller Gospel message can be seen on the horizon. The angels sing it. The shepherds share it. The wise men are drawn to it. The Devil, through Herod, is fearful of it. And why? Because in its completeness, it will be a message that meets with the past, present, and future. It will herald what Christ has done, is doing, and will continue to do for humanity relative to Sin. This is the timelessness of “Merry Christmas.” This is the greeting’s forward thrust.

To grasp it, it’s as simple as digging a little deeper into the greeting. The salutation’s innards are not far from “Be joyful! Christ is present bringing salvation!” A Christian stands in the middle of the intersection by these words. To say “Merry Christmas” is to see all of time being held together. It is to give and receive the best answer to the hardest questions plaguing anyone’s past, present, and future.

If a troubled soul were to ask, “How can the Lord love me for what I’ve done?” The answer must be, “Fear not! He does! Merry Christmas!” If the concern continues by asking, “Will my disfigured past ever obstruct the Lord’s view, making Him unable to love a person like me?” The answer must be, “No. He knows what you’ve done. Still, He inserted Himself into the tarry horribleness of your dreadful past to claim you. Merry Christmas!”

Unconvinced, a person might continue, “As hard as I try, I continue to fall short. Will my everyday imperfections disgust Him enough to push me away? Will He ever walk away when I fall? Will He ever distance Himself from my continued shame?” Again, the Christmas answer must be, “No, He will not do these things. Certainly, you are not perfect. But He is. Trust Him. By His great exchange on Calvary’s cross, He takes your sadness into Himself and gives to you His righteousness. Merry Christmas!”

“But what about the future? As with anyone else, won’t He one day grow tired of this exercise? As with so many others, won’t He one day turn me away?” Christmas closes the book on the discussion, offering kindly, “No, He won’t. He sees your penitent faith, even if you don’t. He intends to heap mercy upon you until He returns in glory on the Last Day. Be joyful! He came at His nativity to save you. He’s coming back to take you home! Merry Christmas!”

Dear Christians, please know that all is well by faith in Jesus, the divine Child we celebrate today—Christmas Day! The intersection of your past, present, and future rested in that manger in Bethlehem so long ago. He came. He was who He claimed to be, and He accomplished what He said He would. Your salvation is secure. You are His, and He is yours. This wonderful friendship is His gift to you (John 15:15). Moreover, it’s a divine exchange meant for presenting you as Jesus’ most precious possession before the heavenly Father (Titus 2:14). By His work, you are justified (Titus 3:4-7). Covered in the pristinely white wrappings of Holy Baptism and topped with the bloodstained bow of His salvific work on the cross, what else might the Son say amid this grand and heavenly gift-exchange but “Merry Christmas!” (Romans 8:34, 1 John 2:1, and Hebrews 7:25)? It certainly seems appropriate.

Again, the greeting is like no other.

With that, Merry Christmas to you and yours! I hope to see you later this morning for worship at 9:30 AM. If you can make it, please know that the heat is on, the lights are beaming, and the Lord’s gifts of Word and Sacrament are ready and waiting to be received.

Predictably Unpredictable

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My daughter, Madeline, mentioned being tasked by one of her teachers with reading A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. Having two editions in my office, I shared one with her so that she wouldn’t need to wrestle with acquiring it from the school library.

I adore Charles Dickens—his skill with characters, his dexterity with language, and his prowess for telling a good story. Few writers compare. Maybe I’ve shared with you before that I have a first edition set of his complete works in my office. My favorite of his volumes is The Cricket on the Hearth. If you haven’t read it, I’d encourage you to do so, especially if you’re a fan of his infamous A Christmas Carol.

In my humble opinion, pitched against the ever-growing list of worthless garbage our present-day public schools are calling literature, Dickens’ works are golden. I was glad when Madeline told me the assignment, and I knew if she could just get through the first few pages of the story, she’d be in for a real treat. Among all Dickens’ works, it’s one we might call a thriller. It’s very much a three-part story held together by perilous action, and it all ends at the guillotine.

I remember watching a film version of it when I was a kid, except I didn’t necessarily know what I’d seen until I read the book in high school several years later. As a bored eight or nine-year-old who was, as you’d expect, thoroughly unappreciative of the value of Sunday afternoon black-and-white matinees, I recall tuning in and sticking with the film only because, as a fan of scary movies, Christopher Lee was in it. As it would go, he played the cold-hearted Marquis St. Evremonde. To this very hour, I can imagine the possibility of a fanged Christopher Lee emerging from his horse-drawn carriage to bite someone’s neck. Of course, He didn’t. But I do remember a stake-through-the-heart moment his character experienced while sleeping. Either way, the film, like the book, had an aura of unpredictability.

I like unpredictable storytelling. Just ask Jennifer. The movies I find myself enjoying most are ones that keep me guessing. When it comes to all others, I’m as annoying as annoying can be. I think this is true because, as Hollywood continues to sew its recycled and under-considered plots into the sleeves of fast-food characters, there’s a good chance before a movie’s end that I’ll have already shouted out what’s going to happen. I’m not always right, but I certainly am more than the people sitting beside me would prefer. Annoying? Yes. So be sure to commend Jennifer for enduring my predictability.

Speaking of predictability, there’s an oft quoted opening line from the third chapter of the first part of the book. It reads:

“A wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human creature is constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other.”

In a volume filled with twists, Dickens refers to something in humans that’s universally predictable. Strangely, he points to every person’s hidden, namely, unpredictable side. In other words, the only thing you can predict with humans is that they’re unpredictable. Or to dive a little deeper, for as well as you might know someone, there will always be the side you don’t know and couldn’t have expected—the secret self that would surprise you if it were suddenly revealed.

As this meets with the season of Lent—a time when we’re exceptionally attuned to our need for a Savior—my Christian mind wanders to what this means for me. As it roams, I discover how I’m more than capable of concealing my sinful tendencies. And yet, the writer to the Hebrews untangles all misconceptions of this in relation to God when he offers that “no creature is hidden from [God’s] sight, but all are naked and exposed to the eyes of him to whom we must give account” (4:13).

And therein is a path to something incredibly wonderful that we may not have predicted.

Yes, God knows the real you. He knows everything you’ve done. He knows all your horribleness. He knows all your dreadfulness. He knows your soiled intentions. He knows the worst of your thoughts, words, and deeds. And yet, even with all these horrendous things on display before His divine omniscience—things that He knows and sees and has every right to account as hell-worthy—still, He tells us by His Word that He looked on us in love and sent His Son to save us (John 3:16-17). He makes clear that “while we were still sinners, Christ died for us” (Romans 5:8). The predictability of God’s right to judge us accordingly is unpredictably turned on its head by His divine passion for our rescue. He does not give us what we deserve. Instead, He heaps our unfortunate dues upon Jesus, and by His wounds, we are healed (Isaiah 53:5).

I already told you just how much I love an unpredictable story. Well, it doesn’t get any better than the Gospel. And by this, I not only mean the death of God’s innocent Son for the dreadfully guilty, but also the unpredictable nature of the resurrection. That itself was a world-altering event. No one expected an empty tomb. No one expected to see Jesus alive. Not even the disciples. And yet, there He was, is, and remains. Sure, I like Dickens. But his stories are fiction. The Gospel is real, which makes the Bible that carries and communicates it, with every twist and turn of both the Old Testament and New Testament, the greatest volume in human history.