Tag Archives: enemy

Shunning

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I want to begin this first Sunday in the new year by telling you a story that, on its surface, might seem somewhat trivial. It’s the tale of an awkward social exchange. I only share it because, first, it’s a new year, and second, after spending a month or so simmering with it, I realize that what happened reveals something far more serious about the spirit of our age than I first imagined—and the realization is ripe for New Year’s resolutions.

About a month and a half ago, Jennifer and I attended a small local event together. As we walked into the room, I noticed two former members of Our Savior already seated a few rows from where we’d entered. For clarity, they’re not “former” because of a personal conflict with another member in the church, or because I offended them by skipping over them at the communion rail by mistake. They left because they were offended by the kind of message you’re reading right now—the same kind I’ve been writing and sharing every Sunday since 2014. Within each, my cultural and theological conservatism, along with the moral convictions it produces, is laid bare without apology. Some people appreciate the messages. Some don’t.

As I said already, it was a small event. Therefore, the space was relatively empty, leaving no ambiguity about what followed. We saw one another clearly. I waved, smiled, and said hello. They turned away. Attempting ordinary human decency, I called out a brief question, nothing cumbersome, just the sort of small talk people use to acknowledge one another’s presence. One did respond with a relatively disinterested gesture, but he did so without looking at me. That was all. No eye contact. No further acknowledgment of my presence as a fellow human being.

The very next week, the same scenario repeated itself, almost theatrically so. This time, I was alone. I entered the room through the same door. The same couple came in immediately behind me. I greeted them again. This time, there wasn’t even an awkward acknowledgment. They simply ignored me. Moments later, as a handful of couples filed in and found seats beside them, I watched and listened as they warmly greeted others—smiling and calling out hellos to people by name—leaving me to feel the sting of their dismissal and the sense that, for them, I did not even exist.

Now, before we rush to psychologize motives or nurse grievances, let me at least explain that what follows is not about wounded pride. I already know I’m despised by plenty. It goes with the pastoral territory. And unfortunately, I’m used to it. That means I can do what I do without coming undone when someone fails to be polite. Funny thing—Jennifer and I just went out to lunch together last week and we talked a little about the flak I catch for things I write and share publicly. She is perpetually amazed that I continue to subject myself to the inevitable scorn. From my perspective, as a Christian, I am called to endure far worse than social coldness. I mean, what I experience is nothing like what’s happening to Christians in Nigeria on a daily basis. Countless are being killed for their confession of Christ. And so, it’s easy enough for me to write and share a personal observation or cultural critique—and maybe why they matter, especially among Christians.

This morning, I’m examining something I’m pretty sure most folks have experienced. Essentially, it was the cold and corrosive behavior of shunning.

I suppose, in a clinical sense, shunning means treating someone as if they are unworthy of basic acknowledgment, not necessarily because they have done harm, but because they believe differently from you. It’s a way of saying, “You’re beyond the borders of my tribe, and therefore, are not owed my kindness.”

I dare say that, in our current cultural moment, shunning has become a favored tool for pretty much everyone. I catch myself doing it on occasion, too. For the most part, I think many do it to avoid confrontation. I get why that might happen. And maybe that was true in this case. Although my kindly greetings on both occasions should have implied friendliness rather than contention, which suggests another way people wield it. They shun, not to avoid confrontation, not to correct wrongdoing or pursue truth, but to punish dissent and signal some sort of superiority in the relationship. And, of course, it conveniently shields them from the burden of actual engagement, which could lead to reconciliation and peace. If you have no interest in these, then shunning is essential.

Knowing these things, here’s where genuine Christian analysis should probably step in.

I’d say the first step in the analysis is to deal with our excuses. In other words, I know there will be some who immediately jump to texts like Ephesians 5:11-14. Saint Paul tells the Church not to “participate in the unfruitful works of darkness,” but instead to “expose them” (Ephesians 5:11-14). Perhaps assuming the reader already knows that Jesus called His people “light” in this dark world (Matthew 5:14), Paul goes on to say that darkness is exposed by light (v. 13). With this in our theological pockets, Paul’s point is not complicated. He doesn’t want God’s people associating (συγκοινωνεῖτε—binding to something) with sin in ways that condone or accommodate it. In other words, a Christian would not want to attend a gay relative’s wedding lest they be considered supportive of such things.

Now, for those who remain desperate to write off someone with whom they disagree, try to notice what Paul did not say. He did not say to act as though anyone with whom a Christian disagrees does not exist. He did not say to write that relative out of your life completely. Instead, he told the Christians to do what light does. It shines in the darkness. Darkness cannot be overcome by a light that withdraws to another room. If light is going to disperse darkness, it must be present to do what light does.

And so, I suppose the second step in the analysis is to admit the extremes of this truth, which is that God’s Word is unambiguous about how we are to treat those who despise or oppose us. Jesus commands us to love our enemies, bless those who curse us, and pray for those who persecute us (Matthew 5:44). Saint Paul exhorts believers to live peaceably with all, so far as it depends on you (Romans 12:18). Even when church discipline is required—which is a rare and serious matter—it’s never enacted through petty contempt or silent scorn. It’s done openly, soberly, and with the goal of reconciliation and restoration (Matthew 18:15-17, Galatians 6:1, and 2 Thessalonians 3:14-15).

What I encountered was none of that. What I encountered was a posture that says, “Your very presence is a problem for me, and as such, your worth is negotiable.” That posture does not come from Christ. It stirs in sin’s darkness. Tragically, many Christians absorb this posture without realizing how thoroughly it contradicts the faith they profess.

I guess what I’m saying is that the Church and her Christians should know better. The Christian faith does not permit us to reduce people in this way. Certainly, at a minimum, it absolutely does not excuse discourtesy, let alone allow it to be demonstrated publicly so that it teaches the watching world something about Christianity. And what’s being taught exactly? That Christians believe some people are not worth basic human kindness.

But Christians do not believe that. The ones who do should check themselves carefully.

As usual, I’ve made New Year’s resolutions. I know some folks dog the idea. Well, whatever. I prefer to be more contemplative and deliberate with my life. Having just passed through 2026’s front door a few days ago, I find myself returning to moments like these, not with bitterness, but with resolve. Observing these things through the lens of the Gospel, as I prefer to do, they nudge me toward a more focused faithfulness. If the culture is growing colder, then I want to grow warmer. If silence is being used to wound, then I want my words and gestures to heal. Again, darkness is scattered by light, and Christians are children of that light (1 Thessalonians 5:5 and Ephesians 5:8).

Relative to the moments I shared with you, what does all of this mean specifically? Well, it means I am resolved to offer a friendly wave toward someone who’d much rather back over me with his or her car. I will continue to smile. I will continue to say hello. Not because it is easy. Not even because the kindness will be returned. But because Christians are not called to mirror the culture’s contempt. We are called to resist it. And sometimes, that resistance looks as small as refusing to pretend another human being doesn’t exist.

Now, for those who may be looking at me right now in their rearview mirror while revving their engines, know that even as my enemy, you mean something to me. And if there’s a chance we could be friends, I’m game to make it possible. Again, that’s one of my resolutions for the new year. I promise I’m going to be more deliberate in the effort.

Death and Useless Sentiment

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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.

Betrayal

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I probably don’t need to point this out, but betrayal is the worst. To trust someone, only to feel the security of that trust torn away, is a sensation unlike any other. One could say it goes almost beyond physical pain. It may even be a pain equivalent to demon possession. I once heard demon possession described as a ferociously rabid animal trapped inside a person and trying to claw its way out. It tears and gnashes from the inside. The pain of betrayal—the sting born from a trusted friend’s infidelity—starts in one’s middle. It claws through the immaterial sphere of emotion into the material world. A pierced heart eventually feeds its suffering to the body’s extremities.

One starts to think that even Death would be better. At least Death’s enmity is reliable. There’s no bait and switch. It meets and gives to every living thing precisely as it promises. Betrayal, on the other hand, presents itself kindly while holding a knife behind its back. And when the time is right, it massacres trust with selfish concern.

It certainly isn’t easy to repair a betrayed relationship. That’s because, like any structure, genuine friendships have foundational components like honesty, history, loyalty, and honor. Take away any of those underpinnings, and the structure topples. The French poet, Nicolas Boileau-Despréaux, wrote that a person’s honor “is like a rugged island without a shore; once you have left it, you cannot return.” Betrayal is the boat into which honor willfully climbs and starts rowing away. Relative to friendship’s construction, betrayal explodes each of its crucial supports. In the end, the relationship has two choices when it collapses: scrap it or start rebuilding.

It seems we live in a world more inclined toward scrapping relationships. Set aside deliberate betrayal for a moment. For some in today’s world, a trivial misunderstanding is all it takes to flush a lifelong friendship down the proverbial toilet. Unfortunately, I know this. I know it not only because I’ve experienced it but because I’ve done it. Looking back at both, I wish I hadn’t. When someone scrapped me, I should have pursued the person. When I scrapped someone else, I should have tried to rebuild. But I didn’t. I walked away. I’m incredibly sorry I did. I’ve repented of this foolishness, and I fight the flesh in similar situations by God’s gracious strength. As a Christian, I’m gratefully nagged by an understanding of forgiveness’s power—giving and receiving it. Of sinners, I am the foremost (1 Timothy 1:15). And yet, even as the foremost of sinful betrayers, Christ died for me (Romans 5:8). His death won my eternity, and by the power of the Holy Spirit for faith, He’s made me His friend. He pursued me. He forgave me. His forgiveness repairs. His forgiveness rebuilds. His forgiveness instills the readiness to rebuild with others.

Admittedly, a readiness to rebuild doesn’t assure restoration’s success in a thoroughly sinful world. If you actually succeed at reconciliation, there’s no guarantee the relationship will be as it was before. It simply means you know real hope. You’ve met hope in the person and work of Christ, and now you prefer it to despair. Christian hope can navigate a world of throw-away relationships undermined by the simplest mistakes or the worst betrayals. It is willing to invest in a relationship’s repair because it knows the value of friendship. A car driven into a tree and then repaired will never be the same as it was. It’ll have parts that rattle. It’ll need extra attention. But it can still drive its occupants to the same locations. It can still carry its passengers to the same goals.

I’ll just come right out and say that I experienced significant betrayal this past week. It was the kind that really hurts. Still, I intend to pursue the relationship’s healing, not because I know I can fix it, but because I know Christ can. Looking to Him, the perfect Son of God who forgave me—the One who was not only betrayed into Death by those closest to Him but was victimized on a cosmic scale by the world He created and loved—I can certainly invite a former friend to join me in the rubble as I examine the damage and attempt to rebuild. If you’ve ever experienced the same, then I’m assuming you can, too.