Tag Archives: faith

Christian Rage?

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I’m going to let you in on a little secret, if only because I feel like writing about it. In short, I’ve had a few interesting conversations about my new novel, Ashes To Ashes, with some folks in Hollywood. But that’s not necessarily the interesting part. What stood out in those conversations is that, after reading the book, they all reached back to me with varying versions of the same conclusion. Essentially, they’ve determined that the novel fits the time. In other words, it fits the national zeitgeist, tapping into something raw and unresolved in the public soul.

What they mean is that people are angry.

By angry, they don’t mean the performative kind of anger that burns hot on social media and then disappears by the next news cycle. They mean the deeper kind—the kind that settles into the chest when dreadful things keep happening over and over again at the highest levels, and yet, no one ever seems to get arrested or brought to justice.

I say this as I consider the obvious examples. For starters, the State of Minnesota is riddled with as much as nine billion dollars in fraud, nearly all of it played out among its Somali community. And lest anyone seem racist or anti-immigrant, no one appears to be getting into much trouble for it—at least, not the actual orchestrators. Or consider the Epstein files. There’ve been years of whispers, sealed documents, but also unsealed documents with redactions that hide 99% of the content—all of this leading to dead ends and a gazillion unanswered questions. Everyone knows something happened. Everyone knows there’s a list somewhere. Dark-intentioned people who use other people always maintain the upper hand. They keep lists. They protect audio and video files. We’ve learned that, especially within the last few years, relative to the release of certain CIA files. However, in this case, nothing has happened. There’s likely some really big names on these lists and in these videos. And yet, no one has paid for their crimes. In the end, transparency and accountability remain entirely elusive.

If you’ve read Ashes to Ashes, then you’ll know that frustration with injustice is an element in the topsoil from which it emerges, which is why the folks out in Hollywood responded as they did. The main character, Reverend Daniel Michaels, finds himself in a dreadful situation, ultimately owning some significant evidence. Unsure of whom to trust, when he scans his immediate horizon, he discovers people and organizations that appear immune to consequences. He also learns the cost of inaction paid by ordinary people—young girls being abused and then traded, or simply moved and slaughtered, like cattle. And while ill-willed insiders so easily use the system to their benefit, he steps into the fray and starts taking names. And it gets messy. Very messy.

Now, please understand, that’s not an endorsement of vigilantism. I’m simply making the connection to the original comments while also acknowledging a reality. I had a conversation in my office this past Monday about the book. Essentially, I said that while we might not want to admit it, when justice feels theoretical, people start fantasizing about other ways of leveling the field. When wrongs are endlessly explained away, when excuse after excuse is given for why justice is so slow, anger begins looking for a body to inhabit.

Again, the Somali fraud in Minnesota and the Epstein files are prime examples of the zeitgeist’s growing conviction. They’re stories that land, not as once-in-a-while scandals, but as recurring symbols throughout America’s immediate history. Even worse, they reinforce a growing suspicion that there are two systems of justice—one for the elite, and one for everyone else. Christopher Wray and James Comey can demonstrably weaponize the justice system and get away with it. Hillary Clinton can have hundreds of thousands of classified documents on a private server, then provably bleach that server, and remain untouched. Someone like Hunter Biden can owe mountains in back taxes, purchase a gun while on drugs, even video-record his behaviors, and leave his proceedings with a relative slap on the wrist. And yet, if I were to make the slightest modification to my home without the proper permits, or make the tiniest mistake on my tax forms, I’d risk massive fines and, in some cases, maybe even time in jail.

It’s these inequities that, when left unchallenged or untreated, curdle into citizen rage. That rage is what Reverend Daniel Michaels embodies for a little less than four hundred pages. And because of this, as the character’s creator, hear me when I say that while he’s not the book’s villain, he’s also not a hero, even though you’re likely to discover yourself rooting for him. He simply isn’t clean. That makes him an anti-hero in the purest sense. In this case, he’s what happens when people stop believing that truth will surface on its own. He’s the product of a world where “wait and see” has turned into a permanent sentence—the only reply to chronic injustice.

And so, America’s current zeitgeist. But here’s the thing.

For Christians, we have a very important filter for discerning these things. For one, God’s Word never denies the reality of injustice. The Bible is brutally honest about corrupt judges, dishonest rulers, and systems that are weaponized against the powerless. But it is equally honest about the limits of human retribution. “Vengeance is mine,” the Lord says (Deuteronomy 32:35 and Romans 12:19)—not because injustice doesn’t deserve an answer, but because we are not created to carry that weight around without being deformed by it. Only God can bear it. In that sense, for an honest reader, Daniel Michaels serves as a mirror, not a model. He shows us what happens when trust collapses, and despair reaches up and out from its goop.

That said, the Christian answer to injustice will never be blind faith in broken systems, which seems to be what far too many in the Church prefer to believe. It’s also not some sort of monastic disengagement from society entirely, which is another preference for far too many in Christendom. Christians need to be in the game and playing it hard. But as we do, we remember what the scriptures reveal—that God is not confused or compromised or unaware. He does not lose files. He does not accept bribes. He does not forget victims. He does not need leaks or whistleblowers to know what’s going on in His world. Nothing He sees has redactions. Every hidden thing is already open and accessible to Him—not symbolically, but actually. Even better, as I like to mention on occasion, the divine lights will eventually come on for all of us, too. I’m not saying we’ll know everything about everything. I’m simply saying what the scriptures say—that the day is coming when all things hidden will be revealed.

In the meantime, what does our Lord require of us? I’ll let the Prophet Micah answer that one: “He has told you, O man, what is good; and what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God” (Micah 6:8). In other words, we are not called to burn the world down in order to set it right. Instead, we are to be others-focused. We are to stand in the breach—telling the truth, protecting the vulnerable, refusing to excuse evil, all the while being humble enough to remember that God is the finisher, not us. We must trust that He will be God.

Of course, that trust does not deny that violence may occur in a fallen world (Ecclesiastes 3:8), nor that, in extreme circumstances, its use may be tragically necessary to restrain greater evil or defend the innocent (Genesis 9:6, Psalm 82:3-4, Romans 13:4). Scripture itself acknowledges this grim reality. But even then, violence is never something to be pursued eagerly or confused with righteousness itself (Matthew 26:52). It remains a last resort in a broken world, and, as best as possible, carried out soberly and with moral clarity, never forgetting a Christians accountability before God (Luke 14:31, Nehemiah 4:14).

In the end, justice will not be done because a character like Reverend Daniel Michaels—real or imagined—goes around taking names with his 1911 Colt. It will be done, ultimately, because Christ already knows the names of both the perpetrators and the victims, and He has promised not to allow injustice to be the last word in any circumstance.

I suppose, as Christians going forward into another relatively early week of a brand new year, perhaps the most countercultural resolution any of us can make is not louder outrage against this world’s evils. It’s not necessarily pointing out how that foolish girl who tried to run over the ICE agent and got shot and killed “had it coming to her.” It’s true, idiocy has consequences. Still, perhaps the better resolution is a sturdier trust behind the outrage—to actually know what we believe and why we might have a reason to get angry in the first place.

By the way, keep in mind that such faithfulness is rarely dramatic. In fact, it looks rather ordinary. It looks like ordinary obedience practiced consistently. It’s built by showing up to church even when we’re tired. It’s sitting beside others in study instead of alone at home on our screens. It’s praying when we’d rather vent on social media. It means giving, serving, confessing, forgiving, and staying rooted in Christ when it would be so much easier to just let oneself drift in the cultural current of “That person has it coming and I’m going to get him for what he’s done.”

None of the things I’ve mentioned are grand gestures, but they are formative. If anything, they’re more than capable of recreating a person’s habitus, which is, by definition, “the way a person perceives and reacts to the world.” It’s what I mean when I talk about seeing the world through the lens of the Gospel. Indeed, a sturdier devotional life—one that trains itself to see through the person and work of Jesus Christ—is one that has little room for the perpetual unrest stoked by vengeful rage. I’m not saying rage won’t be there sometimes. Of course it will. We’re all sinners, and sinners are prone to dreadfulness. But it will be less likely. And that’s a good thing.

And so, again, what better way to continue into a new year than by acknowledging that the stubborn work of Christian faithfulness is an exceptional path. And of course, we pursue that path knowing that in Christ, we always have hope. Only in Him will we find the strength to endure through and into the Day of Days when the divine lights come on, and everything is set right by the One who saw, knew, and was actively working all along.

Who knows. Maybe 2026 is the year the Lord returns. And so, the Church cries out, “Come quickly, Lord Jesus” (Revelation 22:20).

It’s Not That Complicated

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There are appointments you do not miss. You do not “get around to” a court appointment. If you’ve been summoned, you do not elect to stay home because you stayed up too late the night before or because something else suddenly came up that you decided would be more enjoyable.

You go. You show up.

The same is true for so many other things in life. I don’t have cancer. But if I did, I couldn’t imagine just not showing up to my scheduled treatments. I mean, are there any cancer patients out there reading this who’d honestly skip a cancer treatment because it was maybe scheduled too early in the morning, or because it was further away than you’d prefer to drive, or because you felt like doing something else instead, like maybe fishing or gardening or whatever? Of all the people in the world, I’m sure cancer patients epitomize exhaustion, especially during treatment. And yet, none would shrug and say, “Something else came up,” or “I’m just too tired,” as though what they were facing, and the appointments in place to deal with it, were no big deal.

We show up when something is important to us—when we believe we need to be there.

You know where I’m going with this, don’t you?

Before I do, let me first say to those who’d say outright they don’t need to be in church because they can be “spiritual” without it, feel free to sit this one out. I’m not really talking to you. You’ve already made clear you will not allow the Bible to serve as an external authority to govern you. You already live by a standard of picking and choosing based on preference. And so, you’ll do “spiritual” things when you prefer, maybe when it fits your inner sense of meaning, and you won’t when it doesn’t. By the way, I don’t mean to commend you, but I suppose I’m willing to applaud your consistency at least. You are reliable in that sense.

I should make another quick clarification. For example, we just offered an Epiphany service here at Our Savior on Tuesday, January 6. Forty people attended. That’s only about 15% of what’s typical of our regularly scheduled Sunday morning service attendance. I’m not writing to the faithful Christians in our midst who could not attend our Epiphany service. I say this because even Luther acknowledged in his explanation of the Third Commandment in the Large Catechism that “there should be worship daily; however, since this is more than the common people can do, at least one day in the week must be set apart for it.” In other words, I’m not speaking to those who simply cannot attend the special services for life’s various reasons.

But what I am writing here is addressed to those who deliberately stake a public claim in Christianity and yet see no reason to attend worship with any regularity.

In short, if you confess that Christ is Lord, then I’m assuming you believe His Word. I’m also assuming you realize that the Bible explicitly commands faithfulness in worship (Hebrews 10:24-25, Acts 2:42, and 1 Corinthians 14:26). What’s more, it is thoroughly assumed throughout the rest of the scriptures. There’s no question it was an Old Testament pattern. God expected His people to assemble (Leviticus 23:3, Deuteronomy 16:16, Psalm 122:1, Psalm 84:10, Nehemiah 8:1–3, 16, and others). And for the record, Jesus maintained the pattern (Luke 4:16, Matthew 18:20; I suppose it can be assumed also in Matthew 5:23-24 and John 4:23-24). It was also maintained by the newly emerging Church (Acts 20:7, Acts 13:44, and others).

Beyond even these things, if a reader is being honest, Saint Paul more than betrays the standard of regularly scheduled worship in 1 Corinthians 11:18 when he writes “when you come together as a church” (συνερχομένων ὑμῶν ἐν ἐκκλησίᾳ). First of all, not if but when. Next, the first word in that phrase—συνερχομένων —has in its root the sense of traveling to a place to be together. Where is this traveling bunch going? The destination is ἐκκλησίᾳ—church. But couldn’t this just mean that when they are traveling together to Cedar Point in Ohio, even then, they are the Church, that is, the body of Christ in the formal sense? Of course. All believers in Christ, at all times and in all places, comprise the Church. But that’s not the point here. Paul is already talking about things that happen in worship, namely, the administration of the Lord’s Supper. In this context, Paul is casually indicating that normal Christians (so long as they are not physically incapable because they are sick, elderly, in prison, or something of that sort) travel to a place to occupy it—to be in it. The preposition ἐν does not mean “as.” It means “in.” In other words, “as” the Church, they travel to be together “in” a church.

Add to this the other reasons why Paul would encourage the Church to gather. Mutual edification is one that seems rather important to him (Ephesians 4:15-16, Colossians 3:16, Romans 12:4-5, and others). But even beyond this, God’s Word does not hide the warning of what can happen when we drift from faithful attendance in worship. Our hearts are more easily hardened (Hebrews 3:12-13), spiritual decline occurs (Judges 21:25), and we become more vulnerable to sin and Satan’s snares (Ecclesiastes 4:9-12).

For the Lutherans reading my words, consider your creedal and confessional heritage. Again, Luther reminds us in his explanation of the Third Commandment in the Large Catechism that “God insists upon a strict observance of [regular Sabbath worship] and will punish all who despise his Word and refuse to hear and learn it, especially at the times appointed.”

For those less familiar with Luther and more inclined toward others in mainstream evangelicalism, consider Billy Graham, who said so very plainly that “if you are a Christian, you should go to church.” And why? He continued that a Christian “has no right to neglect the church. It is God’s plan for the nurture and strengthening of His people.” And in another place, Graham wrote, “The church is the place where believers are fed, encouraged, and strengthened to face the world.”

Now, if Billy Graham isn’t enough for you, consider others from across the Christian spectrum—folks like John MacArthur, who said, “If a [church member] shows prolonged negligence in gathering with God’s people… how can he say he loves God?” Or maybe even someone like Dwight Moody, who insisted that “Church attendance is as vital to a disciple as a transfusion of rich, healthy blood to a sick man.” Or Paul Washer, who preached, “A believer who refuses the local church is a contradiction.” Or John Piper, who maintained, “The corporate gathering of believers is the single most important event in the life of the Church.”

Apart from Luther, I’m not in strict theological unity with any of the above preachers I just mentioned. And yet, it sure seems that faithfulness in worship is one thing that has not slipped through any of our theological divides. That’s because it’s a pretty straightforward standard that can only be set aside deliberately.

In the end, it’s really not that complicated. If Christ is real, and He is truly preeminent in your life, then none of the above proofs could ever be suggestions. Instead, they are divine appointments. Sure, we may not feel like keeping the appointments. Still, we know they’re important—and they’re good for us—and so, we show up. And so, our deliberate disregard or neglect of these things could never be interpreted as neutral behavior. Instead, it reveals something else altogether, and it does so rather crisply. Compared to the other practical examples I shared, it shows that, functionally, Christ is less significant to you. It reveals that forgiveness of sins, life, and salvation are nice, but not as nice as, perhaps, one’s bed after a long Saturday night of this and that with friends.

As a pastor, the saddest part here is that deliberate disregard for worship is a public demonstration of unbelief. Maybe not necessarily unbelief in the sense of open denial, but, at a minimum, it is unbelief expressed in practice. Both are public. The first is at least honest. The second is simply hypocritical. It is an observable contradiction, sort of like Washer pointed out. By staking a claim in Christianity, one assumes devotion to God and His body, the Church. And yet, there is no desire to show up as part of that body. So, what gives?

Well, belief orders life. What we choose and what we neglect reveal what we do and do not truly believe or consider valuable. To absent oneself so carelessly can be nothing less than to declare that God means very little to you by comparison to all the other appointments in life you’d never in a million years consider blowing off.

Again, no one would say, “I believe my cancer treatments are crucial, but I’ll only go when it feels convenient.” No one would ever say, “Your honor, I respect you and all, but I have some friends coming over this morning that I haven’t seen in a long time, so I’ll have to catch up on this court case a different time.” No one would ever call a beloved daughter right before her wedding and say, “I know it’s important for me to be there, but I haven’t been to my cabin up north in a while, so I’m not going to be able to make it.”

Do these things, and see what happens. Actually, I can just tell you what will happen. There will be trouble.

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.

New Year’s Day 2026

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I wasn’t going to write and send anything out today. But then, here I am at my computer, tapping away. This morning’s worship service isn’t until 10:00 a.m., and so, apart from other preparations, I guess I do have some time. Besides, it felt wrong not to reach out and at least share something that might help with your first day of 2026.

I suppose I can start by telling you that the first words out of my mouth when I woke up this morning were a prayer of thanksgiving. I thanked the Lord for my family. I thanked the Lord for the congregation I serve. I thanked the Lord for all the blessings He has granted to me—both known and unknown in my past, present, and future. Then I got up, took a shower, got dressed, and headed out into the familiar but unpleasant Michigan tundra.

Waking up and praying is always a good way to start one’s day. But my first meal, that was something else. Despite my secret intentions for the new year, which is to try eating better, the first thing I consumed was a greasy hashbrown from McDonald’s at 5:55 a.m., followed later by my usual bowl of cereal here at my desk. Most mornings, a bowl of cereal in my office is part of my routine before I get started on anything else. But I don’t usually eat McDonald’s hashbrowns. However, I saw that the Hartland McDonald’s was open, so I stopped for coffee. The hashbrown sounded good. With that, I slid backward in my intentions before I even got started. So much for a perfect start. Well, we win some and lose some. Although anyone who thinks personal growth means instant consistency has never tried to live faithfully for more than a few hours at a time. Saint Paul understood this well when he spoke of the conflict within us—the desire to do what is good, set against the pull of the flesh that resists it (Romans 7:15-19).

And yet, Paul’s point isn’t perfection. It is a right knowledge combined with willful direction. It is choosing, again and again, to fight against the worst desires and to embrace the better ones. Paul writes that the flesh and the Spirit are opposed to one another. (Galatians 5:16-17). He doesn’t share this critical detail so we can excuse our failures. He wants us to be aware. Awareness allows for preparation and action. For starters, it grants that the Christian life is not the absence of temptation, but the daily, often quiet decision to walk by the Spirit rather than surrender to what comes most naturally. When, by the power of the Holy Spirit, we’re aware of the sinner/saint struggle, we can embrace prayer before complaint. We can lean toward obedience before personal comfort. We can know to do the better thing even when we don’t feel like doing anything at all. I suppose in one sense, sometimes faithfulness looks less like complete victory and more like simply showing up and trying, all by God’s grace, of course (Romans 8:1-4).

It is also worth remembering that even this willingness—to try, to lean in, to turn toward what’s better—it’s not something we manufacture. Again, it’s the Holy Spirit who creates willing hearts. And He does so by the Gospel (Philippians 2:13, Romans 10:17).

Now, you know what I’m going to say next, don’t you? Well, since you already know, I won’t dress it up.

Go to church. Being present where the Gospel gifts are given matters more than anything else at any time of any given year. God has promised to strengthen and sustain His people through His visible and verbal Word. That means if one really wants to step in and fight the flesh, being where Christ is preached and His gifts are administered should not be a second thought but a priority all year long (Hebrews 10:24-25).

So, if your year has already begun imperfectly, take heart. The only flawless beginning or ending we require is securely located in Jesus Christ, the crucified and risen Savior. By His person and work, the perfection that saves was accomplished. Through faith in Him, by the power of the Holy Spirit at work through the Gospel, our hearts are recrafted to trust Him, and thereby to receive the merits of His incredible work.

And then into the daily struggle we go. As we do, we remember that while the outer self may scrap against the sin-nature, God is at work within us, shaping endurance, humility, and hope right there in the middle of the fight (2 Corinthians 4:16). Indeed, “it is God who works in you, both to will and to work for his good pleasure” (Philippians 2:13).

With that, I encourage you not to become downhearted in the new year when you fall short. Remember, an all-important muscle in the struggle is repentance itself. Keep choosing the better things. Keep turning toward what’s good. And when you stumble, don’t quit. Repent, receive Christ’s forgiveness, and then rise and keep going, mindful of the divine encouragement, “Let us not grow weary of doing good, for in due season we will reap, if we do not give up” (Galatians 6:9).

I’m praying for you. I trust you’ll be praying for me, too.

A blessed New Year to you!

New Year’s Eve 2025

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I don’t know about you, but the older I get, the more New Year’s Eve loses its luster. It feels less like a party and more like a bedtime challenge. Can I make it to midnight? Can I even make it past 9:30? I think William Vaughn said it best, “Youth is when you’re allowed to stay up late on New Year’s Eve. Middle age is when you’re forced to.”

For the record, I stopped trying for midnight years ago, especially with a worship service in the morning. Still, the moment has never been lost on me. New Year’s Eve—the day itself—has always been a moment to pause. It can be sort of a held breath between what was and what will be, if only we’ll take the opportunity to consider it. Right now, I’m sitting at my dining room table. Even with a quick glance around the room, I’m reminded of just how quickly things can change.

For example, right across from where I’m sitting, a poster-sized photo hangs on the wall. Jennifer snapped the picture. Essentially, she captured a moment we can never revisit.

The photo was taken on a beautiful, sun-washed day at a beachside restaurant near Lemon Bay, Florida—one we visited with some relatively newfound friends at the time who knew the place and loved it. In the image, there’s a wooden post planted in the sand with forty or so signs nailed to it, each pointing somewhere else—cities across the United States, and a few beyond its borders, all measured in miles from that very spot. A bird is perched on one of the top signs, palled by a nearby palm tree’s shadow. It’s as if the bird’s deciding which of the cities he’ll choose to visit next. The sky is bright blue, interrupted only by a handful of clouds. Everything about the picture feels calm, steady, and permanent.

But permanence is a lie we tell ourselves when the sun is shining and things are easy. Hurricane Ian erased everything in that photo back in 2022. The sign, the restaurant, the familiar stretch of beach, it was all pretty much gone overnight. It was reduced to ocean-soaked debris and memory.

That said, I can promise you, the Thoma family loves the image all the more, if only because everything in it is gone. In a way, it’s not just a photograph for us anymore. It’s a reminder that certain moments don’t ask our permission before they become history. We will never stand there again. We will never see that post in the sand exactly as it was. We’ll never be able to visit that restaurant and relive that moment.

New Year’s Eve has a way of turning our attention toward that same kind of truth. We look back at the year behind us and realize how much of it has vanished without much ceremony. I think of my dear Christian friend, Alex Bak, who died just before Christmas. We had recent conversations together that I never suspected would be our last. Like the signs near the beachfront restaurant, I lived as though Alex would always be there. I just assumed I’d always see Alex sitting in his same pew near the post on the pulpit side of the church’s nave. Indeed, plenty of other things have happened all around me that felt ordinary at the time but now feel sacred because they’re gone.

I suppose the point I’m trying to make is that time moves forward with or without my consent. The clock ticks with absolute indifference to my nostalgia.

But I have an upper hand on the clock’s cruelty. As a Christian, I know Christ is present in every moment. “Behold,” He said, “I am with you always, to the end of the age” (Matthew 28:20).

Everything we love in this world is fragile. I’ve been known to say from the pulpit from time to time that everything has an expiration date. Everything is subject to wind, water, decay, and time. But the thing is, Christ stands right in the middle of the storms. He’s a fixed anchor right in the middle of all our victories and losses. He’s unshaken and unchanging. He does not promise that the signposts will remain standing. He doesn’t promise that the forthcoming year and its moments will be gentle. But He does promise Himself. And with that promise comes the impenetrable truth of a kingdom that cannot be washed away, grasped by a hope-filled strength that does not weaken or erode.

So as 2025 becomes 2026, just as I won’t cling to the misapprehension that I can stay up until midnight, I won’t hold to the illusion that the coming year will somehow be free from struggle or loss. Time has cured me of that naiveté. There will be storms I didn’t see coming, moments I assumed would last that didn’t, and conversations I didn’t realize were final until they already were. But those potential realities are not hollow or hopeless when viewed through the lens of the Gospel. The calendar can change all it wants. Christ remains the same—yesterday, today, and forever (Hebrews 13:8).

Indeed, the world may lose its landmarks. Favorite places and moments may disappear into the Gulf, maybe even becoming portraits on our dining room walls. But in the middle of all of it, the cross still stands, unmoved by this world’s winds and waves, untouched by time’s inevitable erosion. And that’s enough for me. I have everything I need in Jesus, which means I’ll have everything I need in 2026. My prayer is that He’ll be enough for you in the new year, too.

By the way, if your church doesn’t offer a New Year’s Eve service, stop by Our Savior Evangelical Lutheran Church in Hartland, Michigan. Ours is at 4:30 pm. For the record, I’ve never met anyone who was disappointed they went to church on New Year’s Eve.

Worship is Incarnational

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Before I begin, a clarification is in order, if only because people asked for a recording of the hymn I described in last week’s eNews message.

For starters, yes, we do record our worship services. The audio recordings are kept and given to those who genuinely need them, which I’ll come back to in a moment. In the meantime, know that the device we use to capture the service is fed straight from our thousand-year-old microphones directly to a flash drive. In other words, the recordings are, by no means, a spectral capture in crisp Dolby stereo. Above and beneath and around the liturgy’s voice, there are a multitude of ambient sounds you’d expect in a room bearing several hundred people. Thankfully, the spoken word survives the ordeal reasonably well. You can hear the lector reading and the pastor preaching clearly enough, and without much annoyance. But what does not fare so well is the music. It sounds like it’s being performed and sung from inside a gigantic oil drum.

In short, the recordings do what they are meant to do, which is to preserve the Word of God preached and read. However, they do not showcase the liturgical experience—and I’m perfectly okay with that, for a couple of reasons.

One of the reasons we do not share our services with anyone other than shut-ins or other folks in genuine need became especially clear during COVID. Not long after so many in society became terrified, even as we gathered in person, I warned the Board of Elders that providing a virtual alternative would inevitably give people an excuse to stay away—not out of necessity, but out of convenience. And as it turns out, I was right. While it didn’t necessarily happen to us, plenty of studies have discovered it did, in fact, happen to countless others. Indeed, American Christendom experienced a significant shift. Duke Divinity School’s Faith & Leadership initiative found that most congregations that normalized virtual worship during COVID never fully regained their in-person attendance, ultimately returning to in-person worship with 10% fewer people than before. The COVID Religion Research Project found that as many as 25% of regular churchgoers in America now regularly rely on online worship as a viable substitute for in-person gatherings.

Gathering these things into a singular thought, my sense is that what began as an emergency measure became, for many churches, a long-term standard for deliberate displacement. People settled into watching rather than attending, observing rather than gathering.

And yet, the Bible does not treat worship in this way. That’s because it does not consider the actual assembly as optional (Hebrews 10:24-25). Christian worship is, by design, incarnational. We do it together, in person. It is God’s people gathered in one place to hear, confess, receive, and sing. We do this in one another’s presence. We’re the Body of Christ, and that’s how a body works, together with its other parts (1 Corinthians 12:12-27).

So, what about service recordings? Well, we record and share our services as a care for those who truly cannot be there—the shut-in, the homebound, those whose bodies no longer allow them to gather without real difficulty. These are exceptional cases of care. I’ve always considered the service recordings as functioning sort of like an artificial heart. It’s not ideal. It more or less sustains when what should be there cannot be. In the meantime, for the healthy among us, we resist broadcasting beyond this threshold because we do not want to train anyone to believe that artificial substitutes are equivalent to the real thing. Again, an artificial heart does not replace a healthy, living one. In the same way, virtual presence can serve in cases of genuine need, but it is not the same as real presence.

But there’s still more to this.

Returning to where I started, after last week’s note, more than a few people asked if I had a recording of the service. I was going to disregard everything I just said and share a short clip of “What Child Is This” from our Children’s Christmas service. I really was. But then I listened to the recording. As I did, I ran squarely into what I mentioned before.

Our service recordings are not very good—and I like that they’re not. Yes, the hymn as it was sung that night—the children’s voices, the organ, the words—all these parts were technically present in the recording. But at the same time, they weren’t. The recording did not capture the moment. To understand what I described last week, you had to be there. If you weren’t there, then, well, you missed it.

Along the same lines as what I’ve already written here, there’s something about being in the room. It’s something no microphone can seize, and no speaker can reproduce. I can only tell you about it—the way the sound moved, the way the congregation was pulled into carrying the lyrics, the way time seemed to slow during the second stanza of “What Child Is This,” as though its words really were pressing down on all of us with a theological weight you could actually feel. Sure, I could play the recording for you. You’d hear the music and singing. But you cannot experience the surge of a moment when truth lands heavily, and everyone in the room is caught in its blast radius.

That only happens incarnationally. It only happens when you are there.

This is not a critique of recordings. They serve a purpose. Again, we consider it a kindness to shut-ins, travelers, and those whose bodies or circumstances truly prevent them from gathering with their Christian family. Thanks be to God for such tools. But they were never meant to replace presence. They cannot. They do not.

Christian worship is far more than content delivery. It’s not something you consume efficiently while cleaning the kitchen or working in the garage. It is not background noise for Sunday morning coffee or something you “catch up on” later in the week. Christian Worship is a holy and deliberate interruption to everything else in your life. It is God gathering His people to Himself at a time and in a place to feed and sustain them with His gifts of forgiveness.

Even better, Christian worship is where the Word is not merely read but actually addressed to you personally—where the Sacrament of Christ’s body and blood is not something thought about but actually received. You open your mouth, and you eat and drink. It’s a place where forgiven hearts sing praises to God, and what they sing isn’t just sound, but it’s borne by the space itself—by breath and wood and pipe and stone and people standing shoulder to shoulder confessing and resonating the same truths together (Colossians 3:16).

The night we sang “What Child Is This,” the hymn was not so moving or impressive because it was technically flawless. It was powerful because, in a sense, it was inhabited. Indeed, Kantor Newman painted the text gloriously. And yet, the text was painted not only by him, but by the space, by the gathered Church, by the shared attentiveness of people who had come expecting God to do what He has promised to do. And He did (Isaiah 55:10-11). That’s something you cannot download and listen to during the car ride to work.

Now, may I say something plainly and pastorally?

As we stand on the doorstep of a new year, if you have been away from church, come back. If attendance has slipped into something occasional, make it deliberate again. I’m all about New Year’s resolutions. I’m already planning mine. Perhaps you could embrace and use the tradition to recommit to attending church.

Now, be careful. Don’t do it because you feel attendance somehow checks a box and proves your devotion. Don’t do it for any reason other than you know you need what God gives you there. You need to be where the hymnody—God’s Word put to music—is not just captured, but encountered. You need to be where your sins are forgiven out loud (John 20:22-23), where death is named from the pulpit and defied from the pews, where joy is shared by the rest of the Christian body who believe and confess the body’s head, Jesus Christ, together (Ephesians 1:22-23).

Quite simply, nothing compares to being present.

You know as well as I do that this coming year will bring its share of noise, distance, and disembodied substitutes for real life. Resist the lie that these are enough. The Christian faith has always insisted on incarnational truths. So go. Stand. Sing. Listen. Receive. Let the gathering of God’s people in holy worship do what it was always meant to do—which is not merely to pass through your ears, but rather, to take hold of you completely (Psalm 95:1-7).

I assure you, nothing compares.

Christmas Eve 2025

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Tonight does not announce itself with spectacle. We might think that it does. But that’s only because of the holiday festivities. The event to which the festivities point did not demand attention by force or overwhelm the senses. It arrived quietly, almost unnoticed, as God so often does.

The world would have us recognize importance by noise and scale. It expects fanfare and crowds and applause. But God chose another way. He entered human history, but not in a royal procession. He came in the filthiness of childbirth. This did not happen surrounded by marble halls. He came to a borrowed shelter. He was not lifted from the mess and dressed in gilded garments. He was wrapped in whatever was available—swaddling cloths—if only to protect Him from the evening air.

That is the account of God’s arrival.

And yet, we know what the world does not. The eternal Word takes on weight. The Author of time submits Himself to it. The One who reached out and pinned the galaxies into place is laid where animals feed. Nothing about the scene feels impressive, and that’s precisely the point. God is not performing for us. He is coming to us—to be us.

Saint John tells us that “the Word became flesh and dwelt among us” (John 1:14). He did not say that God hovered nearby. He did not say He came by for a visit. John said He dwelt. The Greek word is ἐσκήνωσεν—tabernacled. God pitched a tent among sinners. He took on human flesh. He breathed the same dust-filled air that we breathe. He became us in the truest sense of the word. That means the incarnation is far beyond allegorical niceties. It happened. It was God’s fulfilled commitment. He didn’t abandon us. Even better, He didn’t rescue from afar. He stepped into the mess. He rescued from within. See for yourself. There He is, right there in the manger.

Interestingly, Saint Luke doesn’t first draw our attention to the Christ-child. Instead, he draws us to the witnesses—shepherds keeping watch in the darkness, men accustomed to long nights and very little recognition. We could, in a sense, consider them lowly. And so, notice, the story remains grounded. Heaven opens to them first. The silence is broken by heavenly glory. Into the presence of the ordinary, the eternal invades. “Fear not,” the angels declare. I’ve said countless times before that this is the only appropriate greeting when an angel arrives, just as genuine fear is the only proper reaction when holiness collides with fallen humanity. Still, the message is not one of condemnation. It is the joy of all joys. God in human flesh has appeared. “For unto you is born this day…a Savior” (Luke 2:11).

A Savior. The Savior.

Heaven does not sing with the shepherds in that moment because just any baby has been born. Heaven sings because divine salvation has entered the world with lungs and a heartbeat. And the sign given is almost as scandalous as it is simple. A Child—the Christ—wrapped in swaddling cloths and lying in a manger. No throne. No visible power. No grandeur. Only His presence. God makes Himself small enough to be held, small enough to be threatened, to actually be in danger. Even before Herod’s men come tramping through Bethlehem to kill Jesus, already, the shadow of the cross is stretching backward across the manger’s hay.

We know why this child came. We know what His future holds.

We also know that future will be the ultimate demonstration of divine love. Divine love does not arrive demanding what it’s owed. And we certainly owe God so very much. Still, Divine love brings and distributes what is undeserved. What’s more, it does not protect itself. It gives itself away to protect others. It empties itself, even to the point of death, for others. Saint Paul wrote those words first. He insisted that Christ “did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself” (Philippians 2:6-7). The manger, the shepherds, the angels, and everything surrounding the birth of Jesus, all these comprise the first sermon of this beautiful Gospel.

So tonight, in sense, the Church gathers for far more than a sentimental moment. We gather because the moment of all moments occurred in Bethlehem so many years ago. And as a result, reality changed. God bound Himself to humanity in a way that cannot be undone. Do you know what this means—what it really means? It means there is no suffering He cannot enter, no grief He does not understand, no darkness He has not stepped into ahead of us. Whatever the world looks like tomorrow, God will still be with us—because He already is (Matthew 28:19-20).

For now, we kneel beside the manger. We kneel where heaven touched earth in the most excellent way. It wasn’t an exceptional sight in human terms at the time, except maybe for that moment in the field with the shepherds. But still, that’s not why we’re here. We’re here, and we’re kneeling, because it’s all true, and we believe it. The Light has come. The Savior has arrived. And nothing—absolutely nothing—will ever be the same for us again. Sin, death, and Satan have met their match. The countdown to their final demise was certified at the moment of Christ’s conception.

With these Gospel promises in mind, may this holy night be an opportunity to renew your wonder, steady your hope, and anchor your faith in the One who chose to be near you. And why did He do this? Because He loves you more than anyone ever would or could. God bless and keep you by His grace. And Merry Christmas.

Not a Compliment

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I received my fair share of hate mail for what I shared last week about the church in Evanston, Illinois. Even a few business owners from the town reached out to give me a verbal slap. And yet, it is as I’ve said countless times before. Writing for public consumption is risky. And so, be ready to endure what goes with it. Of course, knowing what to expect helps. Most of the messages bore a tired spirit, the kind that only knows accusations like, “You’re a heartless human being,” or “You’re a hypocritical Christian.”

However, I found one email rather interesting. I’ve copied and pasted it here for you.

“With all due respect Mr. Thoma (I will not call you doctor or reverend because you are not) you are just one more fantic [sic] who does what you tell others not to do. You make the bible say things it does not. It does not talk about genders the way you do. It does not say anything at all about abortion. That church can make there [sic] manager [sic] scene say whatever they want. There is no rule to understand it the way you do. And didn’t Jesus say to judge not?”

There’s a lot in that message. It has a lot of the same trite prattling I’ve endured a thousand times before. That said, I’ll admit I have very little interest in responding to most of it, especially the first, third, and fourth concerns in the message. Those are easy. Yes, the Bible does speak rather precisely about gender. No, you cannot make the Gospel and its narratives into whatever you want. Lastly, you just judged me and then said Jesus insisted we not do such things.

But the second concern—that the Bible does not say anything specifically about abortion—is worthy of some attention.

This particular comment exposes a genuine hermeneutical problem—a way of interpreting God’s Word. It holds that if something is not loudly foregrounded in a familiar verse, then the Bible must intend for us to do whatever we want with it. To be fair, many within the prolife camp inadvertently reinforce this misunderstanding. This is where the prolife movement could use some help. What I’m saying is that when confronted by these same arguments, most in the prolife camp go for the low-hanging fruit. We quote Psalm 139, Jeremiah 1, Luke 1—verses about God forming life in the womb, about knowing us before birth, about children leaping for joy beneath a mother’s ribs. To be sure, these are beautiful passages. But they do not yet fully address the challenge posed in the message, which is the claim that the Bible doesn’t say anything specifically about abortion, like, at all.

And yet, the Bible does. Saint Paul himself is the crucial proof here.

A few years back, I spoke at a Right to Life banquet, and I spent most of my presentation dealing with this point. In particular, I focused on a word Saint Paul uses in 1 Corinthians 15. Before I share that word, we need to know the capabilities of the man who used it, not merely as an Apostle, but as a writer who knew the innate power of language and its ability to carry theological freight. In other words, Paul understood how one well-chosen term could do what a thousand explanations could not. And so, when he does this, we are wise to pay attention, being sure not to soften his intent, or to do what we can to explain it away.

First, Paul was fully aware he was writing Scripture (see Galatians 2:1–9). That matters. It means he knew what he wrote was not only inspired but also immutably authoritative. It wasn’t just for his time. It was aimed directly at the saints of every generation, including our own.

Second (and as a writer, I just love Paul for this), he was no dull penman. In fact, whenever I want to show the students in my religion class just how much fun the Scriptures can be, I take them into Saint Paul’s writings. The Holy Spirit’s allowance for a biblical writer’s mind, wit, personality, experiences, and education really shine through with Paul. His epistles breathe with imagery and rhetorical devices. Sometimes he thunders. Sometimes he sings. Sometimes he jokes. Sometimes he pokes with stinging sarcasm. Sometimes he rambles, as if wrestling with himself out loud. He laughs at himself on occasion. Sometimes the Holy Spirit leads him to write some really hard news, leaving him feeling slimy. When that happens, you can almost guarantee you’ll discover a strange doxological sentence afterward, as if he felt the need to take a verbal shower.

Aware of these things, Saint Paul is great fun to read.

But it also enables the reader to see those places where Saint Paul drops plainspoken word-bombs. There is one such place where the word he chooses, one that the prochoice world hopes no one will notice, is meant to rattle the teeth in a reader’s skull.

In 1 Corinthians 15:8, Paul describes himself as τῷ ἐκτρώματι. This is typically softened to “one abnormally born” or “untimely born.” Unfortunately, most assume Paul just meant he arrived late to the apostolic party, as if he were the last hired or least deserving. But that’s not at all what the word means.

Admittedly, ἔκτρωμα (ektroma) is a rare word in the New Testament. In fact, this is the only place it appears. But outside of Scripture, it is common enough in Hippocrates, Dioscorides, and other early medical writers. And there it rarely means “one abnormally born” or “untimely born.” It’s the word used for an aborted child—a baby expelled dead, and often deliberately. In other words, this is not just miscarriage or tragic happenstance language. The word includes the idea of killing a baby in the womb.

Now, let your stomach turn a little. I get the sense that’s the response Paul wanted. It’s an ugly comparison. Contextually, Paul is not mildly saying, “I was late to the apostles.” He is calling himself an abortion by comparison—a repulsive example of something terrible, the only thing he could be in his time apart from Christ, before his appointment as an apostle. Now, here’s why I think this matters to the discussion.

Years ago, I read an article in The Telegraph recounting a sermon by Rev. Katherine Ragsdale, then-Dean of the Episcopal Divinity School in Cambridge, Massachusetts. In front of an abortion clinic, Ragsdale said everything in public that the email I shared above implies. She called out from a microphone that the Bible was silent on abortion, and by its silence, a person’s freedom to have or not have one is implied. Stepping from that twisted assumption, she declared that abortion is actually a blessing given by God, and then she invited everyone in the crowd to chant, “Abortion is a blessing and our work is not done!”

Wow.

Of course, Ragsdale is not some persona plucked from modern Christendom’s fringe. Her ideas have actually taken root like invasive weeds throughout the denominational spectrum. I know this, not only because of the email that came my way, but because of the stereotypical points that “prochoice Christians” lean on to support their ungodly position. It’s a common defense to say that the Bible doesn’t even mention abortion, and since that’s true, it belongs in the category of adiaphora—something neither commanded nor forbidden by God’s Word. Furthermore, if something is neither commanded nor forbidden, we are free to do with it as we’d prefer—maybe even consider it a blessing.

Well, unfortunately for them, the Bible does mention abortion explicitly and by name—ἔκτρωμα. And by the way, I should add that it’s the theology of toddlers and thieves to shove genuine ungodliness into adiaphora’s category. I don’t care what the topic is. Besides, it is irrational to think that if any source, let alone the Bible, uses a word as an insult, the concept attached to that word could ever be considered good. Paul did not call himself a hug or a sunrise. He called himself an abortion—a grotesque image meant to reveal what sin makes of us, and what God has every right to do to us as children. In our sin, we deserve death before we even take our first breath. Grammatically, if abortion is used in this way to portray humanity’s depravity, then for Christians to call it a blessing or declare it holy is to declare altar fellowship with Molech.

The Church must know and understand this. And she must be ready to say it without stuttering. No, abortion is not a blessing. It is an abomination. It always has been, and it always will be. The Bible specifically refers to abortion as something dreadful. If your Bible translation calls it holy, go bury it somewhere. If your pastor calls it a blessing, well, don’t bury him, tempting as the thought may be. Instead, confront him and demand repentance. If he refuses, leave. Find a church that still believes the Word means what it says

The World’s Theatrics

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Did you happen to see the article from Breitbart last week describing how a Christian (and I use the term loosely) congregation in Evanston, Illinois, put out a rather provocative nativity scene? My friend, Bob, sent it to me. I’m glad he did. Essentially, the church is displaying an infant Jesus bound with zip ties. Mary and Joseph are wearing gas masks. Roman soldiers are depicted as modern-day ICE agents, wearing insignia vests and all.

The first thing I’ll say is that it sure seems tempting for some to turn sacred things into public spectacles, especially in a culture that not only enjoys but rewards sensationalism. For those who know where I stand on worship styles, that’s really what sits at the heart of my beef with contemporary worship. I just can’t get past the anthropocentric exhibitionist nature of it all. Why would any of us need Hollywood theatrics to “encounter” the Lord? Why strain so hard to manufacture emotion when we know, by faith, that Christ Himself is truly present by His visible and verbal Word to deliver forgiveness, life, and salvation? But even as contemporary worship teeters on the edge of spectacle, I’m willing to admit that most who prefer it still at least want to tell the Lord’s story. They’re reaching, even if thinly, for Christ.

The church in Evanston, not so much. Their goal isn’t proclamation. It’s provocation. It is to deliberately exchange the holy mystery of Christ’s birth with a political message that the Christmas narrative was never meant to carry. And not just a little exchange. But a complete conversion into the ridiculous. The entire goal is to fashion Jesus’s birth into a statement about immigration. That’s it, and nothing more.

Ultimately, the heart of the Christmas narrative is that God became Man, thus the longstanding practice of reading John 1:1-14 as the appointed Gospel text for Christmas Day. The birth of Jesus Christ is not an allegory. It’s not a political metaphor. It’s not a social-justice image. It’s an all-encompassing historical and spiritual reality. Not one single inch of it is a backdrop for the progressive silliness we’re seeing in Evanston, Illinois. It’s the humble cradle of the One who became as us, that He might take our place in judgment (Isaiah 53:4-6; 2 Corinthians 5:21), and win for us eternal life (John 3:16). All of its themes and sub-themes circle this truth.

By the way, I think the response to this nonsense by some in the Church has been too kind. I saw a note on a Facebook post calling it an “unfortunate demonstration done in poor taste.” It is not poor taste. It is unbridled sacrilege.

But here’s the real catch. The display’s orchestrators claim we ought not miss the parallels between the Holy Family’s escape to Egypt and the plight of modern immigrants. However, any objective person, even one who spends only a minute or two on the Christmas narrative, will see this as a gross oversimplification and, ultimately, a distortion. The flight into Egypt was not a matter of contemporary geopolitics or border enforcement. It had nothing to do with social justice policy. It was divine choreography. It was the unfolding of God’s redemptive plan. To equate that salvific narrative with today’s immigration debates is to cram sacred things into the mold of secular activism, ultimately betraying progressive Christianity’s real geist.

Progressive Christianity is not interested in who Jesus is and what He’s done, except to convert Him into a mascot when convenient—or a moral illustration helpful only insofar as He endorses the activist agenda. Progressivism does not proclaim Christ crucified for sinners (1 Corinthians 1:23). It can’t. The theologies of sin and grace would undermine the Marxist premise that some are inherently unforgivable and some are inherently oppressed by those same unforgivables. Straying too far from that premise risks a finger pointing back in the direction of progressivism’s false “righteousness.” Jesus is a much safer Christ when He can be conscripted for slogans. And so, they do. And they do it for everything.

So keep digging. Read, don’t skim. The Breitbart article’s author was right. Their public “covenant” omits the Trinity, the divinity of Christ, His atoning death, and salvation by grace through faith.

Aware of these things, this ungodly nativity scene makes a little more sense. Not to mention, the omissions can be understood rightly. They aren’t incidental. They are foundational. Once the person and work of Jesus Christ cease to be central, the Gospel becomes malleable. And if the Gospel is malleable, it can be reshaped into any form that suits the latest progressive cause. You name it, and Jesus is a social warrior for it. Immigration, BLM, gender fluidity, and the list goes on.

But now, before I say anything else, I should circle back around to something I said already.

You can pretty much count on the progressive churches this time of year to roll out the ol’ “Jesus was a refugee” campaign. Unfortunately, many folks fall for it. That’s because it sounds compassionate on the surface. It’s also because people are biblically illiterate. It trades on half-remembered Sunday School summaries rather than what the Scriptures actually say. But once you step past the slogan and back into the sacred text, the whole construct collapses. A person can see that biblically, historically, and most importantly, theologically, the refugee narrative simply does not fit into the Christmas story. And the only way to bring them into stride is to do some serious rewriting.

First of all, the Holy Family’s escape was not an immigration crisis. It was, as I already said, divine choreography. Mary, Joseph, and the infant Jesus fled to Egypt because God commanded it through an angel (Matthew 2:13). They also returned because God commanded it through an angel (Matthew 2:19-20). Their escape was not a search for asylum. It wasn’t a reaction to immigration laws. It wasn’t a political protest. It was God preserving the Messiah so that He could accomplish His appointed work (Galatians 4:4-5). What we’re watching in the Christmas narrative is redemptive history, not social justice rhetoric.

Second, Egypt was not a foreign nation in the modern political sense. The first-century world wasn’t divided into modern nation-states. Egypt and Judea were both under Roman rule. There were no checkpoints or passports. There were no visas or asylum protocols. The Holy Family’s movement was absolutely nothing like border migration. It was, quite simply, movement within a unified structure, and about the only noticeable differences were the regional variations. In fact, it would be more honest to compare it to moving from one state in the U.S to another.

Third, the Holy Family was not homeless or destitute. Progressives love to depict them this way. But God’s Word doesn’t do that. After the Magi arrived bearing their gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh (Matthew 2:11), Joseph and Mary went into Egypt with some significant financial means. And don’t forget that Joseph is described as a τέκτονος (Matthew 13:55), which is a word that’s often translated as “carpenter,” but can also indicate a craftsman who works as a builder with various materials. In other words, Jesus’s adoptive father was a skilled tradesman. Those were in demand everywhere in the first century. Joseph was more than able to provide for his little family, which is to say our beloved Savior and His family were not impoverished migrants trying to survive. They were a well-cared-for, God-guided family under divine protection.

And it was all in place for one purpose: to preserve the Messiah.

Christ was spared from Herod so that He could die for the sins of the world at the appointed hour (John 10:17-18). This is the epicenter of the escape narrative, and to recast it as commentary on modern immigration is to betray no small ignorance of salvation history’s details and eventual arc.

But again, what should we expect from these goofy activist churches?

That said, I should warn you against the churches on the other side of the political aisle in this regard, too. Indeed, ours is a nation undeniably shaped by Christian principles, and for that we should give thanks. Patriotism, rightly ordered, is a gift—an expression of gratitude for rights we don’t deserve and didn’t earn, and yet God gave. With that, we rejoice in this nation because it’s free. Ironically, even as progressive ideologues are forever trying to silence conservative bible-believing churches, these same Bible-believing churches rejoice in religious liberty—the same principle that guarantees the sleazy progressive churches the freedom to hang LGBTQ, Inc. flags and put up activist nativity scenes.

Still, we have to be clear and consistent. The faithful churches must guard against any and all tendencies to allow anything to eclipse the Gospel (1 Corinthians 2:2). We must maintain that the Church’s calling is higher, older, and holier than any one nation’s story, even when we’re considering America’s uniquely Christological heritage. We’re glad for it. We rejoice in it. We do everything we can to prevent it from slipping into forgotten history. But it’s not the primary message of our lives in Christ. It’s a piece of who we are, not the thrust of our Christian identity (Philippians 3:20).

Now, again, don’t misunderstand me. (Of course, those who know me best won’t do such a thing.) We can and should talk about political things from the pulpit. In fact, I wrote a book that Fidelis Publishing is set to release in February, entitled Christ Before Caesar: Faithful Public Witness in an Age of Retreat. I more than mention throughout the importance of pastors concerning themselves with these things, if only because, just as Abraham Kuyper, the late nineteenth-century pastor and Prime Minister of the Netherlands, so rightly said: “There is not one square inch in the whole domain of our human existence over which Christ, who is Lord, does not cry ‘Mine!’” But I do this mindful that I am to preach the Word of God, and nothing is to get more airtime or airspace in the pulpit than the Gospel. In the churches that give more to politics than Christ, even the conservative ones, I dare say Christ is just as absent in the preaching there as He is in the Evanston church’s nativity scene.

The Church must preach a Christ unshadowed by any agenda—One whose kingdom is not of this world (John 18:36), yet who rules this world all the same for the good of His people (Ephesians 1:22-23).

In the end, that’s a key indicator of what separates the real Church from every cheap imitation of it. The world can dress Jesus in zip ties or put Him on an eagle’s back with a flag in His hand. It can drag Him into its activism, shrink Him into a mascot, or draft Him into its political crusades. But the real Christ didn’t take on flesh to validate movements. He came to save sinners (1 Timothy 1:15).

Full stop. The Church’s task is also not to improve the Lord’s image or update His mission. It is to be faithful to His Word. It is to proclaim the Gospel—what He’s done, is doing, and will continue to do for sinners relative to their dreadful predicament in judgment (Hebrews 13:8). Knowing this, we can strip away the theatrics. When we do, we’ll see Jesus there—the Holy Child in the manger, the Man on the cross, the Lord at the empty tomb. That Jesus—unrevised and unshadowed—is the only One who gives life (John 11:25). And if a church cannot preach that Christ purely and without alteration, it is not a church at all (Revelation 2:4-5).

Parental Repentance

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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.