Tag Archives: faith

Catchphrase

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Everyone has a catchphrase. By catchphrase, I mean something you say with regularity. In truth, you likely have more than one. If you asked those closest to you, I bet they could tell you what they are.

About a year ago, Jennifer came up with a great idea. She decided she would make bingo cards with our family members’ unique catchphrases. I liked the idea. It highlights each person’s originality. As someone who appreciates movie memorabilia, I assure you originals are always best. By comparison, my family is by no means a company of imitators. They’re valuable originals.

I haven’t seen Jen’s bingo cards yet, but that hasn’t stopped the family from playing the game. Interestingly, the contest has expanded to include mannerisms, too. It’s not unusual to hear someone call out “Bingo!” whenever anyone at the dinner table says or does something unique to their persona. Apparently, I tend to sigh and say more often than I realize, “I need to get on the treadmill.” Now, whenever I utter those words, someone will say, “Bingo!” Thankfully, I know they’re playing the game and not commenting on my physique.

There’s one sentence the Thoma family as a whole says a lot. We all say, “I love you.” If I were to choose the family’s official catchphrase, that would be it, and I can prove why it’s the best choice. On two separate occasions within the past month, I said something to one of the kids as they walked away, and their reply was, “I love you, too.” The funny thing is, I didn’t say, “I love you.” I said something else. Not hearing what I actually said, they defaulted to the assumption that it must have been “I love you.”

I liked that. I liked it so much I didn’t even attempt to clarify. Instead, I continued along my merry way in both circumstances, savoring the moment’s joy and filing it away as something I might eventually write about. By the way, I’m not just writing for you. I’m writing for my family, too. This is a record of sorts, a chronicling. They’ll read and remember these words long after I’m gone. God willing, their children will absorb the lessons learned, sharing in them, too. As with most things, there’s a lesson to learn if we pay attention.

Looking back, I suppose one lesson I learned is just how burdensome life would be in any family if the go-to assumptions about each other were anything but the “I love you” kind. What would life be like for someone whose default expectation is anything but genuine care or concern from their closest family members? Instead, they expect ridicule and insult. That’s no way to live. It certainly isn’t what God intended for families.

That reminds me of something else.

I surprised my family a few weekends ago by taking them to the new Texas Roadhouse restaurant in Fenton. We don’t go out to eat very often, so it was indeed a treat. While there, a child in the booth behind us proved herself all but demon-possessed. Repeatedly screeching at the top of her lungs, the present but oblivious dad did little more than lean to her and whisper an occasional “Shhh” before returning to tapping at his cell phone.

His efforts did nothing. The child continued shouting, kicking the booth seats, and ultimately disrupting countless meals within earshot of the ruckus—which, in the end, was nearly half the restaurant. How do I know? Because I made eye contact with many of the disgruntled patrons.

Doing our best to talk above the screeches, Jen and I shared with our kids how hard parenting can be. Part of its difficulty is knowing two things. First, a parent needs to know the appropriate threshold for action in any given circumstance, and second, they need to respond in a way that actually helps. Before providing a few challenging examples from our family’s past, I told the kids how vital every parenting moment is for filling the middle spaces of who and what a child will be as an adult. What a parent does or doesn’t do will resonate exponentially. The out-of-control child in the booth behind us was in the very process of becoming her future self, and her disinterested father, even as he did nothing, was a part of her formation.

To explain this, I reminded the kids about a time years ago when I took a hammer and smashed one of their digital devices. I know that sounds harsh. However, the device had become a terrible distraction for one of them. Warnings didn’t work. Taking it away from him didn’t work, either. Getting rid of it appeared to be the only solution. Of course, I could’ve sold or given it away, but doing so seemed too easy, too unimpactful. It left me feeling like a deeper lesson would be lost concerning people and things. Moreover, as a Christian father, I knew somewhere in the mix was an opportunity for the Gospel to shine, which is the only thing that provides real love in any messy situation. The Gospel brings forgiveness while showing our Lord is neck-deep in the messes with us.

Having warned him well in advance of what I planned to do, when he finally crossed the line, he and I went out to the garage together, and I made good on my words. Right before doing so, I told him how much I’d spent to buy the item and that I’d be at a loss of several hundred dollars by doing this. In other words, I was invested in the loss. And yet, I added, I was deeper in the mess with him than he might realize. I told him I’d rather lose all the money in my bank account and sacrifice every object I own than lose him to this world’s things. I love him far more. With that, I smashed the device. He hugged me and told me he loved me. For the record, he remembers what happened and occasionally tells me how thankful he is that I did it.

I told the kids I felt sick to my stomach right after doing it. I wasn’t sure if I’d done the right thing. I wasn’t sure the results I’d hoped for would ever materialize. But as I said, they did. And reassurance abounded at the Texas Roadhouse dinner table. Here we were, several years after the event, agreeing that it strengthened the love between a father and son rather than eroding it. That’s the exponential resonation I mentioned before.

So, what does this have to do with where I started? Well, my mind tends to wander as I type, so I’ll do what I can to tie this up.

I suppose the first thing that comes to mind is the disinterested father in the booth behind us. He needs to know that disciplining his daughter is essential. It’s certainly not unloving. She’s not going to hate him if he requires that she respect him and the people in her vicinity. But if he continues his indifference, the time for hating him will come. She’ll be a self-interested young woman incapable of concern for others, and when he does impose a requirement, she’ll rebel, seeing him only as an enemy. He’ll say, “I love you,” but the words will ricochet.

I suppose my next thought concerns what I wrote before the story I just shared. I had just finished expressing “how burdensome life would be in any family if the go-to assumptions about each other were anything but the ‘I love you’ kind.” The connection there might be that for a family built on Gospel love, even the more complicated moments can still sustain and ultimately prove the “I love you” assumption. In other words, no matter what’s happening, easy or complex, happy or sad, tranquility or anger, we can assume “I love you” from each other, even when those aren’t the words being spoken, and maybe even when the situation requires the kind of disciplinary readjustments that might make a parent a little sick to his stomach. Disciplining or being disciplined, we’ll know the person loves us. We’ll know we always have a way back to better days.

This is true because the comfortable assumption is one of repentance and forgiveness. This is the way back. It bears the relaxing notion of the Lord’s Gospel presence in every trial. A moment might sting a little, but we know we’ll get through it no matter what. And why? Because Christ is our Savior, and He’s made “I love you” the family’s catchphrase.

The Domineeringly Vicious

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For most readers of this weekly yarn, it’s probably a waste of print for me to describe social media’s more prevalent tendencies surrounding any topic that requires taking sides. Like most who use virtual platforms, you’ve likely experienced how much more domineering and vicious people become.

Concerning the domineering among us, George Burns was the best jester, offering, “It’s too bad that all the people who know how to run the country are busy driving taxicabs and cutting hair.” I’ll admit to knowing what he means in a literal sense. I once spent a fifty-minute car ride from Dulles International Airport listening to a laundry list of cures for our nation’s woes. My only available role was to offer a polite but occasional “Yeah, I hear you.” This isn’t to say all of the driver’s ideas were disagreeable. But he did, more or less, puke them all over his passenger, ultimately muting what could’ve been a mutual exchange that expanded one another’s knowledge base. I suppose, had I not been so tired, I might have tried to challenge his insistence on certain topics. I’m certainly more likely to do that in face-to-face conversations than I am in virtual ones. This is true for a few reasons.

For one, you can’t hide during an in-person discussion. If you try, you automatically lose credibility. Second, you can only access what you know. There’s no going to the internet for help. Third, tone and body language are available to both participants. Apart from words, these are often communication’s richest clarifiers. Without them, conversations are far harder.

Of course, social media sells itself as a format for conversation—an arena for ideological exchanges. Although, anyone who uses it knows that’s becoming less and less the case. It certainly plays with a very different set of rules than in-person communication.

For the record, I bring my own rules to the platform. One I practice somewhat devoutly is to simply write something and move on, rarely hanging around to engage in discussion. I know this makes me sound distant. But as someone who writes for public consumption, if I shared with you some of the uglier messages I’ve received over the years, you’d understand. In most cases, it’s best to just say what needs to be said and move along. This particular rule serves another one I practice.

I avoid the domineeringly vicious. These are the people who believe their opinions are the only ones that matter, and if you disagree, watch out. You know the kind I’m talking about. Of course, if such a person’s friendships and interests are the same as mine, the algorithms ensure they’ll end up on my screen. I don’t go looking for them. But when we do cross paths on occasion, I’ll read what they’ve written. As I do, another rule often kicks in. If I feel the urge to reply, I don’t. Why? Well, here’s an all too familiar and equally futile scenario one should expect when approaching these folks.

Essentially, the domineering person will spew his or her opinionated nonsense across the virtual landscape like a glaze. It’ll attract the usual supporters. But it will also attract unsuspecting people willing to share a different perspective. And when the visitor responds with a differing view—maybe even one geared toward the same goal—he is pummeled with insults for not agreeing until he finally leaves the discussion.

As I said, I usually do what I can to mark and avoid people who treat others this way. I steer even further away from the ones who are supposed to be on my ideological team and yet do this. They’re the ones who give the causes I hold dear a very bad name, and in the end, I don’t want to be associated with them.

This behavior seems at its worst during election seasons. For the instate reader, it’s been on steroids throughout the Michigan GOP chairmanship divide. What a mess! But no matter the divisive topic, its social media form is often tantamount to watching a nature show about birds. Like certain species of fowl, there’s an unfortunate time when chicks push unhatched siblings from the nest to their doom, all the while trying to kill the other hatchlings competing for the best of the parent’s vomitous provisions. If David Attenborough were narrating, he’d probably describe the viciousness as necessary for the species’ preservation. But while birds may be vicious for the sake of species survival, I’m not convinced that humans do it for the same reasons.

On one hand, I think the overarching reason is power. People want to rise above another person’s rule. That’s innate to the sinful nature in general. It’s why so many, even in the churches, avoid talking about sin. Fewer and fewer want to acknowledge their accountability to a supreme arbiter of morality—to someone who can actually say what’s acceptable and what isn’t. Humans are, by nature, radical individualists. But this describes all of us, not just a certain type of domineeringly vicious meanie on the internet. So, what is it with them?

I think many of these folks are the way they are because they’re hiding something. But what are they hiding, exactly?

Before I tell you, be sure not to confuse the word vicious. For example, try harming my wife or my children. If you do, I guarantee you’ll experience a divinely ordained ferociousness in me you’ll wish you hadn’t. Try challenging my integrity. Try accosting my reputation. Try steering the Christians in my pastoral care into false doctrine. These things will stir a measure of fierceness you won’t soon forget.

Now, let’s say we’re exchanging ideas, whether in person or online. I promise my inability to best you in an ideological debate won’t end with me maliciously insulting you, showing pictures that mock you, or doing whatever I can to erase you from the discussion. Those are vicious power-lust behaviors, and their only purpose is to hide one’s inadequacies. Ayne Rand described them as weeds growing in the vacant lots of an abandoned mind. And she’s right. Employing vicious behaviors in any ideological discussion is always—always—a sign of intellectual impotence. Although, to the casual observer’s benefit, they help mark the ill-intending egotists we should avoid, which is a good thing. They’re the ones who almost always prove themselves of little use to any worthwhile effort. And why? At least two reasons come to mind.

First, they’re of little use because they’ve somehow convinced themselves that insults hurt their enemy, that they somehow shrink an enemy’s resolve. But they don’t. More often, they bolster it. I’m living proof. Ridiculing me only makes me more invested in the effort to defeat you. Second, if the good guys win, we don’t want the egotists among them holding power. They’ve already proven their landscape-destroying tendencies. The battle for an idea is not won by carpet bombing, and a unique dilemma is rarely solved by indiscriminate assaults. Instead, these challenges are met by sharpshooters with aims that are steady and true. They require skillful precision and patient determination. Moreover, to meet the challenge requires coordinates and capability—truth and substance. The people in power need to own these things before they sit at the table. The sneering armchair quarterbacks rarely have these qualities.

Wrapping this up, I suppose I’d simply encourage you to think about these things and, in the meantime, maybe even do what you can to augment your resistance to the folks I’ve described. You don’t have to cut them from your life. In fact, I say don’t. They can be great entertainment, and sometimes dinner and a show go well together. Still, I caution you not to get caught in their gravitational pull (Proverbs 13:20; 14:7; Romans 12:2; 1 Corinthians 15:33; Ephesians 5:11; and others). Measure their truest intentions against their behaviors (Titus 1:16; James 2:18).

How do you do this? Well, one place to start is by watching how they respond to someone telling them they’re wrong. I guarantee you’ll learn a lot about them in those first few moments.

Satan is a Toothless Punk

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Last week’s eNews prompted an interesting response from one of its readers. The part that stirred discussion was my apparent disregard for Satan’s significance. Referring to the Lord’s words in Luke 22:53, I insisted that Jesus was not referring to Satan by the phrase “power of darkness.” I claimed sin was the power Jesus was talking about, implying I’m not one to give Satan credit as an all-consuming “power.” I did say that Satan is a big deal. Of course, if he weren’t, the Lord wouldn’t have needed to face off with him in all the ways He did. That certainly means the Devil is not to be trifled with. Still, he’ll forever be an agent of sin and nothing more. And so, when the Lord says to Judas, “This is your hour,” He’s speaking to Judas directly and engaging with the one actively inspiring his deeds—Satan. However, when the Lord adds, “and the power of darkness,” He’s referring to sin’s consuming reign in this world. I might consider adding death to the equation. Saint Paul certainly noted its relationship to sin. He wrote that sin once had dominion over us. Within this dominion, he explained that “just as sin came into the world through one man, and death through sin, and so death spread to all men because all sinned” (Romans 5:12).

Looking at what I just wrote, I think I’ll add it to this morning’s sermon manuscript. It certainly fits. One of my goals is to paint a portrait of sin’s deepest significance for the listeners.

Getting back to my original thought, I suppose if I’m wrong about this detail concerning Satan, I’m sure others will be willing to say so. Either way, we’ll find out on that great and glorious day. In the meantime, I won’t go looking for reasons (even biblical ones) to stroke Satan’s ego. He’s been defanged. I have nothing to fear from him, the toothless punk that he is.

Regardless of the person, if someone writes or says something worth remembering, I’ll file the truth of the words away. I do this mentally and physically. That said, I have various quotations printed and taped to the bookshelves in my office. I’ve had one for over a decade from Father Gabriel Amorth. He was the Roman Catholic Church’s chief exorcist for many years. It seems he’s somewhat popular, having become the subject of a recent film starring Russel Crowe. I appreciated something he said during a 2001 interview with an Italian news magazine. The interviewer asked Amorth, “Are you afraid of the Devil.” His response was as it should be:

“Afraid of that beast? He’s the one who should be afraid of me. I work in the name of the Lord. He is only an ape of God.”

As I acknowledged, Satan is a big deal. He’s clever. He’s tenacious. He’s strong. Even Jesus admitted this. In Luke 10, the Lord told His listeners, “When a strong man, fully armed, guards his own palace, his goods are safe” (v. 21). The term “strong man” was a familiar reference to Satan, and so, Jesus’ listeners knew who he was talking about. Still, the Lord concluded the acknowledgment of Satan’s strength as quickly as He began it, turning His listeners’ attention toward Himself, “But when one stronger than he attacks him and overcomes him, he takes away his armor in which he trusted and divides his spoil” (v. 22).

Yes, the Devil is strong. But Jesus is stronger.

In the scheme of things, the Lord spoke the words in Luke 10 well before venturing toward His death on the cross. Doing so, He assured us that the Devil was about to be disarmed and stripped of everything. Later in Luke 22, the time finally arrived for head-to-head combat. The strong man led a contingent to meet the Stronger Man praying in the Garden of Gethsemane. Strangely, the Stronger Man said to the strong man, “This is your hour” (v. 53). In other words, Jesus submitted at that moment and, as such, invited the Devil to do his level best to lay the Lord low. If you keep reading, you’ll see that the Devil embraced the challenge, ultimately delivering measures of dreadfulness we’ll never fully know.

But the strong man’s fun ended when the Stronger Man cried out, “It is finished” (John 19:30). Of course, the Lord’s cry was declarative. He was announcing that the price for our redemption had been fully paid. With a sense for Easter, His words can be heard as, “Alright, that’s enough. It’s my turn, now.” Because it was. By His death, the Stronger Man endured in our place against the strong man’s fury. In that same moment, the unholy trinity of sin, death, and Satan was ultimately taken to the mat and pinned. The Stronger Man walked away at the end of the three-day count, leaving the strong man defeated.

As believers, the Stronger Man is with us (Matthew 28:20). He claimed us as His own in our baptism (Matthew 28:19, Romans 6:3-8, Galatians 3:27, Revelation 7:14-17). We are not apart from Him. We are in Him, and He is in us (John 14:19-20), and greater is the One we bear (1 John 4:4). Because of this, the Devil has every reason to fear God’s people and not the other way around. We confessed as much at Lent’s beginning when we prayed the Litany here at Our Savior in Hartland last Sunday. At one moment along the way, we boldly petitioned that God would continue “to beat down Satan under our feet.”

By the power of the Holy Spirit for faith, that’s precisely what Christian feet can do.

Scan the Church’s hymnody. You’re sure to discover this kind of Christian confidence. You’ll likely experience just how penetrating this reality has been for Christians throughout history. Luther’s great hymn, “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God,” is a perfect example. Stanza three offers with astounding conviction:

Though devils all the world should fill,
All eager to devour us,
We tremble not, we fear no ill.
They shall not overpower us.
This world’s prince may still
Scowl fierce as he will,
He can harm us none.
He’s judged; the deed is done;
One little word can fell him.

Another is Erdmann Neumeister’s “God’s Own Child I Gladly Say It.” A middle stanza of this exceptional hymn demonstrates the same certainty, proving itself emboldened enough to impose demands on Satan:

Satan hear this proclamation:
I am baptized into Christ!
Drop your ugly accusation,
I am not so soon enticed.
Now that to the font I’ve traveled,
All your might has come unraveled,
And, against your tyranny,
God, my Lord, unites with me!

Perhaps another—Jacob Fabricius’ “O Little Flock, Fear Not the Foe”—spends a stanza mocking the Devil and his crew, calling their might “a joke, a mere façade!” Indeed, for those grafted to Christ (John 15:5), Satan is a joke, the kind that prompts regular laughter throughout heaven’s gloriously cavernous halls.

I don’t necessarily want to belabor the point. Suffice it to say that while I’ll admit the Devil is trouble, I do not fear him. By God’s gracious care, I can live with no small measure of certainty that he should fear me. And why? It’s not because of who I might claim to be of myself. It’s because of who claimed me and now stands between me and the strong man: The Stronger Man! And so, just as Luther so famously said, if the Devil would pull me down, he would first need to overcome the One who is my Redeemer and Defender. Christ is mine, and I am Christ’s. Period. I’m happy to let the Devil put that in his pipe and smoke it while I move on to more important things.

Complaining

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Perhaps like me, you’re not too fond of complainers. I don’t mean people who draw attention to things that need fixing. I mean those folks who simply complain about everything, no matter what it is.

I heard it said that if humans could somehow remove their opinions from most things, we’d likely find we have little to complain about in life. I think I agree. Pitched against Lent, it makes complete sense.

For starters, Lent leads to Golgotha. No one can arrive at Golgotha’s dreadful scene and actually grasp its significance without first having a handle on why it had to happen. Jesus is doing what He’s doing because He’s the only one who can. That’s important.

Of course, this reason has other dimensions to it. Perhaps the most essential is that the Lord loves us as no one could or would, so everything Jesus does, up to and including Golgotha’s exacting, is born from this love. His passion reveals His immeasurable yearning to save us. That’s one reason the crucifixion will forever be the heart of Gospel preaching.

Closer to where I began, another dimension is sin and the fact that we’re responsible for it. We let it in, and now everything is infected. Only Jesus remains untouched; that is, until, as Saint Paul described, He became the infection in a way that will forever be mysterious to us (1 Corinthians 5:21). Simply put, He bore every ounce of sin’s dreadfulness in Himself on the cross (Isaiah 53:6, 1 Peter 2:24). Yes, He carried and endured what we could see: mocking, injustice, bludgeoning, flogging, piercing, crucifixion, and death. These things are surface products, horrible in every way. There’s still something else He carried and endured in Himself that we couldn’t see. He gives it a nod when He’s arrested in Gethsemane. He tells His betrayer, “This your hour, and the power of darkness” (Luke 22:53). He wasn’t just submitting to the physical terrors. He was submitting to something else there. And it was the awful of all awfuls. He called it a power—an all-encompassing reality. As we are so often, Judas was the power’s agent.

I know some commentators think Satan is the power Jesus is referring to. Sure, he’s a big deal. Nevertheless, Satan does what Satan does because he, too, is infected by the power. If you haven’t guessed it already, I’m saying that the power of darkness is the reigning power of sin itself. It’s the all-consuming plague that holds each of us in its sway, ultimately poisoning the whole world with eternal death and condemnation.

So, what does any of this have to do with setting aside human opinion and thereby discovering fewer reasons to complain in this life?

Well, for example, there’s plenty to complain about, especially if, in our opinion, we somehow believe we deserve better than what this sinful world so often doles out. But the thing is, Lent teaches us the power of darkness thoroughly diseases us, and we don’t deserve better (Romans 3:12). Objectively, then, the calculation becomes quite simple. We own sin’s predicament and all its potential wages, including death. If our opinions have us convinced otherwise, Lent’s destination—the crucifixion of Jesus—must be a brutal demonstration of what’s really true: Behold, there on the cross! See what the sin nature warrants! See what you deserve for your crimes!

I guess what I’m saying is simply this: What is there to bemoan when the mineral element of everything wrong with this world is technically our fault? To complain about anything troubling is to complain about ourselves.

I think this is an incredibly recalibrating thought. Having recently felt the urge to say, “I don’t deserve to be treated this way,” this Lenten recalibration pulled me back from the edge of self-righteousness. It reminded me that I was experiencing exactly what sin offers to this world. And yet, having this awareness, navigating the contentious situation was a bit easier. Indeed, contentious scenarios unfold far differently when you can readily confess to being partly responsible for all contention in general.

That leads me to something else. The sinner that I am, and living in this sinful world, I’ll always find reasons to complain about the misery. By the way, and as I began, I’m not saying we should just ignore the travesties sin imposes. These things almost certainly require our attention. What I am saying, or better yet, asking is: How are things different for me now that I know the only One who could save me stepped up and did so?

The power of sin has been overthrown. I have been rescued. Jesus did it. Knowing this, the messes I find myself in are no longer occasions for complaining. Instead, they are opportunities to understand just how terrible sin is, acknowledge what my role in the terribleness might be, and observe the Lord’s crucifixion through tears of joy. Golgotha becomes less a reminder of what I deserve and more the ultimate emblem of hope in every sadness.

Even better, this hope is empowering. It moves its bearer beyond complaining. It strengthens for getting right to work making changes in a world that needs what Christians bring to the table. For every minute I spend complaining about how bad everything is, I lose a valuable minute meant for trusting Christ and, in faith, doing what I can to make things better.

A True Friend

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I learned something about friendship last Saturday while driving to give a presentation in Plymouth. I suppose I already knew it innately. However, I’d not yet formed the thought in a graspable, and therefore shareable, way.

Essentially, I had to be up and doing (as Longfellow would say) before everyone else in my home that day. And so, I crept through my morning routine lest I awaken the multitudes who’d finally been granted a Saturday morning to sleep in. Having showered and dressed, the sun just beginning to share its intentions, I kissed my still-sleeping wife, Jennifer, and left. I returned to our bedroom several minutes later to retrieve a forgotten item. Jennifer was now awake and scrolling through her preferred newsfeed. I grabbed the overlooked item, kissed her screen-lit cheek, and left for the day.

About fifteen minutes into my journey, I called Jennifer. The conversation went something like this:

“Hello?”

“It’s just me,” I said. “I took a chance you hadn’t gone back to bed.”

“No, I’m awake,” she replied. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I was just thinking about something.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m glad my first visit with Chris Pratt was in Guardians of the Galaxy rather than watching him in Parks and Recreation with you and the kids.” The night before, my family and I had just finished the final episode in a several weeks-long binging of the mentioned television show.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I become endeared to characters I like and the people who play them,” I explained. “And then I expect certain things from their performances. If I had known the character Andy Dwyer before Star-Lord, I would’ve expected certain behaviors from Star-Lord, and I might not have enjoyed Pratt in the role as much. Instead, I brought Star-Lord to Andy Dwyer and not Andy Dwyer to Star-Lord. I guess I’m saying it was just better for me that way. It was better to meet Star-Lord before meeting Andy Dwyer.”

“Okay,” she said hesitatingly, yet still sounding just as happy to be an audience for my relatively useless observation as she is with the more essential aspects of my life. “I can see how that might be true.”

“Yeah, so that’s all I wanted to say.”

“Well, be careful on the road.”

“I will.”

“What time will you be home?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “I’ll call when I’m on my way.”

The conversation became a tender goodbye, and I continued my drive.

So, what does this have to do with a lesson in friendship? Well, Jennifer once again showed me that she’s more interested in simply talking with me than in the content of the conversation. I had absolutely nothing of value to share, and I could’ve just as easily kept my thoughts to myself. Still, I wanted to call her and tell her what I was thinking, even if it was ridiculous. Something assured me I could. In a simpler sense, it’s not necessarily the subject that matters between genuine friends. It’s the friendship itself that matters. When that’s true, hearing the other person’s voice can easily become so much more important than what they say.

But there’s something else about genuine friendship that I’ve learned along the way with Jennifer. Sometimes, what’s said (or done) must eclipse that comfortable sentiment. One of friendship’s chief responsibilities is honesty. Far too many unfortunate proverbs are being shared about how a true friend accepts you for who you are. When I see a decorative wall print that says something like that on the shelf in a store, I tend to turn it around backward or hide it in a stack of nearby pillows. No one needs to see it. Unrestricted acceptance of any and all behavior is not the definition of a true friend. Genuine friendship cares enough to communicate truths that you may resist acknowledging on your own. A genuine friend—someone who truly cares about you—will risk everything, even your wrath, to steer you toward truth. Indeed, “faithful are the wounds of a friend” (Proverbs 27:6). Knowing our world and the ever-strengthening gravity of its dreadfulness, none of us should be without such a friend.

All of this came to mind because as I reached for a book on my shelf this morning, I accidentally bumped a nearby greeting card, which resulted in several toppling over and cascading to the floor. Rather than putting them back, I gathered more from across multiple shelves, eventually putting them into a box in a cabinet where I keep such things. When I opened the box’s lid, a handwritten note from a former friend was on top. I won’t share the details, but just know the friendship ended badly. What I will say is that its final discussion had to happen. I made the painfully necessary phone call. He needed to hear that he’d wandered too far beyond the borders of faithfulness to Christ and was teetering at the edge of a dangerous ideological cliff. Ultimately, he cursed my concerns and jumped. It’s been several years since we’ve spoken. I sent him a note a few years back, but nothing came of it. Likely, I’ll never hear from him again. Admittedly, when I discovered and read the note, I could hear his voice behind its scribbled words. I realized I missed it. The content of our conversations was vast and sometimes pointless. But when he spoke, I listened, not necessarily because of what he was saying, but because I liked being his friend.

Perhaps the better lesson learned from this morning’s rambling is this: Don’t throw away the friends who care enough to tell you the truth. Apart from the Lord and His Word, they’re your next greatest asset for navigating and enduring a world doing its level best to pull you toward destruction. With that, there’s a reason God’s Word commends friendship, offering that “two are better than one…. For if they fall, one will lift up his fellow. But woe to him who is alone when he falls and has not another to lift him up” (Ecclesiastes 4:9-10). There’s a reason Saint Paul encourages us to “bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ” (Galatians 6:2). There’s a reason he rejoices in the mutual encouragement that comes from faith exercised relative to the self and others (Romans 1:12). There’s a reason Solomon writes so uncomplicatedly, “One who is righteous is a guide to his neighbor, but the way of the wicked leads them astray” (Proverbs 12:26), and that “oil and perfume make the heart glad, and the sweetness of a friend comes from his earnest counsel” (Proverbs 27:9), followed by the well-worn advice that “iron sharpens iron, and one man sharpens another (Proverbs 27:17).

We don’t need coddlers. We need honest friends. And if we’re so scandalized by the truths they tell us, ultimately resulting in us tossing them from our lives like spoiled meat, we’re likely the problem, not them. This means we need to have and be the kind of friend who is ready to hear others confess their faults and willing to let them show us ours. To be a friend like that takes the type of hardshell humility that only the Holy Spirit can bestow. By hardshell humility, I mean the meekness that can handle its own reflection because it understands its need while knowing the One who met it—Jesus Christ—the greatest friend any of us will ever know (John 15:12-15).

Confronting our failings is never easy. Ash Wednesday is this week, and if ever there was a time to confront our dust-and-ashes nature (Genesis 2:7, 3:19, and 18:7), it’s then. As you do, remember Jesus, the perfect friend. He steered straight into this world’s awfulness, risking everything, even His life, to make you His own. Any friend who’s willing to give up his own self-security to save you from something dangerous is precisely the kind of friend you need. A friend like that certainly isn’t disposable but indispensable.

Again, Lent is soon upon us. Many people give up something for Lent. May I make a suggestion?

Set aside the defenses you’ve constructed around your easily bruised ego, fear of the truth, and ridiculous fragility. Own up to your strayings and rejoice that God’s love was manifested to you by His Word given in the Scriptures and demonstrated through friends who care. His warning against Sin is an essential proof of His concern. Don’t write Him off. He didn’t want to leave you ignorant of your condition, and He has more to tell you. You are not lost. Christ has come. By His life, death, and resurrection, the debt of your sins has been paid. Through faith in Jesus, you receive the merits of His work and are set free from your failings.

A friend who deals in these things is a friend indeed.

Headless Chickens

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I’m getting older. You know what that means? It means I’m losing more and more of my generation and its characters to death.

I received word this week that Carl Weathers died. Weathers was known for his breakout role as Apollo Creed in the Rocky films. He was great in those movies, but as a lover of sci-fi horror, I appreciated him as Dillon in one of my all-time favorites: Predator. When I learned he would be at the Motor City Comic Con last spring, I ensured my kids got to meet and get a photo with him. What a nice guy—genuinely friendly.

Strangely, I heard the news about Weathers after reading an article about how scientists believe they’ve unlocked one particular secret to aging. Every generation and culture has been chasing these secrets since the dawn of Man. And why? Because no one wants to die. Everyone knows it’s permanent. I suppose that’s the humor in cemetery fences. Why have one when those outside don’t want in, and those inside can’t get out?

Essentially, the article reported that cells age when their mitochondria start leaking. As they do, they release proteins that cause inflammation, leading to aging’s effects. Researchers theorize that by stopping the mitochondria from doing this, they’ll be one step closer to reversing the aging process altogether.

Will scientists ever figure out how to do this? To some extent, maybe. But will they ever defeat death? The Bible would say no.

First, death is far more than a natural phenomenon involving leaky mitochondria. Stopping this process won’t fix death. Physical death is merely the last decomposing fruit produced by a much deeper condition. Second, Jesus assured us that the earth has an expiration date. When it arrives, so will Jesus. He’ll return in glory to do precisely what the creeds declare: to judge the living and the dead. Hypothetically, even if scientists figure out how to keep people from aging, when that day arrives, those without faith in Christ and His salvific work will still be found locked in bondage to sin and eternal death, ultimately meeting the Lord as spiritual corpses. Such a person might look alive in this life but, in truth, is already dead. That’s what Saint Paul meant by describing living human beings as dead in their trespasses and sins (Ephesians 2:1). In a sense, the image of a chicken that’s had its head lopped off comes to mind. Running around this life’s yard, the chicken might look alive. But it isn’t. It’s dead. And it’s only a matter of time before its actual condition is settled.

I suppose it’s foolish to ponder death without including Saint Paul’s reference to it as the last enemy (1 Corinthians 15:26). We’ll have our share of enemies in life. I know I have plenty. Sometimes, I feel like a line has formed somewhere, and it’s comprised of folks who want to see me come undone entirely. If that line does exist, I know death is the last one standing in it. And when it’s his turn, there will be no outsmarting or outmaneuvering him. Plenty have tried. Plenty still do. And yet, there is that poetic but strangely inspired line that speaks an unflinching truth: “Because I could not stop for death, he kindly stopped for me” (Emily Dickinson).

It would be nice if science could help ease the aging process. I’d certainly buy a pill promising to reverse the disc degeneration in my back. A day without back pain would be nice. Nevertheless, such relief is not humanity’s greatest need. Look around. The world is a farmyard of headless chickens, so many chasing what cannot meet that terribly final necessity.

That’s not necessarily the case for Christians. We’re different than all the other chickens. We have the Word of the Gospel. The Gospel is restorative. It makes complete that which was incomplete. We have our heads. Saint Paul writes that Christ “is the head of the body, the church. He is the beginning, the firstborn from the dead, that in everything he might be preeminent” (Colossians 1:18). This is to say, we’re not running around the yard aimlessly toward an unfortunate end. Instead, by faith, we have the mind of Christ (1 Corinthians 2:16), and we’re living out the rest of our days in devotion to Him. That devotion has multiple aims, one of which is concern for what’s happening around us (Galatians 5:6; 1 Timothy 1:5).

Neil Armstrong once said that every human has a finite number of heartbeats. He also said he didn’t intend to waste any of them, which means he intended to devote himself to things that really mattered. Indeed, devoted people do incredible things.

On the way to school last Wednesday, Evelyn and I were listening to the news and learned about a man who died. His name was Larry Taylor. Taylor was an Army attack helicopter pilot in Vietnam and the last to receive the Medal of Honor in 2023 for doing something in June of 1968 that too many others wouldn’t. In short, four American soldiers were surrounded by aggressively approaching enemy forces. Taking inescapable fire, they were out of ammunition, having only a dozen hand grenades and their knives. If no one came to save them, they would die. Knowing this, Taylor flew straight into the chaos, lighting up the enemy ranks with as much firepower as possible before setting down in the middle of the mess. Thousands of bullets whizzing and rocket-propelled grenades flying, the trapped men grabbed hold of the helicopter’s skids, and Taylor flew them to safety.

At the medal presentation, a seemingly aloof crowd member asked Taylor, “What on earth would possess you to do what you did?”

“Well,” the 81-year-old hero and faithful member of his Christian church in Tennessee replied, “it needed doin’.”

Taylor was devoted to those men. Even as he faced certain death, his devotion was not self-concerned. Instead, he insisted on using what was likely to be the last of his heartbeats for something that mattered.

You have a limited number of heartbeats. Battles are happening around you that matter. Enemy forces in abortion clinics surround unborn children. More than 61 million of them have been killed. Countless students leave their homes and are besieged by teachers and administrators relentlessly firing radical sexual ideologies that overwhelm them. More and more are overcome each day. Christians are being bombarded in the trenches of America’s public square, having a mile-long line of battalion after battalion intent on eradicating them.

But you know something of death. You know it’s the last enemy. You also know that because of Jesus, it’s a toothless one. Therefore, if not even death can be our worst concern, what would keep us from a devotion to Christ capable of flying in to rescue as many as we can, even if it means risking ourselves?

Of course, that’s a rhetorical question.

My ever-vigilant prayer is that you’ll know the Lord’s remarkable rescue from sin and death. With such knowledge, I pray you’ll sense a Spirit-driven devotion to faithfulness far more robust than anything this world could ever use to terrorize you.

No Need that Anyone Should Teach You

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We’ve been studying Saint John’s first epistle every Tuesday in this year’s seventh and eighth-grade religion class. We started back in August, and yet, we’re only halfway through what is a relatively short book of the Bible. Some would say we’re moving slowly. I would argue we’re plugging along at just the right pace. There’s a lot to be mined from John’s words. And besides, the students remain thoroughly engaged.

We ended this past week’s class at 1 John 2:27, which reads: “But the anointing that you received from him abides in you, and you have no need that anyone should teach you. But as his anointing teaches you about everything, and is true, and is no lie—just as it has taught you, abide in him.” 

This was a challenging but rewarding way to end the class. It consumed the final ten minutes of our time together. In short, John wrote that his readers received an “anointing” (whatever that is), and because they have it, there’s “no need that anyone should teach” them because it “teaches you about everything.” If this is true, what on earth were these seventh and eighth-grade students doing in school, and why was I standing in front of them teaching them? They could be out somewhere doing something else. 

Well, not so fast.

Essentially, John is deeply concerned about keeping his readers secure in the true faith. He does not want them duped into unbelief by false theology, namely, by the Gnostics intent on poisoning Christian doctrine. Occasionally, along the way, John references his readers’ “anointing.”

I can’t even begin to tell you how the word “anointing” is grossly misused in modern Christendom. In the Greek, the word is χρῖσμα. In its simplest form, it means to be assigned a task. Unfortunately, today’s folks apply it to just about every wacky theological idea they have, eventually granting themselves license to massage it apart from God’s Word. “I’ve been anointed to run for office,” or “She’s such a great speaker. She’s definitely anointed.” Well, whatever. John doesn’t use it that way. When he talks about a Christian’s anointing, he means the faith at work by the Holy Spirit through the Gospel (v. 24). He doesn’t consider it a special sanction uniquely given to a select person. The Holy Spirit’s work for faith is the divine “something” that’s been given and is available to all believers.

John goes further in verse 27, explaining that the anointing actively teaches the one it inhabits about everything. This is to say faith handles everything through the lens of the Gospel. It sees, discerns, and interprets the world this way. And to what end? That the believers would always have a heart and mind guarded in Christ. To explain further, I shared with the students the first thing that came to mind. It was a casual example, but an example nonetheless.

I told them how my world is filled with stories. Theirs is, too. Take a look around, and you’ll see. At every turn, even the things we see are speaking. For me, one particular proof is that I’ve been able to write an eNews message like this one every Sunday morning since 2015, having written well over six hundred in total. How can I do this? Because each Sunday morning, I reflect on my week. When I do, there they are—the stories! And they exist in various forms. Carrying the point further, I picked a relatively familiar voice for storytelling: metaphor.

A metaphor is a comparison between two things that are nothing alike. Writers employ metaphors to enliven language. The example I used in class was that instead of saying my daughters’ eyes are beautifully blue, I prefer to call them sapphires. Their eyes are stunning, and all but the colorblind among us will experience just what I mean when these gems are turned in one’s direction.

I use metaphorical language a lot. It’s perfect for narrative communication. Relative to 1 John 2:27, John would say that faith is actively intercepting and interpreting these narratives and, as a result, teaching the viewer lessons. To demonstrate, I shared a recent experience.

Two objects caught my eye before leaving my house early one Sunday morning. The first was the scale-shaped clock sitting atop our refrigerator. Glancing at it while putting on my shoes, I had a thought. Time weighs things differently. Some of what we say and do is relatively weightless and easily forgotten. Others are heavier. Even though it’s only decorative, the scale clock was a consolidated reminder—a metaphor—teaching me to weigh my words and deeds carefully as I go about the next twenty-four hours of my life. As a Christian, I am distinct from the world (1 Peter 1:15), and as such, I demonstrate faith through word and deed (1 John 3:18), and this happens in incredibly weighty ways—the kind that can move people to consider the God I trust (Matthew 5:16).

But the scale clock didn’t teach me this. With faith as its handler, the Gospel did. God’s Word was the curriculum (1 John 2:24). 

I shared another example.

A glass vase holding about fourteen or fifteen lemons is not far from the clock. It sits on the island in our kitchen. As the saying goes, “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.” Looking at the lemon-filled jar while putting on my coat, I had another thought. Actually, I had two thoughts. The first was that everyone makes mistakes, and I’m no exception (1 John 1:8; James 3:2). Still, a Christian can keep the lemons (life’s mistakes and misfortunes) in a separate container apart from everything else (Psalm 103:12). When another lemon comes along, God promises to put it with the rest. As humans, we can sometimes see them—as if our failures are displayed prominently. Still, we know not to dwell on the lemons. Alternatively, we behold them and remember the lessons learned (Philippians 3:12), all the while giving thanks to the Lord for His grace (Psalm 136:1).

The second thought was that making lemonade takes a lot of lemons. That’s not a license to make mistakes; instead, it is a way to remember one’s genuine frailty and the overwhelming need for Christ’s forgiveness. And for the one who knows his need for Christ’s thirst-quenching rescue, His divine forgiveness is the sweetest and most refreshing beverage there is. (Certainly, Lutherans will know that’s not necessarily a metaphor.)

As you can see, before leaving my house one morning, I was already learning from the great professor, Faith. And it really wasn’t all that hard. As believers—as the Lord’s anointed—we are already enrolled in the Holy Spirit’s classroom. We’re anointed to exchange information in ways that accomplish what John set out to preserve: “Beloved, I am writing you no new commandment, but an old commandment that you had from the beginning. The old commandment is the word that you have heard…. I write these things to you about those who are trying to deceive you…. Little children, let no one deceive you” (1 John 2:7, 26; 3:7).

Seated securely in the Lord’s holy Word, faith is a brilliant instructor. Following this lead, indeed, we can and will “abide in [Christ]” (1 John 3:27). I challenged the students to maneuver this way throughout their week, paying attention to faith’s lessons relative to everything they see. I look forward to circling back around to them this Tuesday. I’m sure there will be stories because, as I said, they’re everywhere. One only needs to look around.

Politeness

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To start, be careful out there this morning. The wind is crisp, and the roads are somewhat snowy. Still, you can make it to church.

The weather was a lot worse yesterday, and I spent most of yesterday’s late morning and afternoon at a bustling volleyball tournament in Brighton at the Legacy Sports Arena. I’d never been to such a place or event. When I say bustling, I mean it. It took me thirty minutes to find a place to park. When I finally got inside to see my daughter play, I discovered a packed house.

It would seem that when something is a priority, weather is not really an issue.

Interestingly, I listened to the folks around me (people from places less than twenty miles away) talking about how most had rented hotel rooms near the arena to ensure their kids wouldn’t miss a moment the entire weekend. By the way, the tournament continues today, and Evelyn’s team is scheduled to play this morning at 9:00 am. She won’t be there. Her coach knows it. Evelyn will be in worship. There is no higher priority than being with her Savior.

Well, on to something else I’ve been thinking about all week. It was a rough week in a person-to-person sense. Relative to one-on-one communication, I’ve learned a lot in my half-century of life. I probably don’t need to share two of the most important lessons I’ve learned because you likely already know them. You already know at least two rules that, when applied, can save an eroding relationship and lay the groundwork for repairs.

The first rule is to listen attentively. Attentive listening involves far more than one’s ears. A careful listener hears everything said and a whole lot that’s been left unsaid. Everyone has their “tell”—a unique behavior that pulls back the curtain on the hidden self. I do. You do. Two strangers might not know the tells, but friends will. Among friends, an attentive listener can spot them, and if the friend’s goal is to fix what’s broken, he can use them to steer toward repair. This might sound sneaky, but it isn’t. It’s purposeful for all the right reasons. Either way, giving someone your undivided attention is one of the most important demonstrations of respect. When a person feels heard—and maybe even that the one listening understands what’s been said and what’s hidden beneath the surface—they most often will snuff their own fuse.

The second rule is basic politeness. In any contentious conversation, if at least one participant commits to remaining within the boundaries of civility, the relationship has a far better chance at survival. I don’t just mean that while one is shouting and interrupting, the other is remaining calm. I mean that a polite person is aware of certain things. A genuinely polite person chooses his words carefully. He knows his own tendencies—the countless sin-stained responses (sometimes well-deserved) he’d prefer to give—yet he keeps those to himself. Instead, he dresses his thoughts in courtesy’s clothes. He lets polite civility be his shield against accusation. In all my years as a pastor, each filled with more than its fair share of stinging interactions, I’ve never walked away from one having regretted being polite. How could I? As the saying goes, “Civility costs nothing and buys everything.”

On second thought, as a Christian, I’m not so sure I agree entirely with the saying that civility costs nothing. Being polite requires some sacrifice.

The very definition of politeness is “behavior that is respectful and considerate of other people.” It means giving some space to another person’s immediate context. In the meantime, our 21st-century world appears pierced by the belief that crass impoliteness is the better way. Perhaps worse, we’ve become a society where it’s entirely acceptable for a person’s feelings to govern his manners. In other words, the expectation is that others must adjust their current mood or emotional condition to match yours, no matter what it might be. If you’re mad, then others had better watch out. If you’re sad, then others had better not be happy. And why is this? Because the self is what’s most important.

Looking at what I’ve typed so far, I see I mentioned being polite involves sacrifice. Therein lies a necessary clarification that must be made. Again, to be civil with others means to adjust one’s behavior. In a natural law sense, civility promotes harmony for societal stability. For Christians, it goes further. Civility is the first step toward the kind of service that identifies with someone, thereby becoming an inroad for lifting others from their troubles. Civility is willing to temporarily endure with someone to deliver them to something better (1 Corinthians 13:5-7). Civility’s opposite—rudeness—demands that others come to where it resides and stay there. It is entirely self-seeking. It insists that others rejoice in whatever it deems worthy of praise. It demands that others suffer as it has suffered, eventually multiplying its misery. It makes things worse, not better.

Thinking about these things this morning while simultaneously reflecting on Saint Paul’s words in Romans 12:6-16 (the Epistle lesson appointed for this morning), another aspect needs further clarification.

At first glance, Saint Paul appears to side with the 21st-century’s self-centered demands when he writes in Romans 12:15: “Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep.” Indeed, it sounds like God’s people must indulge others’ emotional frailties entirely and in every circumstance. But he isn’t. Instead, he set the standard for doing these things in verse 9, writing, “Let love be genuine. Abhor what is evil; hold fast to what is good.” With these words in hand, the image becomes that of discernment. It’s the image of someone holding tightly to what is objectively good while reaching down into the darkness to rescue someone else. The one helping doesn’t submit himself into every darkness. And the darkness he does reach into, he doesn’t do so permanently. Paul insists in verse 21, “Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.” Evil must not be coddled nor granted the last word. Instead, identify with the person. Reach to them. As you do, rejoice if rejoicing is appropriate. Weep if weeping is necessary. Do both intending to bring a person trapped in darkness to the light above—to the good you’re holding onto.

Somewhat tangentially, perhaps this is one of the inherent angles to Paul’s encouragement to set our minds on things that are above, not on things below (Colossians 3:1-4). Could this also be meant for believers perpetually stuck in life’s ditches—to look upward for the hands that can help?

Maybe. Maybe not.

Either way, assuming that politeness produces dividends is an uncomplicated axiom. Most regular folks will not be found marveling when someone like Justice Clarence Thomas says that politeness opens doors that education cannot, or as Margaret Walker insists, that good manners can buy what money can’t afford. These things go without saying. The same is true relative to the Gospel. Its glory is dimmed by the poorly mannered and confused by the rude (1 Corinthians 13:4-5). And so, naturally, Paul reminds us, “Be gentle, and show perfect courtesy toward all people” (Titus 3:2), letting our “manner of life be worthy of the gospel of Christ” (Philippians 1:27).

A Hope-filled Sprig

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There’s a tree in a yard just down the street from my home that toppled twice this past year during two separate storms. The first was a windstorm that swept through last spring. By the time the ruckus had passed, one of the three stems ascending from the tree’s primary trunk broke free and crushed a nearby fence. The second gale was a late summer thunderstorm that brought equally powerful wind. When it finally quieted, the other two stems had fallen and destroyed another portion of the same fence. All that remained was a four-foot trunk with a splintered top.

It wasn’t long after either storm that the property owners cut and removed the debris, eventually leaving what is now a grayed and seemingly dead stump. I drive past it every day. For me, even in its obtusely pathetic state, the stump has faded into the neighborhood’s landscape, becoming something I no longer even notice.

But then one day last week, I did notice it. Even in mid-winter, it had a shoot growing from its top. Astounded, I circled back around and stopped to take a picture.

I’m not an arborist. Still, I know most deciduous trees in Michigan hibernate in winter. Essentially, they go to sleep at the end of summer. They slip into their dormancy stage, locating their essential nutrients in their roots. Doing this helps to keep them healthy and ready to bloom again in the spring. That’s why the leaves fall in autumn. The trees are shutting down the supply lines to everything but the roots, starving its skyward limbs and keeping the food where it’s needed most.

But this tree is not sleeping. It’s awake and growing in winter. Wearing only a slightness of green on one of its two leaves, a passerby can see by its sprig that it’s struggling against the elements. Its tiny, outstretched appendages are tinged with shades of autumn’s hues. Still, there it is, pushing up from a seemingly lifeless trunk, attempting to snatch every bit of Michigan’s occasional wintertime sunlight.

While barely anything at all, it’s an inspiring scene. Against the bleakest landscape, while everything else around it has given up and gone to sleep, it is awake, as if reaching up from hope’s nutrients with an unwillingness to forfeit.

Seeing this, as a Christian, I suppose my first inclination was to experience echoes of Isaiah 11:1, which reads, “There shall come forth a shoot from the stump of Jesse, and a branch from his roots shall bear fruit.” Isaiah’s words are forward-looking. They refer to Jesus. He is the One who, even as all mortal muscle for rescue was beyond spent, arrived bearing life. There He is. God did not leave us. He acted. He sent His Son, just as He said He would. Hope against all hope has been fulfilled. The Son has brought new life into what seemed to be Death’s dooming winter. And joy of joys! From His person and work, branches emerge and grow where no one thought they could. And this happens no matter life’s seasons, each shoot bearing extraordinary fruit (John 15:5).

I had a before-worship conversation on New Year’s Day with the chairman of our Board of Elders, Harry. Analyzing the societal landscape, we predicted that the forthcoming year would likely be far bumpier than the previous one. For the record, we weren’t being pessimistic but realistic, and in a sense, we were admitting to our need for the fruits that can only be plucked from Christ’s tree. In the New Year, we’re going to need the fruits of love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control (Galatians 5:22-23). We’re going to need fortitude, the kind that wholeheartedly owns the title “Christian” (James 1:2-4; John 16:1-4). We’re going to need endurance (Romans 5:1-5). We’re going to need wisdom, the kind that can’t be duped by evil disguised as good (Ephesians 5:15-17). We’re going to need persevering strength to follow Jesus when doing so might appear to make very little sense (Hebrews 12:1; Luke 5:4).

We’ll need to be hope-filled sprigs against this world’s dismal backdrop (Romans 15:3).

But there’s another thought to be had. As a perpetual watchman for summer, the tree’s lonely sprig was a “consider the lilies of the field” moment (Matthew 6:28). It had me thinking about how God loves and cares for His people. Taking the stump’s picture, I spoke out loud to myself, “Storms will come, people will cut down the lilies, but nothing can stop spring from coming.” Christians will know what I meant.

No matter how the world rages, God’s promises will not be stopped (Romans 8:31-39). He’s caring for us now. As He does, we know the springtime of eternal life is coming. This means that even in the face of persecution and Death, believers have a limitless wellspring of hope. Like the stump’s sprig, what the world might expect from us in the darker moments is not what we’ve been recreated to do. The world will bear down on us with icy impositions, expecting that we’ll shrink into self-preserving hibernation. But instead, we reach up to the heavens as sprigs in winter. We stretch out in stark contrast to the surrounding world, bringing even the littlest bit of color into the sin-sick grays of this passing world.

We endure when enduring seems impossible.

This is my continued prayer for you in the New Year. God grant it.

New Year’s Eve, 2023

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not from that man’s world.”

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

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

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

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

Why?

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

What foolishness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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