Tag Archives: faith

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.

The Place Where Only Christians Can Live

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I would usually sleep on the cot in my office at the church on a snow-laden day like today. But not this time. I slept in my own bed at home last night.

For one, I prefer to make sure everything remains in good working order throughout the night, namely, that the heat and power continue uninterrupted. I also prefer not to be the only one out on the unplowed roads at 4:00 in the morning. And that’s precisely what they were on the way in. As the years go by, it seems less thought is given to the churches—to the fact that God’s people are still gathering, still trying to make their way to worship. I get the sense that Sunday morning simply isn’t factored into anyone’s plans anymore, certainly not the folks deciding what gets plowed first.

Still, in all of Our Savior Evangelical Lutheran Church in Hartland, Michigan’s 70 years, we’ve never canceled a service. Not once. And it certainly isn’t going to happen on my watch. So, rest assured, the lights are bright. The heat is on. The Lord’s gifts of Word and Sacrament will be given, no matter how many gather to receive them.

The holy season of Advent begins today. That means Christmas is coming. And yet, last weekend at an event anticipating Christmas—a Christmas tree-lighting ceremony in downtown Chicago—shots rang out, resulting in one dead and eight seriously wounded. That same night, in Concord, North Carolina, another tree-lighting ended in gunfire. Four were shot. Three of the victims are still in critical condition.

Violence in Chicago is a pretty standard thing. It’s one of the most dangerous cities in America. Concord, North Carolina, not so much. In fact, it ranks among the safest cities in America. Safe or not-so-safe, what makes all of this stand out is the setting. Although Christmas trees no longer mean to most what they’re supposed to mean. The whole point of a Christmas tree is Jesus—or at least it used to be, way back when Christian communities looked to the evergreen as a reminder of life in Christ during winter’s deathly season. But now, it’s little more than a seasonal prop stripped entirely of its sacred center. Still, public tree-lighting ceremonies continue to be celebratory opportunities, and if anything, a warm assumption of community. That’s nice. But it obviously isn’t enough. Not when dreadfulness suddenly intrudes. And in the end, that may be the most sobering point of all. Whether you live in a city known for violence or one praised for its safety, dreadfulness always finds a way in. And then what? I only ask this question having read some of the words from victims’ families, which I’ll get to in a moment.

In the meantime, I’ll simply say that sin can and will fracture anything devoid of Christ. When Christ is removed, wherever He once was is instantly hollow. An empty object is a fragile object. It certainly has no power to restrain real darkness. But that’s because Christ is missing, and He’s the only One who can carry us through times of need. In this sense, last weekend’s violence during the Christmas tree-lighting ceremonies served as a kind of grotesque sermon, reminding all of us how Christological substance is desperately needed in our lives, and how humanity just cannot manufacture it, not even through seasonal civic ceremonies that look and feel nice but in truth are entirely devoid of real meaning. This brings me back to Advent.

For the churches that observe Advent—and I mean, actually observe it—we know the centuries-old pre-Christmas season is by no means hollow. We know its language and sense. It’s a penitential time, one that acknowledges sin’s dreadful grip. And yet, Advent stakes a firm claim in hope as it simultaneously looks backward to the Rescuer who came at Christmas, and also forward to that same Rescuer’s promised return at the end of days. As we Confessional Lutherans tend to say, it’s the kind of hope that knows the fullness of God’s promises in the “right now” but also the “not yet,” all at the same time.

This weird tension is essential to Advent. It names sin honestly. It knows the situation is dire and, therefore, refuses to minimize the brokenness responsible for the violence we saw last weekend. But it does this while anchored in what Christ has done, is doing now, and will continue to do. That’s Christian hope. Christian hope is not some hollow form of vague optimism. That’s what happens at civic tree-lighting ceremonies. Advent’s longing is a deliberate, time-spanning trust that the same Savior who entered history will keep His promises, one of which is to return to set everything right. That makes Advent far more than a season that’s waiting for Christmas, but one filled with holy confidence rooted in history, promise, and unquestionable fulfillment.

That’s a place where only Christians can live.

By the way, this is not a claim of moral superiority. It’s one of theological location. To live in the “right now but not yet” requires faith. Only those who have heard God’s promise in Christ and, by the power of the Holy Spirit, believe, can stand in the middle of that tension without being crushed by it. It is a narrow place. But in its narrowness, there’s a freedom the world cannot replicate. It tries. But it just can’t do it.

Remember, Christians started all this decorating stuff. We decorated evergreens, lit candles, and hung lights. We sang ancient hymns that communicated the Gospel’s backward and forward perspective. We still do it. The world has similar traditions this time of year. It decorates evergreens, puts up light displays, and sings its holiday songs. But between the two spheres is a strict separation. Buffeted only by the world’s empty décor, culture’s residents experience what happened in Chicago and North Carolina, and suddenly, their holiday is tainted with despair. I read an interview with one of the Chicago victim’s family members. The woman being interviewed said she may never celebrate Christmas again. Essentially, the memory is too terrible, and now the holiday is, too.

I get how that could be true, especially when your only framework is a sentimental, once-a-year version of joy tied to things that can be ripped away at any moment. When that’s the case, then any tragedy is enough to make every twinkling light or holiday tune feel forever poisoned.

But from the Christian perspective, with Advent’s Gospel in mind and heart, we light candles and hang lights, not to deny the darkness, and not even because the darkness might be scary. We know it is. But we also have no intention of granting the darkness final authority. We keep singing our joy-filled hymns, not necessarily to cope, as though we’re in some starry-eyed form of denial, but as an act of genuine defiance against sin, death, and the devil. We sing because the Gospel has the upper hand, not the darkness, and we know it. And so, we are perpetually hopeful.

I guess one thing I’m saying is that Christian rituals like these, no matter how the world might twist or imitate them, will forever be Christian property. We own them. And because we know better, they’ll always be acts of resistance rather than seasonal sentiment. The evergreen—a plant that keeps its green even when all life around it has come to a frozen halt—for Christians, it’s a visible confession that death does not have the final word. A candle is not mere ambiance for us. It’s a proclamation that Light has entered the world and cannot be overcome. The hymns are not background music, but instead longstanding confessions of the one true faith that has survived the worst this world could throw at it. In fact, the chief hymn appointed for the First Sunday in Advent is proof alone. “Savior of the Nations, Come” was written by Ambrose of Milan. He lived from 340 to 397. And still, here we are, age after age of dreadful violence and persecution, and we’re still singing this great hymn of incredible hope, one that tells the entire Gospel story in eight beautiful stanzas.

This is proof that we own Advent and Christmas.

And so, while the world scrambles to make sense of yet another demonstration of human awfulness, the Church stands where it has always stood at this time—right in the middle of human ruin, all the while holding tightly to God’s promises. We stand there unshaken, proclaiming that this world’s terrors cannot overcome us. The Light of the World has come and is coming again. We know that everything around us is temporary, yet the forthcoming King and His kingdom are eternal. That divine knowledge shapes the entirety of our reality. And that’s that.

Indeed, the world is experiencing a sentimental countdown to a holiday. But that’s not us. Christians continue taking to a sacred battlefield, knowing the ultimate victory has already been accomplished and that the final victory is at hand. And the churches that observe Advent—and I mean, actually observe it—their senses are being honed to this truth.

Give Thanks in All Circumstances

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Once again, I refuse to let this country’s National Day of Thanksgiving pass by without saying something about it. Indeed, it is precious.

I know some among the clergy ranks see it as negligible. I certainly don’t. This is why Our Savior Evangelical Lutheran Church in Hartland, Michigan, is open for worship on Thanksgiving Day. Not Thanksgiving Eve, but on the very day. Sure, it’s inconvenient for some. There are turkeys to baste, pies to prepare, green bean casseroles to bake, football teams to cheer along, and parades to watch.

Well, whatever.

All those things are a combination of both required and elected responsibilities. And if I’m being honest, they’re really no different than the everyday activities that distract far too many on far too many Sundays throughout the rest of the year. In that sense, while Thanksgiving Day is meant to be different, it really isn’t. I say this assuming that, for you, as it is for me, life is already very loud. Things crowd the calendar. Responsibilities pile up. Family tensions simmer. No matter the scene, life’s wheels keep turning.

But then, suddenly, there it is on the horizon—a special day, one that our nation has set aside—and its whole point is to stop, take a break, and give thanks.

As a pastor, I have to ask on this day, “Why wouldn’t Christians be first moved to give thanks where thanks is actually due?”

I suppose one answer to my question might be, “Well, because even Christians wrestle with their sinful nature.” As I already hinted, gratitude isn’t natural to humanity in general. We’re creatures quick to notice what’s missing but incredibly slow to acknowledge what’s been given. Complaining is easy for us. It actually takes effort to give thanks.

And yet, God’s Word cuts through our excuses with the simple command to “give thanks in all circumstances” (1 Thessalonians 5:18). Not when it’s convenient. Not when everything aligns. But in all things.

I think the word we stumble over most is “all.” The word includes loss. It includes disappointment. It includes the empty chair at the table this year. It includes the prayers that still haven’t been answered the way we hoped. And somehow, in the middle of all these things, God still says to His people, “Give thanks.”

Why? Well, here’s where the world could learn a thing or two from the Christians who make Thanksgiving Day worship a priority.

For Christians, thanksgiving isn’t a denial of life’s very real challenges. For us, in a way, it’s defiance. It’s the otherworldly ability to look straight at the broken pieces of this mortal sphere and insist God is still good. By the power of the Holy Spirit for faith in Jesus, to be thankful, even when things aren’t so good, is to remember that every breath we take is already borrowed. Every blessing is already undeserved. Every single sunrise is a generous gift—a beaming reminder that God’s mercy is new each and every day, even for the stubborn and the weary and, yes, the thankless.

And so, Christians do well to embrace that one day the world actually got right, even if it doesn’t understand its truest significance.

Society has established a day for thanksgiving, a day that provides most, if not all, an opportunity to slip away from life’s busyness, no matter what that looks like or means to those who observe it. Christians have a unique perspective on this opportunity. We know first to gather and to acknowledge the One who holds everything together. That’s really the best byproduct of this day. It’s a moment carved out of the noise to remember that gratitude isn’t a feeling. It’s a confession of something true. The holiday itself is a sneaky opportunity, a countercultural decision to lift our eyes and say, “Thank You, Lord, not because life is perfect, but because Your love is. And in You, I’ll always have everything I need.”

So go ahead and enjoy the food, the family, the football, and whatever else the day brings. But allow me to encourage you to let those things assume their rightful place in line behind the far greater truth that anchors it all—which is that the Lord has given us Himself, and in Him we have more than enough reason not only to seize the day for all that it offers, but to maybe even learn from it to give thanks to the Lord every day.

With that, if you’re nearby and your church isn’t offering a service, feel free to join us here at Our Savior in Hartland. The Divine Service begins at 10:00 AM.

The Culture’s Calendar

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It’s somewhat troubling that Black Friday and Cyber Monday come before Giving Tuesday.

That said, in a consumer-driven society, I suppose the order makes perfect sense. We are trained first to ask, “What can I get?” Only afterward are we prompted to ask, “What can I give… and only from what I have leftover?” The calendar simply reflects the catechism of modern culture.

Gratification first. Generosity later, if we can afford it.

I’m not much for Black Friday or Cyber Monday. But that’s only because I’m not much of a consumer in general. I have everything I need with my Lord, and He more than takes care of me through my family, church family, and friends. And I never really paid much attention to Giving Tuesday because I already give all year long to the Godly efforts that I appreciate. Still, I wonder about the captivating allure of Black Friday and Cyber Monday. I mean, when it grabs hold each year, is anyone really able to pretend to be surprised by the emptiness that follows the binge?

I suppose from another perspective, there’s an even more profound irony when Black Friday’s demands are placed beside some of the excuses I hear for missing worship. “9:30 in the morning is just too early,” some will say. “Sunday mornings are hard with the kids.” These are the same voices that find no difficulty in rolling the whole family out of bed at 3:15 AM, piling into the car with thermos’s and sandwiches in hand, and standing outside Walmart at 4:00 in the morning for a discounted television or another of the store’s newest gadgets—all of which have expiration dates, whether or not they realize it.

In other words, the body that is almost always too exhausted for time with the One who sustains for eternity somehow finds new strength for everything else it wants to do, especially time at the altar of consumerism, a wobbly platform adorned with things guaranteed to pass away.

I get why the world would be this way. I just don’t understand why it would be this way among people who claim Christ. After this thought popped into my mind, I did a little digging. Giving in churches has declined by almost 20% in the last four years. At the same time, economists are forecasting that Americans will spend over $1 trillion on holiday purchases, food, decorations, and such. This is a 4% increase over last year. Strangely, when the reward is eternal, inconvenience is a burden. When the reward is temporally material, inconvenience becomes the mission.

That contrast should disturb us, because it reveals something uncomfortable about what we truly value. We do not lack time. We lack priorities. We do not lack energy. We lack direction. We do not lack devotion. We’ve simply elected to kneel at the wrong altar.

Returning to where I started, the order of things certainly betrays this. Just looking at the calendar, we learn Black Friday and Cyber Monday come first. Giving Tuesday comes last, maybe even as an afterthought. Or perhaps worst of all, it’s sandwiched in as a moral concession once our carts are full and our credit cards are strained. It almost feels like a kind of cultural penance—a small charitable gesture meant to balance out a few days in a row of extreme indulgence.

I guess part of what I’m saying is that giving was never meant to come after getting. What’s more, time with Christ in holy worship was never meant to be an optional convenience. With that, I suppose, the true disorder is not in the world’s calendar. It is in the hearts that steer away from what’s Godly to follow that calendar.

Stay Put and Hold On

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While this past week was a little jagged, it really wasn’t anything out of the ordinary for a guy like me. Each week brings its own challenges. Each is filled with opportunities for people to take hold of something and run it into the weeds. That said, I still feel more like talking about something harmless.

And I know just what to share. I was telling Jennifer the story yesterday while we were out and around town together.

Just the day before, while walking to the center of the chancel to begin Matins with our day-school children, I noticed a ladybug on the floor. It stood out. It was a small red dot in a sea of taupe tile heading away from me when I approached. At first, I paid it no mind, except to avoid stepping on it. There were plenty of other things happening in the space before the service began. Pages turning and pews creaking. Not to mention it was Grandparents Day for our school, so the noise was a little more than usual. A ladybug hardly registered.

We began the Office of Matins. The people sang. The liturgy rose and fell in its usual way. A few minutes in, when it came time to sit for the Hymn of the Day, I looked down again. There it was, only now it had traveled nearly twenty feet, journeying straight toward where I was sitting behind the pulpit.

Throughout the hymn, I watched it advance across the tile—slowly, down and then up again through grout lines, seemingly unbothered. Almost determined. Eventually, it reached my shoe. I tried to keep singing. But at the same time, I watched this little thing pause, as if considering its options. And then, suddenly, it climbed aboard. It climbed up onto my shoe and kept heading north. I reached down to tuck my pant leg against my leg so it wouldn’t end up crawling somewhere it shouldn’t. I even shook the pant leg a little to get it to drop back to the floor. But apparently, its presence wasn’t up for negotiation. And so, up the outside of my pant leg it went.

A little more than halfway up my shin, it did something unexpected. It turned in a tiny circle, as though settling itself, and then stopped. That was it. No more wandering. No more exploring. It just stopped. Seemingly content, it stayed put throughout the rest of Matins. In fact, it stayed with me back to my office. It stayed for over an hour as I answered a few emails, made a few phone calls, and then headed out for the rest of the day’s business. Eventually, before leaving the building, I nudged it gently onto the fake palm tree in the corner of my office, figuring its tenacity should be rewarded. Indeed, it had earned a safe place to relax nearby.

That was the end of our little fellowship. I checked the palm tree this morning, but couldn’t find the little guy. Nevertheless, the brief interaction’s memory remains.

I suppose what really stayed with me was its simple insistence on getting to me. As I said, it was headed away from me at first. But then it’s as if it turned to follow. No hesitation. No sign of fear. No instinct to keep at a safe distance. It just crawled across the nave floor until it reached me. And there it stayed.

You know me. You know I’m already looking at this insignificant moment through the lens of the Gospel. Peering through the promises of God, that tiny act of creaturely persistence starts to take on a clearer shape. It’s not that the ladybug somehow found me interesting. It was that, in a space full of motion and sound, it kept a straight course. It didn’t dart sideways. It didn’t steer away when shoes scuffed past it. It simply took aim at one fixed point and then stayed the course.

That steadiness is what matters to me right now, especially in light of the conversations I’ve had this past week about so many different things, some of which led to some unfortunate hand-wringing. It was all very loud sometimes. But that’s more likely to happen in a world where folks react to the noise first and then reconsider the substance later. And then along the way, others get swept into the churn, too. People interpret “likes” as devoted association to one side or the other, rather than the actual content of the messages shared. Social media is toxic in that sense.

But beneath all the commentary, the same question keeps surfacing—at least for the Christians. It’s simply this: Where do Christians anchor themselves when the world becomes chaotic and full of crosscurrents?

That’s where the ladybug wanders back into view. It’s not a theological illustration. Again, through the Gospel’s lens, it’s seen as more of an unexpected reminder of something simple.

The road is uneven before us. We are surrounded by noise, too. Arguments. Opinions. Warnings. Accusations. Some of it is legitimate. Some of it is dreadfully misguided. All of it can be harmful, that is, if it’s allowed to distract.

And heaven knows that none among us are immune to drifting into darker places insulated by sin’s shady perspectives—opinions we think are godly but really aren’t. We end up there because it’s so easy to get pulled sideways by personalities, controversies, or as I said before, the pressure to simply react—to justify one’s position and oneself for the sake of saving face or protecting our own, not necessarily to learn, or to shore up one’s rightness or turn away from error.

In other words, we can get caught up in these things, all the while drifting from Christ and, maybe, never even noticing we’ve drifted until we’ve hit the self-destruct button on a friendship.

But the place we’re meant to be all along—close to Jesus—is not unclear. He has already planted Himself within reach. His Word, His sacramental gifts, His promises, His crucified and risen presence for sinners. Ultimately, the task is not to maneuver around every controversy perfectly, or even successfully. The task is to stay oriented toward Him. To know, even as He’s already with us in the truest sense, still, there is that Christian desire to move closer to Him in the noise, to cling to Him in the confusion. And when we have Him, just stay. Don’t let go. Hold onto Him and go with him where He goes. Eventually, He’s going to nudge you into a place of eternal rest from the busyness. But until then, stay put and hold on.

I suppose that’s the point I eventually came back to, and it’s one far more fitting for us, God’s people, than for the tiny creature that accidentally taught it.

Stay near Jesus. Keep toward Him, even when the world is noisy and uncertain, whether the ground is level or suddenly pitching low and then high—those moments of distraction that seem to come out of nowhere during life’s regular moments. Draw close to the One who has already drawn close to you. Don’t wander. Don’t negotiate terms. Don’t look for somewhere “better.” Hold onto Him. And then, just stay. Nestle in and stay. Because the safest place for any creature in God’s world is with Jesus.

A ladybug on a tile floor reminded me of that. And maybe, no matter what your week was like, it can be a reminder for you, too.

Death and Useless Sentiment

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This past Thursday, while many of my dearest friends were gathering in Lansing for the March for Life—a trip I genuinely wanted to make—I found myself in places far less energizing: doctors’ office waiting rooms. I was in two different locations that day. One of the appointments I’d scheduled mid-summer. And it was one of those “you’d better not reschedule this” kind of appointments. The other was one I didn’t anticipate. Regardless, I’ll admit I felt a little restless sitting beneath the fluorescent lights and watching the time tick by, all the while thinking of the better effort in Lansing. Of course, I prayed that the march would be impactful.

At the “you’d better not reschedule” appointment—a cardiologist’s office—I ended up in a conversation with someone a few seats away. We somehow wandered into the topic of death. I think I know why. At one point, I mentioned a friend from High School who had died this past Tuesday, someone I still considered relatively young, barely fifty-one. The exchange set the tone for what’s on my mind this morning. You may or may not appreciate what I’m about to write. Although it’s my keyboard, so there’s that. But more importantly, what I’m going to tell you echoes some of what we talked about.

I’ll just state the premise plainly: When death visits, it has become all too common for sentiment to replace reality. Now, let me explain.

Imagine for a moment you’re at a funeral. There, before you in the casket, is the deceased. It’s someone who had no time or inclination for faith—or maybe even denied the faith outright. Nevertheless, in death, suddenly—almost magically—the deceased is a believer. Suddenly, everyone gathered around the casket is speaking and acting as though the person had a devout (but entirely undetectable) trust in Jesus. And so, “He’s in a better place,” someone says. Or “She’s with the angels now,” another whispers.

How does this happen?

I suppose one reason people speak this way (although not the genuine point of what I intend to say) is that so many want to believe death is good. We say things like, “Death was her friend at the end.” But the Scriptures never speak of death as a friend. Death is the enemy (1 Corinthians 15:26). It is sin’s wage (Romans 6:23). And it is final (Hebrews 9:27). It is the moment when the curtain falls between time and eternity, when what a person believed—or refused to believe—is laid bare before the living God. And when death comes, this enemy reports there are no do-overs. I imagine the people hovering around the casket are secretly hoping there will be. They’re hoping that death, in its supposed kindness, will go easy on them.

But no matter how we try to recraft the moment, no matter what we do to make the moment palatable, death remains what it has always been. It is the world’s final intruder. And to pass death off as some sort of friend who comes along to take a person’s hand, in the end, is to cheapen the Lord’s war against death on the cross.

Christ did not come to make death poetic. He came to destroy it. If this is true, then the moments when death confronts us deserve a clarity that matches its seriousness. In other words, it’s no time for pretending.

Regrettably, I think some pastors, caught in the strange nether space between compassion and conviction, are pulled into this gush. I’ve experienced the pull before. Not so much anymore. But I do remember in the earlier days of my ministry the urge to choose words, not necessarily for truth’s sake, but to avoid offending onlookers during a sensitive moment. And yet, when the Church and her pastors do this—ultimately confusing comforting sentiment with truth—we’re really just betraying both.

I guess what I’m saying is that when we do this, we pave the way for so many to go wandering off into vague spirituality. And forget for a moment syrupy sentiments like the deceased is “looking down from heaven.” I’m talking more about faith-identifying descriptors that would somehow imply that an unbeliever is “at peace” or “in heaven now.” In other words, too many speak as though heaven were a natural right granted to the well-meaning with relatively respectable qualities. But again, the Bible knows nothing of such generalities. Salvation is not the automatic destination of the nice, the kind, or the merely religious. It is the gift of God through faith in Jesus Christ alone (Ephesians 2:8-9). If you are not a believer, when you die, you are not at peace. You are in terrible suffering. And that place of suffering—hell—isn’t imaginary. It’s real, and it’s eternal.

I know that’s not easy to hear. I warned you at the beginning. But I suppose that’s also why I’m writing this. God’s standards are the ones that apply. Never our own. That means faith in Jesus is no small thing. That also means that funerals become unique opportunities for the living.

A few weeks ago, I happened to be sitting in a funeral director’s office near the facility’s front door when I heard an unfortunate conversation between a teenage girl and someone I’m guessing was her mother.

“Why are we here?” the young girl asked. “Funerals are stupid,” she continued, sounding half-annoyed, the way young people do when confronted with something they don’t understand. Her mother replied, “We’ll just stay for a little while and then go home.” I didn’t see the girl’s expression, but I’m guessing by her sigh that she rolled her eyes before adding, “I don’t want to be here. And who cares, anyway? He’s gone.”

Her words echo a world that no longer knows what to do with death. It doesn’t know what it means.

Of course, I don’t know the complexity of the girl’s relationship to the deceased. But let’s just assume the young girl meant exactly what she said. Had I been her parent, I would’ve shepherded her to a quiet corner and explained that of all places, a funeral is the time to know what’s true, not what’s comfortable. If there’s any moment when eternity should press in upon human hearts, it’s when we’re standing beside a casket. That’s when the thin veil between life and death is most real. It’s when our mortality is undeniable. Then I’d walk her to the casket. “Look in there,” I might say. “One day, that will be me. One day, that will be you. Then what?”

That’s the intrusive question no one wants to ask at a funeral, and yet it’s one of the only ones that matter. In one sense, funerals are mirrors held up to the living. They’re opportunities to strip away the noise of daily life and, if anything, to at least recall three very important things.

First, our time is unknown. Second, eternity is real. Third, what we believe—or refuse to believe—matters more than anything someone might say about us when we’re in the casket. A room full of mourners saying nice things and grasping at a hopeful but false future won’t make that future real. Not for the dead. Not for them.

I suppose that third detail brings me back around to where I started. When churches speak and act as if every soul is saved—as if everyone who dies is owed a Christian burial with Christian hymns, Christian prayers, and a Christian sermon, they teach the living that faith and its fruits don’t really matter, that repentance and trust in Christ are optional extras that can be conjured after the fact. This unclarity does not comfort the grieving. It anesthetizes them. It teaches them to believe in a sentimental fiction rather than in the Savior who conquered the cruelest enemy, death.

Plenty of folks have asked me what I like most about being a pastor. My first answer is always, “Baptizing babies!” I just love it. Next, I appreciate funerals. Funerals are where the rubber hits the road. If ever there was a time to proclaim the Law and Gospel clearly—the fact that we are sinners in need of a Savior, and that Savior is Jesus—it’s at a funeral.

At the same time, a funeral sermon is one of the heaviest burdens a pastor has to bear, especially when he somehow finds himself standing beside the casket of someone he knows was without faith. (And in case you think I’m “judging” someone’s heart, take a quick trip through the following texts: Matthew 7:16-20; Matthew 12:33-35; Luke 6:43-45; James 2:17-18; 1 John 1:6; 1 John 2:3-4; 1 John 3:9-10; Titus 1:16; Galatians 5:19-23.) Don’t get me wrong. Great care is needed when choosing one’s words in such situations. Still, there will be the temptation to believe that speaking truth in that moment is cruel and speaking falsehood is compassionate. But actually, the reverse will always be true.

To proclaim a false peace over the unbelieving dead is to rob the living of the Gospel’s urgency. It implies that Christ’s sacrifice was really no big deal—maybe even unnecessary—and that sin has no real consequences, and ultimately that heaven can be had without the narrow way of repentance and faith (Matthew 7:13-14). This kind of preaching might comfort for a moment in the funeral parlor, but in the end, it can only lead away from Christ and condemn for eternity.

A Christian pastor must lead the people to mourn honestly. He’s wasting oxygen when he points to the moral résumé of the deceased. His job is to point to the mercy of God in Christ—mercy which had been available to the one in the casket but is still available right now for the listeners. Doing this, the pastor is careful to communicate that God’s mercy is not cheap. It came at great cost to Christ. But He went into that combat supernal because He loves you, and He knew you could not defeat the last enemy, death.

That sits at the heart of the Gospel. When the Church loses this clarity, it loses its reason to exist. To be clear about these things is not cruel. It’s love. Real love.

Of course, Christians do not gloat over judgment. We grieve for the lost. But it’s a strange kind of grieving. It’s strange because we do it as ones who have hope (1 Thessalonians 4:13), but we know better than to hope in ourselves. Our hope is in Christ, who died for sinners. Holding to this hope, we are careful not to rewrite God’s Word to make the Gospel cheap, punching holes in it and then wiggling to fit every opinion through faith’s narrow gate.

The task of the Church is to proclaim what Christ has done, not to invent an easier gospel when death makes us uncomfortable. The world may prefer gentle lies. The Church must love her listeners enough to tell the truth.