I tell myself every year I’m not going to write and send an eNews message while on vacation. Every year, I fail to keep this pledge. I know why. There are two reasons.
First, it’s because I’m a writer at heart. For me, writing is far more than a byproduct of my task as a pastor. It’s in my DNA. Somewhere along the twirling genetic strand responsible for my development as a human being is a switch. In the off position, writing is a chore. But mine’s been flipped to the “on” position. I do it because it’s who I am, and as such, it’s harder to avoid writing than it is just to sit and do it.
My wife, Jennifer, more or less highlighted the second reason I continue to fail at keeping the “no eNews” pledge. It happened during a relatively recent conversation between us concerning death. She asked where I’d like to be buried. Assuming the conversation wasn’t hinting at a secret desire to off me in the pool while away, I floated along in its stream, implying I didn’t really care where the family returned me to the ground. My only two requirements have been that I not be cremated and that the mortician embalms me with my remaining whisky, fully aware that, even as I’m friends with many of the funeral directors in the area, the former is more probable than the latter. Beyond that, the family can sink me in the pond in the backyard for all I care.
From there, Jennifer asked if our church had ever considered using some of its property for a cemetery. I told her it had been discussed at one time years ago, but nothing ever came of it. It was then she betrayed a profound love for the people in our congregation and how she didn’t want to be buried in a random cemetery somewhere. When it came time for her burial, she wanted a place where she, and perhaps the generations of Thoma kin to follow, could be laid to rest together with their realest family—their church family. When she said that, not only did I know she was describing something I somehow knew I also wanted but never realized, but I understood why I would continue writing a message like this on vacation when I really don’t have to.
It’s because I love my family. The hundreds of people who receive this eNews every week at Our Savior Evangelical Lutheran Church in Hartland, Michigan, where I serve as pastor, are a part of that family—my realest family. Along with my immediate family, these are the people who, when the final trumpet sounds and our corrupted bodies are raised incorruptible to stand before the throne of Christ (1 Corinthians 15:51-57), I will count it all joy to experience this beside them. I’d count it a privilege to be alongside the Christians among whom I lived and breathed and served and worshipped in this life.
Maybe it’s time to revisit the idea of a church cemetery. With twenty-six acres, we certainly have the space. I’ll leave that to the church leaders at Our Savior, who may be reading this right now. To everyone else, I’ll simply encourage you to give thanks to God for your church family. In this life and the next, they’re the realest family you’ll ever know.
By the way, for the editors out there, I know “realest” isn’t a word. I just like how it sounds.
We arrived in Florida a little differently this year. Jennifer drove. She left a day early with Harry and Evelyn. I flew. Madeline went with me. It’s better that I flew to Florida and didn’t drive. My back is terrible. More than three hours in the car equals a few days of vacation ruined. That’s how long it takes me to recover, and I need every day I’m away to be as vacationy as possible. Indeed, I need two unscathed weeks of palm trees and a pool.
Unfortunately, when we landed, our phones exploded with the news that President Trump had been shot. Some of you texted me. Others left voicemail. Thanks be to God he’s okay. Now we pray for the families of the casualties and injured. Usually, I’d suggest praying for the perpetrator, except he’s already been neutralized. Now, he answers to eternity. Had his life been spared, we might know more. It’ll be a lot harder to get to the bottom of things now that he’s dead.
The White House noted that the FBI would be running the investigation. I wonder how Trump’s folks feel about that given the agency’s relative weaponization against him. By the way, I don’t say that lightly. I was nominated and accepted into an eight-week citizen’s training with the FBI this past spring. I learned firsthand just how partisan the agency has become. Passing jabs at conservatives was common. So were the excuses for “mostly peaceful” groups like Antifa, Black Lives Matter, LGBTQ, Inc., and Pro-choice extremists. I’m by no means inclined to believe the FBI has President Trump’s well-being in mind. They answer to ideologues who rile crowds, comparing Trump to Hitler and labeling him a “threat to democracy” and “the end of America.” Their boss, Joe Biden, rasped at a recent fundraiser, “It’s time to put Trump in a bullseye.”
It appears someone may have been listening.
I hope I’m wrong about the FBI. I hope I’m wrong about Biden and his administration. I hope they’ll get to the bottom of this. I also hope their gabbling is nothing more than campaign rhetoric. I hope the Democrats’ continued stoking of the so-called tolerant left and the subsequent assassination attempt are only coincidental. Either way, the images of Trump covered in Secret Service agents—a man who’s been through so much, the American flag now billowing above his blood-smeared face, his breaking through the agents’ shielding to fist-pump the word “Fight!”—this image was seared into the hearts and minds of billions worldwide. It will unify many.
This has me thinking of something else.
I began by saying there aren’t too many things I like more than palm trees and a pool. That said, there’s almost nothing more entertaining than an hour in an airport terminal watching passersby. You never know what you’ll see. A woman dragging her angry child by a leash a short distance across the airport floor, his shoes squeaking like well-worn brakes as he tries to hinder her momentum—an oblivious tween wearing headphones two paces behind the struggling mother. A heftier man with bleach blonde hair and fishnet over a bright t-shirt doing all he can to be a woman but without an ounce of success. Two clerics in flowing cassocks pulling bags, and one has a cane that he doesn’t appear to need for walking. A beeping trolley with an elderly woman in its passenger seat. An eager crowd of Florida-bound travelers waiting and watching a bedraggled ensemble disembark an arriving plane, their vacation has come to an end. Atop all of it, a bird that somehow found its way inside and is now flittering from steel beam to steel beam above the unsuspecting bustle.
Like the bird, an inconspicuously observing man with his own past, present, and future sitting beside his oldest daughter and thinking, “I wonder what else there is to these people.”
For as weird as the theater of humanity might be, I appreciate individuality. Each person is gifted and uniquely valuable, no matter who they are or what they believe. If this were not true, Christ would not have told Nicodemus about God’s love extending itself to the extremities of death for the whole world (John 3:16). He would not have told His disciples, “Look, I tell you, lift up your eyes, and see that the fields are white for harvest” (John 4:35), which was to say that every person in this world is worth laboring to retrieve.
Still, the importance of uniqueness has become misapplied, reaching a fever pitch in society. We currently exist in a culture hellbent on amplifying individualism above everything else, the result being extreme division. The attempt on Trump’s life is proof. Perhaps just as worse, society has learned to praise and protect abnormality while shaming normalcy. A person who wants to get married, have children, go to church, and live a relatively normal life is considered the epitome of mindless conformity. But a man who disrupts the community of “family” and “friends” by quitting his job, divorcing his wife, and leaving his children to embrace his most authentic self as a six-year-old girl is heralded as courageous. Get in his way, and you’ll be sorry. Try to help his family, and you’re a bigot to be canceled.
I’m reminded of something Rev. Henry Melville wrote. Unfortunately, his words are often misattributed to Herman Melville, the author of Moby Dick. Nevertheless, Rev. Melville insisted in a sermon he delivered in 1855, “Ye live not for yourselves; ye cannot live for yourselves; a thousand fibers connect you with your fellow men, and along those fibers, as along sympathetic threads, run your actions as causes, and return to you as effects.” This is sermonically reminiscent of Saint Paul’s warning, “The eye cannot say to the hand, ‘I don’t need you!’ And the head cannot say to the feet, ‘I don’t need you’” (1 Corinthians 12:21). And yet, society has grown to despise such a message, and now we have a mess of self-concerned, handless, and footless bodies. We have a mess of separate and nearly unnavigable identities, with more and more people inventing new ones every day, each highlighting its own supposed uniqueness. In short, it has become commendable to cut the fibers that bind us to community. It has become laudable to stand entirely apart.
Yes, we’re all unique, and our individuality is essential. But our sameness is, too. In fact, it’s individuality’s point. We have roles to play in something bigger. This is true in microscopic ways, such as individual talents and skillsets used to support an organization, but also in much grander ways. A man or woman is only one-half of the single most important society-perpetuating and stabilizing equation. Relative to the Church, it’s why Saint Paul wrote, “For as in one body we have many members, and the members do not all have the same function, so we, though many, are one body in Christ, and individually members one of another. Having gifts that differ according to the grace given to us, let us use them” (Romans 12:4-6).
Use them for what? For the benefit of the community. This is a divine nod to something significant.
The more radically individualized and disconnected from community and its normalcy we become, the more our society seals its doom. We’re already seeing airplane crashes because a more qualified engineer was overlooked for another with lesser skill but with 7% more Cherokee DNA. Even now, people are losing the will and ability to communicate in fundamental ways, having become utterly incapable of engaging in honest conversation for fear of using incorrect pronouns and offending someone’s made-up uniqueness.
While I’m people-watching, I certainly do wonder about individual backstories. However, in the end, I’ve realized I can only really do this through the lens of sameness. I suppose therein lies one of life’s greatest ironies, which I’ve heard phrased, “Each of us is different, just like everybody else.” The adults before me were all children once. I wonder about the uniqueness of their upbringing. They all eat food. I imagine their favorite meal. I also wonder about their struggles. Everyone has sins that they wrestle to keep hidden from others and themselves. White or black, tall or short, we’re all members of the fellowship of sinful human dreadfulness. Rich or poor, well-known or societally invisible, God does not show partiality and cannot be bribed (Deuteronomy 10:17), and, therefore, none among us is above or below the other relative to the need for a savior.
But here’s the thing: even as God formed each of us as unique individuals, His greatest gift took aim at our sameness. He sent a Savior for all. By the person and work of Christ—His life, death, and resurrection—the whole world’s redemption was accomplished. He didn’t do it one way for Americans and another way for Somalis. We’re all the same in this. No one stands beyond the blast radius of the cross. Only according to this perspective does a genuine uniqueness come to light.
Those who believe this Gospel of redemption become the truly exceptional ones. They’re made holy. To be holy means to be set apart. Believers are set apart from a world intent on self-promoting shouts of uniqueness from the mountaintops. This world is set on having things its way—on doing, saying, and being anything it wants without consequence, all the while expecting commendation for the insanity. The Gospel for faith changes this. It’s the only thing that really sets a person apart, while at the same time drawing the one it inhabits to a better frame of reference. Suddenly, a person’s uniqueness becomes consequential to more than just the self. It becomes less about the spotlight and more about community. It’s moved to enact selfless love for the neighbor. And still, it knows more. Concerning the Church, suddenly, the community’s boundaries and preservation become paramount. That’s one reason why I appreciate tradition so much. It’s why the historic liturgy and the creeds are so valuable. They help bind and fortify the eternal community across time and location.
To wrap this up, I suppose I’ll close by acknowledging my appreciation to God for your uniqueness. I also give thanks for the more spectacular sameness of God’s love in Christ that binds us together in community. This sameness testifies to our value as individuals in the only way that truly matters.
Do you listen to podcasts? I do. I know it betrays my slowness to the media streaming party, but I really only started doing so with any regularity within the last year. When I’m out and about in the car for long periods, my go-to for travel noise has always been news radio or music. I suppose everyone has their preferences.
I told my family during dinner last week that I know someone who prefers listening to operas while driving. As an art form, in my opinion, opera is just the musical’s fanciest form. I’m not knocking it. It’s just that when it comes to musicals, I’ve never been a fan. The easiest explanation for my disinterest would be that I’ve always struggled to grasp the concept of a character who, let’s say, after being mortally wounded, feels the need to sing about it. That’s just weird. It’s just too much of a break from its narrative reality.
“Well,” my eldest daughter, Madeline, interrupted, “Star Wars is a huge break from reality.”
“Yes,” I replied, “and had Luke started singing after Vader cut off his hand, or had a company of Imperial Guards performed a dance number behind Emperor Palpatine as he sang his evil plan, I’d ditch Star Wars, too.”
I know it’s an unpopular opinion. Many people adore musicals. Madeline is one of those people, and I’m pretty sure I won’t convince her to join me on the dark side of this conversation. But here’s the thing: even when it comes to my favorite sci-fi and horror films—movies that can be as weird as weird gets—the good ones have a baseline element of consistency that holds the weird stuff together. That baseline connectivity has its natural limits. That’s what’s meant by narrative reality. It’s what makes each of the story’s parts work together in harmony, even when they might not be entirely feasible. When an element of the story strays too far beyond the narrative reality’s boundaries, the story becomes harder to accept. Relative to Star Wars, there’s certainly a lot more flexibility in this regard because the narrative reality is already fantastical. Nevertheless, the rule still applies. The broader the disconnects, the harder it is to accommodate and ultimately accept the framework as a whole. It’s why so many of us Star Wars nerds had trouble with the midichlorian idea introduced in the prequels. As a scientific explanation of the Force, it strayed too far from the narrative’s mystical reality.
Now, a story set in the real world has far less flexibility. I just watched the movie Oppenheimer. Had the scriptwriter added kyber (the fictional crystal used to power a lightsaber) to J. Robert Oppenheimer’s designs, I’d have stopped the flick and moved on to something else. The idea is too far beyond believability’s boundaries. This is the trouble with musicals.
I just searched for and found a list of the highest-grossing musicals in America since 1982, and barring a few, nearly all had storylines written to exist according to ordinary human reality. The Phantom of the Opera, Les Misérables, The Sound of Music, and most others all take place in our natural world. For example, Grease is set in the 1950s. A bunch of high school guys in the 1950s building a car they can race against a rival gang is a scenario that exists in our reality. I’m just saying I’d be more inclined to watch it if, when Danny Zuko started singing and dancing in the garage, the other characters dropped their wrenches and looked at him strangely, asking, “What the heck are you doing?”
Again, I know much of this is entirely subjective. And, hopefully, you’ve sensed my playful mood this morning. I don’t necessarily prefer musicals. But I also don’t mind them. They can be great fun. I actually liked Grease. I absolutely loved The Little Shop of Horrors. Still, looking at what I’ve just written, even as I drifted into a subject I did not intend to discuss, the examination remains aligned with my original reason for mentioning podcasts. My primary intent was aimed at narrative consistency.
Something I’ve noticed while listening to podcasts, especially the longer ones in which someone is being interviewed, is that by the end of the discussion, the guest is rarely the same person he was at the beginning. I’ve been listening to Joe Rogan’s podcast quite a bit. It can be challenging sometimes because of his weird spirituality wrapped in foul language. Nevertheless, Rogan is a genuinely smart guy. I learn things listening to him. However, apart from James Lindsay’s, Riley Gaines’, and Elon Musk’s interviews with Rogan, many of his other guests have exhibited inconsistent personalities.
Because Rogan sits with each guest for several hours at a time, my first thought was that the inconsistencies likely occurred because most relaxed their guard and became more comfortable, thereby displaying a more genuine self. That can happen during lengthy conversations, and perhaps that’s what’s happening in this instance. For example, I sat beside Lara Trump at a dinner a few weeks ago. She was genuinely cordial at the beginning of our time together, but by the time she ascended the stage for her speech, she was funnier and more neighborly. Her unprotected self was different.
That said, it makes something else I’ve experienced relative to the lengthier podcasts so much more bizarre.
I’ve noticed I appreciate most guests at the beginning of the podcast more than I do at the end. In other words, I like their protected selves better. Their unprotected selves speak more crassly, less deeply, and oftentimes more vainly. Perhaps this is where my commentary on musicals applies.
I was listening to an interview with Mike Baker, a former CIA operative and the host of a reality show on Discovery+. I don’t remember the show’s name. Near the beginning of the interview, Baker spoke fondly of his own young children. Further along, he talked about the gender-confused craziness (and countless other horrors) children are being forced to endure in schools and universities and how we, as parents, need to do everything we can to protect them while modeling behaviors that demonstrate respect and concern for others without sacrificing truth. He kept the same message throughout. At the podcast’s beginning, I was nodding along with him. An hour into the episode, as he became more comfortable with the host, his premise became effortlessly draped in the grossest profanity. To hear his unprotected self using the f-word to describe raising children in a moral way was too distracting, too disjointed.
Parents model acceptable behavior for their children. The words we use are essential transfer mechanisms for whatever it is we want to teach. This is to say, words are critical to modeling. Profanity does not teach a child language forms that are capable of showing respect or concern for others. In fact, profanity is a gross demonstration of the absolute opposite. Not only is it communicatively lazy, but it shows everyone within earshot who and what’s most important to the speaker: the self.
I don’t remember who said it, but I once heard self-love—vanity—described as love’s grossest form. I agree with the sentiment, especially when considering the nature of Christ. Our Lord was not a self-lover. Everything He said or did was completely outwardly focused and for the benefit of others. That’s the Gospel’s essence. Jesus gave His all, sacrificing Himself in every way for everyone else.
I told Jen this past week that I learned a new word: orgiastic. It is as it sounds. Its root is the word “orgy,” and its purpose is to describe perverted behaviors. For example, sex is a gift from God. An orgy is sex’s perversion. Love is a gift from God. Self-love is its perversion. It is orgiastic. Writing to Timothy, Saint Paul lists self-love alongside pride, greed, slander, and so many other grave sins (1 Timothy 3:2-5). He spends more ink in 1 Corinthians 13:4-7 describing just how outwardly focused genuine Christian love must be. Returning to what I’ve been talking about so far, language is also a gift of God. Profanity is its perversion. Profanity is orgiastic.
In the end, this is nothing new for Christians. By the power of the Holy Spirit at work for faith, we naturally seek to guard God’s gifts against perversion. We strive to exist within His narrative reality. The Bible certainly deals with profane speech in the same way it does with self-love. For starters, Saint Paul addresses profanity on more than one occasion in his epistle to the church at Ephesus (Ephesians 4:29; 5:3-4). I’m guessing it must have been a problem there. The rest of the Bible deals with it, too, especially when it comes to showing how the spoken word reveals what’s in someone’s heart (Proverbs 4:24; Colossians 3:8-10; Matthew 12:36, 15:11; Luke 6:45; Proverbs 10:32; and the like). To close out this lengthier pondering, and for the sake of offering a final takeaway, I suppose a person concerned about raising moral children while describing the effort’s importance using the filthiest vocabulary just doesn’t make sense to me. In fact, it seems weirdly severed from sensibility altogether. It’s a lot like a story’s character getting shot in the chest and then breaking into song as he bleeds to death. It’s just too disconnected to be believable.
The Thoma family doesn’t go out to dinner very often. It isn’t just that dining out has become quite expensive. Instead, it’s that we’ve always been more interested in family dinners at home. Any time we’re required to share a dining space with others, it seems the genuine Thoma frivolity becomes unfortunately inhibited. At home, we can be us, laughing as loudly as we’d like at whatever we like. We play games. We rib each other. Sometimes, we even throw stuff. We don’t make a mess. We’re not messy people. But we do things at home we surely wouldn’t do in a restaurant.
I should admit that in restaurants, Jennifer is the governess. She maintains the boundaries. I certainly know where the boundaries are. However, my threshold for public tomfoolery is a little higher. I can easily become a part of whatever hilarious thing Harrison or Madeline might be doing that requires a little more volume or risk. Thankfully, Jennifer anticipates this and brings us back into orbit. She doesn’t quell the fun. She maintains its appropriateness.
When things are no longer in tomfoolery mode but instead require actual discipline, it’s often the other way around. Jennifer is much gentler. I stand at the borderlands’ edges, allowing nothing illegal to cross. Ultimately, my sons are expected to be Godly men, and my daughters are expected to be Godly women.
Looking back at what I’ve written, two things come to mind.
The first is that fathers and mothers—men and women—are very different. I probably don’t need to tell you this. Or maybe I do because it sure seems these roles are more than confused these days. Men are portrayed as inept and effeminate ninnies in movies, TV shows, and commercials. Women are depicted as hardnosed boss-girls who shepherd the men around like children, but that’s only when they have need of them. The genuine give-and-take of naturally complimentary roles has been lost to artificial ideologies meant only to disrupt. Perhaps worst of all, the ability to define the actual roles has already been sacrificed at confusion’s altar. What is a woman? What is a man? Fewer and fewer can answer these questions, lest they give a truthful answer and be canceled. In fact, the answer is becoming more elusive, not only relative to gender but to species. For example, a 22-year-old man who thinks he’s a female cat is running for a seat on the Board of Commissioners here in Livingston County. I have a quick story about this.
I was picking up my daughter, Evelyn, from volleyball practice at the Hartland Community Education building when I drove past this candidate and his friends having a picnic-style demonstration on the facility’s front lawn. There were only a handful of people with him. It was by no means a grand event. Nevertheless, he placed signs near the facility’s driveway, one of which read, “Protect trans students like you protect your guns.” If I hadn’t been in a hurry to get Evelyn home to Linden and then back again to Hartland for a church meeting, I may likely have stopped to ask for clarification. This tendency does get me into trouble sometimes. Just ask Jennifer. She shifted into governess mode a couple of times yesterday at a conference in Detroit to keep my tomfoolery at bay. However, one particular gent in a breakout session who insulted me for being Lutheran rather than Catholic did receive a word or two. Actually, he received four.
Still, I believe in conversation, especially for the sake of invalidating untruths. I certainly had more than my fair share of questions before I rounded the first turn in the parking lot to fetch Evelyn that day. In particular, I would have asked the 22-year-old cat woman with male genitalia if “Protect trans students like you protect your guns” meant registering trans students with the government. Next, I would have asked if that meant red flag laws, too. In other words, if a trans student behaves in ways that make me nervous—like, say, demanding drag queen story hours at the local library—I could call the cops and have him, or her, or whatever taken away and locked up, letting the situation get sorted out in court before allowing him (or her, or whatever) to go home. Along those same lines, I’d have asked if he thinks we should keep all trans students locked away in safes to help keep children safe.
This is only one thread in gender confusion’s fabric. But this fabric is so easily unwound when the hard truth pulls on it. Speaking in an elementary sense, the fact that two men cannot create a child excludes such madness from any real claim on Father’s Day. Inherently, the word “father” assumes and requires “mother,” so whether a man and woman procreate or adopt, fatherhood remains innately a man and woman thing, not a man and man thing. The same goes for Mother’s Day.
I told you two things came to mind. The second is the blessing of home.
Everything I described begins in the home. If a child’s home is unsteady or confused, then everything beyond it will be, too. Beyond this, I once heard someone say that home is a pre-heaven of sorts. Indeed, home is a place where your seat at the table is certain. The rule of forgiveness secures it, and everyone there is family. Oliver Wendell Holmes said something about how our feet may leave home, but our hearts never will. This is to say that we’re forever rooted in a lifeblood sort of way with our home. Who we are, what we’ve learned, who taught us, and why—all these things go with us. And yet, even as they’re carried away on two legs, they are forever bound to the source, no matter where we might be. In my opinion, this is just another way of highlighting the significance of fathers and mothers and that no matter where a child goes, he can never really shake loose from the home his parents made. Good or bad, it’s forever a part of him.
Wrapping this up, I say, since it’s Father’s Day, grab hold of confusion’s fabric and pull. Do what you can to dispel gender confusion. Treat your dad like the manly man he is and ought to be. Rejoice and publicly share those things that show dads to be the God-given heads and protectors a family needs and requires. Maybe even take a chance at grabbing this world’s absurdity by the jugular. June certainly would be the month to do it. Women, demand alongside Saint Paul that the men in your life “act like men and be strong” (1 Corinthians 16:13). Husbands and fathers—the gents crafting the next generation of men—insist beside King David, who instructed his son, Solomon, “Be strong, and show yourself a man” (1 Kings 2:2). Even better, demonstrate manliness for them. Demonstrate it for your daughters, too. Be tough when toughness is required. Be courageous. Most of all, shepherd them toward Jesus, and along the way, do everything you can to hold the line on truth while invalidating untruth. My guess is that when they eventually leave home, and they will, no matter where they go, their hearts will be permanently sourced by something far stronger and more certain than this world’s sin-draped irrationality.
I don’t know how this past week went for you, but mine was ultra busy. Not only was it somewhat emotionally charged with the last of our four children graduating from the church’s day school—which means after about twenty years of back-and-forths with kids, it’ll be just me from now on—but it took precision to fit everything into each day. With the end-of-school activities, church and school meetings, graduation parties, staff and graduate celebrations today, preparing several sermons for various services, evening activities tonight (including a funeral visitation and a Bible study in my home), the forthcoming week should be a breeze, right? Well, no. In between a number of these things, I will defend my doctoral thesis before a committee, and I have yet to actually sit and prepare. Each time I’ve tried, life happened, which is to say that other things with much stronger gravitational pull kept my mind and body busy.
The topic of preparedness came up in a phone meeting with my mentor on Thursday. While he implied the event would be incredibly challenging, he said he had every confidence in my abilities. I thanked him, but in secret, I was worried. I knew my own schedule. I also know myself to be a “show up early and have more than one backup plan” kind of guy. In other words, I’m the kind of guy who’ll get the family to the airport three hours too early pulling an overpacked suitcase in tow. But in this instance, things would be different. You might even ask why I’m taking time this morning to write this message. I should be studying.
But there’s something else to think about here.
I experienced a slightly different version of the same conversation several weeks ago at the Livingston County Lincoln Day Dinner. Jennifer was sitting beside Pete Hoekstra (the former Ambassador to the Netherlands, now the Chair of the Michigan Republican Party). During dinner, she told him that I’m the kind of guy who fills every waking moment of his schedule with something, and when I’m done with my current schooling, I’ll almost certainly fill the void with something else. At first, it felt a little like she was confiding in a marriage counselor who, unlike most others, could make a call on his government phone and have me eighty-sixed. But then I had a moment of clarity. When it comes to one’s level of busyness, we all have our fair share of self-inflicted distractions. The fact that I was sitting at that dinner when I should have been home studying is an example. And so the point: in the final cost/benefit analysis of our lives, we all spend time doing things that, in the end, may or may not be of value.
Don’t get me wrong. My time at the dinner was valuable in ways I won’t go into here. Still, discernment is necessary. A person can’t and shouldn’t say yes to everything. That said, do you want to know what one of the most considerable time-wasting activities is? Worrying. The thing is, I seem to have been doing more than my fair share of it the last few days.
I suppose I could jump straight to Matthew 6:25-34. It’s there the Lord discourages worrying. Actually, the word is μεριμνᾶτε, which the English Standard Version translates as “to be anxious.” That’s probably a better understanding than “worry.” In one sense, I’ve always sort of felt as though worry could be interchangeable with heightened concern, depending on the situation. Concerned awareness or readiness is often mistaken for worry. As a Christian, such readiness has the potential for action. It leads to something. When faced with a concerning situation, either the person will trust in Christ while being moved to take every reasonable action, or the person will crumple over and into anxiety, somehow believing everything depends on him and all hope is lost. In other words, anxiety is worry that’s been slow-roasted by hopelessness. Christ says four times throughout ten verses not to go there. Instead, He urges His listeners to seek first the kingdom of God.
The Lord’s point is quite simple. Despair—anxious worry—is the inevitable result of a starved hope. Therefore, feed the hope, not the worry. To do this, seek first the kingdom. Seek Jesus. I say this because where the kingdom is, there, too, is its King. Hope is abundant with Him (1 Peter 1:3-6). Concerned Christians know to look to Him first, not the self. As they do, real peace is both assured and given (John 14:27). They are not surrendered to the terrors of anxiety, no matter the monsters that threaten.
Anyone familiar with the stuff I scribble will remember a perspective I hold to rather strictly. I learned the perspective from Saint Paul. The more I hold to it, the less worrisome or hectic things become. Take a look at 1 Corinthians 15:26, 54-57 and you’ll see what I mean. Essentially, I’ve learned that the day a person realizes the only thing he has to lose is Christ is the same day he becomes impenetrable to pretty much every terrorizing monster this world can conjure. This includes death. If not even death can frighten me, then everything else is cake, including a thesis defense. Besides, life is far too short to be despairing about this thing or that thing that may or may not go one way or another.
I’m sure I’ll be just fine on Wednesday. In fact, if I really think about it, the last few years have been nothing but preparatory. I know what I’m doing. I’ve lived all 296 pages (and then some) of my final paper. If I stumble a little here and there during the defense examination, so what? I’m not perfect. But Jesus is, and He has me well in hand. Resting there, I can scrap every ill-weighted concern and then stand back and watch the horizon of mental and physical free time open.
Of course, I’ll bet you can guess what I’m likely to do in those spaces. That’s right! I’m going to fill them. Trust me when I tell you I already have a few ideas.
I’m writing this from Roger’s City, Michigan. My friend and brother in the Lord, Joe Bangert, is being installed here as pastor of Immanuel Lutheran Church and St. John Lutheran Church and School, and he asked me to preach at the installation service. I was glad to accept the invitation. Although, I confided with Jennifer that being asked to do things like this has a way of putting my age before me. While I’m sure it does happen, I can’t say I’ve ever seen a young pastor doing things like this. Typically, it’s the patriarchal guys who get asked to preach at ordinations and installations. Admittedly, this is my 30th year in church work. That said, I suppose I’m not the spring chicken I once was, even if I do believe I’m “always the same age inside,” as Gertrude Stein so famously said.
A glance in the mirror or getting back to my feet after sitting on the floor for too long both remind me that I’m closer to my end than my beginning. My face has lines, my hair is more than graying, and my body makes sounds that it probably shouldn’t.
The topic of aging came up last night on more than one occasion during discussion. When we were alone, Jen said something that reminded me of an insightful observation Henry David Thoreau once made. By the way, I am by no means Thoreau’s biggest fan. I’m just one of those guys who’ll share anyone’s words so long as the quote is good, and what Thoreau said makes sense to me. He once wrote, “No one is as old as those who have outlived enthusiasm.” I agree with those words, although not as Thoreau probably meant them.
Thoreau was a transcendentalist, so in context, his words carry transcendentalism’s baggage—ideas like discovering life’s truest joys and purpose through spiritual connections with nature. I appreciate sunrises, and I’m rather fond of trees. I like these things just as much as the next guy. In fact, I’m watching the sun rise behind a purple-hued maple tree as I type these words. In its emerging light, I count no less than ten spiders meticulously preening their webs in preparation for the day’s catch. There’s a chipmunk skittering here and there in the yard. A rabbit sits near the fence, watching him closely. As they do what they do, the birds sing their early morning songs. The portrait is extraordinary in every way. Still, I know better than to commune with any of this stuff.
First of all, I can be weird on occasion, but I’m not a weirdo. And so, there’s a 100% chance you’ll never see a YouTube video of a bison trampling and then launching me into the air because I somehow believed I could commune with it. You’ll also never see me attempting to pet sharks, which leads me to another thought.
Not only am I overly fond of things like showers and indoor plumbing, but I’m equally fond of not being eaten by creatures larger than myself.
Lastly, and perhaps it’s just one more sign of age’s infiltration, Jennifer and I have been watching a lot of nature shows lately, and I’ve become all too familiar with nature’s instinctual ways, some of which I’ve already witnessed this morning with the spiders. It seems to me that nature can pretty much be summed up in three essential premises: wooing mates, combat, and killing and eating each other. That’s about it. And so, with that, count me out of Thoreau’s transcendental intentions.
Thoroughly removed, his words are still good, especially if you consider “enthusiasm” as a synonym for “joy.” No one is as old as those who have outlived joy.
Life, with all its twists and turns, is profoundly vibrant. Through good and bad, opportunities to learn and grow abound. And because God never fails in His loving kindness and care (Philippians 4:19; Matthew 6:31-32, 7:11), which is perfectly located in Christ, a Christian can rest assured that joy is always lurking in each of life’s moments (Romans 5:1-5). The ability to discover joy during sadness’ inevitable humdrum is possible, too. And that’s the partial point. Young or old, a joyless person is metaphorically near death compared to a joyful one. A joyless 20-year-old man, while he may be capable of greater physicality than an 80-year-old, is far less capable of so many other things that matter so much more.
Something—or better said, someone—comes to mind in this regard.
I went to visit my friend Gerry. He’s a longtime member of this congregation who can no longer get to church on his own. Thankfully, his faithful son and daughter-in-law, Jeff and Lisa, bring him regularly. But when Gerry isn’t feeling up to it, I visit him at home. I saw him a little over a week ago. At one point during our conversation, somehow, we began chatting about television programming’s devolution. Admitting that most shows on TV were trash, he mentioned a fondness for home restoration programs. He enjoys the “reveal” moments. He loves the moment when the home is finally ready, and the owners see it for the first time. Describing these things, Gerry was kid-like in his enthusiasm. As someone who is relatively recliner-bound, he couldn’t restore a home even if he wanted to. But you’d never know it by his enthusiasm. You’d never know it by his joy. Although, that’s not quite the point of sharing this.
Gerry’s joy is clearly not located in what he can or cannot do as he ages. Sure, he misses his athletic days. Gerry was an exceptional baseball player. He probably could’ve gone pro. But the “was” and “could’ve” haven’t landlocked him. His joy isn’t tied to this world’s limitations, ultimately rendering him perpetually downcast. Instead, his life is fixed on Jesus. And interestingly, his joy continues to flourish as it’s fixed on others around him. Their happiness feeds his happiness, and with that, his enthusiasm for life continues to abound.
I didn’t begin this rambling intent on talking about Gerry, but I never really know where these things will go. Just know that even as Gerry is in his mid-eighties, the more time I spend with him, the more I realize he’s one of the youngest people I know. Uplifted, and then looking at myself in the mirror through the same Gospel lens, I am reminded, “So we do not lose heart. Though our outer self is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day” (2 Corinthians 4:16).
Indeed, I’m getting older. But I fully intend, by God’s grace, to remain a joy-filled toddler in Christ. Looking back on what I just wrote, I know my words are by no means original. Jesus said them first. Inspired by the Holy Spirit, Saint Matthew recorded for all of us, “At that time the disciples came to Jesus, saying, ‘Who is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven?’ And calling to him a child, he put him in the midst of them and said, ‘Truly, I say to you, unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven’” (Matthew 18:1-5).
It’s right around this time each year that I’m reminded that my favorite of the Lord’s Apostles is Thomas. It’s not because the name Thomas is the patronymic origin for my own last name, which can be traced as far back in Germany as the 1250s. Instead, like Thomas, from among the twelve, I want to be the one who, even if foolishly misguided, along the way, demanded the real Jesus, the once dead but now alive Savior with scars.
I want to be bold enough in every crowd I occupy to demand that Christ do what He promised He’d do.
Still, Thomas has gained the descriptive prefix “Doubting.” Doubt is a tricky thing. Some theologians say doubt was the first sin committed in Eden. Maybe doubt is the word that describes what happened. I tend to think it was more than that. I think by the Devil’s line of questioning, he went straight for the jugular of faith, ultimately stirring absolute mistrust. “You will not surely die,” the Devil replied to Eve. “For God knows that when you eat of it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil” (Genesis 3:4-5). This was the Devil’s way of saying, “Not only did God lie to you, but He’s hiding something from you, too.” Eve unhesitatingly believed this and went straight to dining on the fruit. Adam, who was with her, did the same (v. 6).
I could be wrong, but I think mistrust and doubt are two very different things. This reminds me of a quotation I shared in my dissertation, having first shared it during a discussion with one of the pastors participating in my doctoral research. David Mills, a former editor for Touchstone magazine, once maintained:
“In the same way, ‘permissiveness’ is a very different thing from ‘licentiousness.’ The first means relaxing the rules too much, the other means actions characterized by license and lawlessness, and usually in a lewd, lustful, and dissolute way. They are not even close to the same thing…. The ideas are related but they are not the same. One cannot do the work of the other. You might as well, in a professional baseball game, send in Barry Manilow to replace Barry Bonds, because they are both rich, famous, talented men named Barry.”
In the same way, mistrust and doubt “are related but they are not the same.” Mistrust is the demonstration of a complete lack of confidence. It establishes plainly that a person is not trustworthy, and then goes no further except to act contrarily to the untrustworthy person. Doubt, while not necessarily a good thing, often makes demands before becoming mistrust. Its first vocalized insistence will likely be, “Prove it.”
That’s precisely what Thomas did. He wanted proof. Interestingly, he wanted the same proof Jesus promised He’d give. Even better, he was willing to go further. He didn’t remain apart from the other disciples but instead returned at their pleading to join with them in the upper room. That’s not mistrust. That’s a willingness to be convinced coupled with concrete expectations. He’s in a middle space between belief and unbelief, trust and mistrust.
Still, and as I hinted before, the middle space can be a dangerous place. In this circumstance, it could lead to mistrust. Jesus knew this. In fact, He acknowledged this hazardous progression when He said to Thomas, “Put your finger here, and see my hands; and put out your hand, and place it in my side. Do not disbelieve, but believe” (John 20:27). In the English, it sounds like Jesus said he was disbelieving. In the original Greek, the Lord’s words “Do not disbelieve, but believe” are more pivotal. The verb γίνου is in there. It means “to come into being, to happen, to become.” It presents the possibility of a change in location relative to one’s position. In other words, Jesus’ literal words were, “Do not become untrusting but become trusting [μὴ γίνου ἄπιστος ἀλλὰ πιστός].”
And then Thomas’ words, “My Lord and my God!” These are some of the most beautiful in all of the scriptures.
Samuel Johnson once said, “Nothing will ever be attempted if all possible objections must first be overcome.” I share these words only because they acknowledge the tension that exists between doubt and trust. That said, Jesus acknowledged the tension first and in a far better way.
The scene with Thomas ended with the Lord speaking somewhat rhetorically. His words may even have stung Thomas a little. “Have you believed because you have seen me?” the Lord asked. “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed” (v. 29).
On second thought, if the Lord’s words were stinging, I’ll bet the sting didn’t last long. Jesus wasn’t wholly directing them at Thomas. According to this particular Gospel’s author, John, they were aimed at us (John 20:31). And if this is true, then they’re encouraging, not indicting. They point to the blessed nature of faith. They’re meant to remind us that even as we won’t experience the exact proofs that Thomas was given, in the end, faith doesn’t require physical proof to overcome every possible objection or tension, just as Samuel Johnson described. Faith knows without seeing. It can believe without feeling or experiencing. This is true because its assurance is from another sphere altogether. It is convinced by something far more powerful than what the human senses could ever grasp (Hebrews 11:1). That something, or better said, someone, is the Holy Spirit—God, Himself—at work in the believer. Christians are made by the power of the Holy Spirit at work through the Gospel in both its verbal and visible forms—Word and Sacrament. But Christians aren’t just made. They’re endowed with that which helps them hold on when there doesn’t seem to be anything to hold onto. In those moments, they’re equipped to say to the world’s imposing accusations, “Prove it,” all the while knowing that sufficient proof for measuring all things is always available in the most trustworthy of all locales, God’s Word (2 Peter 1:12-21), just as the Lord promised (John 5:24).
For a Christian to say, “Prove it,” and then look to the Word of God for what’s needed, in a way, is the same as Thomas expecting to meet only with the real Jesus. Indeed, Jesus is the Word made flesh.
I don’t have to tell you who the pronoun “He” is referring to in those traditional Easter acclamations. You know His name. He’s Jesus, the King of kings and the Lord of lords. He was dead and is now alive, owning the name that is above every name. Every knee in heaven and on earth and under the earth will one day bow in absolute reverence to this name, whether it’s the knee of a believer or unbeliever, friend or foe (Philippians 2:9-10).
This cosmos-encompassing event Saint Paul describes will happen in the flesh. The Lord’s resurrection has sealed its certainty (Job 19-25-27; 1 Corinthians 15:42-56). This final veneration will not be a commemorative act, one performed in memory of an exceptional individual who once was but is no more. It won’t be an act of devotion recalling a person indispensable to history but nevertheless long dead and buried. Graveyards are filled with the forgotten. Even the greatest are little more than “comets of a season,” Lord Byron would say. “The glory and then nothing of a name.”
And yet, Jesus, the One bearing the name above all names, His grave was a blink. He could not own one for long. Although I suppose if owning the grave means besting the sinister powers of sin and death that give a grave its claim, He certainly holds these powers’ enduring titles (1 Corinthians 15:55-57). He owns them as a superior champion owns a weaker opponent. They came for Him. They were strong. But they approached Him in bold assumption and were met by an ugly fact. “No one takes my life from me,” Jesus said, “but I lay it down of my own accord. I have authority to lay it down, and I have authority to take it up again” (John 10:18). “Now is the judgment of this world,” the Lord added, “now will the ruler of this world be cast out” (John 12:31). Indeed, and amen! His resurrection is the proof that His words were not empty. He’s alive, and if this is true, then even these darkly powers will be forced to their knees at this world’s final hour. They will coalesce from their formlessness in humble reverence for the One who is no longer the suffering servant but the Pantocrator—the ruler of all things created and uncreated.
Admittedly, the Lord’s work was not easy. The combat was stupendous, just as the lovely Victimae Paschali sings (LSB 460). But the good news remains as plainly splendid as it is plentiful. His foes were too weak. They lost everything, and their consequence was sealed for the great and final day.
In the meantime of eternity, to the victor goes the spoils. Among the prizes, to the Champion the most precious: us! He won us! And now, by the power of the Holy Spirit for faith, to be with Jesus is a believer’s forever. The grave is not our end. He filled in its gaping chasm. The devil cannot accuse us. He has been debarked. Death cannot consume us. It was defanged. And now, we are the Lord’s own, and we will be raised and adorned in bodies “like his glorious body, by the power that enables him even to subject all things to himself” (Philippians 3:21)!
Immersed in this joyful news, may your celebration of Easter be wonderfully full-throated as you call out to this conquered and whimpering world, “He is risen! He is risen, indeed! Alleluia!”
Today is the Friday that, for centuries, the Church has called “good.” It is a strange designation, and yet, most appropriate. Without it, what hope against Sin, Death, and Satan would there be?
I’d say, “The Good Friday hour is upon us,” if that were sufficient. But it isn’t. It’s better to say, “The hours are upon us.” This is to say that the Lord’s death for mankind’s sin wasn’t swift. It didn’t happen in a flash. It didn’t come peacefully during sleep. It was preceded by ethereal misery.
When the Lord submitted Himself to the Devil’s viciousness, saying, “Now is your hour” (John 22:53a), and then allowed the fullness of Sin’s curse to crush Him, adding, “and the power of darkness” (v. 53b), unspeakable suffering began. There are no words to describe it. Which is why the Gospel writers really don’t even try. Like emotionless correspondents, they report the events. They speak simply.
For scope, Mark’s Gospel tells us the betrayal in Gethsemane occurred at midnight. That’s when it began. Beyond Gethsemane, Mark records:
“Then some of them began to spit on him; they blindfolded him, struck him, and said to him, ‘Prophesy to us, O Christ, who is it that struck you?’ The guards beat him…” (Mark 14:65).
All the inspired writers tell you these kinds of things. Within the limitations of human language, they present unfathomable cruelty in the plainest details.
“Then Pilate took Jesus and had him flogged” (John 19:1).
They don’t describe the event’s flaying nature. They don’t share the supernatural turmoil—the unseen grappling, the invisible but slicing dreadfulness occurring as the unholy trinity of Sin, Death, and Satan meet with God’s own flesh.
“When [the soldiers] had woven a crown of thorns, they put it on his head and a reed in his right hand, and they knelt before him and mocked him…. They spat on him and took the reed and struck him on the head” (Matthew 27:29-30).
The hours go on. Things get worse. But the writers scribble dryly. They don’t describe the bruising, the torn flesh, the streaming blood that pools whenever and wherever the Lord might stop to rest. Instead, He receives His cross and continues on.
“Carrying his own cross, he went out of the city to a place called Skull Hill, in Hebrew, Golgotha” (John 19:17).
The following is peculiar:
“As they led him away, they laid hold of Simon of Cyrene, the father of Alexander and Rufus, who was coming in from the country. On him they laid the cross that he might bear it after Jesus” (Mark 15:21).
Has the visible and invisible cruelty become too much for even the unholy trinity and its agents to stomach? We can’t see or describe it. But they can. They know every drop of its tarry horror. Beholding the Lord’s exhaustion, are they becoming sympathetic? Are they relenting a little?
No. Simon of Cyrene is of little consequence except to ensure that Jesus makes it Golgotha. Simon will be their ignorant mule.
“And there they crucified him” (John 19:18).
The writers are succinct. It’s a gory scene—ghastly all along—but they do not describe its carnage. Some might say it’s because the reader already knew a crucifixion’s harshest details, and to describe them would be a waste of precious papyrus. That may be somewhat true. However, it’ll never be the only reason. The Gospel writer John tells his readers that to record and share in print everything Jesus said and did would require more library real estate than the earth can provide (John 21:25). But if the world unexpectedly grew a thousand times larger, and the books suddenly appeared, some containing the Passion’s accounting within, what’s written would still be an atom-sized jot incapable of describing the Lord’s fullest work.
And so, our loving God has taken something massively incomprehensible and made it simple.
“For God so loved the world, that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life” (John 3:16).
“For Christ also suffered once for sins, the righteous for the unrighteous, that he might bring us to God, being put to death in the flesh but made alive in the spirit” (1 Peter 3:18).
“But God shows his love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us” (Romans 5:8).
“He is the propitiation for our sins, and not for ours only but also for the sins of the whole world” (1 John 2:2).
“[Jesus said] For this reason the Father loves me, because I lay down my life that I may take it up again. No one takes it from me, but I lay it down of my own accord. I have authority to lay it down, and I have authority to take it up again. This charge I have received from my Father” (John 10:17-18).
“For our sake he made him to be sin who knew no sin, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God” (2 Corinthians 5:21).
“Christ redeemed us from the curse of the law by becoming a curse for us—for it is written, ‘Cursed is everyone who is hanged on a tree’” (Galatians 3:13).
I could go on and on sharing more and more of God’s simplified yet preferred renditions of His great love for you accomplished through the person and work of His Son, Jesus Christ. But I won’t. However, I will encourage you to join with the faithful for Good Friday worship. I urge you to immerse yourself in the Church’s consolidated remembrance of the hours in which our Savior labored to set the whole world free from the grip of perpetual night.
For the readers beyond my congregation’s borders, if your church does not observe Good Friday, find one that does. Go there. Settle into a pew. If you can, spy a crucifix. See there a hint to Sin’s weight. “Here may view its nature rightly,” the great hymn whispers solemnly, “Here its guilt may estimate” (“Stricken, Smitten, and Afflicted,” LSB 451).
Even so, listen to God’s Word being read. Take in the Gospel preaching. Hear and rejoice that the Lord endured the horrible hours willingly. Take into yourself that His divine mind was thinking of you. You could not do it. But He could. And He did, all for you.
It was all for you.
P.S. If you need a place to go for Good Friday worship, here at Our Savior, we offer a 1:00 p.m. Tre Ore service and a 6:30 p.m. Tenebrae service. Consider joining us.
Holy Week begins today with Palm Sunday. Like any other week, Holy Week has seven days. And yet, it seems exceptionally longer than the others. By the time we get from Palm Sunday to Easter, a lot will have happened. For perspective, here at Our Savior, we will have packed at least ten weeks of sacred worship into these seven days. For our Kantor, musicians, and choirs, that’s an abundance of preparation and rehearsals. For the pastors, among so many other things, that’s a lot of sermon writing. I suppose that’s why you might hear me say in jest that the Lord and His pastors trade places on Easter morning. I often get very sick the week after Easter, usually from over-exertion. Although, I think it hit me early this year. I was terribly sick this past week.
Getting sick this time every year is one of many proofs that I could not do what the Lord did. He endured cosmic suffering. And yet, I count myself blessed if I can think through and preach a relatively coherent Easter sermon after Lent and Holy Week’s busyness has concluded.
I had an interesting conversation about these things last Sunday in the ER at Maclaren Hospital. A man sitting a few seats away from me in the waiting room started it. The worship pastor at his church, he endeavored to ask me how my church “does” Easter. I told him, even taking a chance at assuming between two clergy its exhausting nature. I assumed incorrectly. Along the way, he asked rather awkwardly why we continue doing it this way, especially when I almost always get sick year after year. At first, I took it as a reasonable observation and told him I had thought about cutting things back a little. But then he did something else. He took a passive-aggressive shot at what he believed was traditional worship’s tiredness. As he did, He explained worship shouldn’t be tiring, and he went out of his way to tell me that his church’s worship life could never be considered exhausting, that his church’s contemporary style was comfortable and easy—always fresh and new, always joyful, and always inspiring. He explained that worship is about praising God—about really feeling it, and blah blah blah.
Let me first say that’s not what worship is about. Praise is part of it (the lesser part, mind you) but that’s not its purpose. Worship begins with God. He serves us what we need—forgiveness. We respond with prayer, praise, and thanksgiving. Think Isaiah 55:11 and Ecclesiastes 5:1-3.
Next, I’ll ask, “Why?” What’s going on inside a person that would cause him to impose on a stranger in this way? I get that I’m easily identifiable in my clerical collar, and perhaps by it, I may represent a more traditional position. I’m no stranger to such interactions. But that alone doesn’t invite the imposition. I certainly didn’t ask for a critique of our worship style or life. As a normal human being confiding in someone I assumed might understand, I would never even think to steer into another church leader’s sphere in this way. I have no reason to criticize him. I’ve never been to his church.
Thankfully, few clergyfolk I meet are like this. Most just want to meet and visit—like normal humans. Also, thankfully, I didn’t have the time (nor the mood) to debate this particular guitar-slinger. I was seconds from being escorted to the bedside of one of my church members who’d been in a car accident. I was pondering my words to them and not to the worship pastor. Although, Blaise Pascal’s thoughts on reason would have been appropriate if the conversation had continued. Pascal once said something about how human reason’s final use is to admit there’s an infinite vastness beyond its capabilities.
What does this have to do with the interaction I just described? If I’d had the time and energy, I think it might have mattered in at least two ways.
First, Holy Week does sometimes feel unreasonably challenging. As I said, I’ve considered excluding some of the worship opportunities for this reason. And yet, as Pascal implied, even human reason admits to blessings that can only be reached by extending beyond what’s reasonable. No, the Lord doesn’t want us murdering ourselves with devotion. Still, we can (and often should) stretch ourselves past what we know is easier. This is the “no pain, no gain” principle. Still, even in an elementary sense, we also can’t remain infants, drinking only milk. We need solid food (1 Corinthians 3:1-13). The historic rites and ceremonies of the Church embody this opportunity, and if there’s ever a time to reach for solid food, it’s during this pinnacle time of the Church Year.
Some might refer to our worship style here at Our Savior as “high mass.” That description has various outside interpretations. Although, compared to other Lutheran churches, I can guess what it means. Still, I’m not interested in the other churches. I’m the pastor here. And no matter what is implied or who we’re being compared to, I’m convinced we’re enjoying solid food in this place—meat and potatoes, not frozen waffles and milk duds. It’s certainly far from being about the preacher or service meeting us right where we are, giving us what we like, and never demanding anything more. God does not call for us to remain forever where we are. We are to reach higher (Colossians 3:1-2).
By the way, a person should be able to tell when they’ve left the “where we are” of every day and entered into the new day of “higher.” Our regular worship is already wired for this. Stop by anytime. You’ll know you’ve stepped from the secular world onto holy ground. Holy Week is this on steroids, and for very good reasons.
This stirs a second thought relative to what’s reasonable. Pascal admitted to an endless array of things beyond reason’s reach. Isn’t that more or less a nod toward the nature of faith? It’s the same kind of nod Saint Paul offers in the Epistle appointed for today’s Palm Sunday celebration. In Philippians 2:6, Paul admits Christ’s incarnation was an ungraspable truth existing far beyond reason’s borders. Very little about it makes sense. However, as challenging as it is, it’s utterly accessible to faith. This is where I might have pushed back on my conversation partner even further, crossing the border into his doctrines and sharing how I think it’s strange how someone like John Calvin could ever insist, “Finitum non capax infinitum,” which is to say, finite things cannot contain infinite things. Of course, Ulrich Zwingli assumed it years before when debating Luther at the Marburg Colloquy in 1529. But either way, to say the infinite cannot be located in the finite is to be trapped behind reason’s barrier. It certainly binds God to human premises.
Since I’ve already mentioned Christ’s incarnation, if Calvin’s words are valid, then we must dismiss Saint Paul’s reason-pummeling words in Colossians 1:19-20, where he writes, “For in [Christ] all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell, and through him to reconcile to himself all things, whether on earth or in heaven, making peace by the blood of his cross” (Colossians 1:19-20). Had the conversation gotten this far, I would have encouraged my new ER friend to reconsider what the finite containing the infinite means for things like Baptism and the Lord’s Supper. I’m guessing he thinks these are just symbols. I wouldn’t attack him on this. But I would at least ask, “Is it possible they could be more?”
In the meantime, yes, the fullness of the infinite God was located in a finite human man—an object occupying a limited location. That man was Jesus. No, it doesn’t make sense. And Paul knows it. But that doesn’t stop him from upping lunacy’s ante in the Palm Sunday epistle with the reminder that the God-man Christ actually died. You think the incarnation is unreasonable; how about God dying? Paul goes further into irrationality, adding, “even death on a cross!” (Philippians 2:8).
The historic rites and ceremonies dig deeply into this, especially during Holy Week. From Palm Sunday through to Holy Wednesday and then the Triduum—the holy three days of Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and the Great Vigil of Easter—it’s a week that carries us into these things and more. It isn’t just a day or two of our favorite and most syrupy worship songs, whatever Bible verses the preacher happens to prefer at the time, and an engaging sermon with some fetching slides. It’s several days of reaching further.
To be fair, I should come at this from another direction. As insulting as the worship pastor in the ER waiting room was with his passive aggression (most of which I didn’t share), I’ll admit some in my more traditional camp do the same things he did; not a lot, but a few. They take similar opportunities to impose their pretentiousness rather than enjoying the conversation and encouraging others toward Christian worship’s inherent beauty and benefit. For example, they can make a pastor shepherding a storefront church feel lesser for not having what they have or doing what they’re doing. Again, there aren’t a lot of them. But as the saying goes, there’s one in every bunch. Confessional Lutheranism is no exception.
In conclusion, let me just say this: For those out there who are moving in the better direction—who are reaching higher—whether or not you have the classically ornate worship space, vestments, smells, bells, or whatever, I encourage you to stay the course. You already likely know we’re in a dark time in worship history, days when almost anything goes, and as it does, the faith that worship is supposed to feed becomes shallow and weak among so many. Nevertheless, anyone who’s served as a pastor for any reasonable length of time will tell you that shepherding God’s people from point A to point B takes time. Building the muscle to reach higher takes exercise. Catechesis is key. Introduce. Teach. Stay the course. As you do, rest assured your labors are not in vain, no matter the pace or progress.
And some final advice: If a man in a waiting room scoots a few chairs closer to you to have a genuine conversation about differing worship styles, enjoy the discussion. Such conversation can be refreshing and interesting. But if a peacocking purpose becomes obvious, before the conversation goes any further, I recommend leaning toward him and asking with wide room-scanning eyes, “You can see me?” That’ll close the conversation shop’s doors. Of course, if you’re not comfortable doing that, first, compliment his retro tee, and next, tell him the hospital called you to perform an exorcism, asking if he’s the one they called about. That’ll probably work.
Cruciform Stuff 