Tag Archives: gospel

Headless Chickens

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of course, that’s a rhetorical question.

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

No Need that Anyone Should Teach You

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

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

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

Well, not so fast.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I shared another example.

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

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

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

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

Politeness

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe. Maybe not.

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

A Hope-filled Sprig

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We endure when enduring seems impossible.

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

New Year’s Day, 2024

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Did you make any New Year’s resolutions? I did. I do every year. I decided on this year’s resolution a few days before Christmas, so in a sense, I’ve had the chance to test-drive it here and there.

I don’t know if, how, or why you decided on yours, but two things in particular modeled for mine. The first was Saint Paul’s encouraging words, “Rejoice in hope, be patient in tribulation, be constant in prayer” (Romans 12:12). The second was Michigan’s dismal climate. We don’t get much sun from October to March, and so I’m perpetually watching for stray sunbeams piercing the dreary grays. If I’m paying close enough attention, I can usually spot two or three throughout the day. Like atmospheric phantoms, they come and go. On occasion, one descends through a nearby window. When it does, I’ll sit right in the middle of it. It’s a rejuvenating opportunity, even if only for a moment. 

Together, these two things stirred a New Year’s resolution to find at least three positives in any perceived negative situation and, from among those three, if possible, to discover at least one opportunity for making life better. It might sound like a complicated resolution compared to exercising or cutting back on sweets. All I can say is that as I get older, I want to continue being the kind of person who’s happier to see the New Year arrive than to see the current year leave. To do this, I know I need to bring something with me into the New Year, and it can’t be the old self. The old self gets tired. The new self in Christ brings hope, patience, and prayer.

One thing is for sure: my newest resolution was pressure tested days before the clock struck midnight on December 31st.

I woke up this past Wednesday with a whole day of nothing facing me. That’s right. I had nothing to do but rest. The only task owed to the day was to take the artificial palm tree Jennifer bought me for Christmas to my office at the church. I planned to set it just beyond my desk where I could see it daily.

But my restful do-nothing day was foiled.

I started the day plinking away at what would become the sermon for this morning’s Divine Service. I did this awaiting my turn in the shower. Once Jennifer was done, and because I was still typing, she cleaned the bathtub, filling it with hot water before giving it a good scrub. Afterward, it was my turn in the bathroom.

My shower was ice cold.

I thought at first that Jennifer had used up the hot water while cleaning the tub or that perhaps one of the kids was actually awake and had showered, too. Strangely, the urge to visit our water heater in the basement storage closet emerged. And so, I did. Sure enough, it was dead, and its contents were just beginning to leak out onto the floor. I shut off the water supply, and while Jennifer began moving our closet belongings to other locations, I called a local heating and cooling company that we trusted. I learned they could be out by 4:30 p.m. for an estimate but likely couldn’t perform the installation until two or three days later. Still, I scheduled the appointment and then went to work helping Jennifer.

Once done, we sat together in the living room, calculating our fate. We were looking at a post-Christmas expense of about $2,000 and a couple of days of traveling back and forth to Jennifer’s mom’s house for showers.

Sigh.

“How many gallons is our water heater?” Jennifer asked, tapping on her mobile phone.

“Fifty,” I replied.

“How tall is it?”

“Right around fifty-five inches.”

“How wide?”

“About twenty inches.”

“You know, Home Depot has two in stock. They’re a little shorter and wider, but we could get one today. If we buy it and you do the installation, we could save about a thousand dollars.”

A moment passed.

“I’ll get my coat. Call upstairs to Harrison. He’s going with me.”

Harrison and I spent the next few hours removing the old water heater and installing a new one. We were done by 4:30 p.m. Had we kept the appointment, the repair man would’ve been arriving just in time to congratulate us.

What does this story have to do with my New Year’s resolution? For starters, everything about the situation was deflating. Not to mention I didn’t want to spend the entirety of what would be one of my only free days in a year doing what I was about to do. However, I’d already chosen my New Year’s resolution, and as such, I was ready to steer into the effort with hope, patience, and prayer, all the while looking for the moment’s sunbeams. And I found plenty.

The first ray of sunlight was that I actually had an entirely uninterrupted day to do the job. Second, we discovered the problem before it could cause significant damage to our basement. Third, we couldn’t necessarily afford $2,000, but we could afford $1,000. Fourth, a relatively warm day for the end of December, Wednesday was near-perfect for doing the work. The outdoor tasks would’ve been a messy struggle if it had been cold and snowy. I can only imagine having to uncoil and drag a frozen hose inside to drain the water heater; or attempting to dolly the rusted beast out through the basement door, likely struggling to ascend the side yard’s treacherously icy slope to get the appliance to the street, and then do the same in reverse with the new water heater, surely tracking the outside’s elements indoors.

As you can see, at least four sunbeams were streaming through a relatively cloudy scenario. I had resolved to find only three.

But what about the opportunity for rejuvenation? Well, that’s an easy one, too. Harrison and I worked on the job together, spending much-needed father-and-son time accomplishing something beneficial to the family.

In short, it was a struggle, but with my sights set in the right direction, it was a good day.

Ralph Waldo Emerson once wrote that every day can be the best day of the year. As a Christian, I agree. A Christian’s “every day” has Christ. With Christ, there’s always hope, no matter the challenge. Even better, we have access through prayer to the Creator of the cosmos, the One who promises to listen and respond, ultimately ordering all things, good or bad, for the salvific benefit of those who are His own by faith (Romans 8:28).

I already know these things. Still, I intend to be deliberate in my awareness of them in the New Year. I will find these sunbeams in a world intent on shrouding faith’s joy.

Having said all this, if you are yet to make a New Year’s resolution, feel free to steal mine…or the one I mentioned in yesterday’s note. Either way, trust me when I say that the New Year has only just begun, yet the peace that comes with a heart settled in this way is sure to pay dividends all along the way.

God bless and keep you by His grace!

New Year’s Eve, 2023

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not from that man’s world.”

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

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

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

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

Why?

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

What foolishness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Christmas Day, 2023

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Merry Christmas to you and your family!

One of the Bible’s principal thrusts is not only that humanity needs saving but that we occupy a dreadfully weary world. A simple glance at the surrounding world measured against an honest self-inventory will more than reveal just how much we need Christmas.

When I say we need Christmas, I suppose I mean at least two things.

First, I’d say Christmas brings refreshment to the world. It’s nice to have at least one day during the year when, for the most part, even our society expects people to think of others before themselves. The longstanding practice of Christmas gift-giving demonstrates this.

Although, it is true that people wrap and give gifts for various reasons or occasions. Still, if an unfamiliar onlooker required an explanation for the gift, the giver would unhesitatingly explain its purpose, whether to celebrate an anniversary, birthday, or whatever. With such an explanation comes the assumption that everyone giving gifts at the gathering is doing so for the same reason. One of the oldest Christmas traditions is to give gifts. No matter what anyone believes concerning the holiday, there’s no denying that a Christmas gift remembers Christmas. Ultimately, to remember Christmas is to honor Christ, intentionally or unintentionally.

Christians do so intentionally. That’s why churches aren’t bare on Christmas Day. At least, they shouldn’t be. I dare say Our Savior Evangelical Lutheran Church in Hartland, Michigan, will have people in its pews who know the second reason the world needs Christmas.

The kind of people who venture out on Christmas Day intent on gathering in worship know full well that the point of Christmas isn’t gift-giving. This is true because they have a better sense. This sense—faith—knows that if our hearts aren’t set on the gift of Christ, we’ll never be satisfied by anything we might discover wrapped and resting beneath a Christmas tree. Unsurprisingly, the folks bearing this better sense manage to keep the Christmas vigil into and through this weary world’s less glittery days. This is true because they know and believe all year long alongside Saint Paul, who wrote “that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners…” (1 Timothy 1:15). They rejoice each day alongside Saint John, who insisted that “the reason the Son of God appeared was to destroy the works of the devil” (1 John 3:8). They know their need for rescue from the all-consuming powers of darkness no mortal in history has ever been able to conquer. Christmas observes this world’s timeline and says, “This is when it began.” It celebrates with precision the One who stepped into this world’s dreariness to begin the impossible feat. It marks the One who came to give us far more than seasonal refreshment. He came to win eternal rest from Sin, Death, and Satan’s dreadful curse.

Yes, Christmas is refreshing. Yes, Christmas is traditionally celebrated through gift-giving. But Christians know there’s far more to it than these things.

Interestingly, when it comes to Jesus, Christians know the gift-giving order will always be reversed at His divine party. We’ll gather in His house for worship. As we do, the Gospel gifts of life and salvation won by the Christmas Savior are abundantly showered upon us. It’s the only birthday party where the One being celebrated gives cosmically grander gifts than the attendees could ever afford or even think to bring.

Indeed, we need Christmas. Thankfully, we have it. And you’ve been invited to its tremendous festival. The Gospel of Christ’s life, death, and resurrection for your redemption is not only the gift but also the invitation. By the power of the Holy Spirit at work for faith, receive it—and then act on it! Attend the party! Rejoice with the One who put aside His divine glory, choosing instead the lowly confines of a manger, ultimately foreshadowing His forthcoming work as the suffering servant. Celebrate with the One who did all of this for you! In all my years as a pastor, I’ve never met anyone who regretted coming to the Lord’s Christmas celebration.

Again, Merry Christmas to you!

Christmas Eve, 2023

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Merry Christmas to you!

A favorite moment in the Church Year for many, Christmas Eve, is upon us. It’s beloved for plenty of reasons. For many, Christmas is little more than a break from work or school or, perhaps, an obligatory time for family gatherings and feasting. For faithful Christians, it’s so much more. It’s a day among days bearing a unique sense of awareness. It enjoys the best dimension of family togetherness and the greatest feast. It’s Christmas—or, more precisely, the Christ-mass! Believers gather to celebrate the beginning of God’s inbreaking through the person and work of Christ (Greek Χριστός). Christians have known for centuries that the best way to do this is by assembling at the divine table of the Lord’s Supper (Latin Missa), doing so fully aware that the same gracious Lord who gives Himself there was once an infant in a manger destined to redeem the world by submitting His very body and blood into Death for our forgiveness.

Christians know the Christmas event deserves reverent contemplation. One of the best ways to reflect is through Christian hymnody. Christmas is most certainly a time for singing some of the best-loved in Christian tradition. “Silent Night, Holy Night.” “From Heaven Above to Earth I Come.” “Angels We Have Heard on High.” “O Come, All Ye Faithful.” “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.” Time has tested these musical portraits, and they’ve never been found wanting.

Those who know me best will know I have favorite hymns. During Lent, “Stricken, Smitten, and Afflicted” gets me in the gut. I cannot navigate past its third stanza without shuddering. It’s there the hymnographer, Thomas Kelly, puts on paper what my Christian soul knows, but my fleshly self so easily forgets. He rhymes that Sin and Death are powerful specters haunting my every moment, and in the bloody dreadfulness of the cross, I can rightly reckon their fullest cost, ultimately paid by Christ. See for yourself. Those who know the ghostly tune will be hard-pressed not to hum as they read.

Ye who think of sin but lightly
Nor suppose the evil great
Here may view its nature rightly,
Here its guilt may estimate.
Mark the sacrifice appointed,
See who bears the awful load;
’Tis the Word, the Lord’s anointed,
Son of Man and Son of God.

During Holy Week, namely Good Friday, “Sing My Tongue the Glorious Battle” is a must. With our pipe organ thundering through the stratosphere, we steer straight into the fracas of Sin’s stronghold. We don’t go meekly. Jesus is the meek One here. He is this way for us. We follow in confidence, finding ourselves on Golgotha’s bloody soil, our innards becoming a strange mixture of sadness and joyful assurance as we look upon the One who is Himself the victor and the emblem of triumph:

Sing my tongue, the glorious battle;
Sing the ending of the fray.
Now above the cross, the trophy,
Sound the loud triumphant lay;
Tell how Christ, the world’s redeemer,
As a victim won the day.

I have favorite hymns for every season of the Church Year. Interestingly, when I set them side by side, I notice something familiar to all of them: they’re in acute alignment with Saint Paul, who insisted, “We preach Christ crucified” (1 Corinthians 1:23). As each hymn carries along, eventually, there’s a moment when the hymn writer lays bare for his audience the brutal reality of Christ’s death for our redemption. In other words, no matter what appears central to a particular Church season’s thrust, the crucifixion of Jesus Christ for mankind’s rescue will always be the seed from which it sprouts. Typically, you’ll find what I’m describing right in the hymn’s middle. Not always. But usually. A favorite hymn we’ll sing tonight, the lullabying “What Child is This,” is no different.

Only three stanzas long, its middle stanza leaves the quiet splendor of Bethlehem, reaching instead for Golgotha’s brutal moments. It interprets the Lord’s strange arrival in lowliness through the bloodstained lens of what He came to endure. What’s more, He didn’t do it for Himself. He did it for us. He, the silent Word, is even now pleading for us. Again, see for yourself:

Why lies He in such mean estate
Where ox and ass are feeding?
Good Christian, fear, for sinners here
The silent Word is pleading.
Nails, spear shall pierce Him through,
The cross be borne for me, for you.
Hail, hail the Word made flesh,
The babe, the son of Mary!

Tonight at Our Savior Evangelical Lutheran Church in Hartland, Michigan, stanza two of “What Child is This?” will be handled far differently musically from stanzas one and three. The second stanza’s words require tones that rearrange a pew sitter’s insides and very nearly rattle the roof. Why? Not only because Christmas itself deserves it but because the message—the Gospel—deserves it. And these words will get what they require. Why wouldn’t they? The historical moments they describe converged into a final moment that shook our planet on its axis, causing the rocks to split (Matthew 27:50-51).

I hope that you’ll experience this thundering message for yourself. Go to church. Join your Christian family in celebration of the Christ-child’s birth. Know He came to save you. Rejoice alongside the angels at His arrival. Heaven has pierced Earth’s veil. God has come. He didn’t send a representative. He became human flesh and dwelt among us (John 1:14). He came Himself. Believe this. On the tiptoes of childlike faith, look into the manger and see this great work’s beginning. By that same faith, see in His tiny eyes a distant cross. He’s already looking there. He has you in mind. Indeed, you mean that much to Him.

Merry Christmas!

Pieces of the Puzzle

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Did you know there’s an aspect of human development called childhood amnesia? I didn’t. At least, not until I went looking for information on childhood memory formation. Essentially, childhood amnesia is as it sounds. So many things happened to us when we were little that we just cannot remember. As we grow, a pool of various experiences becomes more and more accessible to memory recall. Scientists used to think that this happened around the ages of seven or eight. Now they believe it happens much earlier, closer to two or three years old.

And so, here’s what prompted my memory-formation search.

The Thoma family enjoys assembling puzzles. On occasion, Jennifer will fetch one from our shelved collection and dump it on the island in the kitchen. Within minutes, one, two, three, and then all of us are digging through the fragments, looking for the most important startup pieces—the edge pieces. The 1,000-piece puzzle currently occupying our countertop is one I had custom-made as a Christmas gift for the family a few years ago. It’s a wintertime family image taken in front of some pine trees at our former home. The kids were still very young at the time. For perspective, Evelyn is now fourteen. She was a toddler, barely three years old, when the photo was taken.

While assembling herself in the puzzle, Evelyn mentioned that she remembered the image’s moment well. To prove her recollection, she described the event in detail. She remembered Jennifer using one of our old wooden barstools as a camera stand. She remembered her mother taking test shots to sort out the camera’s timer. She remembered snuggling into Harrison beside her. Her ability to recount the details was impressive.

Standing beside her at the puzzle, I attempted silently to conjure my earliest memories. The first that came to mind was sitting in worship at Trinity Lutheran Church in Danville, Illinois. I remember sitting next to my brother, Michael, near the front. I remember flipping through the pages of a book with a red cover. I remember wondering why the people around me said they were “hardly sorry” for their sins. As it would go, that was the 1941 edition of The Lutheran Hymnal, and the word wasn’t “hardly” but “heartily.”

Another that came to mind was being in the bed of a truck at a drive-in. I don’t remember the movie that was showing. Although, I remember explorers, an island, and dinosaurs. It wasn’t King Kong. Kong is hard to forget. If I had to guess, it was The Land that Time Forgot, a film that was instinctively familiar when I discovered it on TV as a Sunday matinee. Concerning the drive-in, I remember a magnificent screen, an expanse of cars, and the tinny sound from a tiny speaker.

There are more memories I could share. I’m sure you have your own, too. What struck me about mine and Evelyn’s is that our earliest memories felt like primitive echoes of who we are today. For example, when it comes to family, Evelyn is all in. She loves her family. If we plan to do anything, the discussion is irrelevant if the whole family cannot participate. This rule remains even now that Josh is married. Interestingly, one of Evelyn’s first memories is a family event captured in a photo. Relative to my first conjurable memories, I’m a Lutheran pastor, and I absolutely love movies, especially the kinds meant to scare.

It’s no secret that a person’s childhood experiences are foundational. Like the puzzle Evelyn and I were putting together, they’re crucial pieces to what will become a more complete picture. I suppose I’m speculating that a child’s first memories mark childhood experiences that had incredibly formative power.

This past week, I had these things in mind while rehearsing with our school children for the children’s Christmas service. The kindergarten and first-grade students, the children who are likely emerging from the amnesia stage right now, sat closest to me. I watched them. As I did, I wondered which among them might have as a first memory what they were currently experiencing. Would any among them remember the twinkling décor adorning every corner of their church’s massive worship space? Would they recall the church’s mighty pipe organ lifting their joyful voices to the very threshold of heaven? Would they one day reminisce about how they were so excited to sing “Joy to the World” that they kept singing too soon? Would they remember their teachers whispering at times, “Just wait, not yet,” gently quieting them for the appropriate moment to start singing? Would little Isabella, a first-grader sitting where she could spy Pastor Thoma behind the Christmas tree, remember how he smiled and winked at her every chance he could and how she smiled so brightly back? 

I hope so.

One thing is certain, though. Children kept from such things won’t have these memories. Ever. And this doesn’t just apply to the more fanciful time of Christmas. It’s true all year long. If parents don’t bring their children to church, it should be expected that a desire for Christ and His gifts will be foreign to their future selves. In other words, it’s more likely the puzzle pieces at the edge of their identities will border a future image that doesn’t include Jesus.

Unfortunately, it’s during these crucial developmental stages that parents are most tempted to stay away from worship. Apart from the dreadful poison of outright unbelief, what would keep a Christian parent from bringing their children to the Lord’s house? Well, that’s an easy one. It’s the struggle. Every parent who has (or had) toddlers knows it. Indeed, the toddling stage is simultaneously the most demanding, and yet, the most fertile.

I wrote a piece in 2020 after seeing something occur during Sunday morning worship here at Our Savior in Hartland. It was the all-too-familiar scene of a young mother wrestling with her toddlers. In short, she got more of a cardio workout in worship that day than she could have at the gym. Still, for as wild as the scene may have been, she was an inspiration to many. I told her as much, being sure to give her glowing encouragement. The very next day, I wrote and posted the note to parents I’ve included below. If you’d like to read (and share) the original, you may do so by clicking here. I ask one thing of you, though. As you read it, keep the “first memories” thought in mind. Remember that every minute of the day for our little ones has first-memory potential. Make it so that times with Jesus in worship will be more than one of them. Make sure they start with these pieces of the puzzle.

___________

Dearest Christian Parents struggling with little children during worship,

I know you feel like a mess on Sunday mornings.

I know you feel like every resonating sound in the church nave is coming from your pew. I know you feel like every eye is aimed at you in disgust. I know you feel like everything you are doing is useless and that the little ones in your care just can’t seem to settle in. I know you feel like you’re not getting anything from worship because you’re just too busy doing everything you can to ensure your children and, perhaps, the people in your immediate blast radius are getting the barest scraps between fidgety whines.

I know you feel overwhelmed—like the struggle is never-ending. I know you’re often teetering at the edge of calling it quits before you even roll out of bed.

But don’t.

Know that your children belong right where they are. Sure, take the kids out when it’s clear they need recalibrating, but get them back into the service as soon as you can. Do this knowing that you’re being faithful. Know that the struggle will end one day, and as you venture toward that day, your kids need you to do what you’re doing right now. Know that your gracious God promises to bless your every effort all the way there.

Know that you are being fed in worship. It may not feel like it but know that you are. Know that all of us—an assembly of people with countless distractions unavailable to human senses—are gathered by faith into the presence of our gracious Savior, assured that His reaching into us with His loving kindness hardly depends on our acumen. Again, rest assured, He’s at work there for you just as much as He is for everyone else in the room.

Finally, you need to know that your pastor is rooting for you. I’ve got your six. I’m watching the folks watching you, and if I ever get the sense they have forgotten what it was like to be in your shoes, I’ll be there in a heartbeat to remind them of the Lord’s words to “Let the little children come to me and do not forbid them,” and to steer them to the familiar relief they experienced when others gave encouragement rather than scowls.

Again, don’t give up. Your laboring—worked by the Holy Spirit for faithfulness to Christ and in love for your children—is by no means in vain.

With gladness, appreciation, and admiration, Your Pastor

A Springtime Sprig

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I don’t mean to distress anyone within my relative vicinity. Still, I read that Michigan is number seven on the list of cloudiest states in the U.S. Apparently, 43 other states in the union have more sunshine than we do. Parsing the details, Michigan averages only 65 bright-beaming days during its 365-day trek around the sun. This means that 82% of our year is shrouded in gray.

I shared this information with the 7th and 8th-grade students in my Tuesday morning religion class. Within seconds, a handful spoke of their parents’ open disdain for Michigan’s seemingly unfair allotment of gloomy days. One even said something like, “My dad is like you, Pastor Thoma. He wants to live in Florida.”

Every year at this time, I feel compelled to communicate just how much I crave sunshine. I’ve never been officially diagnosed, and yet, having read the Cleveland Clinic’s definition of Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD), I sometimes wonder if I bear some of the condition’s determiners. The affliction is “triggered by the change of seasons and most commonly begins in late fall. Symptoms include feelings of sadness, lack of energy, loss of interest in usual activities, oversleeping, and weight gain.”

I think I do experience a heightened sense of melancholy through the autumn and into the winter. I believe the dreariness causes less interest in a number of things I might usually enjoy. I don’t necessarily oversleep. My body is its own alarm clock. I go to bed. I wake up. I get started with my day. I would gain weight if I didn’t wage a conscious war against the gloom through exercise. However, I struggle to care much about exercising during the winter months. I often feel so drained that I don’t even want to look at the treadmill. It isn’t this way in the spring or summer.

A more pronounced sadness, check. Lack of energy, check. Loss of interest in usual activities, check. Three of five. Uh oh.

The clinic’s definition continues that “seasonal depression gets worse in the late fall or early winter before ending in the sunnier days of spring.”

“The sunnier days of spring.” That sounds nice. But that’s a long way from where we are on the calendar. Technically, December 1 was the first day of winter, even though many put winter’s beginning at the solstice on December 21. Either way, winter is just beginning here in Michigan. Its frigid clock has been tightly wound. Its chilled hands are ticking steadily from one number to the next. It will be some time before the clock slows, its time having eventually run out.

But it will run out.

I appreciate poetry. Relative to my doctoral studies, I’ve been reading a lot more of it. James Riley was thinking clock-like when he wrote of winter, “O, it sets my heart a-clickin’ like the tickin’ of a clock, when the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.” In other words, his heart’s hopeful timepiece begins ticking when he sees winter’s frosty specter beginning to pall the landscape, covering the pumpkin fields and the shocked fodder (the dried cornstalks bundled together and propped). He knows winter is coming, but he also knows it won’t be a forever thing. It has limited time to employ its dreadfulness.

I visited my dear friend, Sue, in the hospital this past Tuesday. Somehow, the details concerning Michigan’s cloudiness ranking came up. She doesn’t mind winter as much as I do. Still, she was surprised. During our time together, I read to her the Gospel lesson appointed for the Second Sunday in Advent: Luke 21:25-36. After reading it, we considered the Lord’s words. Along the way, I was reminded of another poet’s observation. Percy Shelley jotted, “If winter comes, can spring be far behind?” I shared Shelley’s rhetorical question with Sue.

“No, it can’t,” she replied. We smiled together.

Ah, the sunnier days of spring—those easing days when the naked landscapes become green again, teasing the forthcoming and golden expanse of summer, a time we both thoroughly enjoy.

But no matter what the poets say, Jesus truly calibrates our perspective.

Relative to my feelings for winter, I’m in good company. Jesus more than nodded to winter as a symbol of this world’s sin-plagued drudgery in the text from Luke 21. Referring to His return in glory on the Last Day, He instructed His disciples, “Look at the fig tree, and all the trees. As soon as they come out in leaf, you see for yourselves and know that summer is near” (vv. 29-30). Crucial to His point, like winter’s grim unpleasantness, this world’s current season of undoneness is not permanent. Jesus is coming back, and when He does, He will make all things new (Revelation 21:5), bringing with Him the spring and summer seasons of eternal life. If we lose sight of this, even the tiniest springtime sprig can serve as a Gospel reminder.

As someone who takes extra Vitamin D and keeps a sun lamp on the shelf beside his desk to help defend against the gravity of winter’s gloom, I do well to keep certain things in mind. In a broad sense, no matter what’s happening, I must remember that Christ has not abandoned me in some cosmic orphanage, having left me to fend for myself. He has promised His presence and the joy that comes with it (Matthew 28:20). He insists He will never leave nor forsake me (Hebrews 13:5). While I await His return in glory to bring me into His nearest presence, even if my deceptively sinful emotions have me somehow feeling forsaken, I can look to the cross. That’s the springtime (literally) sprig above all other sprigs emerging from the earth. When I see the cross, I can rejoice with childlike gladness. Perhaps this is what Edgar Guest meant when he rhymed:

“Spring’s greatest joy beyond a doubt
is when it brings the children out.”

The spring and summer of eternal life will bring God’s children out from this gray world’s wintry seclusion into the bright days of unending joy. How do I know this? Because Jesus said so, and His Word is sure. Look back at Luke 21:25-36, and you’ll see. Just after He directed our attention to the fig tree, He reminded us that all things will pass away, yet His words won’t (v. 33).

Believe Him. Be comforted by Him. He meant what He said; we can take Him at His word. This world’s wintry bondage will end. A divine spring and summer will arrive. It’s only a matter of time.