Tag Archives: gospel

Smiles and Laughter

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School is back in full swing. I know this not only because I see youthful academia’s vibrant commotion swirling into, through, and around every square inch of this church’s school building but also because I can most certainly hear it. Summertime is a quiet time around here. Autumn is not. It’s audibly occupied.

Perhaps the most notable sound is the laughter. Melancholy stands little chance when gleeful children are laughing. And the younger the child, the more potent his or her laughter is. A laughing baby is a room’s own sunshine. Anyone caught in the child’s sparkling beams will be swept up into laughter, too. Even a deaf person will experience it. That’s because a laughing child isn’t just heard but sensed. Anyone unmoved while children are laughing is either unconscious or paralyzed. There can be no other explanation.

Laughter is nuanced, though, isn’t it? It arrives in multiple carriages. I’ve always believed you can learn a lot about people by what they find funny. Life provides plentiful opportunities for humor. Laughing is healthy (Proverbs 15:15, 17:22). Still, a man drawn to filthy humor, laughing at sexually explicit, curse-word-laden comedy rather than disgusted by it, tells you something about him. Unfortunately, there is no age restriction relative to laughter’s sinister side. A playground of happy children running and jumping is one thing. A child who shoves another child and then points and laughs at her scraped knee is another. In such moments, laughter betrays humanity’s darker inclinations.

Since I’m already pondering these dichotomous things, I think smiles work the same way.

Speaking only for myself, a smile offered by a random passerby almost always brings me joy. No matter how I feel before receiving it, a chance smile can only nudge me toward better spirits. I don’t have to know why the person did it. The act is all that was needed.

This changes in other circumstances. Parents know it. While one child endures a parent’s reprimand, a nearby sibling smiles. Something else is happening in those moments. Through the character Donalbain, Shakespeare describes such scenes intuitively, saying, “There’s daggers in men’s smiles.” Sometimes, a smile communicates a gladness for our demise.

I suppose this means that a smile can also serve as a veil. It can be inexact or precise. A person trying to hide disappointment might do so through a passive smile. Staring, arms crossed, and tapping one foot, a smiling wife communicates disgust with her husband’s announced plans for a guys’ night out on her birthday.

The Bible doesn’t say much about God smiling. At least, I don’t know of texts that speak specifically of God smiling. Many folks use the phrase “God smiled on me,” and there are plenty of texts in which His smile might be implied. For example, the Aaronic Benediction in Numbers 6:24-26 comes to mind. There, God promises to shine His face on His people. This certainly has the sense of God’s gracious smile accompanying His compassionate care. Still, the word for shine (אוֹר) really only means to illuminate. In that sense, knowing that Christ is the Light of the world, I’m more inclined to say that God smiles on His people through His Son. Jesus is God’s friendliest glance and kindliest gesture. To see Jesus is to know God’s desire that we would be His friends, not His enemies.

On the other hand, the Bible does tell us that God laughs. Unfortunately, the Lord’s laughter is typically stirred by human foolishness. Indeed, we can be a funny bunch. King David describes sinful humanity’s pompous bellowing and God’s subsequent amusement (Psalm 59:7-8). In other words, God will sometimes laugh (שָׂחַק) at the ones who believe (as the saying goes) they’re “all that and a bag of chips” before Him. These same people tend to act viciously against God’s people, often thinking they’ve gotten the upper hand on us. As a result, God laughs, knowing a final day for vindication is coming (Psalm 37:12-13).

Whether smiling or laughing, the one thing we need to know is that God is not rooting for our destruction or doom (Ezekiel 18:32; Ezekiel 33:11; 1 Timothy 2:4-6; 2 Peter 3:9; Titus 2:11). With that, He does not find enjoyment in our pain. He does not grin at our sadness. He does not delight in losing us. It hurts Him as nothing we’ll ever fully know. This brings us back to Jesus.

God smiled at us at Golgotha when He frowned at Jesus, giving His Son over and into Sin’s deepest dreadfulness. God did this to make us righteous (2 Corinthians 5:21). He did this so that we would, by faith in Christ’s sacrifice, know the truest joys found only among heaven’s laughter (Philippians 3:20-21; Romans 6:23).

There’s indeed nothing like the laughter of children. However, nothing will compare to the ruckus made by the joyful children of God wandering the halls of eternal life’s mansion (John 14:2).

Genuine, joy-filled smiles.

Triumphantly authentic laughter.

By the person and work of Jesus Christ, these are guaranteed, and it’ll be impossible not to join in when you get there.

A Twisty Thing

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Christ said rather plainly, “Let what you say be simply ‘Yes’ or ‘No’; anything more than this comes from evil” (Matthew 5:37). His point was relatively uncomplicated. When communicating, do so before the divine stage lights standing upon the planks of honesty and integrity. Observing the Lord’s words, perhaps R. C. H. Lenski said it best:

“The man whose heart is true to God utters every statement he makes as though it were made in the presence of God before whom even his heart with its inmost thought lies bare. With a heart thus pledged to truth, his lips will find no need to add anything to his ‘yea’ and ‘nay.’

Unfortunately, some folks use language more so to conceal than communicate. They use it to move away from the truth rather than draw closer. To do this, they bury their actual purposes beneath rhetorical devices. But these devices are far different from others. As someone who uses rhetorical devices regularly, I assure you that most writers employ language devices to help readers, not confuse them. They want what they’re writing to be clear, memorable, and above all else, profitable. But there are other devices—sinister ones—meant to confuse communication. They’re more so meant to distract and evade rather than confront and clarify. Chances are you’ve participated in conversations demonstrating these devices. They’re the kind of exchanges that make simple discussions frustratingly unbearable, making a plain question with an easy answer confusingly distorted.

Thankfully, these devices are relatively easy to detect. They’re typically abrasive and often little more than ad hominem in nature. Unfortunately, however, they almost always prove powerfully gravitational. In other words, they draw a person into unnecessary defensive positions, ultimately shifting the burden for answers from the evader to the questioner. I’ve experienced this before—relatively recently, in fact. Following a series of social media postings maligning my efforts in the public square, I reached out to one of the more influential culprits after I’d noticed a particular post had been deleted. I think I know why it was scrapped. Still, I wanted to know for sure. I began the private message by asking from curiosity why the post had disappeared. Before offering an explanation, he replied, “You’re curious? We’ll see if it is just curiosity.”

His tenor was readily detectable, but the evasive distraction was trickier. The blurring occurred when he met my question with a question, one that focused on my intention rather than my words.

You’ll end up on your heels if you’re not paying attention in such conversations. You’ll miss that by reversing the flow in this way, the objective nature of the original inquiry is made subjective and ultimately framed as suspiciously disingenuous and justifiably unanswerable. With this one rhetorical play, the one being approached for answers has established many potential escape routes, each capable of leading away from what he would prefer not to acknowledge.

Indeed, it is as Homer described: “The tongue of a man is a twisty thing.”

Sadly, not much can come from such dialogue. The mind is already made up, and the conversation’s end is already established. The best advice would be to keep it short, bowing out graciously and trying again at a different time. That’s certainly within the boundaries of God’s will. Indeed, even as our Lord insists that we work things out as soon as possible (Matthew 5:25-26, 18:15)—and Saint Paul insists similarly, warning that we ought not to let the sun set on our anger (Ephesians 4:26)—still, we are instructed to labor patiently (2 Timothy 4:2). And so, we do.

Inevitably, I’ll be back. I struggle to let things like this go, especially when I’m dealing with someone I once held in such high regard. Until then, I suppose there’s one final lesson to be learned from all this. It begins with a confession.

Some people can’t have a conversation with others—not a real conversation, that is. Why? Because they’re very nearly immobilized by self-absorption. It’s hard to hear others when you’re only willing to listen to yourself. When I’m around people like this, I feel like fighting—not with fists, but with words. Unfortunately, I rarely experience this urge because I genuinely want to help reform the person’s behavior. I realized this last week after a friend gifted me a quotation by George Santayana. He sent the words as reassurance, encouraging me not to worry and reminding me that people always get what’s coming to them in the end. I know what he was trying to do, and it was a noble gesture. But the words didn’t help. They accused me instead. Santayana wrote, “To knock a thing down, especially if it is cocked at an arrogant angle, is a deep delight to the blood.” In other words, it makes a person feel good to collapse a prideful person’s self-importance.

I agree. It does. And to feel that way is the worst kind of arrogance. It’s to believe that mercy belongs only to me.

Is that what Christians are to be about? Is someone else’s doom supposed to be an option noted in our reconciliatory schematic?

No.

Sure, there are times and places for teaching arrogant people a much-needed lesson. Interestingly, even as Christians are not to be pushovers, the lesson often gets taught with or without our help. God has His way of sorting these things out. In the meantime, the Christian’s immediate goal is not an opponent’s doom. Instead, “so far as it depends on you, live peaceably with all” (Romans 12:18). Vengeance is not our job. Therefore, Saint Paul continues, “Beloved, never avenge yourselves, but leave it to the wrath of God, for it is written, ‘Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord’” (v. 19).

But again, delivering a shattering blow to an arrogant opponent brings intoxicating delight to the blood. This means we’ll need help overcoming this powerful form of self-righteousness. Divine help is the only kind that can do it. I recommend two things. Firstly, confess your own failings and be absolved by God’s wonderful Gospel. By this, you’ll remember your needs are just as great as everyone else’s, and you’ll be ready to meet an opponent with grace-filled words. Secondly, before reaching out to the opponent, go to your knees in prayer. Ask God to crush your haughty spirit. Even further, plead with Him to give you the courage to reach out with the right words at the right time. You want to be brave. You want to approach when the time is best. You want to restore, not destroy.

One final thought: Remember Saint Paul’s introductory phrase, “So far as it depends on you….” Don’t forget those words. Indeed, the other person plays a vital role in the effort. Still, so far as it depends on you, be faithful. Do your part. Don’t worry about the rest. God already has all of it well in hand, and He’ll work the results for the good of those who love Him. That’s His promise.

Light or Dark, Day or Night

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Apart from our basement living space, which is a visual explosion of movie memorabilia, the rest of the Thoma home betrays our minimalist nature. We store nothing on the kitchen counters. The available shelves are not cluttered. The walls are mindfully decorated. As it is for most people, the wall adornments vary.

The stairwell is where the family photos hang. The only other place we display family pictures is in the master bedroom. There are four images of the children on its north wall. A uniquely designed horizontal frame with wedding photos is on the south wall above our bed. Excluding the furniture (which includes a fireplace mantle Jennifer and I restored and put on the longest wall), the rest of the bedroom’s walls are relatively bare.

Almost every morning, I awaken on my right side. The first thing I see is a five-foot by eight-foot sky-blue wall with nothing on it. At least it used to have nothing on it. I bought and hung a 5-inch by 10-inch crucifix last week. Relative to the space, the crucifix is somewhat small. At first glance, it may even look swallowed up by the area around it. Still, I’m keeping it where it is. It’s crisply distinct, hovering as the space’s only focal point.

Interestingly, I can see the crucifix day or night. In the daytime, it casts a notable shadow. At night, after my eyes adjust, its contours are not lost in the blackness. It’s harder to see, but it is not invisible. There’s a unique comfort to be had by this, which means the crucifix is doing its job. But before I explain what I mean, I should clarify something else.

Some people despise the usage of crucifixes, icons, and other religious items. In their ignorantly hasty opinions, they blanketly consider them idolatrous, being little more than talisman-type objects that can only nudge God from center stage. Admittedly, some people do treat religious objects this way. I knew someone who once told me he put a Bible on his bedside table, not to read but to help him sleep more soundly. He believed its presence helped ward off evil spirits. That, of course, is ridiculous. Still, my guess is that most Christians don’t keep religious items around for such reasons. Instead, they have something else in mind.

Take, for example, the crucifix on the wall beside my bed. It’s where it is for a reason. I didn’t put it there for pseudo-spiritual reasons or because the wall needed décor. I’m not afraid of the devil, and Jennifer has more than decorated our bedroom, making it a cozy place of refuge and rest. I hung it there because it’s likely the first thing I’ll see when I wake up and the last thing I’ll see when I go to bed. I’ll see it when the lights are on or off, in the sunbeams of daylight or the pitched darkness of night.

A crucifix—a cross with a body on it—is the Gospel depicted. It’s a visual proclamation of Saint Paul’s words, “We preach Christ crucified” (1 Corinthians 1:23). It is a silent sermon wholly concerned with the person and work of Jesus Christ, the world’s Savior. That’s its job—to preach. You don’t worship a crucifix just as you don’t worship a pastor. Neither replaces Christ. Both preach Christ’s visceral efforts to defeat Sin, Death, and Satan. The preacher speaks it. A crucifix shows it. The one on my wall is no different. I awaken to its quiet preaching. I also close my eyes to it, finding rest in the Gospel promise of God’s forgiveness and care for me, a sinner needing daily rescue.

Relative to optics, there’s certainly more it teaches. I mentioned I can see it in both the daytime and at night. Things are simpler with the sunlight’s ease. You know what’s going on. You can see where you’re going. Your steps are freer and more leisurely. Life’s darker moments are harder. Terrors creep there. Perceptions are skewed. It’s far more difficult to see. Nevertheless, Christ’s payment stands. In the ease of daytime or the terrors of night, Christ’s sacrifice for our eternal future remains the solitary point of reference to everything this life presents. Faith sees it. It knows it. And it is at peace.

Goodbye, Summer

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This summer has been and continues to be a challenging one. I don’t intend to bemoan my circumstances. Neither am I pleading for a reprieve from the arrayed struggles. I’m simply relaying that I do not expect to look back on the summer of 2023 with any measure of fondness. It has been busier than busy, sometimes crueler than cruel, and occasionally sprinkled with some enjoyably restful moments. Our time together in Florida was one. Taking Evelyn to see a NASCAR race was another. In between, far too many negatives filled the gaps.

As I said, I don’t mean to complain. Complaining accomplishes nothing. Muscle through and do; that’s more my way. Complaining invites excuses and accepts defeat. Ask Jennifer. I don’t accept defeat too well, but mostly because there almost always seems to be a way to succeed. You just need to find it. The adage rings true that you can either be a part of the problem or a part of the solution.

Part of acknowledging any challenging situation means admitting to what’s really going on behind the scenes in this world. Sin is a very real thing, and it has infected everything. I should not be surprised when the season I look forward to more than any other becomes something to endure rather than enjoy. Sin will do that. God certainly doesn’t promise immunity from tragedy to His Christians—at least not in the way the name-it-and-claim-it charlatans of this world suggest.

On the contrary, He assures us we’ll experience trouble. Jesus said as much to His disciples, saying, “In the world you will have tribulation” (John 16:23). But He didn’t end His words there. He continued, “But take heart; I have overcome the world.” Here the Lord promises His care. He promises to give us what we need to endure. Saint Paul echoed the same, writing, “God is faithful…he will provide the way of escape, that you may be able to endure it” (1 Corinthians 10:13).

While He gives what’s necessary to each believer as He knows best, as you can see, there’s something He sets before the whole world: the Gospel—absolute hope through faith in Christ and the promise of eternal rest apart from sin’s terrifying grip. That hope is endurance’s fuel. Interestingly, Christian endurance produces some pretty neat behaviors. For example, in times of trouble, when I discover myself stretched to my emotional extremities, I become attuned to the humor in seemingly humorless things. Just this morning, my backpack on my shoulder, my rolling bag in one hand, and a cup of coffee and my keys in the other, I attempted to use my foot to open my office door only to lose my balance and stumble forehead-first into its solid oaken barrier.

It hurt. How I managed to fumble like that, I don’t know. Still, I laughed because it was ridiculously funny.

Over the years, I’ve come to realize that the man who can laugh at whatever befalls him demonstrates a type of lordship over this world. From the Christian perspective, he proves a Job-like verve capable of saying, “The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord” (Job 1:21). He can speak along with King David who wrote so daringly, “The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the stronghold of my life; of whom shall I be afraid? (Psalm 27:1). He can be at peace because he “is not afraid of bad news; his heart is firm, trusting in the Lord (Psalm 112:7). He’s already asked and answered himself, “What can flesh do to me?” (Psalm 56:4).

Nothing. Everything sin has corroded is passing away. “Behold,” the Lord said, “I am making all things new” (Revelation 21:5).

With this trustworthy Word from our gracious Savior, bad news is a toothless beastie, tragedy is a pinprick, catastrophe is a mouse’s shadow, and heartbreak is a wound needing little more than a Band-aid. All this is true because, as Saint Paul wrote so plainly, we are justified before God by faith in Jesus Christ (Romans 5:1). The endgame has already played out on Calvary’s cross. Now, everything is endurable by the power of the Holy Spirit at work within us. I’d say, maybe even laughable. Paul explains:

“Therefore, since we have been justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ. Through him we have also obtained access by faith into this grace in which we stand, and we rejoice in hope of the glory of God. Not only that, but we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us” (Romans 5:1-5).

In conclusion, please don’t think I’m making light of anything you might be enduring right now. I’m not. And neither is our Lord. I’m merely setting a point of origin for steering into all of it. You have hope. God said so.

Absence

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It’s happening. The days are getting shorter.

Those of you who read these meanderings regularly will know that I struggle at summer’s end every year. It’s not so much that the longed-for season of effortless schedules is leaving (although this summer has been anything other than easy), but instead, it’s that the sun begins making less time for us. Moving into autumn, the sun makes drastic changes to its schedule. For one, it gets up late and goes to bed far earlier. Some of us will go days without experiencing its presence, traveling to and from the office in the pitched blackness of its absence. On an occasionally cloudless day, you’ll see it pass by the window—but only if you have a window. If not, it’ll be as if the sun used to exist but does so no longer.

My stomach turns just thinking about it.

Jen posted something on social media last week. It was a snippet from our family’s after-dinner cleanup. Essentially, Evelyn asked, “Momma, did you know there is something called S.A.D.? It’s when people get very sad when summer ends.” She was referring to Seasonal Affective Disorder. And before she even finished her testimony, I was already answering, “Yes. And would you like me to explain it to you?” I wasn’t being snarky. The moment was a jesting one. However, looking back on the moment, I wonder if she planted the question. She knows how disjointed I become in the perpetual darkness of the sun’s absence. I get the feeling she asked Jennifer the question to spare me a momentary cloud while also showing me she is paying attention and understands. She’s like that. She’s mindfully caring.

It usually takes me a few weeks to get into autumn’s rhythm. In fact, by the time I discover myself finally beginning to appreciate fall’s colorful detonation, the snow arrives and covers it. Gripping summer’s absence tightly, I put myself at a disadvantage, resulting in being a step behind other opportunities for joy. Admittedly, I am forever learning a lesson from these things.

Honestly, absence is a tricky thing. John Dryden said that when you love someone or something so much, an hour of absence is like a month, and a day is like a year. Jennifer and I were talking about this one night last week before bed. She mentioned that family dinners will soon be very different. She’s right. Like a curious organism, absence will grow. Right now, dinners together as a family are quintessential to our lives. We do everything we can to ensure all six of us attend. But life’s seasons are changing. Soon six will be five, five will be four, and then four will be three. And then it’ll just be Chris and Jen. For the Thoma family, that’s a big deal. We’re knitted very closely together. When one is absent, it’s as if the world has suddenly become strangely uninhabited.

I get it. At least, I’d better get it. The day is surely drawing near when Chris and Jen will be Chris or Jen. Some of you already know what I’m talking about. Absence—the experience of being apart and missing that person so incredibly much—can be devastatingly palpable. I miss the sunshine during winter. Still, that’ll be nothing compared to an empty nest—or Jen’s empty chair. Personally, and in a selfish way, I hope my chair is found vacant first.

Having said these things, there’s something else to the topic of absence. Christians know what it is.

For some, absence means loss. Not just any kind of loss, but permanent loss, as if the person they miss is forever out of reach. One of my favorite texts from God’s Word is “The last enemy to be destroyed is death” (1 Corinthians 15:26). I like it because it serves as a capstone statement to Paul’s previous preaching in the chapter that Christ has conquered all things, and by His resurrection, the seemingly impossible obstacle that brings ultimate separation—Death—has itself been massacred and tossed aside in the cosmic contest for our eternal future. As a result, no other enemy stands between us and our God. Christ saw to it. His resurrection proved it handily. From this vantage, one of Death’s offspring—permanent human separation from God and each other—is included in the list of enemies defeated by Christ’s work. In other words, because of Christ’s victory against Death, Christians can’t really even speak of a loved one who died in the faith as absent in the sense of being lost or gone for good. Those who are no longer with us, while absent from us, are not absent from the Church’s eternal fellowship. This means we’ll be with them again in person. Right now, they’re with Christ, and according to His plan, their time of physical separation from us is already on a trajectory of reversal. Their mortal absence might indeed stir sadness. Still, we really can’t justify the kind of sadness relative to permanent absence or being lost. The absence is not permanent. Believers are with Christ in His nearest presence. And if you know right where a person is, how can he or she be lost?

Indeed, in natural time, the sun goes away during autumn and winter. Likewise, the day is coming when either I’ll be without Jen or she’ll be without me. But only for a time. The spring and summer sun will return. Believers won’t be apart from our loved ones who’ve died in the faith for long. Soon enough, there will be an eternal sunrise in an unending time of togetherness outside of time. That’s Christ’s promise to His faithful. Until then, the faithful have another powerful guarantee. The same risen Christ vowed He would never leave or forsake us (Hebrews 13:5). He promised He is with us always, even to the end of all things (Matthew 28:20). That promise meets with right now. While ten thousand sermons could be preached on either of these two texts, all with unique renditions of Christ’s beautiful assurances, each would bear a common thread of consequence: You’ve been won by the person and work of Christ, and now, by faith, no matter what, you are never alone. Interestingly, you can be confident of this because of something Christ cannot do. He cannot break His promises, and therefore, He cannot be absent from those who are His own.

To close, remember these two things during autumn’s darker days, whether that autumn is seasonal or human: Human absence is not our forever, and in Christ, you are never alone.

Staring

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Did your mother ever tell you it’s rude to stare? I’m pretty sure mine did. Granted, it was typically an instruction given relative only to people. Parents experience an entirely different form of concern when their children sit and stare at nothing. Good thing I’m the only parent in the entire building right now. Here I sit, staring out my office window. Although, I am not entranced by a strange-looking person, nor am I being drawn into a void of nothingness. Instead, a reasonably hefty groundhog is wandering around outside my window doing whatever groundhogs do. He appears to be busy scurrying and popping up and scurrying again. At one point, he popped up to look in my window. We saw each other. I said hello and told him he looked well-fed. He dropped back down to scurry away, only to pop up again as if to say, “Same to you, buddy.”

There are plenty of other things I should be doing right now. For one, I should be tidying up my sermon for this morning. It’s written, but it isn’t ready. And yet, I’m watching a groundhog. It’s not as if I haven’t seen one before. Or that groundhogs are all that interesting. It’s something else. It’s more that feeling one gets on occasion. I’m guessing you know the one. You begin looking at something, and after a time, you realize you’re locked on it in a lazy stare. You’re not necessarily interested in whatever you’re observing. You’re just looking. And as you do, you leave yourself for a moment.

Have you ever been doing this when someone suddenly asked you a question? One way to know it’s happening is that it takes several seconds to realize you’ve been asked a question and then a few more seconds to answer. And when you give a somewhat disjointed reply (because you began speaking while climbing back into yourself mentally), the person doesn’t thank you but inquires, “Are you okay?” I suppose it wouldn’t be out of order to respond, “Everything’s fine. I just stepped away from the control panel for a moment.”

Returning to the fact that I’m staring at the local wildlife when I should be working on my sermon, I get the sense that staring at someone can’t be all that bad. The Gospel reading for today is Mark 8:1-9. As Jesus directed the hungry multitude to sit, I imagine His disciples were staring at Him. Aware of the dire situation, they’d already asked Him, “How can one feed these people with bread here in this desolate place?” (v. 4). Rather than initiating a food search, the Lord instructed them to stay right where they were. That was weird. It invited astonishment, the kind that could easily become staring because it didn’t want to miss what might happen next.

My wife, Jennifer, is a gifted photographer. She’ll never admit it, but she has a visual sense about her that few others do. It’s a sense that employs staring—not the lazy kind I admitted to this morning, but the intently honed kind. Jennifer can spot things among casual scenery that most others will miss. Genuine photographers have this skill. Painters and poets do, too. They see things that others miss and then lock onto them. They look without flinching, observing the microscopic details. They learn by staring. They know a glimpse isn’t enough. They know you must look intently to truly see. By looking this way, they know they’ll be led to better, more substantial things.

When it comes to Jesus, this should be everyone’s rule. He’s worth far more than a superficial glance. Everything He says, everything He does, you don’t want to miss. There’s a purpose in all of it, and it’s entirely for His onlookers. That’s one reason any seasoned preacher will admit that even the most uncomplicated Gospel narrative can provide a lifetime of sermons. Every little detail relative to Jesus’ person and work—every single motion and word in every single context or conversation—aims for the miracle of humanity’s salvation. That salvation, and all its accessory minutia, must be examined and preached. To do so is to connect with the instance being studied and be prepared to understand other instances.

For example, observing Jesus here in Mark 8:1-9, I imagine that later on in the upper room on Maundy Thursday, when the Lord took the bread, gave thanks, and then broke and gave it to His disciples (just as He did with the multitudes in the wilderness), there were words and actions used that the disciples had seen before. It was an entirely different context, yet it was reminiscently similar. At a minimum, having paid close attention in the wilderness with the starving crowds, they’d know the Lord’s ability to take a single piece of bread in hand and, prior to giving it to anyone else, make it so much more than before He touched it. In the wilderness, one piece in the palm of His hand became five, and then ten, and then thousands upon thousands, enough that the uneaten leftovers filled seven baskets. Surely, a single morsel in the Lord’s Supper, surely a tiny sip from the Lord’s chalice, could be more than well-wishing symbolism. Certainly, Jesus can take hold of mundane things and extend their potential beyond human faculties for reason or comprehension.

Either way, these things are lost on those who are only willing to give Jesus a superficial glance, one that assumes it can sufficiently sort Him out in a drive-by interaction, ultimately considering Him to be just one spiritual guru among many. You can’t just pop up for an occasional peek, fitting him into your scurrying, and expect to be called a Christian. It’s better to stop and stare. You should watch Him closely. You should listen to Him carefully. You should mind what He’s doing, and as He does it, hang onto His every word (Luke 19:48).

Knowing that Christ is the Word made flesh, the same rule naturally applies to the Holy Scriptures. God’s Word is more than worth an irregular glance. Luther is the one who said, “If you picture the Bible to be a mighty tree and every word a little branch, I have shaken every one of these branches because I wanted to know what it was and what it meant.” In a mere practical sense, for Luther, a tree is a tree—until you examine it. When you stare into its branches with investigative eyes, you’ll see far more than a forgettable object with a trunk and green stuff growing out of it. You’ll discover details. You’ll see one branch leading to another—flowering adornments reaching out from countless stems covered in intricately contoured surfaces. You’ll find things living among the tree’s branches, lively creatures that call the tree home.

By the way, I think most pew-sitters can tell the difference between a pastor preaching from a drive-by glance at Jesus and one who has stopped to stare at Him. It’s not only revealed by the preacher’s care with words, but by the details his words are in place to carry. Telling the listeners about a tree is nothing compared to using words that lift them from the earth to set them into its branches. A tree remains an inconsequential construct until the preacher examines and then introduces you to it. That’s a reality relative to language.

Having said that, I should get back to the sermon-writing effort. In the meantime, consider your own willingness to stop and stare at Jesus. Is He of more interest to you than an occasional visit to church? Driving by, is He more than just another object decorating your intellect’s limited landscape? Is His value for life in this world and the next far more substantial than your rarely-opened Bible would betray? I hope so.

How about this? Pick a narrative from any of the four gospels. Long or short, read the same narrative every day for a week. After each textual visit, take some time to savor it. Think about what you read. Let yourself stare into it for a while. Do this with the same text each day for a week, taking a moment to jot down something you notice with each visit. My guess is that each interaction will provide a unique “something.” You might not understand the something right away. Still, you will have taken it in. And you’ll likely recall it right in the middle of another narrative somewhere else that may lead you toward understanding it. You may even begin to notice particular trajectories, ones that lead you from simple uses for water, food and drink, and so on, to other, more substantial truths—ones suggesting that there may be more to faith’s origin than you knew; or there may be more to baptism than you first thought; or there may be more to the Lord’s Supper than the one-size-fits-all church or the meme-assembled theologies have taught you.

Making Plans

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It feels like the summer is flying right by. Thankfully, I do have things to show for it. I’m certainly not wasting time.

As a parent, I keep on my kids about things relative to time. For example, I occasionally remind them in my own way that someday will eventually become today, and unless you’ve planned accordingly, what today requires will be entirely inaccessible. A person simply cannot live without thinking of the future.

In some discussions with my kids, I try to steer them toward calculating one’s self-sufficiency relative to backup plans. In other words, you cannot always rely on other people. They will let you down. In the same way, you cannot always count on the things you think you can count on. Things wear out and break. Apart from syncing to a cloud-based drive, it’s why I have two external hard drives, each backing up from my computer’s working drive every four hours. It’s why I always bring my laptop to my church office every Sunday morning. If my office computer has problems, I can use my laptop to write and send the eNews and, if necessary, finish my sermon and the service prayers. It’s also why I’ve learned how to use my cell phone as a hotspot. If the internet is down on Sunday morning, I can still get this eNews message sent. It’s also why I have a second printer in my office. If the office printer is down, I can still print anything I might need in a pinch.

I didn’t always live my life this way. But I do now. A few unfortunate circumstances over the years taught me just how right Ben Franklin was when he said that failing to prepare is to prepare to fail. As a result, I do what I can to have a backup plan. Most often, I have two, and sometimes, even three.

I don’t mean to say that the future is controllable. It isn’t. Only the Lord knows what will or will not be, and plenty of people have prepared for the future in every imaginable way, only to suffer future-shattering tragedies beyond their control. For all my planning, I once showed up to the office on a Sunday morning and, attempting to print my sermon manuscript, discovered the office printer was down, the ink in my second printer had dried up, and I had zero replacement cartridges. I had to write it by hand. Twenty-eight years ago last week, my twenty-four-year-old brother Michael was killed in a car accident. Here I sit today, still astounded that he’s not around. His absence was something my family and I never expected.

Simple or grand, even when you prepare, tomorrow is never for sure.

I read a portion from Luther this morning in which he wrote, “Christ has not freed us from human duties but from eternal wrath.” He goes on to say that even as we strive and prepare, the only certainty we’ll ever truly have is situated in Christ. Faith receives that certainty. It can receive it because it understands what laboring in this fallen world as a responsible human being means, even when we know everything we’re doing could be for naught and could all come crashing down. Before it even begins a task, faith admits to human brittleness and life’s uncertainty. From there, it plods along diligently, knowing that you win some and you lose some. Faithfulness, not success, is key. It can live this way because its mortal future isn’t its final future. It is secure in Christ for a future beyond all futures. Destruction is not the last word for believers, not because we worked hard or devised a plan to avoid Sin’s inevitable wage, but because God had a plan for carrying us through it. He enacted that plan in Jesus, the God-man in whom faith is placed.

Relative to this, Christians do work hard. And they plan. Leaning on Luther, he mentions God’s gifts of reason and sense in his explanation of the First Article of the Creed in the Small Catechism. Our reason and our senses make these things possible. But remember, as Christians prepare, they measure their futures by looking through Gospel lenses. Faith doesn’t make plans apart from looking to Christ. Faith does not plan a vacation without planning a way to be present in worship while away. Faith does not invest financially without mindfulness for Christ and His bride, the Church. Faith considers the Gospel’s perpetuation for future generations when voting today. Faith plans, all in faithfulness to Christ and the benefit of the neighbor.

Again, do the plans always succeed as we intend? No. Remember: faithfulness to Christ, not success. Faithfulness to Christ is blessed. Saint Paul assured us that “all the promises of God find their yes in Him” (2 Corinthians 1:20). Of course, that truth is a theme throughout God’s Word (Proverbs 28:20, 1 Thessalonians 5:23-24, 2 Thessalonians 3:3-5, and others).

By the way, by blessing, God is not promising health, wealth, and other sorts of earthly things. Again, He promises the future beyond all futures—the eternal reward that’s inedible to moths, out of reach to thieves, and impervious to Death itself (Matthew 6: 19-20, 25-33). When a person has this divine schematic (God’s greater plan for an eternal future) in one’s pocket, what terrors can threaten with any real significance?

There aren’t any. And the ones that try are toothless. Read Romans 8:31-39, and you’ll see.

Indeed, Luther was right to measure all our future concerns and their subsequent plans against God’s promises in Christ, referring to all of it collectively as “true freedom” and then continuing that “no man can value it high enough. For who can express what a great thing it is that a man is certain that God is no longer angry with him and will never be angry again, but for the sake of Christ is now, and ever will be, a gracious and merciful Father?”

Even at Walmart

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I hope you don’t mind, but I have marriage on the brain this morning. Jennifer and I will celebrate our 26th wedding anniversary this week.

I don’t know about you, but the further we travel into marriage’s future, the more content it seems we are to let the occasion be the occasion amid life being life. In other words, we’ll likely go out for dinner to celebrate, but we’ll also just as likely stop at Walmart on the way home for milk, cereal, toilet paper, or anything else a family of six might need. It sounds inconsequential, I know. Some people celebrate by going on trips. Others spend lavish amounts on gifts. That’s not really our way. Last year, we hoped to get away for a few days (since it was our 25th anniversary), but too many other things prevented us from doing so. Several weddings were scheduled, the English District Convention occurred, Vacation Bible School unfolded, and a whole host of other obligations landed on us. We barely managed to sneak away for dinner on a day close to our actual anniversary.

In the end, I think Jen and I have realized that no matter what we might do to celebrate, one exceptional day, while nice, can never really outmatch the everyday blessings we enjoy. Theodor Seuss Geisel—better known as Dr. Suess—was close to describing what I mean when he said, “You know you are in love when you don’t want to fall asleep because reality is finally better than your dreams.” I get his point. There’s very little that exceeds love’s discovery. In its moments, life and its possibilities exceed imagination.

One problem with Geisel’s words is that they don’t completely emerge from emotion’s shifting realm. I’d be on board if he defined reality as a willingness to completely spend oneself for the other in both good and bad times. That would better describe the profound mystery of marital love. It’s one reason why the traditional marriage vows include phrases like “for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health….” By the way, in my experience, people who choose to write their own marriage vows, typically turn them into syrupy emotional goo, ultimately missing the mark on what the vows are designed to communicate. For the record, don’t even think about writing your own vows if you want me to preside over your wedding. The longstanding traditional ones are more than sufficient, mainly because they do a fine job of communicating a commitment to something other than self. Two phrases, in particular, cement this commitment: “till death us do part” and “according to God’s holy will.” The previous phrases of the vow set reality’s tempo, acknowledging that there will be good times and bad times. These two insist that emotional love—purely human love—is not equipped to navigate real life to its very end. But love aligned with God’s will is. Love aligned with God’s will can stare death in the face.

Jesus told us straightforwardly what God’s will is. He said, “For this is the will of my Father, that everyone who looks on the Son and believes in him should have eternal life, and I will raise him up on the last day” (John 6:38-40). These words are not far from Jesus’ gentle description to Nicodemus of why God would send His Son in the first place: “For God so loved the world, that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life. For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him” (John 3:16-17).

God knew that human love would be forever insufficient. Loving God and neighbor rightly—the Law’s strict demand—would never be met. But God’s love can do it. And so, that same love moved Him to send His Son. Christ fulfills the demand by His perfect life according to the Law and His sacrificial death on the cross. Jesus demonstrates that God’s love is a perfectly committed, selfless love. It insists that no matter what’s required, the self will never mean more than one’s beloved, even if it means completely emptying itself of all divine prerogatives and going down with the ship in death. Christ did this. And why? Because He loves you. This love is epicentral to His will. Taking a spouse “according to God’s holy will” is to pledge that God’s redeeming love—His forgiveness—will be the marriage’s template. When this is true, a marriage can steer through and around obstacles that might otherwise terrify human love.

But still, there’s more.

Regardless of what the culture believes, God established marriage. He owns it. As such, and whether anyone realizes it, His will naturally permeates its design. First and foremost, marriage is to be a divine snapshot of the Gospel. Saint Paul says as much, describing marriage as a mysterious image of Christ, the Groom, and the Church, the bride—an otherworldly relationship established and maintained by impenetrable commitment. It begins with the One who submits Himself to the death of deaths for the bride. Empowered by that Gospel love, it results in the bride submitting herself in all things, not as one cruelly shackled to an overlord, but as one who loves the Groom for all that He is and has done to make her His own (Ephesians 5:1-2, 22-33).

In a natural law sense, God’s inherent will remains. Marriage is the essential building block of every society throughout human history. The union of one man and one woman—inseparably committed and typically producing children—provides worldwide stability. Everything necessary for an ordered perpetuating society can be found within marriage’s boundaries. Saint Paul hints at how important societal order is when he instructs Timothy to pray for and intercede with the authorities put in place to manage it. He insists Christians do these things so that “we may lead a peaceful and quiet life, godly and dignified in every way. This is good, and it is pleasing in the sight of God our Savior, who desires all people to be saved and to come to the knowledge of the truth” (1 Timothy 2:2-3).

Paul’s point: God wants societal order so that the Gospel will spread.

Marriage not only stabilizes societies, but it is a fundamental conduit in each for communicating the Gospel from one generation to the next. When a society’s marriages begin steering away from God’s holy will—when devotion to self overtakes commitment to spouse and children, when marriage’s biological components become confused, when its sanctity becomes negotiable or irrelevant—the blocks begin to crumble, and the conduits fracture. When that happens, the Gospel—the message of the only kind of love that lasts into and through death—begins slipping into obscurity, eventually securing societal doom.

As I said, Jennifer and I will celebrate 26 years next week. We’ll likely celebrate by doing something special together. Still, even if we don’t—even if life suddenly gets in the way—the marriage won’t be any lesser than before. This is only true because the marriage is “according to God’s holy will.” With His love ordering each of our days, the inevitable road through a reality of good and bad, fading physicality, and unpredictable emotional seasons will continue to prove far better than dreams. It’s the kind of love that finds itself just as refreshed and content holding hands in the breakfast cereal section at Walmart as it does in a classy restaurant.

Sabbath Rest

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First, having just returned to Michigan from Florida, I’ll say it’s good to be home. Well, sort of. Indeed, there’s no place like home. Resting a travel-wearied body in one’s own bed is hard to match. Still, coming home from vacation can be hard.

For one, the very first on-the-clock item I tackled when I got to the office this morning was taking ibuprofen. My body feels different in Michigan. I noticed that when I moved here from Illinois back in 1994. Secondly, time means very little on vacation—excluding, of course, the vacation’s final day. That particular day seems to exist somewhere beyond time’s regular pace. It moves too quickly. And it’s rather tortuous for children. But apart from that, all the other days of vacation move leisurely along, requiring little to no concern of any sort. In other words, unlike a typical day, if my family and I want to go to a movie in the middle of the afternoon, we can. If we want to swim from sunrise to sunset, we can. We’re on vacation. We are not obligated to do anything other than what the moment requires for rest. Anything added to the schedule is the vacationer’s fault.

I did my very best to put my phone away while in Florida. Admittedly, I needed it at times. But for the most part, it stayed in my pocket or on a nearby shelf. After a while, I didn’t even notice it buzzing anymore, which is pretty astonishing. I get pinged all day with this text message and that email and those phone calls. I mentioned to some friends that after a few days, when these ever-prodding communiqués finally reach the delta of my absolute disinterest—that is, when each of the phone’s chirps meets with an audible, “Whatever it is, it can wait”—I know I’m finally unwinding. It truly is a moment of self-awareness.

If you’re paying attention, returning from a vacation can also be a moment for self-awareness. I know for a fact that I change a little while on vacation. I’m not who I was when I left. When I return home to my life’s unchanging things—my home, my office, my routines—I can see what’s different about myself by comparison.

Wondering about this, I just looked it up. A study was performed in 2013 suggesting that among people returning from vacation, more than half experienced measurable personality changes while away on holiday. In other words, they were noticeably different to themselves and others while performing their usual routines. Most often, their behaviors changed for the better, even as they passed through feelings of dread before returning to the grind. That is rather intriguing.

Researchers might read the data and conclude that rest is beneficial. Although, that seems like a “duh” deduction. Reading about rest’s merits, I hear Saint Augustine praying, “Our hearts were made for You, O Lord, and they are restless until they rest in You.” The benefits of rest are not lost on Christians. We already know God insisted on rest’s importance when, so long ago, He commanded, “Remember the Sabbath day by keeping it holy.” Luther framed the Christian’s understanding of this kindly mandate rather well in his Large Catechism:

“Our word ‘holy day’ or ‘holiday’ is so called from the Hebrew word ‘Sabbath,’ which properly means to rest, that is, to cease from labor; hence our common expression for ‘stopping work’ literally means ‘observing a holy day or holiday.’ In the Old Testament, God set apart the seventh day and appointed it for rest, and He commanded it to be kept holy above all other days. … [W]e keep holy days… first, for the sake of bodily need. Nature teaches and demands that the common people—manservants and maidservants who have attended to their work and trades the whole week long—should retire for a day to rest and be refreshed. Secondly and most especially, we keep holy days so that people may have time and opportunity, which otherwise would not be available, to participate in public worship, that is, that they may assemble to hear and discuss God’s Word and then praise God with song and prayer.”

Luther understood that God wants us to rest. And why? Well, for one, He knows we need it. Moreover, God knows that any form of physical rest, just as Saint Augustine poeticized, will always be a shadow of what can only be found in Him. He is the only One who can give respite from what truly makes us weary: Sin, Death, and Satan. And so, God mandates our presence in holy worship. He doesn’t make it optional. Just as He knows we need it, He also knows that if He doesn’t mandate it, our sinful nature will convince us that we can get by just fine without it. That sounds awfully familiar to me. I often struggle to admit I need a vacation. If I didn’t have caring folks around me saying, “Hey, Pastor, you need to get away,” I’d likely work myself to death. And in moments like this—the first day back, ibuprofen well in hand—I realize just how wonderful it can be to get away mentally and physically.

I’m glad I listened. My life and family have been better for it.

In the meantime, this year’s vacation is done. Physical rest has been had. It was exceptional, as always. Nevertheless, there’s another kind of rest I need far more than I get only once a year. Like my annual vacation, it includes family—my church family in Hartland. As a household of believers, we enjoy a better kind of rest. It’s an unmatchable kind—a divine kind—one in which God Himself attends to us with His brimming love. He beckons us into this rest, a respite only found in the arms of His compassionate care through Word and Sacrament ministry.

What could be more rejuvenating than that? Absolutely nothing. The Gospel given through Word and Sacrament has everything any of us could need for life in this world. And to think, these gifts of God’s grace are available to us every time we gather for holy worship.

I’m sad for those who think they can somehow endure without ever being together with their Christian family in worship to receive these heavenly gifts. It just doesn’t make sense to me. It is counterintuitive to genuine human need and spits in the face of the One who loves to provide for the need in abundance. Even more, it’s just plain foolish to believe that we can be apart from God in this way and still consider ourselves His children. God’s Word certainly warns against believing and practicing such nonsense. But even as it warns, it also promises. It promises that just as we’re inclined to take vacations from God, He’ll never take vacations away from us. Let that sink in. God is always on deck to give you rest. He’ll keep after you with the invitation.

Listen to Him. Understand that God’s Sabbath command is nothing short of the same kindly offer His Son offered when He said, “Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls” (Matthew 11:28-29).

A Family Reunion

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I pray all is well with you this morning. I, for one, am performing my usual early Sunday morning routine, even in Florida. Again, I continue to tell myself I won’t write and send anything on Sunday mornings. But then, I do. I already know the disease’s name. It’s called hypergraphia. It’s a neurological condition marked by an intense desire to write or draw.

I’m just kidding. I don’t have hypergraphia. People suffering from hypergraphia will do something like spend an afternoon writing the lyrics to a favorite song fifty times. I wouldn’t do that. I’d be more inclined to spend a free afternoon writing fifty new songs. I see writing—especially free writing—as a means of creative probing designed to discover what I think about something. The particular prompt is never an issue. I look around at things. I sip my coffee. In a moment or two, I see something, then I’m off and following. In the early morning Florida sun, there are plenty of mental meadows for such wandering. Michigan has its share, too. Every place has an abundance. You need only to pay attention.

In a little while, the rest of the Thoma family will awaken. Soon thereafter, we’ll make our way to Zion Evangelical Lutheran Church in Winter Garden. We visited there last week. The guest pastor, a kindly gent, preached a fine sermon. At one point along the homiletical way, he spoke of being part of a group. Specifically, he described seeing a family gathered in a park for a reunion. He mentioned the picnic tables, the food, the laughter, the sunshine, and all the things that make for a friendly gathering of loved ones. From there, he described a lonely onlooker’s desire to be a part of such things—to have a place of belonging. The point of the illustration was to describe the Church, and he did so in an interesting way.

Admittedly, I drifted a little while the pastor described. Seeing the familial picnic in my mind, I imagined the conversations. In particular, I thought of how families often retell the worst about themselves, ultimately adorning their conversations in laughter rather than tears. They tell the story about so-and-so’s new carpeting and how their son, now a grown man, once ran diaperless through the room, ultimately doing his business and leaving a stain that remains to this day. Or they reminisce about the time Uncle so-and-so pushed Grandma on the park swing, and when she came back on the upswing, he grabbed her wig and ran away, leaving her helplessly embarrassed and angry.

Everyone listens and laughs at the former foolishness. The carpet stain is still there, forever remembering something good now soiled. Grandma is still there, too. She still wears her wig. And yet, she’s not embarrassed, and she’s no longer angry. Why?

Family.

I firmly believe that the only type of human love that will ever come close to demonstrating the love God shows us is the familial kind. When I look at my wife, when I look at my children, I see Jesus there. They know pretty much everything there is to know about me. More importantly, they know my worst, most detestable self. Still, they love me. And I love them—enough to give my life in their place. This love changes me. Self-love is pushed aside, making room for being the best husband and father I can be.

Even if only in a minimal way, all these things give a sense of Christ’s divine view. What’s more, all these things demonstrate just how wonderful things can be in a community desiring to live in the shelter of repentance, forgiveness, and amending the sinful life. It’s in gatherings like that where former sins become memories worthy of little more than a laugh.

Strangely, this sounds a lot like God’s blueprint for the Church. That being said, I hope you’re making plans right now for this morning’s family reunion. We are. We won’t see you, but we will be with you.