Tag Archives: gospel

Vacation’s End

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Last week, more than one person asked me about my vacation. Some wondered aloud if it had been sufficiently refreshing, asking if I felt rejuvenated. In most instances, I gave the same answer. It was usually something like, “Vacation is always nice, of course, but the first week back in the office is like drinking from a firehose.” That is a less descriptive but congenial way of saying two things I’m really thinking.

The first of my two thoughts, if fully extrapolated, would probably sound like, “To understand what I mean by firehose, imagine you’re getting a cool drink from a water fountain when, suddenly, the water pressure explodes into your mouth with such force that it knocks you to the floor. Imagine further, after managing to get back to your feet, you lean into the Niagara-like stream, intent on reaching the valve to lessen the pressure, but you can only slip and slide backward, unable to make any progress.”

That’s what the first week back from vacation is like. Last week, I described the allure of “home.” It seems almost bi-polar to admit there’s a dread that palls the return, too. It rides in on the realization that summer’s pace is still only a fraction of the forthcoming autumn’s pace. In other words, it’s tough now, and in a few weeks, it’s only going to get worse.

My second thought is a newly realized but somewhat altered version of something I heard Jennifer say. The night we returned, I overheard from the closet Jennifer comforting Madeline in her post-vacation blues, saying, “I’ve never heard anyone say with glee after vacation, ‘Well, I feel fully rejuvenated and ready to get back to work.’” I realized she was right. I’ve never heard anyone say that, either. If I did, I don’t think I believed them. When I return from vacation, while I may feel partially rested, I do discover wondering thoughts like, ‘Why can’t life remain at this pace all the time?”

I’ve confessed here before to self-diagnosing Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD), which is a depression that sets in during certain seasons of the year. Autumn and winter are very hard on me. Shorter days mean leaving home and returning home in the darkness, with barely a hello from the sun along the way. I don’t enjoy those seasons. I endure them. If there’s something called Vacation Affective Disorder (VAD), I probably have it, too. In fact, the day before returning home from vacation is so powerfully threatening for me that I’ve noticed I don’t feel much like eating. I have to make myself do it. It’s a bizarre sensation. It’s also very real.

Relative to these burdens, I do have two things going for me. First, I don’t like to lose. This means that once I conceptualize SAD and VAD as the imposing specters they are, I begin laboring toward their defeat. It’s then I stop wondering if I can make it through and start thinking about how I’ll make it through and what it’ll be like on the other side. Second, I’m not a quitter. Whatever I start, I finish. I’ve always been that way, especially when facing adversity. In a strictly human sense, it’s probably one of the only reasons I’m still a pastor. The harder Satan (and certain people) push to drive me out, the more I find myself leaning into the attempts with a concrete-like unwillingness to budge. Of course, as I do this, I remain in constant prayer that the instinct is not pride-driven. It certainly has that potential. Looking backward with humble honesty, I can see times when I stood my ground for foolish reasons. Conversely, I can also see plenty of times when God weaponized these personality traits, ultimately using them for His glory and the good of His people.

I’m not a subscriber to the weird world of psychophysiology (sometimes called biopsychology), which is the field of study devoted to the interconnectedness of the mind and body. I don’t dig all that deeply into it because its two-fold perspective excludes the spiritual dimension. Still, I had a conversation this past week with someone I care about, and it got me thinking about the basic premise. Truly, there’s something to be said in a cursory sense about the mind/body connection. For example, I mentioned during the conversation General George Patton’s insistence that “to win any battle, you have to do one thing. You have to make the mind run the body. Never let the body tell the mind what to do.” His wartime record proved his words true. But regardless, the Bible speaks on occasion about the connection. Saint Paul writes in Colossians 3:2, “Set your minds on things that are above, not on things that are on earth.” In Romans 12:2, he writes, “Do 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.”

In both texts, Paul pits the mind against what’s physical. It isn’t a Gnostic thing he’s doing. Instead, he’s simply acknowledging the importance of what Christians know by faith to be the better rudder for navigating what we experience with our physical senses. Digging deeper, that’s more or less epicentral to his words in 2 Corinthians 4:7-9, where he writes:

“But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us. We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed.”

In other words, even as we see and experience the world churning around and against us, there’s something else we know: we are not inheritors of this world but of the world to come. And so, Paul continues:

“We know that the one who raised the Lord Jesus from the dead will also raise us with Jesus…. Therefore, we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So, we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal” (vv. 14, 16-18).

I mentioned before that psychophysiology does not calculate for the spirit. It certainly doesn’t account for the work of the Holy Spirit. The Bible doesn’t make that mistake. It makes sure we understand each facet of body, mind, and spirit relative to the Holy Spirit’s work to instill faith. Chapter 8 in Paul’s Epistle to the Romans is a great place to see this. It’s there Paul refers to believers as those “who walk not according to the flesh but according to the Spirit” (v. 4). In other words, the Holy Spirit empowers Christians to yield their fleshly bodies to God in faith. Paul describes the Christian mind in the same way, reminding the reader that “those who live according to the flesh set their minds on the things of the flesh, but those who live according to the Spirit set their minds on the things of the Spirit” (v. 5). Following some elaboration, he eventually brings the body and mind together with the spirit—all beneath the banner of the Holy Spirit’s work. He writes:

“You, however, are not in the flesh but in the Spirit if, in fact, the Spirit of God dwells in you. Anyone who does not have the Spirit of Christ does not belong to him. But if Christ is in you, although the body is dead because of sin, the Spirit is life because of righteousness. If the Spirit of him who raised Jesus from the dead dwells in you, he who raised Christ Jesus from the dead will also give life to your mortal bodies through his Spirit who dwells in you” (vv. 9-11).

The first few weeks after returning from vacation are hard on me. They’re an existential wrestling match between body and mind, presence and purpose. I’m guessing it’s the same for many of you. But there’s something else happening there, too. The Holy Spirit is at work. By His might, I can shift my perspective away from these things toward the Gospel of Christ’s life, death, and resurrection. It’s by this Gospel I am thoroughly sustained. This isn’t to say that the challenges suddenly disappear or that the frustration is magically lifted. But I do discover I have the bodily strength to endure and the mental clarity to sort through and eventually understand beyond the immediate discomforts.

So, even as the first week back may feel like drinking from a firehose, and life’s pace may continue to increase, I am reminded that my truest rejuvenation doesn’t come from a vacation. Only by the Holy Spirit at work through the Gospel am I renewed and sustained, not only for whatever this life might send my way but for the life to come. Such knowledge makes even the busiest seasons bearable and ultimately purposeful.

One more thing. While I may take vacations, God doesn’t. He’s ever-vigilant and always working, ready to give what we need the most. As a result, His life-sustaining Gospel remains here at Our Savior in Hartland, Michigan, season after season.

Your Home is Worth Fighting For

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Vacations are nice, but home is better. I’ve heard it said that anyone can make anywhere a home—that our roots are portable. That may be true for some. For the rest of us, there’s another, more deeply rooted instinct. No matter where we are or where we’re going, at some point in any adventure, it’s likely we experience home’s gravitational pull. We find ourselves amazed by the exotic only to be equally astounded by the powerful need for what’s familiar. One of my favorites, Charles Dickens, wrote in his second volume of Martin Chuzzlewit that home is a word “stronger than any magician ever spoke, or spirit ever answered to in the strongest conjuration.” Maya Angelou described the desire for home as an ache that lives in all of us. For most, the ache means that no matter where we are or who we are with, the one place where we’re loved the most—where our absence is noticed the most—is home. As such, home always wins.

Today is my first day back from vacation. I needed the time away. I needed a burdenless pace for two uninterrupted weeks. It’s likely you know what I mean. It’s also possible you’ve experienced the jarring contrast of a vacation’s end. One minute, you were countless miles away, floating neck-deep in a swimming pool, and the next, you were neck-deep in man-made complications—two completely different pools of existence with very different demands.

Still, and once again, the ache proves stronger than the vexing differences. I’m home, and I’m glad for it. Measured against the “everyday” of life’s good and bad, it’s the place from which I set out each morning and the place to which I return each night. I go into the world to tackle or be tackled, and I return to my home knowing it’s where I most belong.

Interestingly, when I arrived at my “other” home (my office) this morning, things were a little different. It wasn’t anything significant. A few things were moved or added to my desk, a couple of books had been borrowed (thankfully, appropriate notes were left behind to track the borrowers), and my message box in the main office was no longer empty but full. Because these changes were slight, the overall vibe of “home” was intact. Imagine if I’d returned and my desk was gone, or cement blocks existed where my windows used to be. The ache would likely be lessened; maybe even gone altogether.

Before leaving for vacation, Pastor Pies, our emeritus pastor and my predecessor, stopped by with a copy of his doctoral thesis. I’d asked if he might allow me a copy to take along on the plane. He graciously obliged. The title of his thesis (which he tested among God’s people here at Our Savior in Hartland, Michigan, back in 1991) is “Christian Preaching as Dialogue in an Evangelical Lutheran Church.” Fancying myself more interested in the science of sermon preparation than most, I was glad to read it. For example, I appreciated that after making the case for preaching as God’s work through faithful ambassadors (2 Corinthians 5:20), Pastor Pies insisted, “Neither the power of God’s Word nor the operation of the Holy Spirit should be punctuated so as to excuse or justify inept preaching.” He went on to say that while God’s Word is efficacious, preachers have a “responsibility to preach it in a relevant way, sharing its timeless message in a timely manner…. This necessitates, in addition to prayer and the guidance of the Spirit, hard work under the blessing of God.”

I appreciated those words. They’re quite valuable. Still, something less conspicuous near the thesis’ beginning stood out for me, too. While explaining the setting for his study, Pastor Pies described Hartland, Michigan as a like-minded community attempting “to preserve everything they believe worth preserving while incorporating that which they consider to be valuable and useful.” He went on to describe the useful and valuable things as traditional social values, home and family, neighborhood unity, and community cooperation.

I had a thought. If, after writing this in 1991, had Pastor Pies been suddenly abducted by aliens, only to be returned to Hartland in July of 2024, would the ache he likely felt for home all those thirty-three years had been soothed? I ask this because a man who thinks he’s a female cat is currently running for a seat on the Livingston County Board of Commissioners. I ask because I’ve been in the company of elected officials openly commending the idea of biological boys being allowed to compete in female sports and use female bathrooms. I ask because local cohabitation rates are very nearly eclipsing traditional marriage. I ask for other reasons beyond even these.

In short: so much for Hartland as a place of traditional social values. So much for Hartland as a place for home and family. By the way, how’s it going in your corner of the nation—the world? Did you happen to see the opening ceremony for the 2024 Olympics in Paris this past Friday? Leonardo da Vinci’s portrait of the Last Supper was parodied grotesquely. Drag queens and all, it was a deliberate mocking of Christianity. Some are now trying to say it wasn’t, but most honest observers aren’t buying the new back-peddling. The similarities were far too obvious, and it’s nothing less than gaslighting to say we didn’t see what we saw.

I remember watching the Olympics as a kid. The opening ceremony was always a heart-lifting demonstration of world unity through competitive excellence. Not so much anymore. And, of course, Christianity is forever the easiest target. The Parisian magazine Charlie Hebdo printed a cartoon image of Muhammed a few years ago. The magazine’s office was firebombed, and nineteen people were attacked and killed.

As I prefer to remind folks on occasion, today’s world is a distant and alien land compared to what it once was. That said, there’s something else that can be said about your home.

It’s worth fighting for.

I’ve heard it said that fighting to preserve one’s home is not a choice but a duty. I agree. And while I’m no fan of Friedrich Nietzsche, he once wrote, “He who has a why to live can bear almost any how.” Again, I agree. Considering one’s home, the genuine ache we experience for it is, for many of us, the only “why” we need to push back against and endure almost anything that would threaten it.

Threats against one’s home abound. In America, one of the most important ways to protect your home is by voting. It’s not an end-all action by any means, but it is a significant one. Here in Michigan, several key voting dates are approaching. For example, Friday, August 2, is the deadline to request an absentee ballot for the upcoming Primary Election on Tuesday, August 6. Sunday, August 4, is the last day for early voting in the Primary Election. Concerning the 2024 General Election on Tuesday, November 5, early voting begins on October 6. October 21 is the deadline for registering to vote in the election in any form. November 1 is the deadline for requesting an absentee ballot.

Let these dates meet with your aching for home. Let each be an opportunity to remember its value. In faithfulness to the One who gave it (Hebrews 3:4), act to protect and preserve it. Choose candidates who will lead in ways that uphold God’s moral and natural law so that, if you’re ever absconded for thirty-three years, when you return home, it will still be home, not only for you but for generations to come.

Real Family

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I tell myself every year I’m not going to write and send an eNews message while on vacation. Every year, I fail to keep this pledge. I know why. There are two reasons.

First, it’s because I’m a writer at heart. For me, writing is far more than a byproduct of my task as a pastor. It’s in my DNA. Somewhere along the twirling genetic strand responsible for my development as a human being is a switch. In the off position, writing is a chore. But mine’s been flipped to the “on” position. I do it because it’s who I am, and as such, it’s harder to avoid writing than it is just to sit and do it.

My wife, Jennifer, more or less highlighted the second reason I continue to fail at keeping the “no eNews” pledge. It happened during a relatively recent conversation between us concerning death. She asked where I’d like to be buried. Assuming the conversation wasn’t hinting at a secret desire to off me in the pool while away, I floated along in its stream, implying I didn’t really care where the family returned me to the ground. My only two requirements have been that I not be cremated and that the mortician embalms me with my remaining whisky, fully aware that, even as I’m friends with many of the funeral directors in the area, the former is more probable than the latter. Beyond that, the family can sink me in the pond in the backyard for all I care.

From there, Jennifer asked if our church had ever considered using some of its property for a cemetery. I told her it had been discussed at one time years ago, but nothing ever came of it. It was then she betrayed a profound love for the people in our congregation and how she didn’t want to be buried in a random cemetery somewhere. When it came time for her burial, she wanted a place where she, and perhaps the generations of Thoma kin to follow, could be laid to rest together with their realest family—their church family. When she said that, not only did I know she was describing something I somehow knew I also wanted but never realized, but I understood why I would continue writing a message like this on vacation when I really don’t have to.

It’s because I love my family. The hundreds of people who receive this eNews every week at Our Savior Evangelical Lutheran Church in Hartland, Michigan, where I serve as pastor, are a part of that family—my realest family. Along with my immediate family, these are the people who, when the final trumpet sounds and our corrupted bodies are raised incorruptible to stand before the throne of Christ (1 Corinthians 15:51-57), I will count it all joy to experience this beside them. I’d count it a privilege to be alongside the Christians among whom I lived and breathed and served and worshipped in this life.

Maybe it’s time to revisit the idea of a church cemetery. With twenty-six acres, we certainly have the space. I’ll leave that to the church leaders at Our Savior, who may be reading this right now. To everyone else, I’ll simply encourage you to give thanks to God for your church family. In this life and the next, they’re the realest family you’ll ever know.

By the way, for the editors out there, I know “realest” isn’t a word. I just like how it sounds.

The Theater of Humanity

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We arrived in Florida a little differently this year. Jennifer drove. She left a day early with Harry and Evelyn. I flew. Madeline went with me. It’s better that I flew to Florida and didn’t drive. My back is terrible. More than three hours in the car equals a few days of vacation ruined. That’s how long it takes me to recover, and I need every day I’m away to be as vacationy as possible. Indeed, I need two unscathed weeks of palm trees and a pool.

Unfortunately, when we landed, our phones exploded with the news that President Trump had been shot. Some of you texted me. Others left voicemail. Thanks be to God he’s okay. Now we pray for the families of the casualties and injured. Usually, I’d suggest praying for the perpetrator, except he’s already been neutralized. Now, he answers to eternity. Had his life been spared, we might know more. It’ll be a lot harder to get to the bottom of things now that he’s dead.

The White House noted that the FBI would be running the investigation. I wonder how Trump’s folks feel about that given the agency’s relative weaponization against him. By the way, I don’t say that lightly. I was nominated and accepted into an eight-week citizen’s training with the FBI this past spring. I learned firsthand just how partisan the agency has become. Passing jabs at conservatives was common. So were the excuses for “mostly peaceful” groups like Antifa, Black Lives Matter, LGBTQ, Inc., and Pro-choice extremists. I’m by no means inclined to believe the FBI has President Trump’s well-being in mind. They answer to ideologues who rile crowds, comparing Trump to Hitler and labeling him a “threat to democracy” and “the end of America.” Their boss, Joe Biden, rasped at a recent fundraiser, “It’s time to put Trump in a bullseye.”

It appears someone may have been listening.

I hope I’m wrong about the FBI. I hope I’m wrong about Biden and his administration. I hope they’ll get to the bottom of this. I also hope their gabbling is nothing more than campaign rhetoric. I hope the Democrats’ continued stoking of the so-called tolerant left and the subsequent assassination attempt are only coincidental. Either way, the images of Trump covered in Secret Service agents—a man who’s been through so much, the American flag now billowing above his blood-smeared face, his breaking through the agents’ shielding to fist-pump the word “Fight!”—this image was seared into the hearts and minds of billions worldwide. It will unify many.

This has me thinking of something else.

I began by saying there aren’t too many things I like more than palm trees and a pool. That said, there’s almost nothing more entertaining than an hour in an airport terminal watching passersby. You never know what you’ll see. A woman dragging her angry child by a leash a short distance across the airport floor, his shoes squeaking like well-worn brakes as he tries to hinder her momentum—an oblivious tween wearing headphones two paces behind the struggling mother. A heftier man with bleach blonde hair and fishnet over a bright t-shirt doing all he can to be a woman but without an ounce of success. Two clerics in flowing cassocks pulling bags, and one has a cane that he doesn’t appear to need for walking. A beeping trolley with an elderly woman in its passenger seat. An eager crowd of Florida-bound travelers waiting and watching a bedraggled ensemble disembark an arriving plane, their vacation has come to an end. Atop all of it, a bird that somehow found its way inside and is now flittering from steel beam to steel beam above the unsuspecting bustle.

Like the bird, an inconspicuously observing man with his own past, present, and future sitting beside his oldest daughter and thinking, “I wonder what else there is to these people.”

For as weird as the theater of humanity might be, I appreciate individuality. Each person is gifted and uniquely valuable, no matter who they are or what they believe. If this were not true, Christ would not have told Nicodemus about God’s love extending itself to the extremities of death for the whole world (John 3:16). He would not have told His disciples, “Look, I tell you, lift up your eyes, and see that the fields are white for harvest” (John 4:35), which was to say that every person in this world is worth laboring to retrieve.

Still, the importance of uniqueness has become misapplied, reaching a fever pitch in society. We currently exist in a culture hellbent on amplifying individualism above everything else, the result being extreme division. The attempt on Trump’s life is proof. Perhaps just as worse, society has learned to praise and protect abnormality while shaming normalcy. A person who wants to get married, have children, go to church, and live a relatively normal life is considered the epitome of mindless conformity. But a man who disrupts the community of “family” and “friends” by quitting his job, divorcing his wife, and leaving his children to embrace his most authentic self as a six-year-old girl is heralded as courageous. Get in his way, and you’ll be sorry. Try to help his family, and you’re a bigot to be canceled.

I’m reminded of something Rev. Henry Melville wrote. Unfortunately, his words are often misattributed to Herman Melville, the author of Moby Dick. Nevertheless, Rev. Melville insisted in a sermon he delivered in 1855, “Ye live not for yourselves; ye cannot live for yourselves; a thousand fibers connect you with your fellow men, and along those fibers, as along sympathetic threads, run your actions as causes, and return to you as effects.” This is sermonically reminiscent of Saint Paul’s warning, “The eye cannot say to the hand, ‘I don’t need you!’ And the head cannot say to the feet, ‘I don’t need you’” (1 Corinthians 12:21). And yet, society has grown to despise such a message, and now we have a mess of self-concerned, handless, and footless bodies. We have a mess of separate and nearly unnavigable identities, with more and more people inventing new ones every day, each highlighting its own supposed uniqueness. In short, it has become commendable to cut the fibers that bind us to community. It has become laudable to stand entirely apart.

Yes, we’re all unique, and our individuality is essential. But our sameness is, too. In fact, it’s individuality’s point. We have roles to play in something bigger. This is true in microscopic ways, such as individual talents and skillsets used to support an organization, but also in much grander ways. A man or woman is only one-half of the single most important society-perpetuating and stabilizing equation. Relative to the Church, it’s why Saint Paul wrote, “For as in one body we have many members, and the members do not all have the same function, so we, though many, are one body in Christ, and individually members one of another. Having gifts that differ according to the grace given to us, let us use them” (Romans 12:4-6).

Use them for what? For the benefit of the community. This is a divine nod to something significant.

The more radically individualized and disconnected from community and its normalcy we become, the more our society seals its doom. We’re already seeing airplane crashes because a more qualified engineer was overlooked for another with lesser skill but with 7% more Cherokee DNA. Even now, people are losing the will and ability to communicate in fundamental ways, having become utterly incapable of engaging in honest conversation for fear of using incorrect pronouns and offending someone’s made-up uniqueness.

While I’m people-watching, I certainly do wonder about individual backstories. However, in the end, I’ve realized I can only really do this through the lens of sameness. I suppose therein lies one of life’s greatest ironies, which I’ve heard phrased, “Each of us is different, just like everybody else.” The adults before me were all children once. I wonder about the uniqueness of their upbringing. They all eat food. I imagine their favorite meal. I also wonder about their struggles. Everyone has sins that they wrestle to keep hidden from others and themselves. White or black, tall or short, we’re all members of the fellowship of sinful human dreadfulness. Rich or poor, well-known or societally invisible, God does not show partiality and cannot be bribed (Deuteronomy 10:17), and, therefore, none among us is above or below the other relative to the need for a savior.

But here’s the thing: even as God formed each of us as unique individuals, His greatest gift took aim at our sameness. He sent a Savior for all. By the person and work of Christ—His life, death, and resurrection—the whole world’s redemption was accomplished. He didn’t do it one way for Americans and another way for Somalis. We’re all the same in this. No one stands beyond the blast radius of the cross. Only according to this perspective does a genuine uniqueness come to light.

Those who believe this Gospel of redemption become the truly exceptional ones. They’re made holy. To be holy means to be set apart. Believers are set apart from a world intent on self-promoting shouts of uniqueness from the mountaintops. This world is set on having things its way—on doing, saying, and being anything it wants without consequence, all the while expecting commendation for the insanity. The Gospel for faith changes this. It’s the only thing that really sets a person apart, while at the same time drawing the one it inhabits to a better frame of reference. Suddenly, a person’s uniqueness becomes consequential to more than just the self. It becomes less about the spotlight and more about community. It’s moved to enact selfless love for the neighbor. And still, it knows more. Concerning the Church, suddenly, the community’s boundaries and preservation become paramount. That’s one reason why I appreciate tradition so much. It’s why the historic liturgy and the creeds are so valuable. They help bind and fortify the eternal community across time and location.

To wrap this up, I suppose I’ll close by acknowledging my appreciation to God for your uniqueness. I also give thanks for the more spectacular sameness of God’s love in Christ that binds us together in community. This sameness testifies to our value as individuals in the only way that truly matters.

Arlo is No Quitter

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The sun is just now on its tiptoes and looking over the horizon. Its ginger hair is streaming up and outward across the sky. So long as the clouds stay away, in a few minutes, its locks will be torrents of shimmering blondes, eventually becoming brilliantly invisible against a crisply blue sky.

Summer is the best. It hijacks my sense of direction. Almost every inclination leads me outside, no matter how hot it might be. The only problem for a guy who simply cannot shake the need—or, as Longfellow described, the desire to be “up and doing”—is to figure out how to best use the time and opportunities available. Although, there’s more to Longfellow’s little psalm. He wrote:

Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.

Indeed, we must be ready and willing to embrace and use each day’s peculiar opportunities. A lazy life of disinterest is no life at all. Still, we also must be sure to wait. In other words, rest exists in between the doing. One of the busiest men who ever lived, John Lubbock, was a husband, father, banker, archaeologist, politician, writer, vice-chancellor at a university, and likely so much more. Still, he made time to share with the forthcoming generations, “Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes on the grass under trees on a summer’s day, listening to the murmur of the water, or watching the clouds float across the sky, is by no means a waste of time.”

I think Lubbock was right. Although, I’m often the last one to take his advice. I know that needs to change.

Taking a brief moment away from typing this note, I just saw a familiar chipmunk outside my office window. A few weeks back, I started calling him Arlo. I don’t know why. He just looks like an Arlo. Anyway, stretching my legs, I moved to the window to watch Arlo skittering here and there and up and down the nearby tree. When I saw what had just happened to him, I was reminded of something.

I’ve mentioned in previous writings that while I don’t watch much TV, Jennifer and I have been taking time in the evenings on occasion to watch nature shows. I think she has officially become one of David Attenborough’s biggest fans. That said, and in full stride with his raspy voice, we’re both learning quite a bit about the natural world. Relative to animals, I’ve noticed something—well, maybe a few things—especially when it comes to the “up and doing” life so often requires.

In the wild, I’ve never seen a lazy animal. I’m also yet to see an animal exhibit self-pity during trouble or make excuses for its unfortunate plight. In fact, it’s always quite the opposite. Their resilience and determination are inspiring. It usually takes a pride of lions to fell a buffalo. There’s a reason for that. Buffalo aren’t quitters.

Arlo, the critter outside my window, is by no means a buffalo. Still, he’s another example somewhat closer to home. He is, right now, working feverishly to gather bits of something from the sidewalk beneath his tree. A moment ago, while I was watching through the window, he was dive-bombed by a swooping bluejay. I don’t know if bluejays catch and eat chipmunks. I know they catch and eat smaller birds. I’ve seen them do it. Either way, the aerial attack certainly had the jittery little furball hopping to attention. He leaped and dodged before scurrying up the tree. Still, the seemingly caffeinated critter is right now back on the ground and at it again. Arlo’s no quitter. Of course, he pauses every few seconds to check his surroundings. Still, he’s not in the tree making excuses. He’s not complaining to his friend Steve, the squirrel in the tree next door, about how everything appears to be against him. Arlo’s tiny. He’s weak. He can be swallowed whole. Still, he’s undeterred. He’s going to do what he came to do. If trouble arrives, he’ll deal with it accordingly. Until then, steady as he goes.

I’m rooting for you, Arlo, so long as you don’t find your way into my office and chew through any of my books.

Watching this through the Gospel’s lens, I suppose part of this morning’s outing is to say that while life is a balance between action and rest, both bring opportunities for Godly reflection. Doing what I’m doing here at the computer is not necessarily rest. It requires my brain to be up and doing. And yet, it is a laborious opportunity to reflect Christ to others. Taking a minute to rest and watch Arlo was reflective, too. His unwavering determination was a reminder that no matter how small or vulnerable anyone may be, no matter the troubles that come, I can run life’s race of work and rest with confidence (1 Corinthians 9:24-27), committing each of my days to the Lord knowing that He will care for me according to His good and gracious will (Proverbs 16:3).

God bless and keep you in the forthcoming day. I pray it affords you time to ponder the Lord’s love, no matter what you may be up and doing.

Consistency

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Do you listen to podcasts? I do. I know it betrays my slowness to the media streaming party, but I really only started doing so with any regularity within the last year. When I’m out and about in the car for long periods, my go-to for travel noise has always been news radio or music. I suppose everyone has their preferences.

I told my family during dinner last week that I know someone who prefers listening to operas while driving. As an art form, in my opinion, opera is just the musical’s fanciest form. I’m not knocking it. It’s just that when it comes to musicals, I’ve never been a fan. The easiest explanation for my disinterest would be that I’ve always struggled to grasp the concept of a character who, let’s say, after being mortally wounded, feels the need to sing about it. That’s just weird. It’s just too much of a break from its narrative reality.

“Well,” my eldest daughter, Madeline, interrupted, “Star Wars is a huge break from reality.”

“Yes,” I replied, “and had Luke started singing after Vader cut off his hand, or had a company of Imperial Guards performed a dance number behind Emperor Palpatine as he sang his evil plan, I’d ditch Star Wars, too.”

I know it’s an unpopular opinion. Many people adore musicals. Madeline is one of those people, and I’m pretty sure I won’t convince her to join me on the dark side of this conversation. But here’s the thing: even when it comes to my favorite sci-fi and horror films—movies that can be as weird as weird gets—the good ones have a baseline element of consistency that holds the weird stuff together. That baseline connectivity has its natural limits. That’s what’s meant by narrative reality. It’s what makes each of the story’s parts work together in harmony, even when they might not be entirely feasible. When an element of the story strays too far beyond the narrative reality’s boundaries, the story becomes harder to accept. Relative to Star Wars, there’s certainly a lot more flexibility in this regard because the narrative reality is already fantastical. Nevertheless, the rule still applies. The broader the disconnects, the harder it is to accommodate and ultimately accept the framework as a whole. It’s why so many of us Star Wars nerds had trouble with the midichlorian idea introduced in the prequels. As a scientific explanation of the Force, it strayed too far from the narrative’s mystical reality.

Now, a story set in the real world has far less flexibility. I just watched the movie Oppenheimer. Had the scriptwriter added kyber (the fictional crystal used to power a lightsaber) to J. Robert Oppenheimer’s designs, I’d have stopped the flick and moved on to something else. The idea is too far beyond believability’s boundaries. This is the trouble with musicals.

I just searched for and found a list of the highest-grossing musicals in America since 1982, and barring a few, nearly all had storylines written to exist according to ordinary human reality. The Phantom of the Opera, Les Misérables, The Sound of Music, and most others all take place in our natural world. For example, Grease is set in the 1950s. A bunch of high school guys in the 1950s building a car they can race against a rival gang is a scenario that exists in our reality. I’m just saying I’d be more inclined to watch it if, when Danny Zuko started singing and dancing in the garage, the other characters dropped their wrenches and looked at him strangely, asking, “What the heck are you doing?”

Again, I know much of this is entirely subjective. And, hopefully, you’ve sensed my playful mood this morning. I don’t necessarily prefer musicals. But I also don’t mind them. They can be great fun. I actually liked Grease. I absolutely loved The Little Shop of Horrors. Still, looking at what I’ve just written, even as I drifted into a subject I did not intend to discuss, the examination remains aligned with my original reason for mentioning podcasts. My primary intent was aimed at narrative consistency.

Something I’ve noticed while listening to podcasts, especially the longer ones in which someone is being interviewed, is that by the end of the discussion, the guest is rarely the same person he was at the beginning. I’ve been listening to Joe Rogan’s podcast quite a bit. It can be challenging sometimes because of his weird spirituality wrapped in foul language. Nevertheless, Rogan is a genuinely smart guy. I learn things listening to him. However, apart from James Lindsay’s, Riley Gaines’, and Elon Musk’s interviews with Rogan, many of his other guests have exhibited inconsistent personalities.

Because Rogan sits with each guest for several hours at a time, my first thought was that the inconsistencies likely occurred because most relaxed their guard and became more comfortable, thereby displaying a more genuine self. That can happen during lengthy conversations, and perhaps that’s what’s happening in this instance. For example, I sat beside Lara Trump at a dinner a few weeks ago. She was genuinely cordial at the beginning of our time together, but by the time she ascended the stage for her speech, she was funnier and more neighborly. Her unprotected self was different.

That said, it makes something else I’ve experienced relative to the lengthier podcasts so much more bizarre.

I’ve noticed I appreciate most guests at the beginning of the podcast more than I do at the end. In other words, I like their protected selves better. Their unprotected selves speak more crassly, less deeply, and oftentimes more vainly. Perhaps this is where my commentary on musicals applies.

I was listening to an interview with Mike Baker, a former CIA operative and the host of a reality show on Discovery+. I don’t remember the show’s name. Near the beginning of the interview, Baker spoke fondly of his own young children. Further along, he talked about the gender-confused craziness (and countless other horrors) children are being forced to endure in schools and universities and how we, as parents, need to do everything we can to protect them while modeling behaviors that demonstrate respect and concern for others without sacrificing truth. He kept the same message throughout. At the podcast’s beginning, I was nodding along with him. An hour into the episode, as he became more comfortable with the host, his premise became effortlessly draped in the grossest profanity. To hear his unprotected self using the f-word to describe raising children in a moral way was too distracting, too disjointed.

Parents model acceptable behavior for their children. The words we use are essential transfer mechanisms for whatever it is we want to teach. This is to say, words are critical to modeling. Profanity does not teach a child language forms that are capable of showing respect or concern for others. In fact, profanity is a gross demonstration of the absolute opposite. Not only is it communicatively lazy, but it shows everyone within earshot who and what’s most important to the speaker: the self.

I don’t remember who said it, but I once heard self-love—vanity—described as love’s grossest form. I agree with the sentiment, especially when considering the nature of Christ. Our Lord was not a self-lover. Everything He said or did was completely outwardly focused and for the benefit of others. That’s the Gospel’s essence. Jesus gave His all, sacrificing Himself in every way for everyone else.

I told Jen this past week that I learned a new word: orgiastic. It is as it sounds. Its root is the word “orgy,” and its purpose is to describe perverted behaviors. For example, sex is a gift from God. An orgy is sex’s perversion. Love is a gift from God. Self-love is its perversion. It is orgiastic. Writing to Timothy, Saint Paul lists self-love alongside pride, greed, slander, and so many other grave sins (1 Timothy 3:2-5). He spends more ink in 1 Corinthians 13:4-7 describing just how outwardly focused genuine Christian love must be. Returning to what I’ve been talking about so far, language is also a gift of God. Profanity is its perversion. Profanity is orgiastic.

In the end, this is nothing new for Christians. By the power of the Holy Spirit at work for faith, we naturally seek to guard God’s gifts against perversion. We strive to exist within His narrative reality. The Bible certainly deals with profane speech in the same way it does with self-love. For starters, Saint Paul addresses profanity on more than one occasion in his epistle to the church at Ephesus (Ephesians 4:29; 5:3-4). I’m guessing it must have been a problem there. The rest of the Bible deals with it, too, especially when it comes to showing how the spoken word reveals what’s in someone’s heart (Proverbs 4:24; Colossians 3:8-10; Matthew 12:36, 15:11; Luke 6:45; Proverbs 10:32; and the like). To close out this lengthier pondering, and for the sake of offering a final takeaway, I suppose a person concerned about raising moral children while describing the effort’s importance using the filthiest vocabulary just doesn’t make sense to me. In fact, it seems weirdly severed from sensibility altogether. It’s a lot like a story’s character getting shot in the chest and then breaking into song as he bleeds to death. It’s just too disconnected to be believable.

Be a Man

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The Thoma family doesn’t go out to dinner very often. It isn’t just that dining out has become quite expensive. Instead, it’s that we’ve always been more interested in family dinners at home. Any time we’re required to share a dining space with others, it seems the genuine Thoma frivolity becomes unfortunately inhibited. At home, we can be us, laughing as loudly as we’d like at whatever we like. We play games. We rib each other. Sometimes, we even throw stuff. We don’t make a mess. We’re not messy people. But we do things at home we surely wouldn’t do in a restaurant.

I should admit that in restaurants, Jennifer is the governess. She maintains the boundaries. I certainly know where the boundaries are. However, my threshold for public tomfoolery is a little higher. I can easily become a part of whatever hilarious thing Harrison or Madeline might be doing that requires a little more volume or risk. Thankfully, Jennifer anticipates this and brings us back into orbit. She doesn’t quell the fun. She maintains its appropriateness.

When things are no longer in tomfoolery mode but instead require actual discipline, it’s often the other way around. Jennifer is much gentler. I stand at the borderlands’ edges, allowing nothing illegal to cross. Ultimately, my sons are expected to be Godly men, and my daughters are expected to be Godly women.

Looking back at what I’ve written, two things come to mind.

The first is that fathers and mothers—men and women—are very different. I probably don’t need to tell you this. Or maybe I do because it sure seems these roles are more than confused these days. Men are portrayed as inept and effeminate ninnies in movies, TV shows, and commercials. Women are depicted as hardnosed boss-girls who shepherd the men around like children, but that’s only when they have need of them. The genuine give-and-take of naturally complimentary roles has been lost to artificial ideologies meant only to disrupt. Perhaps worst of all, the ability to define the actual roles has already been sacrificed at confusion’s altar. What is a woman? What is a man? Fewer and fewer can answer these questions, lest they give a truthful answer and be canceled. In fact, the answer is becoming more elusive, not only relative to gender but to species. For example, a 22-year-old man who thinks he’s a female cat is running for a seat on the Board of Commissioners here in Livingston County. I have a quick story about this.

I was picking up my daughter, Evelyn, from volleyball practice at the Hartland Community Education building when I drove past this candidate and his friends having a picnic-style demonstration on the facility’s front lawn. There were only a handful of people with him. It was by no means a grand event. Nevertheless, he placed signs near the facility’s driveway, one of which read, “Protect trans students like you protect your guns.” If I hadn’t been in a hurry to get Evelyn home to Linden and then back again to Hartland for a church meeting, I may likely have stopped to ask for clarification. This tendency does get me into trouble sometimes. Just ask Jennifer. She shifted into governess mode a couple of times yesterday at a conference in Detroit to keep my tomfoolery at bay. However, one particular gent in a breakout session who insulted me for being Lutheran rather than Catholic did receive a word or two. Actually, he received four.

Still, I believe in conversation, especially for the sake of invalidating untruths. I certainly had more than my fair share of questions before I rounded the first turn in the parking lot to fetch Evelyn that day. In particular, I would have asked the 22-year-old cat woman with male genitalia if “Protect trans students like you protect your guns” meant registering trans students with the government. Next, I would have asked if that meant red flag laws, too. In other words, if a trans student behaves in ways that make me nervous—like, say, demanding drag queen story hours at the local library—I could call the cops and have him, or her, or whatever taken away and locked up, letting the situation get sorted out in court before allowing him (or her, or whatever) to go home. Along those same lines, I’d have asked if he thinks we should keep all trans students locked away in safes to help keep children safe.

This is only one thread in gender confusion’s fabric. But this fabric is so easily unwound when the hard truth pulls on it. Speaking in an elementary sense, the fact that two men cannot create a child excludes such madness from any real claim on Father’s Day. Inherently, the word “father” assumes and requires “mother,” so whether a man and woman procreate or adopt, fatherhood remains innately a man and woman thing, not a man and man thing. The same goes for Mother’s Day.

I told you two things came to mind. The second is the blessing of home.

Everything I described begins in the home. If a child’s home is unsteady or confused, then everything beyond it will be, too. Beyond this, I once heard someone say that home is a pre-heaven of sorts. Indeed, home is a place where your seat at the table is certain. The rule of forgiveness secures it, and everyone there is family. Oliver Wendell Holmes said something about how our feet may leave home, but our hearts never will. This is to say that we’re forever rooted in a lifeblood sort of way with our home. Who we are, what we’ve learned, who taught us, and why—all these things go with us. And yet, even as they’re carried away on two legs, they are forever bound to the source, no matter where we might be. In my opinion, this is just another way of highlighting the significance of fathers and mothers and that no matter where a child goes, he can never really shake loose from the home his parents made. Good or bad, it’s forever a part of him.

Wrapping this up, I say, since it’s Father’s Day, grab hold of confusion’s fabric and pull. Do what you can to dispel gender confusion. Treat your dad like the manly man he is and ought to be. Rejoice and publicly share those things that show dads to be the God-given heads and protectors a family needs and requires. Maybe even take a chance at grabbing this world’s absurdity by the jugular. June certainly would be the month to do it. Women, demand alongside Saint Paul that the men in your life “act like men and be strong” (1 Corinthians 16:13). Husbands and fathers—the gents crafting the next generation of men—insist beside King David, who instructed his son, Solomon, “Be strong, and show yourself a man” (1 Kings 2:2). Even better, demonstrate manliness for them. Demonstrate it for your daughters, too. Be tough when toughness is required. Be courageous. Most of all, shepherd them toward Jesus, and along the way, do everything you can to hold the line on truth while invalidating untruth. My guess is that when they eventually leave home, and they will, no matter where they go, their hearts will be permanently sourced by something far stronger and more certain than this world’s sin-draped irrationality.

Ambiguity

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I suppose I should begin by closing the lid on last week’s events. Amen, and hooray, I successfully defended my doctoral thesis. To those who prayed for my success, I thank you. Indeed, it was robustly challenging, but knowing the material well, it ended up being quite exhilarating, enough so that I told Jennifer and the kids… well… I won’t simply tell you what I told them. I’ll describe it.

For those who appreciate the exhilarating terror of high-speed roller coasters, think of the first time you rode one. When you first stepped down from the loading platform into your seat, as the protective bar lowered and the coaster jerked forward, a strange concoction of excitement and apprehension began forming. Those beside you experienced it, too. It got thicker and more palpable as the coaster clacked its way to the top of the first hill. And then suddenly, you were dropped over its edge, only to be thrashed this way and that way and upside down and around until finally arriving at its end. You lived. The bar lifted, and as you climbed from the machine’s steely embrace, you said something to those beside you that would have astounded your pre-coaster self.

“Let’s do that again.”

That was, more or less, what I told Jennifer and the kids. Of course, it was necessary to tell Jennifer plainly that I had no intention of doing it again. Had I not, my words would’ve left her in fretful ambiguity.

There’s a book on my shelf I’ve owned for a long time. I hadn’t yet begun to read it until nearer to the roller coaster’s end. It was a gift to me from someone who knows my appreciation for poetry. The book is Seven Types of Ambiguity by William Empson. The book is not to be mistaken for the later novel or TV series of the same name. It came to mind several weeks ago during the ladies’ “Wine and the Word” bible study we host in our home.

Empson’s book was first published in the 1930s as a critical examination of poetry. It’s a busy volume holding multiple threads of thought. One way to consolidate them is to say Empson observes and then analyzes what he believes are common tendencies toward ambiguous words and phrases in poetry that affect meaning. Another way to think of it is that when poets are writing, they’re most often intentional in giving airy glimpses of something rather than explicitly defining it. In most circumstances, people don’t prefer being fed ambiguous information. However, in this case, ambiguity actually makes the poet’s work more accessible to others, ultimately leaving the final interpretation to the reader. To experience this firsthand, a person needs only to sit through a professor’s lesson on Shakespeare before moving down the hallway to another professor’s class on the same subject. Students will walk away from both having learned different interpretations of the same material.

Truthfully, I struggled with Empson’s book. In general, I get what he means. Still, he admits on occasion that ambiguity’s inherent fruit in communication is chaos. What’s more, at other moments in the book, he leaves the impression that chaos is beautiful.

Chaos is not beautiful. It’s ugly and destructive. But first, understand what I mean by chaos.

We’re less than a month away from the Fourth of July. People will celebrate with fireworks. Of itself, a firework’s detonation is a chaotic explosion of sound and color. Its sudden and uncontrolled expansion is stunning. Add rocket after rocket to the display, and the sky suddenly becomes a breathtaking exhibition of chaotic loveliness. But the beauty of a fireworks display is only possible by design. People created the fireworks. They tamed the chaos and then aimed it. They did this by employing chemical equations combined with specific safety measures. The chaotic nature of the object was harnessed and directed, and thereby, it was used to create something spectacular.

Take away even one of the chaos-harnessing boundaries and a fireworks display becomes deadly. Perhaps you’ve seen those videos of someone accidentally launching a Roman candle into a box of unlit rockets only to become a chaotic scene resulting in devastating injuries and destruction. Chaos—genuine disorder and confusion—is not beautiful. It leads to suffering. It leads to misery. In the Bible, chaos is not an uncommon product of sin. When God’s revealed Word is ignored or His natural law is disregarded, chaos often ensues, whether as a natural byproduct or as a direct punishment for willful disobedience.

How could it not be this way, especially since “God is not a God of confusion” (1 Cor. 14:33)? The word Saint Paul uses for confusion is ἀκαταστασίας. It’s a genitive noun meaning unstableness, violent disorder, or chaos. A genitive noun usually modifies another noun. In this case, God is the modified noun. We learn what He isn’t, namely, He does not want chaos. He wants order. And He wants it for a good reason. While instructing Timothy to pray and intercede, Paul betrays God’s reasoning, which is 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 2:3-5).

I probably don’t need to remind most Christians just how affronting the month of June has become relative to God’s established order. Successfully hijacked by LGBTQ, Inc., June has become this world’s official month for the prideful celebration of chaotic human sexuality. It’s disheartening, especially when you know why God desires order in the first place.

Speaking of June’s established sexual licensing, have you heard of Monkeypox? The first I’d ever heard of Monkeypox (which is a sexually transmitted disease limited almost entirely to the homosexual and bisexual men’s community) was from an article in the UK at the end of last summer. It seems in 2023, there was an alarming spike in the ghastly disease’s transmission since the previous June. I read an article this morning from CNN reporting that the US Department of Health and Human Services was gearing up for another spike in the same community in June of 2024. To combat this, DHS plans to set up information stations at pride parades across the country. If that weren’t already enough, Fox News just reported a new disease—a rare, sexually transmitted ringworm fungus—affecting the same sexual demographic and requiring similar information campaigns.

Ninety-plus percent of these particular diseases are occurring and spreading in the pride-filled camps of sexual backwardness. That said, there are plenty of other diseases making the rounds among heterosexuals with countless partners. The news won’t report it, but it certainly appears that God’s plan for good order—a man and woman joined together by the bond of holy marriage—provides a relatively sturdy measure of security from a number of sin’s physical aberrations. Again, God desires order. He desires that we live peaceful and quietly lived lives. The delight a man and woman find in one another in marriage is a part of this.

Perhaps the most crucial reason behind this divine desire is discovered in the final verse of the text from Saint Paul I shared: “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” (v. 5). God wants good order because it maintains the setting for preaching and teaching the Gospel. In other words, when chaos is quelled, the truth that saves remains accessible to all.

When a person understands the Gospel’s perpetuation as God’s paramount intention, it shouldn’t surprise any of us that the world gleefully embraces LGBTQ, Inc.’s hijacking of June, ultimately retitling it “Pride Month.” It shouldn’t surprise us that many in these camps consider Biblical teaching as hate speech. The Bible doesn’t just speak of the world as a planet we’re walking on. It often refers to it as a power in opposition to God and set upon our destruction (John 15:18-19, John 17:16, Ephesians 2:2, 1 John 2:15-17). The Bible mentions a particular being who partners with the world, someone whose pride led to his destruction, ultimately making him sin’s infectious conduit into the world. That same individual delights in confusion’s celebration and disorder’s gradual spread. I’m guessing June has become one of his favorite months.

Enough of that discussion. I feel like I need a shower now.

Looking back at Empson’s work from another direction, I wonder if some folks reading this have felt the urge to reply, “But Empson’s point concerning ambiguity seems to apply to Jesus. The Lord told parables. They were poetically creative and also quite ambiguous.” If a person believes Jesus’ parables were ambiguous, ultimately leaving their interpretation up to the reader, then that person has never read the parables very closely. When the Lord spoke a parable, it had an intended meaning. Even the Pharisees knew this, which is why I’ll say on occasion that the Lord’s parables played a massive part in getting Him killed. Sometimes, the Lord used a parable to demonstrate the Pharisees’ wretchedness, which only fed their devilish desire to destroy Him. What’s more, after using challenging imagery or telling a strangely worded account, the Lord would sometimes end by saying, “He who has ears to hear, let him hear” (Mark 4:9). This is to say, “What I just said has a precise meaning. There’s nothing ambiguous about it. Those who are listening with the ears of faith will not be left uncertain or confused by it but will receive and understand it to their benefit.”

By the time I finished Empson’s book, while it was insightful, I was not convinced that poetry’s beauty is necessarily related to its ambiguity. Instead, I maintain the belief that poetry’s beauty is situated in its broader creativity with language. It uses unusual words and forms for communicating precise ideas, just in a different way than we might read in a novel, news story, or eNews message like this. That said, when it comes to word choice in general, I agree with the poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge, who said, “I wish our clever young poets would remember my homely definitions of prose and poetry; that is, prose,—words in their best order; poetry,—the best words in their best order.” When it comes to creative language’s goal of unambiguous communication, I agree with Mark Twain, who wrote, “The difference between the almost right word and the right word is really a large matter—’tis the difference between the lightning bug and the lightning.” As it pertains to creative language’s purpose, I’m with T.S. Eliot, who noted, “Teach us to care and not to care. Teach us to sit still.” In other words, get our attention, and when you have it, teach us the difference between good and evil, love and hate, justice and injustice, order and chaos.

Well into June, teach us not to celebrate as the world celebrates but to rejoice in godliness.

Worry = Wasted Time

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I don’t know how this past week went for you, but mine was ultra busy. Not only was it somewhat emotionally charged with the last of our four children graduating from the church’s day school—which means after about twenty years of back-and-forths with kids, it’ll be just me from now on—but it took precision to fit everything into each day. With the end-of-school activities, church and school meetings, graduation parties, staff and graduate celebrations today, preparing several sermons for various services, evening activities tonight (including a funeral visitation and a Bible study in my home), the forthcoming week should be a breeze, right?  Well, no. In between a number of these things, I will defend my doctoral thesis before a committee, and I have yet to actually sit and prepare. Each time I’ve tried, life happened, which is to say that other things with much stronger gravitational pull kept my mind and body busy.

The topic of preparedness came up in a phone meeting with my mentor on Thursday. While he implied the event would be incredibly challenging, he said he had every confidence in my abilities. I thanked him, but in secret, I was worried. I knew my own schedule. I also know myself to be a “show up early and have more than one backup plan” kind of guy. In other words, I’m the kind of guy who’ll get the family to the airport three hours too early pulling an overpacked suitcase in tow. But in this instance, things would be different. You might even ask why I’m taking time this morning to write this message. I should be studying.

But there’s something else to think about here.

I experienced a slightly different version of the same conversation several weeks ago at the Livingston County Lincoln Day Dinner. Jennifer was sitting beside Pete Hoekstra (the former Ambassador to the Netherlands, now the Chair of the Michigan Republican Party). During dinner, she told him that I’m the kind of guy who fills every waking moment of his schedule with something, and when I’m done with my current schooling, I’ll almost certainly fill the void with something else. At first, it felt a little like she was confiding in a marriage counselor who, unlike most others, could make a call on his government phone and have me eighty-sixed. But then I had a moment of clarity. When it comes to one’s level of busyness, we all have our fair share of self-inflicted distractions. The fact that I was sitting at that dinner when I should have been home studying is an example. And so the point: in the final cost/benefit analysis of our lives, we all spend time doing things that, in the end, may or may not be of value.

Don’t get me wrong. My time at the dinner was valuable in ways I won’t go into here. Still, discernment is necessary. A person can’t and shouldn’t say yes to everything. That said, do you want to know what one of the most considerable time-wasting activities is? Worrying. The thing is, I seem to have been doing more than my fair share of it the last few days.

I suppose I could jump straight to Matthew 6:25-34. It’s there the Lord discourages worrying. Actually, the word is μεριμνᾶτε, which the English Standard Version translates as “to be anxious.” That’s probably a better understanding than “worry.” In one sense, I’ve always sort of felt as though worry could be interchangeable with heightened concern, depending on the situation. Concerned awareness or readiness is often mistaken for worry. As a Christian, such readiness has the potential for action. It leads to something. When faced with a concerning situation, either the person will trust in Christ while being moved to take every reasonable action, or the person will crumple over and into anxiety, somehow believing everything depends on him and all hope is lost. In other words, anxiety is worry that’s been slow-roasted by hopelessness. Christ says four times throughout ten verses not to go there. Instead, He urges His listeners to seek first the kingdom of God.

The Lord’s point is quite simple. Despair—anxious worry—is the inevitable result of a starved hope. Therefore, feed the hope, not the worry. To do this, seek first the kingdom. Seek Jesus. I say this because where the kingdom is, there, too, is its King. Hope is abundant with Him (1 Peter 1:3-6). Concerned Christians know to look to Him first, not the self. As they do, real peace is both assured and given (John 14:27). They are not surrendered to the terrors of anxiety, no matter the monsters that threaten.

Anyone familiar with the stuff I scribble will remember a perspective I hold to rather strictly. I learned the perspective from Saint Paul. The more I hold to it, the less worrisome or hectic things become. Take a look at 1 Corinthians 15:26, 54-57 and you’ll see what I mean. Essentially, I’ve learned that the day a person realizes the only thing he has to lose is Christ is the same day he becomes impenetrable to pretty much every terrorizing monster this world can conjure. This includes death. If not even death can frighten me, then everything else is cake, including a thesis defense. Besides, life is far too short to be despairing about this thing or that thing that may or may not go one way or another.

I’m sure I’ll be just fine on Wednesday. In fact, if I really think about it, the last few years have been nothing but preparatory. I know what I’m doing. I’ve lived all 296 pages (and then some) of my final paper. If I stumble a little here and there during the defense examination, so what? I’m not perfect. But Jesus is, and He has me well in hand. Resting there, I can scrap every ill-weighted concern and then stand back and watch the horizon of mental and physical free time open.

Of course, I’ll bet you can guess what I’m likely to do in those spaces. That’s right! I’m going to fill them. Trust me when I tell you I already have a few ideas.

My Age is Showing

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I’m writing this from Roger’s City, Michigan. My friend and brother in the Lord, Joe Bangert, is being installed here as pastor of Immanuel Lutheran Church and St. John Lutheran Church and School, and he asked me to preach at the installation service. I was glad to accept the invitation. Although, I confided with Jennifer that being asked to do things like this has a way of putting my age before me. While I’m sure it does happen, I can’t say I’ve ever seen a young pastor doing things like this. Typically, it’s the patriarchal guys who get asked to preach at ordinations and installations. Admittedly, this is my 30th year in church work. That said, I suppose I’m not the spring chicken I once was, even if I do believe I’m “always the same age inside,” as Gertrude Stein so famously said.

A glance in the mirror or getting back to my feet after sitting on the floor for too long both remind me that I’m closer to my end than my beginning. My face has lines, my hair is more than graying, and my body makes sounds that it probably shouldn’t.

The topic of aging came up last night on more than one occasion during discussion. When we were alone, Jen said something that reminded me of an insightful observation Henry David Thoreau once made. By the way, I am by no means Thoreau’s biggest fan. I’m just one of those guys who’ll share anyone’s words so long as the quote is good, and what Thoreau said makes sense to me. He once wrote, “No one is as old as those who have outlived enthusiasm.” I agree with those words, although not as Thoreau probably meant them.

Thoreau was a transcendentalist, so in context, his words carry transcendentalism’s baggage—ideas like discovering life’s truest joys and purpose through spiritual connections with nature. I appreciate sunrises, and I’m rather fond of trees. I like these things just as much as the next guy. In fact, I’m watching the sun rise behind a purple-hued maple tree as I type these words. In its emerging light, I count no less than ten spiders meticulously preening their webs in preparation for the day’s catch. There’s a chipmunk skittering here and there in the yard. A rabbit sits near the fence, watching him closely. As they do what they do, the birds sing their early morning songs. The portrait is extraordinary in every way. Still, I know better than to commune with any of this stuff.

First of all, I can be weird on occasion, but I’m not a weirdo. And so, there’s a 100% chance you’ll never see a YouTube video of a bison trampling and then launching me into the air because I somehow believed I could commune with it. You’ll also never see me attempting to pet sharks, which leads me to another thought.

Not only am I overly fond of things like showers and indoor plumbing, but I’m equally fond of not being eaten by creatures larger than myself.

Lastly, and perhaps it’s just one more sign of age’s infiltration, Jennifer and I have been watching a lot of nature shows lately, and I’ve become all too familiar with nature’s instinctual ways, some of which I’ve already witnessed this morning with the spiders. It seems to me that nature can pretty much be summed up in three essential premises: wooing mates, combat, and killing and eating each other. That’s about it. And so, with that, count me out of Thoreau’s transcendental intentions.

Thoroughly removed, his words are still good, especially if you consider “enthusiasm” as a synonym for “joy.” No one is as old as those who have outlived joy.

Life, with all its twists and turns, is profoundly vibrant. Through good and bad, opportunities to learn and grow abound. And because God never fails in His loving kindness and care (Philippians 4:19; Matthew 6:31-32, 7:11), which is perfectly located in Christ, a Christian can rest assured that joy is always lurking in each of life’s moments (Romans 5:1-5). The ability to discover joy during sadness’ inevitable humdrum is possible, too. And that’s the partial point. Young or old, a joyless person is metaphorically near death compared to a joyful one. A joyless 20-year-old man, while he may be capable of greater physicality than an 80-year-old, is far less capable of so many other things that matter so much more.

Something—or better said, someone—comes to mind in this regard.

I went to visit my friend Gerry. He’s a longtime member of this congregation who can no longer get to church on his own. Thankfully, his faithful son and daughter-in-law, Jeff and Lisa, bring him regularly. But when Gerry isn’t feeling up to it, I visit him at home. I saw him a little over a week ago. At one point during our conversation, somehow, we began chatting about television programming’s devolution. Admitting that most shows on TV were trash, he mentioned a fondness for home restoration programs. He enjoys the “reveal” moments. He loves the moment when the home is finally ready, and the owners see it for the first time. Describing these things, Gerry was kid-like in his enthusiasm. As someone who is relatively recliner-bound, he couldn’t restore a home even if he wanted to. But you’d never know it by his enthusiasm. You’d never know it by his joy. Although, that’s not quite the point of sharing this.

Gerry’s joy is clearly not located in what he can or cannot do as he ages. Sure, he misses his athletic days. Gerry was an exceptional baseball player. He probably could’ve gone pro. But the “was” and “could’ve” haven’t landlocked him. His joy isn’t tied to this world’s limitations, ultimately rendering him perpetually downcast. Instead, his life is fixed on Jesus. And interestingly, his joy continues to flourish as it’s fixed on others around him. Their happiness feeds his happiness, and with that, his enthusiasm for life continues to abound.

I didn’t begin this rambling intent on talking about Gerry, but I never really know where these things will go. Just know that even as Gerry is in his mid-eighties, the more time I spend with him, the more I realize he’s one of the youngest people I know. Uplifted, and then looking at myself in the mirror through the same Gospel lens, I am reminded, “So we do not lose heart. Though our outer self is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day” (2 Corinthians 4:16).

Indeed, I’m getting older. But I fully intend, by God’s grace, to remain a joy-filled toddler in Christ. Looking back on what I just wrote, I know my words are by no means original. Jesus said them first. Inspired by the Holy Spirit, Saint Matthew recorded for all of us, “At that time the disciples came to Jesus, saying, ‘Who is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven?’ And calling to him a child, he put him in the midst of them and said, ‘Truly, I say to you, unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven’” (Matthew 18:1-5).