Tag Archives: hartland

Loyalty

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I just finished writing a paper yesterday afternoon for one of my doctoral cognates on the importance of loyalty. I should share it with you. However, I can’t. Each paper written gets fed through a plagiarism tool that searches the internet. If I share it with you, and then, as is my custom, I post it online, if it hasn’t been checked by the tool before the professor grades it, I risk getting tagged unjustly.

In the meantime, know that I find the topic of loyalty in the Church interesting.

As Christians, while we might understand the essential benefits of loyalty, it may also seem counterintuitive to faith. I say this only as I hear the echoes of Saint Paul’s warning, “For when one says, ‘I follow Paul,’ and another, ‘I follow Apollos,’ are you not being merely human?” (1 Corinthians 3:4). His point: blind devotion to anyone is a carnal craving. Human beings are fallible. To hang on to everything any single person says or does without discerning their adherence to truth is simply foolish. Humans are fallible—sometimes by accident, and other times, willfully. In this sense, loyalty is a tricky business.

During our Thursday chapel, I spoke with the children about the benefits of celebrating All Saints Day. I first explained what a saint is according to the biblical definition (a believer, a person set apart by the power of the Holy Spirit in faith). I then continued to share with them why it’s a good idea to remember and give thanks for those who’ve gone before us into the nearer presence of Christ in heaven. Our practice here at Our Savior is to say the names of the Christian members of our congregation who’ve died since last All Saints Day. We aren’t talking to them. We’re remembering them. And why? Well, because we’re loyal.

By loyal, I mean something Christological. It’s the kind of loyalty the world just can’t seem to figure out.

The ones we’ll mention during worship are believers who remained faithful to the end. They closed their eyes in the sleep of mortal death, having never stepped away from loyalty to Jesus, no matter the consequences. While on earth, such loyalty sometimes bore a hefty price tag. Some lost their friends and reputations. Some lost the love of family members. Some lost their jobs. It could be argued that during the time of Covid, because of what our government imposed, some even lost their lives. We want to remember that loyalty. We want to devote ourselves to giving it the attention it deserves. We want to give thanks for steadfast conviction, not only because it stands as proof of what the Gospel can do in the lives of frail human beings, but because we want the same courage for ourselves. We want to emulate these saints. We want to be as fiercely loyal to Christ until our last breath as they were. We want, as they wanted, to be living testaments of trust in Jesus so that one day we’ll be found before His throne as ever-living acknowledgments of His divine confession that “the one who endures to the end will be saved” (Matthew 24:13).

But there’s more we can learn here about loyalty.

I saw a meme that showed a zebra running alone while being chased by a lion. In the background stood the other zebras in the herd observing from afar. The words to the meme went something like, “A Christian who believes he doesn’t need the Church.” The point is well made. The Church is not only God’s chosen means for disseminating the Gospel of forgiveness throughout the world (Ephesians 3:10), but it is His body—His herd, with Him as its Shepherd (John 10:11-18). Apart from His herd, we’re more easily hunted and killed. But within the herd, we are among others who are devoted to our wellbeing (Acts 2:42), fellow saints put in place by Christ to build one another up (1 Thessalonians 5:11), parts of the same body that need the other parts and will protect those parts from harm (1 Corinthians 12:12-14).

In other words, as a herd, as a body, as a like-spirited family, the Church runs together. There’s a loyalty among us that’s born from our loyalty to Christ. While not the primary focus of the Lord’s various mandates for His Church to gather together, I hope you at least sense Christian loyalty in the current of its undertow. He knows that standing together—upholding one another in word and deed—meets with our ability to endure. Indeed, our God says as much through Saint Paul’s insistence that “when each part is working properly, (it) makes the body grow so that it builds itself up in love” (Ephesians 4:16). God continues to encourage Christian loyalty when, through the writer to the Hebrews, He declares, “Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight, and sin which clings so closely, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, looking to Jesus, the founder and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross, despising the shame, and is seated at the right hand of the throne of God” (Hebrews 12:1-3).

Notice he encouraged the reader to endure the race of faith after first reminding him of the great cloud of witnesses surrounding him. Also, take note of what the runners are doing during the race. As individual team members, we’re looking to Jesus, the One who endured through the perpetual night of Sin, Death, and hell as none of us can. Next, and as a team, it’s assumed we’re cheering one another on, encouraging each other to keep his or her eyes on that same victorious Jesus. There’s loyalty to be seen in this imagery. It’s a loyalty that functions when the race is easy. It’s also working overtime when the race is hard. It is far from what J.R.R. Tolkien described through Gimli to Elrond in The Fellowship of the Ring, “Faithless is he that says farewell when the road darkens.” For Christians, it’s when the road is darkest that our loyalty beams most brightly.

Again, the world doesn’t understand this stuff. We shouldn’t expect it to understand. But we get it. Christian loyalty is genuine loyalty and bears a potency that, not-so-strangely, moves us to celebrate All Saints Day. And why? Because in its essence, All Saints Day is an opportunity for us to dig directly into that loyalty and say to one another while running, “Do you remember Lorraine? How about Tom and Donna? Brothers and sisters in the Lord, keep your eyes on Christ, just as they did. Don’t give up! Keep going! Endure by God’s grace! You’re almost there!”

Burning the Candle at Both Ends

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Birthdays are something, aren’t they? Some have gravity that others do not. Our daughter, Evelyn, turned thirteen at the beginning of October. Going from twelve to thirteen is a big deal for a young person. The teenage years have a prospective orbit that the previous years did not. I turned fifty last Wednesday. That felt a little like making a jump into lightspeed and arriving at a completely different solar system altogether. I still feel like I’m in my twenties. Jennifer tells me I sometimes act like it.

Well, whatever. Sometimes a guy just has to dress like a stormtrooper before going to Walmart. It’s the way of things for someone who, for a good part of his life, has been unwilling to let the world around him do the steering—a guy who has an inkling of how bright-eyed an exhausted mom and her two kids can become after crossing paths with a Star Wars character in the cereal aisle.

I like that. And while they can’t see my face, they know I’m smiling, too.

I suppose any birthday brings an opportunity for introspection. Certainly, the older I get, the more I reflect. I’m guessing you do, too. I had one online friend, someone who cares, reminding me to slow down—to make the most of the days, reminding me not to burn the candle at both ends. He knows me well.

Interestingly, he used the phrase, “burn the candle at both ends.”

Do you know where that saying comes from? It’s from a poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay. How do I know this? Because she died on my birthday. At some point, I remember learning she died back in 1950 on October 19. I don’t recall how I became aware of it; probably one of those radio segments talking about events in history. One of Millay’s claims to poetry fame was the lyric entitled “First Fig.” In it, she wrote:

My candle burns at both ends; It will not last the night; But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends—It gives a lovely light!

Millay had a Dickinson way about her—crisp and melodic with her words, all arranged in the best order and bearing something profound. Even this little verse speaks volumes.

For one, it reminds the reader of life’s transience. No matter the pace at which one’s candle wax is consumed, each day will end, as will the candle keeping the evening vigil. Interestingly, while her words are typically used to describe being overworked, that’s not necessarily her intention. In a simple sense, she means to say that she has a life and intends to do the most she can with it. She already knows she won’t live forever. Still, she plans for her light to burn as brightly as possible, producing a lovely light before both friend and foe.

I suppose birthdays are fertile moments to ask pragmatically, “Will any among us last the entirety of life’s night?” If the one asking the question is honest, his or her answer will be no. As the day ends, so will the night. And so, the lesson here? Give your utmost diligence to each of the clock’s ticks. Life is progressing. Its wax is being consumed. Live accordingly before your candle’s flame goes out.

This reminds me of something the Lord said to His onlooking disciples in John 9. It’s not exactly the same image, but it is somewhat similar. Before stopping and healing a blind beggar, the Lord said to His disciples, “We must work the works of him who sent me while it is day; night is coming, when no one can work.” (v. 4).

Firstly, I think it’s interesting that Jesus used the word “we” instead of “I” when describing who would be involved in accomplishing the works of the Father in this world. It’s not as though God can’t do these things Himself—as if He actually needs any help. The Lord is also not saying that anyone will have any active part in the work required for salvation. Jesus will accomplish all of that. He will live perfectly under the Law. He will suffer and die for the sins of the world. He will rise again as Victor over sin, death, and Satan. On the other side of these things, He uses “we” to show He is including His disciples in the efforts of faithfulness born from His work. His disciples are believers, people recreated by the Lord’s sacrifice. Believers produce the fruits of faith, often taking the form of both witness and service. They are vessels—carriages—sent out to extend the message of what Jesus has done. They do this by both word and deed. In short, they live out the Gospel in the world around them in recognizable ways.

Admittedly, the Christian life is often passively unaware. In other words, faith so often creates fruits in us we don’t even realize are being produced (Matthew 25:37-40). On the other hand, the Christian life is actively aware, too (Matthew 24:45-46; 25:29; Luke 10:25-37; 1 Peter 3:15; James 2:18-19, 26). It stands at attention. It’s ready and willing to engage in service when required. Jesus demonstrates this by stopping and taking time to heal the blind man. He could have passed by. He certainly had other cosmic-scale things to do. Still, He stopped. He helped. Sometimes, Christianity requires that we stop and help.

I suppose, secondly, the fact that Jesus crams this Christological point into the image of a single day implies not only the urgency and determination He has for situating His Christians in the world in this way but also the divine stamina He knows we’ll need for suiting up and doing what needs to be done. Life is busy. It’s often experienced in a flurry. I can confirm this, and it’s likely you can, too. Therefore, the Lord reminds His listeners in the very next verse that so long as He is present—and He has promised He will be—we’ll have access to a light that empowers our labors (John 9:5). Even when darkness falls, He will be the fuel that keeps the flame burning at both ends, giving a lovely light through us to both friend and foe.

Knowing these things changes the trajectory of our earthly orbits in some pretty incredible ways. We know we can’t earn our way to heaven, but we also know we can’t sit idly by when a blind man needs our help, or a wearied mother in the cereal aisle could benefit from some cheer, or an unborn child needs an advocate for life. If we are not burning the candle at both ends—ever vigilant in our awareness and willingness to embrace each moment for faithfulness to Christ—we’re living a dimly lit life.

Lots of folks around the world receive this eNews each Sunday morning. The ones in Michigan know where I must go next.

Proposal 3, a ballot proposition that will enshrine abortion (and other atrocities) in the Michigan Constitution, is on the verge of passing. Barbara Listing, the president of Right to Life of Michigan, mentioned a few nights ago that other executive leaders for Right to Life in surrounding states are saying Proposal 3 can’t be defeated. They’re urging that Right to Life of Michigan change course, that we give up on fighting the proposal and begin putting all the coffer’s coins toward the campaign needs of pro-life candidates. In other words, the onlookers have already consigned Michigan to the title “Unrestricted Abortion Capital of the World.” But Barbara told her wobbly counterparts she wasn’t going to give up. She’s going to continue leaning into the fight, giving it everything she’s got. She’s going to burn her candle at both ends. I’m with her. I’m going to burn my candle this way, too. I will continue to do everything I can to see Proposal 3 defeated. I have a life, and here at this particular moment on the timeline, an opportunity to live that life to its brightest has appeared. Regardless of the outcome, I will light both wicks and burn my candle. I’m not going to live forever. And so, I will do everything I can with every breath I’m given to act—to stop and help the unborn who cannot help themselves. I’m going to fight for the preservation of parental consent laws, for religious objection laws, and for all the other Godly things Proposal 3 is designed to erase with a single solitary dot on a ballot’s page.

You need to be engaged against this devilry, too. You must vote “no” on Proposal 3, and on the same ballot, you should choose candidates who are committed to doing the same. To do otherwise is to be in contradiction with one’s own Christian identity, thereby living a dimly lit life. Now is not the time to be dimly lit. Let friends and foes alike see your flame of faith. It will be harder for some than others. Still, as a Christian, it’s a must. Let the flame of your faith beam brightly, burning at both ends, and with an unapproachable heat. Let it be a beacon in the darkness to those who would find it, and I dare say, let it be a forewarning of your resolve to those in opposition who’d dare try snuffing it out.

Churchills and Chamberlains

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Like many of you, I do a lot of reading. Although, because of time constraints, I suppose more and more people are reading through their ears. I’ve not been one for audiobooks. I tried it a time or two, but it didn’t seem to work for me. I once tried listening to The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, a collection of short stories featuring Doyle’s famous detective. Stephen Fry narrated the collection. Fry was equal to the task, and he was equal to the task. But after a little while, I hoped to hear someone else. When one person reads and interprets the whole text, carrying each character with only his or her voice, a longing emerges for what the imagination might do with those same words. Would Holmes really sound like that? Would Watson’s voice be pitched in that way?

But that’s just me. I invest in imagination, so I prefer to read the text myself. This is probably why I’m rarely impressed by films based on books. They never quite meet with what I experienced in my mind.

I also read a lot of speeches. I memorize them, too. Just ask my kids. I can readily perform Winston Churchill’s material. Reading a speech is different than reading a book. A public address is meant to be heard, so as I read along, I find myself preferring to hear the speaker’s voice. Listening lets in more than just the information the speaker intended to share but also the deeper, more personal things he or she wants you to feel in your guts. These things arrive in the carriages of tenor, tone, and many other rhetorical devices, all meant to bring the listener into the speaker’s world. Sometimes, this world reveals more than the speaker envisioned.

Since I mentioned Winston Churchill, a great example of this can be seen between Churchill and his predecessor, Neville Chamberlain.

A pompous man, Chamberlain will forever be remembered as the English Prime Minister who appeased the Nazis. In his “Peace for Our Time” speech in 1938, he gives the impression that following his meetings with Adolf Hitler, he alone brought peace to Europe. It is a short speech. The language is high, distinguished, and well-delivered, not flowery or cumbersome. However, it carries along with an egocentric and aristocratic fervor, the kind of self-importance that drove him to say so foolishly later:

“My good friends, for the second time in our history, a British Prime Minister has returned from Germany bringing peace with honor. I believe it is peace for our time. Go home and get a quiet sleep.”

Though subtle in textual form, Chamberlain’s self-absorption is easily heard in the speech’s audio recording. It’s amplified when you learn that later that next year—1938—Hitler completely disregarded Chamberlain and invaded Poland.

In contrast, Winston Churchill’s “Blood, Toil, Tears, and Sweat” speech before the House of Commons on May 13, 1940, rings differently. Like Chamberlain, Churchill speaks in a way that shows his aptitude for language. But as he speaks, the listener realizes something about him personally. They can hear his skill, but they can tell he is using his skill in service to them, not himself. He’s not on a mission to build a fan base as the new Prime Minister, but instead to crisply explain a dire situation to a nation he loves. His language is colorful—dreadfully so—as he depicts the depths of a dirty and inescapable predicament that he intends to empty himself into completely. As he speaks, he includes the listener. He brings them along, making sure they feel as he feels and believe as he believes—which, in the end, is that if Great Britain is to survive, the whole nation will be required to fight.

Interestingly, even though he speaks again and again in the first person singular, which is something self-absorbed people tend to do, the audible care with his words rescues his message, making it clear by his tones that he does not believe himself to be the savior of the British Empire. He believes, firstly, that God will be their deliverer because the cause is just; and secondly, God will do this through the might and muscle of a committed British people. He believes God will move them to stand together and face “an ordeal of the most grievous kind….” And so again, even as he uses “I” repeatedly throughout the speech, the words “our” and “us” resonate with far greater intensity:

“You ask, what is our policy? I will say it is to wage war by sea, land, and air—with all our might and with all the strength God has given us; to wage war against a monstrous tyranny never surpassed in the dark and lamentable catalogue of human crime. That is our policy. You ask, what is our aim? I can answer in one word: victory—victory at all costs; victory in spite of all terror; victory however long and hard the road may be. For without victory, there is no survival. Let that be realized.”

When the people heard Churchill speak these words, they were not distracted by anything about him, not even his raspy lisp. Instead, as he poured his entire self into communicating the immensity of the need, they took his message into themselves and were inspired to fight. More importantly, Churchill inspired them to endure, not necessarily knowing the outcome, but being aware of the price for victory and being found willing to do what was needed to pay it.

I suppose I find myself thinking about all these things this morning—how we receive words, as well as the noteworthy people who write or speak them—because, over the last seven or eight years, I’ve found myself brushing shoulders with some fairly high profile folks who do this for a living. I’ve discovered among them what appears to be two camps: glory hounds and genuine servants; Chamberlains and Churchills. The Chamberlains know their own importance and, as a result, have little time for a backwater clergyman ushered to the chair beside them—that is, unless he can help further their importance. The Churchills, on the other hand, no matter who is beside them, want to know what makes their new compatriot tick. They want to converse together. They want to learn. They want to know where others stand on things, and without saying as much, they want to assure their counterparts they’re not in the game for the earthly rewards but the wellbeing of real people. They want to win the war, and they know if that’s going to happen, they need the people beside them, no matter who that might be, to be in it with them. And so, they use their God-given platforms to embrace and inspire their listeners, being sure to empty themselves before the crowds in ways that show they’re all in for the triumph.

By the way, I think good preachers do this, too. A good preacher is a genuinely committed one—someone devoted whole-heartedly to the task; someone the pew sitters are convinced has a deep care for the content preached and the listeners receiving it. They believe that he believes the message, too, and that he would die before letting it go silent.

Now, before I wander off in a tangential direction on preaching, there’s another speech I’ve read that comes to mind this morning. General Douglas MacArthur gave it. A brilliant strategist, MacArthur is one of those speakers you should read rather than hear. I say that because he’s a bit of an enigma. He’s a fine orator, but like Chamberlain, self-importance shines through in his voice. However, as an inspiring warrior, he’s a Churchill. He would give everything of himself to convince his troops to follow him into battle and give everything of himself in that battle to win. He spoke in 1952, saying, “It is fatal to enter any war without the will to win it.” He was right, and the sentiment of his words travel alongside folks like George Orwell, who said with great seriousness, “The quickest way of ending a war is to lose it.”

Together, these points remind us that if a person isn’t genuinely invested in the fight—that he or she is only laboring out of concern for self—he or she is already destined to lose. That loss will have begun much sooner than the person may even realize. For these reasons, loss is a Chamberlain’s destiny. Churchills are more likely to win because they know they need the muscle and might of others to help move the mountains. With that, they work harder to convince and inspire.

Right now, we need Churchills.

We’re at war here in Michigan. Plenty are talking about Proposal 3—which, as any pro-life person paying attention to Michigan will know, is a demonic attempt to memorialize in the state’s Constitution an individual’s right to have an abortion up to, and in some cases, after birth. The pro-life ranks are filled with Chamberlains and Churchills. Some are saying and doing just enough to remain relevant, giving the impression they care, but only to get elected or re-elected. Others are pouring themselves into the fight because their very fiber won’t allow them to do anything else. They’re talking to others, not necessarily with eloquence but with knowledge and passion. They’re getting the word out. They’re recruiting others to the cause. They’re doing this because they care about others. This care has helped reveal to them the guts of Proposal 3. They know it more than enshrines murder in a way that will be nearly impossible to reverse and that it reaches into countless other arenas, ultimately negating laws that protect parental consent and religious objection. Perhaps most importantly, the people fighting the hardest know the blast radius of their efforts is large. They know the rest of the nation is watching—friend and foe alike. What happens in Michigan will be repeated.

In closing, I encourage you to be a Churchill, not a Chamberlain. The enemy is at the gates as never before. Set aside your own safety or self-interest. Step outside what keeps you comfortable, and do what you can to rally the troops. Talk to your family, friends, and neighbors. Send them an email. Call them. Give them literature that enunciates the concern. Let them experience your passion for the unborn, not in an imposing way, but in a way that shows you genuinely believe what you’re saying and doing. Implore them to vote no on Proposal 3 on November 8.

I know some might disagree with me when I say a Christian is duty-bound to do this. Feel free to disagree. Just know you’re wrong, and I’d go to the mat to prove it. What you believe is made complete by what you do (James 2:22). So, get up and do. Proposal 3 deals in Christological things. God owns all its topics. If, as God’s people, we remain quietly inactive, resulting in Proposal 3’s passing, the devil will mock our Chamberlain-like foolishness during his government-sanctioned invasion of Michigan on November 9.

Don’t let that happen. Speak out. Fight. Rally others. Stand at the gates and stop Proposal 3. Do everything you can to fight this “monstrous tyranny never surpassed in the dark and lamentable catalogue of human crime.” As a citizen, you can. As a Christian, you must.

Victory and Defeat

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After enjoying a richly fruitful event yesterday—our annual “The Body of Christ and the Public Square” conference—I’m again reminded of life’s strangeness. I acknowledge that Our Savior Evangelical Lutheran Church in Hartland, Michigan, is by no means a powerhouse of financial magnitude, nor are we large by comparison to many other churches. In truth, we are a relatively unassuming bunch of Christians who gather for Word and Sacrament ministry. By God’s grace, in that gathering, we have discovered ourselves equipped for accomplishing some pretty incredible things—namely, the courageous carrying of Christ’s Gospel into the world in ways one might not expect from a troupe like us.

We do this as Confessional Lutherans—people who are disinterested in using candied entertainment to lure people through our doors. Instead, we hold to the historic Rites and Ceremonies the Church has enjoyed for two millennia. That’s been our identity for our six-and-a-half decades here in Hartland. Within the last ten years, as the world has intensified its efforts to invade and destroy all things Godly, we’ve seen our shiftless identity draw others alongside us in defense. Some of these folks are ones you only see on TV—such as Candace Owens, Charlie Kirk, Ben Shapiro, Dinesh D’Souza, Dennis Prager, and of course, Matt Walsh, who so graciously joined us for yesterday’s conference.

How did this happen? Well, that’s a question I’m asked quite frequently.

The honest answer is, “I don’t really know.” Or perhaps better stated, “Only God knows.” Although, I suppose I could say that I’ve found myself in the right places at the right times talking with the right people. I’ll add relatively frankly that those same people found the depth and relevance of our identity refreshing. That said, even as the one running point on these conversations, I never expected any of the opportunities we enjoy today. I was doing what pastors are supposed to be doing, plain and simple. The congregation I serve was, too.

Admittedly, I’ve grown in my awareness that the times, as they say, “are a-changing.” Things are much harder for the Church these days. In fact, the way I’ll often describe this is as it relates to clergy: the days when people tipped their hats kindly to a passing clergyman on the street, listened to him with gladness giving the invocation at a public school event, or smiled as he engaged in community affairs—these are all ancient and alien experiences compared to today. Nowadays, the chance of a clergyman being attacked or spit upon by a passerby is a ready possibility. I speak from experience. Still, God leads His undershepherds accordingly. The same goes for the people who know the Good Shepherd’s voice. His mission and its subsequent peripherals haven’t changed. With that, and speaking only for myself, I’ve spoken to particular topics in specific contexts as the Spirit required. This produced results. Sometimes good. Sometimes not so good. Either way, friendships emerged. Those friendships expanded to others, eventually moving into certain spheres where an in-the-trench congregation and her pastor would subsequently find themselves engaging with some of this world’s darkest forces. And yet, God saw fit to send help from others. Some of these reinforcements speak from exceptional platforms and bear extraordinary resources.

Indeed, God has blessed us in this. And so, we go forward.

There is a saying that victory has many fathers, but defeat is an orphan. The point is that when things are going well, plenty are willing to say they had a hand in it being so. But when the threat of trouble comes, associations grow thin, and people take cover in the shadows. The thing about God’s people here at Our Savior is that, for the most part, we’ve never been a congregation with the urge to cut and run when things got tough. As it is in most congregations, individuals have departed from our fellowship for one reason or another. Some because they simply didn’t like me and wanted me gone. In fact, they worked really hard to get rid of me. That’s fine. Not to be too bold, but they’re elsewhere, and I’m still here. Apparently, God had other plans.

Others left because of our congregation’s hard stance against abortion, LGBTQ impositions, CRT, and the like. Unfortunately, and in my opinion, those folks couldn’t exchange their love of this world for alignment with God’s Word. Interestingly, some left our fellowship for various reasons, but when they discovered the theological conditions in other places, they regretted the decision and returned. They realized the essentiality of Confessional Lutheranism’s inherent resistance to the ever-altering whims of culture. And why are confessionally liturgical churches so sturdy? At some point, I’ll probably write a book about it. Until I do, let’s just say it’s because their identity isn’t bound to the here and now. They share ownership of a singular identity with countless generations of Christians before them. As a result, they’re less inclined to roll over and give it away when the enemy comes calling for something new. They will fight as their fore-parents fought, knowing they’re not in the fray for the temporal successes bound to this world’s timeline but for the timeless successes that only God can provide—the kind He has supplied to the confessing Church during her most challenging days throughout all of human history.

There’s something else to keep in this regard.

Strangely, success often appears among such people as defeat—as struggle, suffering, hardship, and adversity. If you doubt it can be this way, consider the crucifixion of Jesus—the absolute epitome of the world’s depiction of failure. And yet, by the Lord’s gruesome self-giving, the cure to Sin’s poison was accomplished and delivered, and the old evil foe, the devil, was forever defanged. The incarnation of Jesus—God’s lowering of Himself to our station—and His eventual death on the cross, these two things demonstrate the truest glory of God. Jesus and His Heavenly Father believed and acknowledged this together in John 12:23-32. In the same way, Christians who crave faithfulness to this glory rather than the glory of prestige already have a proper bearing. They can trust even as victory and defeat seem blurry, assured that God is in the fracas with them and He is using even the hardest moments for His faithful people as it serves His righteous purposes.

There’s another saying relative to this that’s worth considering. I’ve heard it said (and I’ve likely shared it before) that the real tragedy in loss is the pain experienced from almost winning. I don’t know who said it, but I certainly appreciate its insight. It’s an honest observation of how it can hurt to arrive at the finish line but not cross it. But again, for Christians, it’s not necessarily about the finish line. It’s about the race. When it comes to humanity in general, the finish line gets crossed in death. Although, in one sense, Christians have already crossed the finish line as they’ve died to themselves and were reborn in Jesus. Baptized into Jesus, by the power of the Holy Spirit at work for faith in the One who already crossed the threshold by His death and resurrection, ultimately winning the victory, a Christian is accounted with His finish-line triumph. Knowing this, the race becomes a joyful venturing alongside the One who promises never to leave or forsake us as we run.

Of course, just as the world would interpret the Lord’s death as defeat, so also will it see the struggles we face as Christians—and even our mortal death—in the same light. But again, Christians know better.

“For to me to live is Christ, and to die is gain” (Philippians 1:21). Inspired by the Holy Spirit, Saint Paul wrote those words. His words consolidate both living and dying into one unending life.

As Paul’s words meet with the here and now, we know that the hills and valleys, the straightaways and the turns, the uneven roads and the smooth terrain all provide opportunities for God’s victorious Gospel to drive us toward the next moment. What that moment will be—how it will feel, what will be at stake, the measure of effort it will exact—we don’t know. But what we do know is that if God is for us, who can be against us (Romans 8:31). He’s on our side. The victory is His. We get to go forth in faithfulness to Him regardless of the current climate of our culture. There’s courage to be had by this knowledge.

I mean, when not even death can scare you, what would any of us have to fear if someone vomited threats on us for saying that an unborn child is a person worthy of life; or that men can’t be women and women can’t be men; or that the answer to racism is not more racism as Critical Race Theory would insist? Of course, these are rhetorical questions easily answered.

Death has been conquered. In Jesus, we have life. This is at the heart of what we do here at Our Savior in Hartland. God is blessing our efforts as they’re born from this trust in the middle of both ease and struggle. I’m glad for both because I know they serve as tools of a God who has given unbreakable promises of His loving care.

Family Matters Most

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Yesterday was my daughter Evelyn’s 13th birthday, and I’m not kidding when I say she has been looking forward to the day for quite some time. Becoming a teenager is a memorable thing. It’s an even bigger deal for a girl who dearly loves her family and wants so much for them to share the moment with her.

Evelyn really is that kind of girl. If she is experiencing joy, she wants that same joy to be experienced by others. I think that’s one reason why she is so invested in her church family. She loves the Lord. He has blessed her through some pretty incredible challenges, and He’s done it in ways that have brought her tremendous joy. As a result, and firstly, she’s drawn toward being in worship with others in her church. What I mean is that even though she’s already in worship every Sunday, she also attends on Wednesdays—even though she doesn’t have to. When she was in midweek catechesis, she attended Wednesday evening worship by default because I brought her to school in the mornings, and then she’d stay through for her class, which happens right after evening worship. She’s confirmed now and no longer in midweek catechesis. But she still insists on staying with me all day to attend Wednesday evening worship. Secondly, she’s drawn toward making sure the place where worship happens is in good order—that the processional cross is in place, that the hymnals are straightened, that any scrap of out-of-place paper is removed. She wants the sacred spaces to be kept in a way that prevents others from being distracted from the joy God intends to give.

She’s also the kind of girl, as I said, who loves her immediate family—a family that, as the youngest in the bunch, she can see is beginning to spread its wings and fly in multiple directions, often making it difficult for everyone to be together. But she wants that togetherness. She so often wants nothing more than to have all of us in the same place at the same time. It bothers her when even one of us is missing. And rightfully so. Who wants to be apart from the ones they love the most? Not Evelyn. And her 13th birthday celebration all but guaranteed it. We’d all be there. And not only that, but we were all relatively commitment-free. She’d be able to spend the whole day at home with her family doing whatever she wanted, having set her sights on time with her siblings, the consumption of chili dogs (her requested meal), opening presents, and then plunging into some pie and ice cream a little later.

But then I got a call that threatened to jeopardize this greatest wish and a long-anticipated day.

The call came in on Thursday morning. I was asked to give the opening prayer at the Trump rally in Warren, Michigan, on Saturday afternoon. It was an honor to be asked, to be sure. It’s something that, if you say no, you never get asked again. I had a choice to make. I told the caller that I couldn’t say yes without checking on something else first, and I assured her I’d call her right back. As soon as I hung up, I called Jennifer. Like me, she knew the day belonged to Evelyn. With that, our conversation was brief. We agreed that while this was an incredible honor, whatever Evelyn preferred would determine my answer. She was most important to both of us, and quite simply, that was that.

I walked down to the school, peeked into Evelyn’s classroom, and motioned for her to join me in the hallway. Reminding her of something that needed no reminder—the arrival of her birthday in two days—I started to tell her about what I’d just been invited to do that same day. Before I could even begin to explain that she would have the final word and that I would be absolutely fine with saying no to the request, her eyes lit up, and she burst into, “Can I go with you?! Can I go?! Can I go?!” She took a quick breath and then, true to form, added, “Can we all go?! Can the whole family go?!”

“Of course, we can all go,” I said. “But it’s your birthday—and it’s an extra-special one. You’ve been looking forward to being home with the whole family and having an easy day. I want that to be what happens if that’s what you want. Whatever you want to do is what we’ll all do. Just know I intend to be with you on your 13th birthday. There’s absolutely no way I’d miss it.”

“Will I get to meet President Trump if I go?” she asked. “Can we all meet him together?” she continued, making sure the prospect of a unique birthday joy would be her family’s, too.

“Absolutely,” I said. “We’ll all meet the President together.”

“Really?!” she replied, sounding even more excited than before.

“Yes, really,” I said. “They’ll give our whole family special seats right up front. When it’s time, they’ll call me on stage to offer the prayer, and then sometime afterward, when President Trump arrives, they’ll come and get us and take us back to meet him before he goes up to speak. We’ll get to talk with him and take some pictures.”

“Oh, this is going to be the best birthday ever!” she exclaimed. “And we’ll all be together!”

And that’s pretty much where it ended. Evelyn gave me an incredibly tight hug, and then I shepherded her back to class. The rest is what it is. Walking back to my office, I called and said yes, even though I was fully prepared to say no and never to be asked again. With that, we all went together—sadly, except for Harrison. He had a very sore throat on Friday and felt terrible when he awoke on Saturday. He preferred to stay home and sleep. We all missed him, that’s for sure. Each of us said that more than once throughout the evening. Still, it was quite an eventful night. While waiting in the Green Room before my time on stage, I met and visited with a number of folks many of us only know from a distance—such as Mike Lindell and Margorie Taylor Green. One notable moment was spent with Dick Morris. Before the family and I were ushered back to meet the President, he leaned over to ask if I’d read Erik Metaxas’ book on Luther. I had. And so we talked somewhat superficially about its contents. Along the way, I mentioned Luther’s theology of the Two Kingdoms, and that led him to ask me to explain it. I did, and he seemed convinced. And why wouldn’t he? It is the best, most precise handling of biblical Church and State theology.

Still, and as Evelyn is likely to tell you with glee, the best moment for all of us is when she got a cheerful and welcoming “Happy Birthday, Evelyn!” from President Trump followed by a warm handshake and a few pictures together with her family.

Now, I suppose I felt moved to tell you about my initial interaction with Evelyn during school because it shaped what I would eventually say during the prayer before the more than 20,000 people in attendance. If you watched the broadcast, you’d remember that I prayed for many things—religious liberty and protection from unjust laws, courage among citizens, preservation of objective truth, an unraveling of the wickedness of abortion, and God’s mighty hand for crushing Proposal 3. I asked God for these things and more. But smack dab in the middle of visiting with these requests on paper, I was first moved to scribble that our gracious Lord would restore admiration for family. In essence, I asked that we, as a nation, would be reminded of just how wonderful the bond between a father, mother, and children truly is. I did this not only because I know very well the blessings that come from having a family of my own but because God is the generous architect of the human household, and He has put the estate of family in place as a fundamental underpinning for all societies of all time. When families break, communities get weaker. When families are redefined, institutions lose more of their grip on what is sure.

If a society is to endure, it must preserve families.

I’ve also written in other places that the human family forms the quintessential transmission lines for passing this knowledge along from one generation to the next. When families come undone, when these lines are torn down, again, societies lose touch with their very identities. Families are essential to a nation’s identity. Knowing this, if I can’t first choose my family over myself, I harm the ones I love and do my country and its future generations a terrible disservice. The decision to say yes or no to a request like this might not appear to be that impactful, but in the end, its blast radius reaches further into a future than any of us could ever know. The funny thing is, the love I have for my daughter and the love she has for me made it incredibly easy to see. The love my whole family has for each other made it even more apparent.

Remember that.

Wives, love your husbands. No matter what, choose them first. Husbands, love your wives. Prefer them above everything else. Parents, love your children. Embrace them before embracing the things you think might be most beneficial to you personally. Do these things and enjoy a sturdy family, a gift of the Lord well-protected from a culture seeking to divide it. Our floundering 21st-century society needs you to do this, now more than ever.

[To view the prayer, click here.]

Natural Law is Deaf

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What do you do when trying to say something to someone, and he or she just won’t listen? Seriously, I’m asking. Do you have any tried-and-true suggestions that work better than others for getting people actually to hear what you’re trying to say?

One could say I’ve been in the business of communication since 1994, yet I can affirm from experience with certainty that the following saying is true: There’s none so deaf as those who will not hear.

Do you know what else is deaf? The Law. And by Law, I don’t mean civil decrees established by human beings. These things are forever listening, being proven flimsy by both good and bad considerations. I’ve heard of crimes committed by mistake that judges deemed worthy of mercy. Perhaps that’s an example of good, especially since it seems to mirror the grace our God offers to us in Christ. But I’ve also seen the sympathy of favoritism measured alongside the whines of a seemingly entitled few—as in the case of Hunter Biden and his dealings—or the current hypocrisy playing out among the liberal elite on Martha’s Vineyard. Do a little reading on those situations, and you’ll understand the saying, “The Law is for thee, not me.”

When I use the word Law, most often, I mean the Ten Commandments. In this case, I mean Natural Law.

Natural Law is entirely deaf. It cannot hear anyone’s attempts to negotiate with or whine against it, hoping for an exception. It’s not listening when you claim it’s unfair. It won’t acknowledge your preferences above its own. It shows no mercy to your accidental or intentional infringements. If you accidentally lop off a limb, it won’t feel sorrow, granting you a do-over. If you jump from a building with arms outstretched, no matter your beliefs about your potential for flight, Natural Law will bring you to the earth in painful judgment. If you dive into a swimming pool, no matter how certain you are that you’ll remain dry, Natural Law will prove your conviction foolish and soak you. Why are these things true? Well, the deepest answer always ends with what’s really going on behind the scenes (Romans 1:18). But aside from that, these things are true because physics is. Because Chemistry is. Because Natural Law is. Natural Law stands passionlessly immovable to anyone attempting to disturb it. It does so with a dry obsession utterly void of fear, concern, anger, sadness, or any care common to the cosmos that God put it in place to manage.

Interestingly, many in our world believe they’ve figured out a way to subdue Natural Law, to make it listen and obey. Their solution? Just keep talking, and along the way, try to bend its rules. Typically, such bending is coupled with a redefining of Natural Law’s language. I mention this having read a recently published paper entitled “The Dutch Protocol for Juvenile Transsexuals: Origins and Evidence” written by Michael Biggs, a Professor of Sociology and Fellow of St Cross College, University of Oxford. Michigan Senator Lana Theis shared the link with me, figuring I might be interested in what Dr. Biggs had to say. She was right. I read the whole thing. My guess is that it won’t be long before Biggs is targeted for cancelation by LGBTQ, Inc. I expect this because, in short, not only is the evidence overwhelming that the use of GnRHa puberty suppression drugs in children causes irreversibly physical and psychological damage, but the practice itself began and was furthered through the weakest standards ever known to science, and this was made possible by extraordinarily deceitful language brimming with redefinitions that resulted in outrageous claims regarding its long-term safety.

My thought in this is that the devil has been long-suffering toward this particular insanity. He prompted these things back in the mid-nineties. As it would go, it’s now a standard treatment for gender dysphoric kids—who many experts agree are really only experiencing the dysphoria due to the confusion caused by the adults around them.

Nevertheless, from the mid-nineties until today, Natural Law continued to be what Natural Law is—completely deaf to the conversation and entirely unconcerned with the manipulation of its language. Every uninterpretable variant of each new word remained immutable, forever retaining its roots in what’s real. As always, Natural Law doesn’t care that a man might believe himself to be a woman. Natural Law will forever govern him as a man. And again, why? Because biology is. The study by Dr. Biggs is an essential reminder of the horrible repercussions of believing and acting otherwise.

The ones behind these irreparable disasters—the ones prattling on incessantly that gender is subjective, that men can get pregnant, and so many other ridiculous things—as they speak and speak some more, they do eventually discover an amiable and convincible listener: the sin-nature at home in the audience. The sin-nature is only partially deaf. When truth is spoken, the words are garbled. But the sin-nature hears lies exceptionally well, and it’s inclined toward hearing more. With this, I think these unremitting liars have helped answer my original question regarding what to do when someone just won’t listen, which I’ll get to in a minute.

Critical of human tendency and its favorite conversation partner (the sin-nature), the poet Elizabeth Browning observed, “For say a foolish thing oft enough—the same thing—shall pass at last for absolutely wise, and not with fools exclusively.” In other words, the only way to avoid the truth is to create your own. Of course, to do this is to lie. And yet, it’s a lie that has the potential for acceptance if spoken repeatedly. Repetition is the number one rule in marketing when it comes to audience acceptance. Joseph Goebbels, the chief propagandist for the Nazis, who, knowing the same thing Browning and all professional marketers know, is purported to have spoken rather fondly of this reality in the twisted way you might expect. He said: 

“If you tell a lie big enough and keep repeating it, people will eventually come to believe it. The lie can be maintained only for such time as the State can shield the people from the political, economic, or military consequences of the lie. It thus becomes vitally important for the State to use all its powers to repress dissent, for the truth is the mortal enemy of the lie, and thus by extension, the truth is the greatest enemy of the State.”

Whether or not Goebbels actually said this, he certainly proved the sentiment genuine. He even weaponized it so that an entire nation would sanction the oppression and murder of millions. Indeed, for liars, truth is the greatest enemy.

But this goes both ways. For truth-tellers, lies are the enemy.

And so, returning to where I began—what do you do when you are trying to communicate truth to someone who just won’t listen? In a way, I think the solution is the same for both liars and truth-tellers. Keep talking. Keep speaking the truth. As this meets with Natural Law, while it may not care about our conversations, it is, by default, already poised in the truth-tellers’ camp. When we cannot convince someone ideologically, Natural Law has a way of convincing them physically. Keen to this, we keep on talking.

Admittedly, you’ll need stamina for this. I say this for a very good reason. I don’t know about you, but when it comes to certain things troubling our society, sometimes I get sick of the sound of my own voice as I talk about them. This is true because I find myself saying the same things over and over again. It’s exhausting. Jennifer and I were just having this conversation a few nights ago regarding vulgar speech. We tire ourselves sharing our frustration with the prevalence of it in almost every aspect of society. Still, we hold a strict line on swearing in our family. Cursing is not a part of our everyday vocabulary. It’s not even something that happens during our most contentious moments as a family. But even as this may be our standard, it is by no means axiomatic in the world around us. Does that mean we’re fighting a losing battle as we continue talking about it with our kids? God’s Word says foul language doesn’t have a place among His people (Ephesians 5:4). With that, my answer is no, and so we stay the course. We keep railing against its cultural acceptability. Thankfully, this has produced tremendous dividends in our home. Disagreements result in far better and more productive conversations. And the stamina for keeping such a course? A steady diet of the Gospel for faith in Christ—the Truth in the flesh!

Forgiveness in Christ is the fuel. Connected to the Savior and the gifts He gives through Word and Sacrament, not only do we have what’s necessary for outpacing the foolishness of this world, but we have Truth at our fingertips for discerning and then countering the world’s lies with something far better (1 John 4:6).

In closing, and before I find myself down a rabbit hole, I suppose I should ask, “Do you know someone who just won’t hear you?” Yeah, I do, too. More than one, in fact. Well, for as outnumbered and exhausting as the conversations might seem, keep at it. And why? Well, as has already been shown, repetition is powerful. An even better reason is that you already know not to sit idly by and let untruth have its way. Untruth “is an abomination to the Lord” (Proverbs 12:22). Having this awareness, you’re obligated to war against untruth. You do this because you know that God delights in truth (3 John 1:3-4)—that the complete sum of His Word is truth, and as Christians, we have it in our midst, not only for ourselves but for others (Psalm 119:160). You also know God promises to bless and protect the efforts of His people to seek and to speak His truth (Proverbs 30:5; 2 Timothy 3:16; Matthew 6:33). How could He not, since faith already understands so well that in Christ, you will “know the truth, and the truth will set you free” (John 8:32)? Free from what? Free from eternal condemnation and made free to extend the same life-giving news to others—the Gospel message that “if the Son sets you free, you will be free indeed” (v. 36).

Care with Language: One Sphere to Another

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Our dear friends Rev. Joe and Carrie Bangert are in town for the weekend, and it has been a joy catching up with them. Because our families are incredibly close, having spent years together here at Our Savior—walking together through so many moments in life, our kids being theirs and theirs being ours—it was easy to shore up our time apart. It’s nothing short of visiting with family. We spent most of Saturday morning talking about our children—where they are in life and the kind of people they are becoming. Chatting in this way, it’s hard to avoid comparing generations. And so, we did that, too. We talked about how things were different in our former days, and as we did, we observed ourselves. At least, I know I did.

I suppose I could ask you, “When did you know the path you would pursue as an adult?”

I’ve shared before that my earliest memory of future possibilities envisioned an Indiana Jones life in archaeology. I wanted to dig things up, find artifacts, and solve mysteries. I wanted to rediscover the earth’s undiscoverables. At one time, I found myself wanting to be a doctor. By the time I entered high school, both desires had given way to a longing to fly fighter jets, namely, the F-15 Eagle. I loved that plane. I still do. A secret wish is that before I die, I’ll be able to go for a ride in one—or any fighter jet, for that matter.

Beyond these things, something happened during my junior year in high school that rendered my previous aspirations obsolete. I think Graham Greene described it best. He said, “There is always one moment in childhood when the door opens and lets the future in.”

I remember one of a few instances that signaled the door’s opening. It happened while sitting in a midday study hall scheduled right after my Creative Writing English class and just before my Spanish III class. That day in particular, I’d spent my time reading The Masque of the Red Death by Edgar Allen Poe.

In the story, Poe described a revelrous masquerade ball thrown by a prince for his friends in seclusion while a terrible plague was depopulating his country. As if nothing were happening outside, the extravagant décor of the prince’s gatherings betrayed a uniquely twisted personality, one that Poe described as “bold and fiery” designs that “glowed with barbaric lustre.” Poe continued using fantastical language to describe a seemingly grotesque genius inherent to a man who wanted to continue living his life of indulgence, doing all he could to forget what was happening beyond the archways of his isolation.

It’s a unique story. And yet, the point of my sharing is not necessarily its content (even though it does matter) but rather something that happened while reading the story. It was a moment when I felt a genuine appreciation for the rich use of language. Poe wrote in ways that brought me from one sphere into another. There I was sitting in the Morton High School cafeteria, feeling as though I’d been whisked away and into darkly gothic chambers filled with costumed and twirling revelers. His descriptions were incredibly palpable. Here at my computer on a Sunday morning more than thirty years after first reading the story, I still feel like I’m describing something I experienced firsthand. The party’s music, bustling atmosphere, and flickering candelabras dripping wax haven’t left me. Perhaps more significantly, I remember the passion stirred by the story’s pivotal moment from noisy merriment to a sweeping breathlessness that palled every person in every chamber of the house—the moment of moments when a visitor appeared and everything turned sideways for the prince and his guests. It was the moment that revealed Poe’s purpose for writing.

Poe described the scene:

“And then the music ceased, as I have told; and the evolutions of the waltzers were quieted; and there was an uneasy cessation of all things as before. But now there were twelve strokes to be sounded by the bell of the clock; and thus it happened… the presence of a masked figure which had arrested the attention of no single individual before. And the rumor of this new presence having spread itself whisperingly around, there arose at length from the whole company a buzz, or murmur, expressive of disapprobation and surprise—then, finally, of terror, of horror, and of disgust.”

I don’t want to spoil the story (although it was published in 1842, so you’ve had 180 years to read it), but you should know that the masked figure who suddenly appeared wasn’t on the prince’s guest list. He’s never on anyone’s guest list. Still, he has access to every space that humans occupy. One day, we will meet him no matter what we do to ignore him, how we try to hide away from him, or what we do to protect against him. Everyone will. And why? For one, God did not hide the truth regarding the sinister specter’s existence. He is the last greatest enemy of all (1 Corinthians 15:26), the one visitor God told us would be Sin’s final wage (Romans 6:23).

Both then and now, Poe’s story communicates something incredibly theological to me. For my part, however, I remember reading it and realizing how much I loved the language Poe used to tell it. I remember wondering how it could be possible to take such a deep truth carried on such a moving string of language, and translate it into other languages, such as the language I’d be studying in my very next class. Could Spanish interpret the vibrancy of Poe’s English sufficiently. English and Spanish are two different spheres.

There began my desire for a career focused on handling language in the best ways for memorably communicating concepts from one person or place to another. The door opened, and my future stepped in.

I assumed the way forward in this would be as a teacher, so I went to college and eventually graduated with a degree in education. Enticed by the opportunity to teach in a church, I drifted into my school’s Director of Christian Education program. This resulted in an internship in Michigan. A decade later, I experienced the unmistakable pull toward the seminary. Now I’m a pastor—both a teacher and preacher. I’m someone tasked with taking the most remarkable words ever put to a page and communicating them to others.

A few weeks ago, during the sermon here at Our Savior, I used one of my fast-fleeting minutes in the pulpit to examine this privilege, sharing how it actually meets with the preaching task. I mentioned that Christian preaching is, as Saint Paul demonstrates quite simply in Romans 10:14-15, a conduit from God through a person to others. Its purpose is to deliver God’s Law and Gospel—to show us our sins and to give us the solution to the sin problem, Jesus Christ. The result: faith in the Savior and the assurance of eternal life only by His person and work. I noted that a Christian sermon, while it may technically preach Law and Gospel, if it does so unprepared and disjointedly, being little more than a prattling on and on about this and that, eventually becoming a droning form of communication that actually makes it hard for the hearer to listen—such preaching might be doing more to smother its purpose than accomplish it.

In other words, the careful handling of God’s Word—which includes deliberate attention to the language used to relay it—is important. This is true because it can assist in building a platform of certainty in a listener—the fostering of a uniquely powerful (and often overlooked) byproduct: the belief that what’s being said means the world to the preacher, and he desperately wants his listeners to believe it, too. Of course, that’s not necessarily the power of the sermon. The Holy Spirit at work through the faithful proclamation of the Word is the power.

Notice I said the faithful proclamation. Care with words is a part of this and is, by no means, disconnected from the Lord’s sending of the preacher as a witness. When the preacher communicates the seriousness of sin’s predicament (that Poe’s specter is indeed looming) and the solution born from the person and work of Christ, when he does this in ways that show he’s invested in every single word, this can be an extremely sturdy bridge on the road to certainty. Such moments become unforgettable for listeners, ones that welcome concepts right into the middle of the listener’s sphere.

I can honestly say that the beginning of my awareness of these things began to take shape during my junior year in high school. In essence, I was becoming aware of the art of homiletics—the study and practice of preaching. Sure, it coalesced in my youth through visits with secular literature. But even so, the door opened, and my current role (which back then was my potential future) stepped in. Do I sometimes wonder if I’d have made it as a fighter pilot? Sometimes. I just asked myself that question a few nights ago while watching “Top Gun: Maverick” for the tenth time. And yet, as Maverick said in response to Rear Admiral Chester Cain’s ridiculing comments for not having done something grander with his life, “I’m where I belong, sir.” I thought the same thing while sipping my shallow dram of whisky and nodding in agreement. I’m right where I belong. I’m doing what I’m supposed to be doing.

I suppose that’s enough for this morning.

Inheritors of the World to Come

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Perhaps you’re still trying to keep up with the latest safety recommendations for COVID? I’m not. I stopped trying to “be in the know” about these things long ago. To be clear, when it became apparent that entire fields of science were being manipulated to satisfy political agendas—many of which conveniently hindered the efforts of the Church, parental authority in schools, and so many other things that are fundamental to a moral society—my belief in the current government’s legitimate ordination became less than sturdy, and with it, my desire to cooperate in its externals. As a result, I’ve found myself accepting the possibility that God’s smiling countenance upon America, if ever ours to claim, is very near its end.

But that’s a topic for another day.

In the meantime, it seems if you can steer clear of most mainstream media sources, choosing instead to visit with some of the unprocessed and unfiltered numbers, a majority of what I think you’ll find appears to vindicate the ones who spoke out against forced vaccinations, mask-wearing, and school closings. Many studies show an astronomical surge in suicides, which is something never before seen in history. Others are proving cognitive deficiencies in children at unprecedented levels. Plenty of others imply drastic worldwide increases in cancers, strokes, cardiopulmonary diseases, respiratory illnesses, and even untimely deaths among youth within populations with the highest percentages of adherence to masking, social distancing, and vaccination acceptance.

These disastrous upturns appear to begin in the late spring of 2020. Why? What took place in 2020? I wonder.

Interestingly, the people who imposed these things upon us continue to claim that what they did was beneficial, and they’re even insisting we vote to keep them in their stations. Gretchen Whitmer, the Governor of Michigan, wants four more years. The one who, by executive order, required my local Ace Hardware to rope off its gardening and paint sections; the one who mandated that all Michigan hospitals forego countless life-saving treatments and surgical procedures; the one who sent state employees to tape off public play structures; the one who ticketed un-masked dog-walkers; the one who sent Michigan State Police to fine barbers and give citations to clergy holding worship services; the one who fortified a context in which newborns, who are now two years old, have only recently been allowed to see the unmasked faces of their caregivers, extended family, and closest childhood friends; the one who orchestrated unvaccinated employee terminations—this diabolical Governor wants to keep her job. She militantly choreographed these things and more while keeping the abortion clinics wide open and ensuring Michiganders had unhindered access to lottery tickets and liquor. This fiendish woman is insisting we give her another shot in Lansing.

Is there any doubt that I will do everything I can to see that she is not re-elected? Tudor Dixon, what can I do to help?

Of course, that’s a topic for another day, as well.

Still, no matter the ever-increasing pile of irrefutable data proving the destruction that has occurred (and continues to occur) over the last two years, some continue to show a strange tenacity for rejecting what the data shows. Why? Well, one reason might be because it’s tough to break free from the habit-forming rites and ceremonies of what has become the COVID religion. For the most part, I’ve been able to tune it out. Still, every time I stop for gas and, like you, find myself signing away years of my life for a few gallons, most of the commercials on the pump’s tiny screen involve COVID clergy repeating this new religion’s liturgies. The presiding minister says, “Mask up! Get vaccinated! This promise is for you and your children; vaccination now saves you!” The congregation resounds its amens and alleluias with, “It’s safe and effective! Love your neighbor!”

Speaking as a tradition-and-liturgy-loving Lutheran, when it comes to retaining true religion (which is what Saint James calls Christianity in the first chapter of his epistle [1:26-27], referring specifically to Christianity’s visible distinction from the world’s persona), that’s a big part of what liturgy, rites, and ceremonies are for. They deliver a clear, structured, and authoritative word from the word’s source. They repetitively do this. Repetition weaves subject matter into a person’s heart and mind, not only stirring trustworthiness but making it so that wherever the person might be, the content of his or her faith is accessible in an involuntary way. Immersing in such things creates credal boundaries designed to help a believer remain within the true faith while avoiding heterodox teachings. Again, all of these are reasons why I’m a full subscriber to liturgical Christianity. An added benefit (and again, speaking only for myself): the confines of credal Christianity have assisted many believers in identifying and defending against the inching impositions of the new credal COVID religion. Churches that are essentially “anything goes” in nature and practice don’t have the protective borders that historic liturgical churches have. In an “anything goes” world, an “anything goes” church is already a perfect match for the world’s ways. It’s just how humanity works.

But that, too, is a topic for another day.

Another thought: I think the willful cancellation of in-person worship says a lot about modern Christianity. Across the span of 2,000 years, closing the Church’s doors at Easter for fear of sickness and death seemed to communicate something viscerally wrong with 21st-century Christianity. The pastors who led the charge—or the people of God who pressured or threatened their pastors toward blind compliance—this side of the situation, I think the decision will haunt all. “At the time, we didn’t know what we didn’t know.” True. But the resurrection of Jesus is the cemented victory over death and all its creeping tendrils, the most creeping of all being fear. It should be the last celebration ever to be canceled. In Christ, for a believer, to die is not death but life. Do we tempt death with foolish practices? No. In uncertain situations, we take reasonable precautions, never imposing on God’s Word in the process. Still, do we do these things because we’re afraid of death? By no means. Why would we be? There’s a reason the Lutheran funeral liturgy includes (or at least should include) the Lord’s words to Martha at Lazarus’ tomb. Jesus spoke plainly of death to the saddened and fearful sister, “I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in Me will live, even though he dies; and whoever lives and believes in Me will never die” (John 11:25-26). If one keeps reading the text, you’ll see the Lord didn’t end His sentence there. He asked Martha directly, “Do you believe this?” Martha’s answer will be heard and then seen.

21st-century Christians were asked, “Do you believe this?” Our communal words and deeds were incredibly disappointing.

As I said, the decision to close churches will forever haunt many Christians and clergy. But apparently, not everyone. Believe it or not, some churches are happy to remain closed to this day, and the members of those churches appear unbothered by it, too. Beyond those fellowships, many congregations have been seduced into online worship as a viable option, not just for shut-ins, be for able-bodied church-goers. Pastors and church leaders have steered God’s people into a church-certified justification for never stepping foot in the Lord’s house again. Pajamas, coffee, and church when it’s convenient—a complete disconnection from the worshipping community—have become pious. Worse than that, virtual communion is now a thing.

Terrible.

I have one thing to say about these things, especially as I think back to where I began: If you think the skyrocketing rates of suicide, illnesses, and premature deaths are alarming, these are nothing compared to the spiritual havoc that all this has created. It’s a mess of spiritual illnesses and deaths that reach into the world after this world. You name the tragedy—disease, lightning strike, shark attack, an automobile accident. All these things and more kill in this life. But Christians are not inheritors of this life. We are heirs of the life to come. A disconnected and starved faith kills the life to come—the unending life.

I should probably wrap up this morning’s rambling with some sort of point. I guess I’m saying that if you’ve been away from your church since 2020, having somehow become convinced that staying at home will keep you safe from all things leading to death, I beg you to reconsider your position. In truth, all the so-called reasonable excuses have dried up. Now you’re willfully committing spiritual suicide. Unfortunately, the COVID religion continues to bolster the virtue in doing so, convincing so many that they’re somehow showing genuine Christian love to their neighbors by abiding in its provably destructive dogmas.

Again, terrible—the devil’s scheme, for sure. Beware.

Remember, you can’t even begin to love your neighbor if you don’t love God more. You don’t get to the second table of the Ten Commandments (commandments four through ten) before passing through the first table (commandments one through three). God’s Word is not cloudy in this regard. Right there in the first table, trust in God above all things is chief, His name is above all others, and time with Him in worship is above all other opportunities. If these things are negligible or arbitrary to you, you’ve already wandered beyond the boundaries of the one true faith before your first hello to a neighbor. That said, there’s a good chance you’re apart from all the other salvation-crucial details inherent to the Gospel you claim to confess. Go to church. Be in study. Hear the preaching. Receive Word and Sacrament ministry for the benefit of a sturdy faith and a right trust in the Conqueror of death and its reverberating fears. Get back inside the safe keeping of this Conqueror’s sheep pen. Hear His voice and follow Him.

Unlike the inept and ever-varying science-shifters the prophets of COVID have proven to be, Jesus Christ is steady and can be trusted. He is the same yesterday, today, and forever (Hebrews 13:8). He has promised never to leave or forsake you (Deuteronomy 31:6; Hebrews 13:5). In my book, that settles it. What’s more, He gives these promises to Christians and then, with devout concern, asks rhetorically, “For what will it profit a man if he gains the whole world and forfeits his soul?” (Matthew 16:26). The answer: passing appeasement and pleasure in this temporary life but everything dreadful in the unending next.

Complaining

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As I type this, a bag sits on the chair across from my office desk. The bag has puzzles inside. I don’t know who placed it there, but I’m assuming it to be a kindly gesture by someone who knows my family likes such things. Somewhat of a betrayal of my observational skills, I think the bag was delivered to my office this past Wednesday. I can’t say for sure, mainly because last week was a bit of a blur. A lot happened in a very short period. Some of it was easy. Other parts were more challenging. All of it is in the Lord’s hands. It’s His church. We can all sleep easier knowing that.

I should say that as grateful as I am for the gifted puzzles, unfortunately, I do have one concern about the bag. It is adorned with a wintry scene bearing a smiling snowman. Above the frosty gent are the words, “Let it snow!” Again, thank you to whoever gave us the puzzles. What a treat! Nevertheless, I need you to know I’m going to burn this bag once my family removes the thoughtful gifts in its keep. I dread the snow and everything that comes with it. I say, keep the snow upstairs in heaven’s attic, and instead, let the warm sunshine continue to gild the grassy summertime landscapes down here.

Summer is better. Summer is my thing.

Of course, this isn’t to be. Anything I might call “my thing” is never really mine to control. Nothing is. Even the things I might consider autonomic—something like breathing—will one day cease. I won’t be in control at that moment. And so, for as much as I want summer to remain, winter is coming. Beyond that, there’s no use in complaining about it—even though I’m pretty sure I will continue to do so.

Technically, I have no right to complain. I live in Michigan, a tundra-like state. I do so by choice. Well, maybe not by choice. I blame my wife, Jennifer. She’s from Michigan. I met her, fell in love, and I stayed here because I wanted to be where she was. Thankfully, God saw fit to put me into a congregation I dearly love. Or perhaps better stated, I’d die for the people of Our Savior in Hartland, Michigan. Considering Joe Biden’s recent speech, it seems that’s becoming less a rhetorical statement and more a possibility.

Still, if I had the magical ability to lift Our Savior Lutheran Church and all its people from the earth and set them down on a gulf-kissed shore in Florida, I would. The place would look nice with some pineapple trees in our gardens and a few palm trees by our bell tower. I know I’m a stickler for stewardship, but if anyone suggested during a congregation meeting that we install a pool, I’d probably go for it. I mean, why not? Hey, trustees, what do you think?

But as I said, I have no right to complain. Come to think of it, at a base level, none of us has a right to complain about discomforting things we experience in this world. These things exist because of Sin. Sin is our fault, and complaining about it is a bit like turning on the stove, putting our hand in the flame, and then whining that we were burned. Besides, in the grand scheme of things, the One to whom we’re most likely directing our complaints—God—isn’t responsible for Sin. The fact that He handled it anyway says something about Him.

He loves us.

That brings something else to mind this morning: the Complaint Psalms—Psalms such as 3, 31, 44, 64, 142, and others. The Psalms of Complaint certainly are good examples of divinely inspired writers whining to God. That being said, such Psalms assume a few things.

Firstly, they assume a distinction between good and bad complaining. Bad complaining is often described in the scriptures as grumbling. Grumbling is the negative bemoaning that happens when our attention is more set on self than Christ. We want what we want. When we don’t get it, we complain. Perhaps worse, we end up blaming God for our woes rather than trusting in His divine care. I think good complaining—biblical concern—is different. God expects His people to complain to Him. He expects us, like Him, to be bothered by Sin’s darkly products. If we’re not expressing our concern in some measure for Sin’s grip on humanity and its dreadful horribleness unfolding in the lives of every man, woman, and child across the planet, then we’re far denser than we might give ourselves credit. This same assumption understands faith. It understands, firstly, that God is ready to hear the cries of His people; and secondly, we go to Him because He’s the only One capable of doing anything about Sin. Yes, we can complain about the ungodliness of abortion. We can even get involved, doing everything we can to stop it. Still, God is the only One who will see to its permanent demise. This leads to another assumption about good complaining: the anticipation and expectation of God’s love. We know God will always be ready to exchange our concern with His comforting Gospel—the wonderful proclamation of our deliverance from Sin through the person and work of Christ and the promise to strengthen us for meeting the challenges that stirred our concern in the first place.

He loves us. He hears us. He’s with us. He enlightens and empowers us, using the momentum of our Godly concerns to work through us in His world.

Still, as with the rest of God’s Word, the Complaint Psalms are in place to herald Christ. They meet with the Sin problem, being sure to dole out the only hope that can soothe our visceral concerns. Take a look at some of the Psalms I mentioned above. They never leave the complainer without hope.

I’m not so sure my complaining about snow fits into the category of good griping. While I’m burning the snowman bag, I’ll reflect on what I do know—which is that if it’s the Lord’s will, He’ll see me through another season that more than taxes me holistically. This world—His world—will continue to spin. Winter will become spring. Summer will return after that. All along the way, He’ll take both my bad and good complaints and put His faithful Word before me—both His Law and Gospel. He’ll give His Law to reveal my sinful selfishness and His Gospel to forgive and strengthen me for being His trusting child who engages in the surrounding world.

In all, I’d say that will forever be a pretty good gig for whiners like me.

Time and Eternity

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It happens every year. I step from summer’s easier pace to the starting gate of autumn. It’s there I see the valley below traced with the winding hills of a forthcoming marathon—a new school year, an overabundance of midweek events, winter’s frigidity and scrooged sunlight, and so many other things that stir an unwelcomed anxiousness. I don’t know about you, but I really struggle this time of year.

“I don’t know about you….”

I suppose that’s a strange phrase because odds are, I do know about you. As different as each of us might be, we’re also very much alike. I’m guessing that, like me, as you travel around the sun on this ever-spinning planet, you meet with those moments in life when time itself feels like an irregular heartbeat, like the world had slowed to a crawl before suddenly launching into lightspeed. It’s enough to give someone emotional whiplash. You know the sayings. Time flies when you’re having fun. A watched pot never boils. Fast or slow, the passage of time often feels relative to the things occurring within it.

I’m probably thinking about these things because of an article by Ronald C. Lasky I happened upon last week in Scientific American. The piece was entitled “Does Time Tick at the Same Rate for Everyone?” While I’m not much of a scientist, I was captured by the idea. It turned out to be a rather interesting examination of Einstein’s general theory of relativity and how it generated other concepts like time dilation and the “Twin Paradox.” Using a narrative of twins (one stationary and the other on a high-velocity, round-trip mission to a distant star) to explain the premise, and then pointing to successful experiments, the answer to the article’s title question was, essentially, no, time does not tick at the same rate for everyone. In fact, if certain factors were true, it’s entirely possible for the oldest in a group of siblings to leave the others and return as the youngest, implying that time could be manipulated. Near the end of the article, Lasky rested the contextual boundaries of his complicated discussion within the words, “The traveler’s actions define the events.” In other words, where the person is and what he is doing ultimately determines the person’s relation to time.

That’s intriguing. For me, it was a reminder of something else entirely. Saint Paul’s words in 2 Corinthians 4:16 came to mind: “So we do not lose heart. Though our outer self is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day.”

As Christians, outwardly—physically—we’re in decay. Inwardly—spiritually—we’re being revitalized and renewed.

The first thing Paul acknowledges here is that we’re all coming undone materially regardless of our scientific theories. We’re wasting away. And he’s right. No one has ever outpaced death. However, secondly, Christ conquered death and rose from its bondage to this decay (v. 14). As a result, by the power of the Holy Spirit for faith in His sacrifice for us, we’re not destined for death but for life. This is Paul’s way of saying that we’re not winding down toward a dreadful end, but instead, with our eyes of faith fixed on Christ, we’re winding up toward the timelessness of eternity (vv. 17-18). Relative to Lasky’s article, Paul just explained where faith puts a person—and what it has that person doing—all in relation to time. Because of our newness in Christ, time moves at a different pace for us. What’s more, we’re inclined to use time differently because we have an altogether different mindset about its purpose, one born from the divine knowledge of the resurrection. Even our decaying bodies will one day be restored! Jesus’ victory reaches into that, too! By this, the unwinding of time can’t ever become something prompting us to live every moment to the fullest in a carnal sense, doing all we can to achieve and gather everything our heart would desire in this life before we pass away. Paul gave a sarcastic wink to this decadent Epicurean philosophy in 1 Corinthians 15:32. Essentially, the Apostle admitted that if the resurrection to eternal life is a hoax, then we might as well eat and drink for tomorrow we die, and beyond that, there’s nothing.

But Paul knows the resurrection to eternal life isn’t a hoax. It’s real. And it’s ours in time right now. This being true, we don’t see our days in this life as self-serving. We already have everything we need—Jesus Christ, the Giver of eternity—the greatest treasure both time and timelessness could ever afford. From this ever-renewing perspective, we’re now found applying each of our moments toward faithfulness to Him, retaining this advantage over time, and trusting that whether we live or die, through faith in Christ, we’re already children of heaven’s eternal glory (2 Corinthians 4:6).

Maybe this is far too complicated a thought for an early morning musing. Well, it is what it is. And to be clear, this analogy breaks from the original intent of Lesky’s comment about the traveler’s actions defining the events when we remember that we’re not the traveler. Jesus is—with a capital “T.” His person and work define our existence in relation to time and eternity. We’d be lost if our actions were to define or determine the events. We don’t have what it takes to break this time barrier. Time would expire, and we’d not only be found undone outwardly but also undone inwardly forever.

And so…

“Behold! I tell you a mystery. We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed, in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, and the dead will be raised imperishable, and we shall be changed. For this perishable body must put on the imperishable, and this mortal body must put on immortality. When the perishable puts on the imperishable, and the mortal puts on immortality, then shall come to pass the saying that is written: ‘Death is swallowed up in victory. O death, where is your victory? O death, where is your sting?’ The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law. But thanks be to God, who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ” (1 Corinthians 15:51-56).