Tag Archives: hope

The Place Where Only Christians Can Live

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I would usually sleep on the cot in my office at the church on a snow-laden day like today. But not this time. I slept in my own bed at home last night.

For one, I prefer to make sure everything remains in good working order throughout the night, namely, that the heat and power continue uninterrupted. I also prefer not to be the only one out on the unplowed roads at 4:00 in the morning. And that’s precisely what they were on the way in. As the years go by, it seems less thought is given to the churches—to the fact that God’s people are still gathering, still trying to make their way to worship. I get the sense that Sunday morning simply isn’t factored into anyone’s plans anymore, certainly not the folks deciding what gets plowed first.

Still, in all of Our Savior Evangelical Lutheran Church in Hartland, Michigan’s 70 years, we’ve never canceled a service. Not once. And it certainly isn’t going to happen on my watch. So, rest assured, the lights are bright. The heat is on. The Lord’s gifts of Word and Sacrament will be given, no matter how many gather to receive them.

The holy season of Advent begins today. That means Christmas is coming. And yet, last weekend at an event anticipating Christmas—a Christmas tree-lighting ceremony in downtown Chicago—shots rang out, resulting in one dead and eight seriously wounded. That same night, in Concord, North Carolina, another tree-lighting ended in gunfire. Four were shot. Three of the victims are still in critical condition.

Violence in Chicago is a pretty standard thing. It’s one of the most dangerous cities in America. Concord, North Carolina, not so much. In fact, it ranks among the safest cities in America. Safe or not-so-safe, what makes all of this stand out is the setting. Although Christmas trees no longer mean to most what they’re supposed to mean. The whole point of a Christmas tree is Jesus—or at least it used to be, way back when Christian communities looked to the evergreen as a reminder of life in Christ during winter’s deathly season. But now, it’s little more than a seasonal prop stripped entirely of its sacred center. Still, public tree-lighting ceremonies continue to be celebratory opportunities, and if anything, a warm assumption of community. That’s nice. But it obviously isn’t enough. Not when dreadfulness suddenly intrudes. And in the end, that may be the most sobering point of all. Whether you live in a city known for violence or one praised for its safety, dreadfulness always finds a way in. And then what? I only ask this question having read some of the words from victims’ families, which I’ll get to in a moment.

In the meantime, I’ll simply say that sin can and will fracture anything devoid of Christ. When Christ is removed, wherever He once was is instantly hollow. An empty object is a fragile object. It certainly has no power to restrain real darkness. But that’s because Christ is missing, and He’s the only One who can carry us through times of need. In this sense, last weekend’s violence during the Christmas tree-lighting ceremonies served as a kind of grotesque sermon, reminding all of us how Christological substance is desperately needed in our lives, and how humanity just cannot manufacture it, not even through seasonal civic ceremonies that look and feel nice but in truth are entirely devoid of real meaning. This brings me back to Advent.

For the churches that observe Advent—and I mean, actually observe it—we know the centuries-old pre-Christmas season is by no means hollow. We know its language and sense. It’s a penitential time, one that acknowledges sin’s dreadful grip. And yet, Advent stakes a firm claim in hope as it simultaneously looks backward to the Rescuer who came at Christmas, and also forward to that same Rescuer’s promised return at the end of days. As we Confessional Lutherans tend to say, it’s the kind of hope that knows the fullness of God’s promises in the “right now” but also the “not yet,” all at the same time.

This weird tension is essential to Advent. It names sin honestly. It knows the situation is dire and, therefore, refuses to minimize the brokenness responsible for the violence we saw last weekend. But it does this while anchored in what Christ has done, is doing now, and will continue to do. That’s Christian hope. Christian hope is not some hollow form of vague optimism. That’s what happens at civic tree-lighting ceremonies. Advent’s longing is a deliberate, time-spanning trust that the same Savior who entered history will keep His promises, one of which is to return to set everything right. That makes Advent far more than a season that’s waiting for Christmas, but one filled with holy confidence rooted in history, promise, and unquestionable fulfillment.

That’s a place where only Christians can live.

By the way, this is not a claim of moral superiority. It’s one of theological location. To live in the “right now but not yet” requires faith. Only those who have heard God’s promise in Christ and, by the power of the Holy Spirit, believe, can stand in the middle of that tension without being crushed by it. It is a narrow place. But in its narrowness, there’s a freedom the world cannot replicate. It tries. But it just can’t do it.

Remember, Christians started all this decorating stuff. We decorated evergreens, lit candles, and hung lights. We sang ancient hymns that communicated the Gospel’s backward and forward perspective. We still do it. The world has similar traditions this time of year. It decorates evergreens, puts up light displays, and sings its holiday songs. But between the two spheres is a strict separation. Buffeted only by the world’s empty décor, culture’s residents experience what happened in Chicago and North Carolina, and suddenly, their holiday is tainted with despair. I read an interview with one of the Chicago victim’s family members. The woman being interviewed said she may never celebrate Christmas again. Essentially, the memory is too terrible, and now the holiday is, too.

I get how that could be true, especially when your only framework is a sentimental, once-a-year version of joy tied to things that can be ripped away at any moment. When that’s the case, then any tragedy is enough to make every twinkling light or holiday tune feel forever poisoned.

But from the Christian perspective, with Advent’s Gospel in mind and heart, we light candles and hang lights, not to deny the darkness, and not even because the darkness might be scary. We know it is. But we also have no intention of granting the darkness final authority. We keep singing our joy-filled hymns, not necessarily to cope, as though we’re in some starry-eyed form of denial, but as an act of genuine defiance against sin, death, and the devil. We sing because the Gospel has the upper hand, not the darkness, and we know it. And so, we are perpetually hopeful.

I guess one thing I’m saying is that Christian rituals like these, no matter how the world might twist or imitate them, will forever be Christian property. We own them. And because we know better, they’ll always be acts of resistance rather than seasonal sentiment. The evergreen—a plant that keeps its green even when all life around it has come to a frozen halt—for Christians, it’s a visible confession that death does not have the final word. A candle is not mere ambiance for us. It’s a proclamation that Light has entered the world and cannot be overcome. The hymns are not background music, but instead longstanding confessions of the one true faith that has survived the worst this world could throw at it. In fact, the chief hymn appointed for the First Sunday in Advent is proof alone. “Savior of the Nations, Come” was written by Ambrose of Milan. He lived from 340 to 397. And still, here we are, age after age of dreadful violence and persecution, and we’re still singing this great hymn of incredible hope, one that tells the entire Gospel story in eight beautiful stanzas.

This is proof that we own Advent and Christmas.

And so, while the world scrambles to make sense of yet another demonstration of human awfulness, the Church stands where it has always stood at this time—right in the middle of human ruin, all the while holding tightly to God’s promises. We stand there unshaken, proclaiming that this world’s terrors cannot overcome us. The Light of the World has come and is coming again. We know that everything around us is temporary, yet the forthcoming King and His kingdom are eternal. That divine knowledge shapes the entirety of our reality. And that’s that.

Indeed, the world is experiencing a sentimental countdown to a holiday. But that’s not us. Christians continue taking to a sacred battlefield, knowing the ultimate victory has already been accomplished and that the final victory is at hand. And the churches that observe Advent—and I mean, actually observe it—their senses are being honed to this truth.

Don’t Lose Hope

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I had an interesting conversation with my soon-to-be 20-year-old daughter, Madeline, a few weeks ago before leaving for the office. Wondering what she had planned, I asked her about her day. She’s in school. She’s also nearing the end of her efforts toward a well-earned private pilot’s license. That particular day, she had a lesson at Bishop Airport, followed by an evening shift at work. Knowing she was close to finishing, I asked her if there was a final test of some sort. She said she’d already aced the knowledge tests but that she’d soon go up with an instructor who, apart from testing and observing her skills, would put her through a barrage of questioning. In her words, she said, “It’ll be like the Great Confession, except it’ll be a lot harder because I didn’t grow up in it.”

First, by Great Confession, she means what I put our young catechumens through prior to Confirmation. In other words, to be confirmed, you must present yourself for interrogation before the congregation, and I’m the chief inquisitor. It happens the Saturday before Palm Sunday, with the Rite of Confirmation occurring the very next day. Essentially, I ask the catechumens questions—a lot of theological questions—and then, if they answer them sufficiently, they must each recite Article IV of the Augsburg Confession. Article IV iterates the doctrine of Justification. It’s crucial that they do this. Justification has been long understood as the doctrine by which the Church stands or falls. If the Church gets the doctrine of Justification wrong, it ceases to be the Church.

This is the Great Confession, and to be confirmed at Our Savior Evangelical Lutheran Church in Hartland, Michigan, you must endure it successfully. Some haven’t, and they weren’t confirmed; not many, but some.

Understandably, the kids preparing for the Great Confession get a little worked up over it. Of course, I’m not questioning them in a way that seeks their failure. I want them to succeed. But I also want them to dig deeply, think through, and confess what they believe before taking their place at the Lord’s altar to confirm that same baptismal faith. Too many kids are confirmed just because that’s what mom and dad want or because that’s just what happens in their church at this age. Not here. There will be kids of various ages, some much younger than you’d expect. There will be kids who’ve been at it longer than others. This year, there are five students. Next year, there could be as many as sixteen. But no matter how many present themselves for examination, none will be confirmed apart from this process. It has proven itself reliable, and I have no plans ever to change it.

To understand why I’m sharing this requires returning to what Madeline said about it that morning a few weeks ago. She is five years past her Great Confession. Still, she remembers it. It was challenging. Still, she claimed that compared to her experience enduring the Great Confession, her final flight exams would be much harder. Again, her words: “It’ll be harder because I didn’t grow up in it.” Her point was that the Christian Faith has occupied her since she was born. This is true not only because she never misses worship and Bible study or because she attended her church’s Christian day school, but because she remains immersed in it all the other moments of her life—having conversations with her family at dinner, in the pool on vacation, out shopping with her mom, riding in the car with dad, and so many others of life’s usual moments. For her, whether it’s the Great Confession with her dad or a stranger’s casual interest, she can confess Christian truths as readily as tying her shoes.

But what about others her age who’ve fallen away? What happened? Perhaps their faith was never truly integrated into their daily lives. Maybe church and doctrine were compartmentalized—reserved for Sunday mornings or the occasional youth event—rather than woven into the fabric of their everyday experiences. Of course, suppose faith is treated as just one activity among many, or worse, a burdensome obligation rather than a life-giving necessity. In that case, it becomes all too easy to set it aside for what seems more important. The world is already relentless in offering distractions and alternatives that seem more appealing or more immediately rewarding. It’s certainly hard to argue the culture’s influence, with its constant noise and competing narratives.

Here’s something else to consider.

A 2020 study in “Education Week” reported that around 27% of public school teachers considered themselves ideologically conservative. Compared with another survey from Pew Research, about half of that same group considered themselves conservative Christians. A conservative Christian is defined as someone who attends worship regularly and believes the Bible is God’s inspired and inerrant Word. The assumption is that anywhere from 10% to 15% of all public school teachers are Bible-believing educators. When you figure that the average student with a bachelor’s degree had as many as 115 different teachers throughout their public school life, it’s likely that only 17 of those teachers were being steered by Christian faithfulness. However, studies also show that most Christian teachers prefer to remain thoroughly neutral, neither teaching to the left nor the right, while ideologically liberal teachers are twice as likely to insert their beliefs into their lessons. When these are the contours of our children’s learning environment, and we figure that a third of their waking life is spent in it, no wonder so many of our children end up in rainbow-colored ditches.

Looking back at what I just wrote, I’m suddenly sensing the strange urge to plan a fundraiser for our own tuition-free Christian school here at Our Savior in Hartland, Michigan. As I said in our recent promotional video, the world needs what we bring to the table. By the way, if you haven’t seen the video, you can view it here: https://www.oursaviorhartland.org/wp-content/uploads/2025/02/our_savior_evangelical_lutheran_school_promo-1440p.mp4.   

Continuing, someone asked me not all that long ago what they should do to help steer their adult child back toward the faith. With a few insights relative to the context, essentially, I gave this person the same answer I give to others who’ve asked the same question.

First, don’t lose heart. The Word of the Lord does not return void (Isaiah 55:11). The seeds of faith, once planted, remain, even if buried beneath the weeds of worldly temptations.

Second, are we talking about a baptized child of God? If so, then instead of despair, parents should almost certainly remain steadfast in prayer, trusting in the Holy Spirit’s work. One of the great things about baptism is the promise associated with God’s name. A child baptized in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, just as Jesus mandated, is a child upon whom the Triune God’s name has been placed. For starters, in the Old Testament, God explicitly ties His name to the temple, saying that where He puts His name, He promises to dwell (2 Samuel 7:13, 1 Kings 8:29, 1 Kings 9:3, 2 Chronicles 7:16). In Numbers 6:24-27, God’s personal name (YaHWeH) is invoked three times in the Priestly Blessing (unsurprisingly in a trinitarian way), and in so doing, He promises that His name is thereby placed on His people resulting in blessing.

All of this more than carries over into the New Testament theology of baptism. I don’t have time for all of it, but we certainly get the sense in Matthew 28:19-20, Galatians 3:27, and Acts 2:38-39. Even further, just as God placed His name upon the temple in the Old Testament, Saint Paul tells us that God places His name on His people, the baptized Church. We learn this explicitly in 1 Corinthians 3:16-17, 2 Corinthians 6:16, and Ephesians 2:19-22. Even better, this naming extends into the heavenly realms. God’s name is on people there, too, marking them as His own. Revelation 3:12 presents this. Revelation 22:4 does, too. Even better, I think it’s equally interesting that Revelation 7:14 describes these marked believers before the throne as those who “have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.” That’s an interesting way to describe the people upon whom God’s name has been placed. I wonder what it could mean. Perhaps the answer to this rhetorical wondering is given elsewhere, in places like Acts 22:16, for example.

My point: a baptized child bears the Triune God’s name, and God isn’t so easily separated from His name. There’s hope in this divine reality.

Third, I recommend keeping the doors open. Engage them in meaningful conversations about life and faith, and most importantly, model unwavering devotion to Christ. If you go to visit for a weekend, start simply. For example, pray before meals. Make plans to attend worship on Sunday. Invite them to join you in both. Be a fixed point of faithful devotion to Christ no matter where you are or what you’re doing. They’ll see this. And then, keep in mind that the prodigal son returned because he knew where home was fixed, and he knew his merciful father was there waiting (Luke 15:11-32). Likewise, those who have been immersed in the faith, even when they stray, can recall the way home, especially when they see the way home through you.

New Year’s Eve 2024

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Truth be told, it’s been years since Jennifer and I have stayed up until midnight on New Year’s Eve. I’ll take the blame for that. I’m usually spent by 9 PM, no matter what day it is. Although, on New Year’s Eve, I have been known to survive until 10:00 PM, but that’s only because I practiced the week before with the 10:00 PM Christmas Eve service. Either way, the hours I’m actually awake on New Year’s Eve are well spent. Once we get home from evening worship, like most folks, we spend precious time together as a family. Among other things, we play games and eat snacks. And, wow, do we eat! I love those crisply baked bacon-wrapped chestnuts and the miniature sausages slathered in sweetened barbeque sauce. Jennifer usually makes both. I am blessed. Of course, the snacks are nice, but the better blessing is our togetherness.

The days before Christmas, Madeline asked me more than once what I wanted as a gift. She wanted to make sure to get just the right thing for her dad. I was no help. Each time she asked, I told her I didn’t know. But actually, I did. It’s just that my answer would’ve sounded syrupy. Really, the only thing I want, no matter what day of the year it might be, is to be with them—to sit back and listen to them talking and laughing and enjoying one another’s company. That’s a gift enough for me. And to unwrap it, no matter when during the year it’s happening, is to mingle a silent prayer of thanksgiving to God, the gift’s true giver.

New Year’s Eve has the potential for a similar prayer.

Tonight, the world races toward the year’s final chime. I suppose for many, the hours before midnight form a unique crossroad. We stand, one foot planted firmly in the closing chapters of the past while the other steps into the uncertain expanse of tomorrow. This can be a precarious, almost bipolar, place to stand. When I say this, I speak from experience.

At the edge of one year becoming the next, there is the temptation to think backward to bygone days. The older I get, the more I think about when Jennifer and I were younger, and our kids were little. Those days seem so far away, and the in-between space is so easily filled with thoughts that the best days have passed. Simultaneously, New Year’s Eve nudges me onto my tiptoes. I look up and over its horizon toward the unknown. As I do, my sin-nature prompts concern. What’s coming my way? What does the future hold for me, for my family, for you, for our nation, for our world?

If left to myself, in a sense, the New Year’s Eve countdown can sometimes feel a little more like the moments before a ticking time bomb reaches 0:00.

But I’m a Christian, and there’s something I know. While the surrounding world counts down to midnight, for me, time begins to blur a little at the new year, especially if I’m observing it as I should—which is through a Gospel lens. Yes, the calendar is changing. Yes, a new year is beginning. However, I know by faith in Christ that God has already gathered up my past, present, and future into the arms of His love. The death of Jesus Christ was the hour of hours. Paul said as much in Romans 13:11 when he wrote, “Besides this, you know the time, that the hour has come for you to wake from sleep. For salvation is nearer to us now than when we first believed.” The word he uses for “time” is καιρόν (kairon). That’s not the word for sequential time. It’s a word referring to a season marked by a moment of critical importance.

We know what that critical moment was. It was the death of God’s Son for sinners. Born from that moment, Christians exist in faith’s season leading toward salvation—eternal life. Now, standing at every New Year’s crossroads, there is the confidence that sequential time and all its happenings are held by the One who is eternal. Jesus Christ—the same yesterday, today, and forever—is the anchor of a Christian’s life story, and we know He can be trusted to write every forthcoming chapter.

My prayer for you tonight is that New Year’s Eve will be an opportunity, not for wishing for days past or fearing what lies ahead, but for resting in the steadfastness of God’s continued love. I hope that it’ll be a chance for you to remember that each new year, like each new day, is a gift wrapped in His mercies, which are new every morning (Lamentations 3:22-23).

With that, don’t forget about our New Year’s Eve service today at 4:30 PM. If your church is not offering a worship service, feel free to stop by and join us here at Our Savior. One attendee or two hundred, we wouldn’t think of starting a new year any other way. (By the way, we offer a service tomorrow, too. That one is at 10:00 AM.) Again, we’re located at 13667 Highland Road, Hartland, MI 48353. I hope you can make it. God will certainly make it worth your while, being sure to situate you with the timeless assurance that in Christ, all things are made new—not just at the turning of a calendar page, but every remaining moment of your mortal life until the life to come.

Almost Winning

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Ask my family, and they’ll tell you I don’t like to lose. I’m a “go big or go home” kind of guy. When I endeavor to do something, I expect to pursue and achieve it in a top-tier fashion. When an A is possible, a C is not an option. If my potential is not A-worthy, I’ll go sleepless until it is.

In a way, I demonstrated this personal boundary several Sundays ago during worship. My voice was struggling because of a lingering (but not contagious) cough. During the sacramental liturgy, when I arrived at the Words of Institution (which I usually chant), for the first time in a while, I elected to speak them. Why? Because I could feel the itch in my throat getting worse, and I knew it wouldn’t go well. Second-rate chanting is not edifying. It’s a distraction. I knew if I couldn’t do it well, I’d wait until I could.

Good or bad, this stickler mentality is one reason why the game of Monopoly is also relatively off-limits in our home. I’ve shared with you before that it can get pretty brutal. When it’s possible to buy every property on the Monopoly board and fill all but the utilities and railroads with hotels, why not do it? And while we’re at it, win big. Drain each player of every dime. Do not win some. Win all. Is there a strategy that accomplishes this? Yes? Then use it. Go big or go home.

But for as driven as any among us might be, a lesson I learned early in life is that losing is incredibly important. In other words, winning is nice, but almost winning is sometimes better. This is true because it often prompts self-analysis leading toward the determination needed to improve. Sure, hitting a home run may be the batter’s ultimate goal. Nevertheless, the road to home run hitting is one of insight and opportunity for actual betterment. Babe Ruth, a champion home run hitter, insisted that there was nothing so motivating as a bunch of strikes. In his words, every strike is one swing closer to a home run.

I watched a video last week while walking on the treadmill. It was a compilation of youthful progressives tearfully complaining about Trump’s victory. It was clear they simply could not process the loss. They just didn’t have the skills. As a result, one by one, they droned toward and over illogic’s cliff. For example, one insisted that anyone who opposed Trump was destined for a concentration camp. Another mentioned she was fearful she might have to spend time in prison for the multiple abortions she’s had. Still, another chimed in with Oprah Winfrey’s ridiculously obsolete warning that because Trump won, all future elections would cease. Humorously, some of the video’s teary-eyed characters threw their faces into pillows and screamed as loudly as they could. Honestly, I felt like I was watching a documentary about the participation-trophy generation—or a research study of toddlers who’ve only ever been told they’re the best of the best and can never lose.

As I watched, I was also reminded of something else.

An artificial victory is no victory. While occasionally playing a video game in “god mode” might be fun, there’s no invulnerability in real competition. In other words, the video game “Call of Duty” in no way compares to actual combat. I was listening to Joe Rogan interview a former CIA operative who executed countless missions in the Middle East. He told Rogan that when he had to go to the bathroom in a firefight, he went in his pants. That’s it. He didn’t say it, but I’m guessing he knew well enough that there’s no pressing pause in a firefight. There’s certainly no game reset button when you die.  Real victory is dangerous, and it is sometimes unpleasant. In all, it takes effort. It takes perseverance through struggle. It requires diligence even when diligence seems foolish.

Victory takes a whole lot of almost winning to reach.

People who somehow avoid second place’s more arduous road—whether it’s because they’ve insulated themselves against loss or because what they have was given to them without any effort or personal risk—are missing out on growth’s genuine joys. I suppose relative to faith, this leads me to something else.

For starters, don’t get me wrong. Salvation has nothing to do with our efforts. We do not earn it. Through the person and work of Jesus Christ, we actually do receive a magnificent “get out of jail free” card. However, after faith (or perhaps better said, because we’ve been grafted to Jesus [John 15:5, Romans 6:3-6]), some pretty unearthly struggles will likely come (Matthew 5:11-12, John 15:20, Mark 10:29-30, 2 Timothy 3:12, and countless more). Jesus did not hide this prospect from us. And yet, Saint Paul offers an intriguing perspective concerning these struggles. He writes in Romans 5:1-5:

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

His first point is to make sure we understand that when bad things happen, we are not to think we’re somehow at war with God. He clearly states that we have been justified by faith in Jesus Christ and are at peace with God. His very next point is a crisp reminder that we exist now by God’s grace. This grace brings about something extraordinary.

First, we’re found capable of finding hope in the glory of God. Do you know what the “glory of God” is? It’s the gruesome death of Jesus for the sins of the world (John 12:23-28, Mark 10:35-38). It’s the absolutely dreadful cup of suffering that Jesus tipped back and gulped down in its entirety. Saint Paul insists we can rejoice in this glory primarily because Jesus endured it. The cup’s contents were ours to consume, but the Lord took them for us. However, even as Jesus made it clear that we could not endure absolute suffering’s cup—the kind that wins salvation—He did say we’d at least sip from it on occasion (Mark 10:39). That’s where Paul goes next. However, his tone remains constant. His mood is joyful. With a grammatical smile, he describes faith as having the ability to rejoice when rejoicing seems ridiculous.

Who can rejoice during suffering? Christians can. And this is where my previous thoughts about winning and losing come back into view.

Paul describes an essential process of spiritual maturation that can only occur through suffering. He describes suffering for Christ as a seed that produces endurance, character, and, ultimately, hope. But not just any hope. It’s the kind of hope that genuinely knows the value of the Lord’s work to save us. It’s a hope that knows the Lord’s road was not easy. It’s a hope that gathers more and more strength as our own roads become seemingly less and less navigable. It kind of reminds me of another video I happened upon demonstrating the properties of a substance called Oobleck. It’s a non-Newtonian fluid that, when pressure is applied, gets stronger. In the video, a person dips his hand into it like water. But then he punches it, and suddenly, the substance is like a rock. Oobleck might just be Christian hope’s best mascot. It steers through and meets the mortal journey’s end, and no matter how hard the world beats on it, the Lord continues bolstering it to stand victorious above shame, eventually receiving the gold medal of triumph gifted entirely by the love of God through the Holy Spirit for faith.

In short, God had no intention of making us earn our salvation. He did all of it. However, He does train us to embrace and live in its value. Before we receive Christ’s first-place prize, we should expect to spend a lot of time almost winning—or, in other words, enduring struggle. But again, the struggle is good for us. And we can rejoice through it. We keep our eyes on the prize, equipped with faith’s otherworldly tenacity for knowing that a home run is fewer strikeouts away today than it was yesterday.

God Knows What He’s Doing

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God knows what He’s doing. That may sound like an oversimplification relative to our complex world, but oftentimes, the simple view is best. Even Longfellow recognized, “In character, in manners, in style, in all things, the supreme excellence is simplicity.”

Indeed, God knows what He’s doing. That said, I can rest easily.

Evelyn and I talk a lot during our twenty-five-minute drive to and from school throughout the week. We cover multitudes of topics. Some are serious. Others are more daydreamy. Two weeks ago, a song from The Lost Boys soundtrack carried us down the roadway. As it did, we wondered aloud what we would do if we became vampires. That was fun. Last week, we wondered what we’d be like had we been born in the 1880s. I doubted out loud that I’d have been a pastor. She agreed. She figured me for a lawman, but only after admitting the possibility that I might have owned a saloon. I agreed—minus the saloon. Standing behind a bar all day is not how I’d prefer to spend my days. Besides, notoriously shady behaviors and trades were associated with saloons, none of which fit my character.

Why not a pastor? I don’t know. I just don’t think I would’ve been one. Either way, as a believer today or in the yesteryear of 1880, I’m sure I’d continue to say, “God knows what He’s doing.” I’d have been right where He wanted me. I just happen to think it would’ve been a role requiring a gunfight or two.

There are plenty of things about which I’m certain. I love my wife, and I love the family and life God has been so gracious to grant me, just to name a few. Another is that I’m right where God wants me to be. I think that bothers some folks. In fact, I know it does. There’s a statistic out there somewhere reporting that at any given moment in a pastor’s ministry, at least 30% of his congregation wishes they had a different pastor. I don’t know if that’s entirely true in my home congregation. Although, statistics are stubborn things. Let’s just say I hope it’s closer to 10%. Either way, I know there are likely some who, if they got the chance, would actually work to lift it from 10% to 30%. Every congregation has those people. We have them, too.

But here’s the thing. When you are immovably confident that God knows what He’s doing in your life and that you are right where you belong, then there’s little chance that a disparaging alligator lurking around you (no matter how big and powerful the gator might be) is going to frighten you away, let alone move you closer to the safety of another shore apart from Christ. In this sense, the simple and supreme excellency (as Longfellow described) of God’s omniscient care becomes an impenetrable barrier between you and the ever-vigilantly circling gators. And by ever-vigilant, you know what I mean. They’re always looking for a way to get you. They’re hoping to find a loophole in your faithfulness—an unguarded middle space in your life—so that they can accuse you, finding you guilty of failings they were sure you’d eventually commit.

That’s an interesting juxtaposition, isn’t it; the certainty of God’s gracious care and the certainty that someone will fail? In response, there’s a quotation I’ll sometimes share when standing before pro-life crowds, especially since it so often seems gators endlessly circle the pro-life cause. It was Babe Ruth who said, “You just can’t beat someone who won’t quit.” I should add my own words to that. A confident person cannot be a quitter.

There’s another essential simplicity to keep in mind in this regard, and it’s what gives the sureness described its impervious quality. When someone is immovably certain God has him right where He wants him, while at the same time, he knows he’s a sinner in need of daily repentance and forgiveness, whatever unguarded middle spaces an alligator may find, they become relatively inconsequential. Instead, they’re received as opportunities for self-reflection, amending, and carrying on in God’s extraordinary forgiveness. What were intended to be piercing accusations could only ricochet like raindrops, ultimately beading up and flowing back into the gator’s swampy mess.

Faith in the person and work of Jesus Christ for the forgiveness of my sins, no matter what those sins may be, becomes the Christian’s foundation. Even better, when the Christian knows that God stands at the ready to dispense His immeasurably wonderful grace to the penitent sinner, that foundation becomes mountain-like in its durability.

I should clarify something before concluding.

God’s grace isn’t cheap. We do not live as we like assuming God is a divine Pez dispenser of grace (Romans 6:1-2). I say this because in order to know what God’s love is, it’s just as important to know what it isn’t. For one, it wasn’t an economical effort. It was costly. He paid top dollar. Look at the cross and see. It’s there you’ll behold the jeweled elements of certainty’s concrete. God loved you that much. Knowing this, Saint Paul’s words in Romans 8:31-39 ring truer than ever before:

“What then shall we say to these things? If God is for us, who can be against us? He who did not spare his own Son but gave him up for us all, how will he not also with him graciously give us all things? Who shall bring any charge against God’s elect? It is God who justifies. Who is to condemn? Christ Jesus is the one who died—more than that, who was raised—who is at the right hand of God, who indeed is interceding for us. Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall tribulation, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or danger, or sword? As it is written, ‘For your sake we are being killed all the day long; we are regarded as sheep to be slaughtered.’ No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am sure that neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

I don’t know about you, but I almost expected to read the word “alligators” somewhere in Saint Paul’s list.

A Springtime Sprig

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it will run out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Better Season

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October has essentially come and gone. November is at the door. With it comes Novembery things. Into the trash, the weeks-old jack-o-lanterns will go. In exchange, some Thanksgiving décor will adorn front porches, bookshelves, and kitchen windowsills. Some among us won’t be able to resist putting out a few Christmas-leaning decorations, not necessarily a fully decorated tree. Maybe just a miniature Dickens-style village here and a snowman character there. Perhaps a wreath on the front door.

Henry David Thoreau called November the calendar’s mite, reminiscent of the gift given by the widow in Mark 12:41-44. He implied it doesn’t give much, but what it does offer—the last yellowing lights of autumn—are “more warming and exhilarating than any wine,” ultimately making it “equal in value to the bounty of July.” I’m not so sure I agree, being the summer man I am. July offers a steady repertoire of pleasantries that few other months can match. Although I suppose following Thoreau’s poetic lead, if I did have to compare November with July, one thought does come to mind. I’d say July gives us one particular day with a splash of color: Independence Day. The annual fireworks celebrations typically conclude with a minutes-long sky-filling grand finale. Autumn renders a far lengthier and much more extravagant array of colors, and November is its grand finale. Until the first snow pulls what’s left of autumn to the ground, November will spend its days bursting with fantastical hues.

The only other real praise I’m willing to give to November is for my wife’s birthday. I’m thankful in that regard.

Still, apart from playing a role in my wife’s entrance into this world, I prefer to look past November. Better yet, I prefer to look past winter altogether. Although, it’s been said that if you’re always looking to the future, you’ll ruin the present. Or maybe it’s the other way around. Either way, the autumn and winter months weigh heavily on me. They have me wishing for sun-beaming warmth pouring down from cloudless skies, days when I need to be more concerned about sunburn than bone-stinging windchill.

As you may already know, I was pretty sick for almost two weeks. I didn’t start feeling like myself again until this past Friday night. I went to bed at 10:30 p.m. and woke up twelve hours later. It was obvious I needed the sleep. I share this because I spent almost every day during this recent illness looking to the future, continually reminding myself, “This is only a season. Another season is coming, a better season. Tomorrow will be better.” This was not an exercise in the power of positive thinking. I would speak this way only after praying to my Lord for the hope He alone can provide. In other words, my regular exercise was one of anticipating something better.

I know I can only reach spring and eventually enter summer once I have first traveled the blustering valley of winter. Similarly, I know I must pass through the harder seasons of mortality before entering something better. But no matter the circumstance, whether the melancholy of actual winter or the failing flesh in sickness, I’ll have no strength to endure anything this world wields against me without the hope Christ provides. And each challenge will be nothing less than a microcosmic image of God’s promised grace in struggle and deliverance for eternal life. This is the ongoing exercise of Christian hope, a challenging but powerful regimen. It not only teaches us to trust that God has us well in hand right now, but it has eyes for a far better tomorrow, one where hope is no longer necessary because it has been completely fulfilled in the glories of eternal life.

Considering Titus 2:13, Luther described it this way:

“But how long shall we wait for that blessed hope? Will it remain but a hope forever, and will it never be fulfilled? No, [Saint Paul] says, our blessed hope will not always remain a hope, but it will eventually be made manifest, so that we shall no longer only hope and wait for it, but what we now believe and hope for will then be made manifest in us, and we shall possess with full certainty what we now await. But meanwhile, we must wait for that blessed hope until it be revealed.” (Sermons from the Year 1531, W.A. 34. II. 117.)

The waiting is the hard part. It’s life’s winter. It’s the season of bodily illness, job loss, dysfunctional families, persecution, and so much more. Still, we know by faith we bear an otherworldly strength that can “rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us” (Romans 5:3-5).

I pray you are well and enduring whatever the world insists on throwing at you right now. Winter is coming. But it’s only a season. Another season is coming, a better season.

Goodbye, Summer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Christmas Day, 2022

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Merry Christmas!

What cheer that greeting brings, wouldn’t you say?!

Discounting the exceptions—that is, the humbugging Scrooges of this world who’d be rid of Christmas if they could—“Merry Christmas” is one of the few salutations with the muscle to stoke the cooling embers of a tired heart. Indeed, a weary soul is made young again, even if only for a moment, when a smiling passerby says, “Merry Christmas.”

Truly, it’s a greeting like no other.

I heard the greeting countless times last night at the Christmas Eve service. As I did, I was reminded of days long since spent, past seasons from childhood to adulthood. In a way, it could be said that unlike other greetings, this one stands at the door of here-and-now inviting memories to come inside. “Remembrance, like a candle,” Charles Dickens said, “burns brightest at Christmastime.” He might be right. “Merry Christmas” is spoken today, and a favorite toy from decades ago is remembered. It remembers a special moment with family. It remembers bygone friends. It remembers so many things.

Rarely would I add anything to Dickens’ wisdom, except to say it’s not just our pasts being invited to join us. I think our hopeful futures enter, too. Hope comes in to sit beside memory’s flickering flame.

I slept here at the church last night, mainly because I’m getting a little older and more easily tired. I don’t usually get home until well after 1:00 AM on Christmas Eve. Knowing I’d need to turn right around and come back in barely a handful of hours, combined with the treacherous roads, this year I decided to stay. I’ve done such things before. Besides, those who know me best can assume I was accompanied by a warming beverage before bed, one furnished by the Scots. I also happened upon a poetic scribbling from Alexander Smith, another product of Scotland. “Christmas,” he wrote, “is the day that holds all time together.” Like Dickens, I think he might be onto something. The very event of Christmas, if anything, begins the divine intersection of past, present, and future.

The Lord’s birth is the first effort of God’s plan to save us. As it begins, a much fuller Gospel message can be seen on the horizon. The angels sing it. The shepherds share it. The wise men are drawn to it. The Devil, through Herod, is fearful of it. And why? Because in its completeness, it will be a message that meets with the past, present, and future. It will herald what Christ has done, is doing, and will continue to do for humanity relative to Sin. This is the timelessness of “Merry Christmas.” This is the greeting’s forward thrust.

To grasp it, it’s as simple as digging a little deeper into the greeting. The salutation’s innards are not far from “Be joyful! Christ is present bringing salvation!” A Christian stands in the middle of the intersection by these words. To say “Merry Christmas” is to see all of time being held together. It is to give and receive the best answer to the hardest questions plaguing anyone’s past, present, and future.

If a troubled soul were to ask, “How can the Lord love me for what I’ve done?” The answer must be, “Fear not! He does! Merry Christmas!” If the concern continues by asking, “Will my disfigured past ever obstruct the Lord’s view, making Him unable to love a person like me?” The answer must be, “No. He knows what you’ve done. Still, He inserted Himself into the tarry horribleness of your dreadful past to claim you. Merry Christmas!”

Unconvinced, a person might continue, “As hard as I try, I continue to fall short. Will my everyday imperfections disgust Him enough to push me away? Will He ever walk away when I fall? Will He ever distance Himself from my continued shame?” Again, the Christmas answer must be, “No, He will not do these things. Certainly, you are not perfect. But He is. Trust Him. By His great exchange on Calvary’s cross, He takes your sadness into Himself and gives to you His righteousness. Merry Christmas!”

“But what about the future? As with anyone else, won’t He one day grow tired of this exercise? As with so many others, won’t He one day turn me away?” Christmas closes the book on the discussion, offering kindly, “No, He won’t. He sees your penitent faith, even if you don’t. He intends to heap mercy upon you until He returns in glory on the Last Day. Be joyful! He came at His nativity to save you. He’s coming back to take you home! Merry Christmas!”

Dear Christians, please know that all is well by faith in Jesus, the divine Child we celebrate today—Christmas Day! The intersection of your past, present, and future rested in that manger in Bethlehem so long ago. He came. He was who He claimed to be, and He accomplished what He said He would. Your salvation is secure. You are His, and He is yours. This wonderful friendship is His gift to you (John 15:15). Moreover, it’s a divine exchange meant for presenting you as Jesus’ most precious possession before the heavenly Father (Titus 2:14). By His work, you are justified (Titus 3:4-7). Covered in the pristinely white wrappings of Holy Baptism and topped with the bloodstained bow of His salvific work on the cross, what else might the Son say amid this grand and heavenly gift-exchange but “Merry Christmas!” (Romans 8:34, 1 John 2:1, and Hebrews 7:25)? It certainly seems appropriate.

Again, the greeting is like no other.

With that, Merry Christmas to you and yours! I hope to see you later this morning for worship at 9:30 AM. If you can make it, please know that the heat is on, the lights are beaming, and the Lord’s gifts of Word and Sacrament are ready and waiting to be received.

Don’t Change the Channel

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2022 has arrived.

I watched a “2021 Year in Review” segment yesterday on Fox News. It was only a few minutes long. Unfortunately, each of the notable events mentioned were tragic in nature. The list included things like the collapsed apartment building in Florida that killed 98 residents, Derek Chauvin’s trial, the hurricane in Louisiana, the Taliban’s takeover of Afghanistan, the deadly tornados that ripped through several states, and so many other heartbreaking occurrences from the previous year. Altogether—the events mentioned, the images shown, the concerned tone—sure made it seem like the ones both in front of and behind the cameras were doing everything in their power to avoid mentioning anything good about 2021. It’s as if they’re rooting for this overly-fearful world to remain firmly in terror’s grip, allowing nothing through the airwaves that might suggest a footing for joy in 2022.

The gent presenting the list, Bill Hemmer, closed out the segment by suggesting the new year is likely to be dominated by more COVID strains.

Interestingly, the very next segment was an equally grimy chain of news stories built from links of gloom, starting with a recap of Joe Biden’s recent “winter of death” comments, his vaccine mandates and the court cases emerging from them, and then, if the viewer was paying attention, a strange juxtaposition of understaffed hospitals and thousands of healthcare workers being fired for refusing to get the vaccine. Right after a handful of commercials about this and that drug for this and that condition warning of this or that possible side effect, the next segment highlighted outgoing New York Mayor Bill DeBlasio’s admittance that he never thought lockdowns would actually be helpful, even though all along he swore by them as crucial for preserving the lives of New Yorkers. I wonder how the tidal-sized number of people in New York who went out of business because of the lockdowns feel about his comments.

As you can see, a few minutes of TV news served to be little more than an exhausting parade of misery.

In one sense, I think all of this may have been shocking to my system, mainly because I rarely watch TV. I get most of my information by reading. However, since I’ve been ill at home (which, by the way, happens to me every year after Christmas, so Covid or not, this was nothing new), I’ve spent more time than usual with our television, primarily binge-watching 80s flicks with anyone in the house willing to watch them with me. I must confess that “Gremlins,” “Predator,” and other such gems proved to be far better choices than 24-hour news. I should add to this confession that my relatively short interlude with cable news has also served to remind me how the fictional awfulness in movies can’t hold a candle to reality. Not even Hollywood movie scripts conjuring otherworldly xenomorphs with bloodthirsty appetites can outpace the world’s creativity for genuine dreadfulness.

Perhaps a New Year’s resolution for some among us could be to spend less time watching TV and more time doing something enriching—like visiting with classic literature, or writing a poem for a loved one, or perhaps most enriching of all, upping one’s visits with the Word of God, namely attendance at church and Bible study. If you find you’re a lot sadder and more anxious these days, you should consider the recent studies suggesting that regular churchgoers were the only ones to experience improved mental health during the last twenty months.

Go figure. When you spend time with the One who has overcome Death—and He adorns you with the Gospel spoils of His victory—you certainly shouldn’t expect to leave a less enriched or hopeless person.

Still, and as I was intent to preach on Christmas Eve, going to church is not for the faint of heart. It takes guts to attend. Although, this is true not for the reasons terror-mongering TV anchors might suggest. For example, even though the Church is still in the seemingly serene season of Christmas, when pitched against Christmas’ tranquil festivities, a narrative describing troops tramping through the streets of a little town in Judea killing all the boys who are two years old and younger certainly seems to interrupt the mood. But that’s exactly what the historic lectionary’s tradition for the Second Sunday after Christmas will give to countless Christians across the world this morning—an account from Matthew 2:16-18 that won’t let anyone in the pews forget just how awful this world is and what it is willing to do to retain its power.

But don’t let this hard news convince you to change the channel of your attention too soon. Stay tuned this morning, because it won’t end on a low note.

Yes, it will be an honest report. We’ll be shown the world in which we live. But Jesus will be a part of the news story. Bill Hemmer won’t be the one bringing the message. It’ll be the one ordained for preaching: the pastor. He’ll be the one doing what God has called him to do, which is to proclaim Jesus as the Word made flesh—the divine antidote God has mindfully inserted into this world’s terrifying narrative. Jesus will be heralded as the ultimate point of origin for joy and the only pathway forward through and into a hope-filled future.

In a world of terror—a world in which the Gospel writer Matthew reminds us that not even children are safe—Jesus has come. He succeeded in His effort to defeat Sin, Death, and the devil. He’s the only one who could do it. By His death and resurrection, no matter what hopelessness the world might try to force feed into us in every imaginable and unimaginable way, we’ll always have the certainty of God’s final deliverance from all things dreadful promised to those whose faith is found in Jesus Christ (John 16:33).

No matter what the new year has in store, Christians can smile even as they’re muscling through the mess. And sometimes, just sometimes, some of us are blessed enough to do it while enjoying the 80s films that made us smile as kids. But as I suggested before, perhaps an even better idea would be a trip through the pages of Stevenson’s Treasure Island, or Dickens’ The Cricket on the Hearth, or perhaps a casual visit with Robert Frost—all after church, of course.

God bless and keep you in 2022. I would promise it to be a time of joyful hope, but I don’t need to. God already has. Look to the cross and see the incredibly vivid reminder for yourself.