Tag Archives: John 1:14

Similar is Not the Same

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I should begin by saying I learned a valuable lesson a few years ago, one about which my family is often obliged on occasion to remind me. The reason it came to mind this morning is that it was brought up this past week during the Thoma family dinner discussion. I suppose if I share the lesson and its value with you, I’ll inevitably betray a measure of my own foolishness relative to it. In other words, if I tell you what I discovered, you’ll learn something about me I’d typically prefer to remain hidden. Therein lies a general problem with humanity. We’re all faulty. And yet, we’re often unwilling to let anyone else know just how faulty we are.

This puts me in a jam. It’s not that I’m required to reveal every misdeed I’ve ever committed. But I have written and said on countless occasions that the people I trust the most are the ones who can admit when they’ve done wrong. I believe confessing one’s failings takes genuine courage, the kind that needs no witness to confirm it. It’s honest and brave in public and private.

Conversely, the folks inclined to deny or defend their errors are the ones I typically keep at arm’s length—especially the ones who’ve convinced themselves they can do no wrong. If they cannot be honest with themselves, how can they be honest with me? If they cannot admit to the truer nature of their imperfections, how can they ever take hold of the treasures brought by repentance, faith, and the amending of Sin?

Repentance makes things better. Amending is betterment’s glorious display.

This brings me back to where I started. I learned a valuable lesson some time ago, one uncovered by way of personal failure.

As the story goes, my son, Joshua, was four or five years old. He was sick, and I was at home caring for him. Lunchtime arrived. And what is the universal remedy for anyone of any age suffering from illness? Chicken noodle soup. And so, that’s what I fixed him. Well, sort of. I went to the cupboard to retrieve the magic elixir, but alas, there was none. But we did have a can of crème of chicken soup.

“I suppose that’s close enough,” I thought. But it wasn’t, and I am forever scarred by the poor parenting moment.

No sooner than Josh tasted the soup did he start gagging as though he would vomit. He didn’t have the flu. He had a bad cold. But an observer would’ve thought I was trying to put him into the flu’s orbit.

The lesson learned: Even with the littlest details, it is a fantastic delusion that “similar” could ever be equal to “same.” Crème of chicken soup is by no means chicken noodle soup. Regardless of their occasional reminders, my family may or may not know that I apply this lesson to my life with regularity. For example, I was rewiring the lights above the pool table in our basement a few weeks ago, and at one point along the way, I needed a smaller twist connector for holding some wires together than what I had within reach. Ready to simply apply the larger twist connector, I whispered to myself, “Crème of chicken soup is not chicken noodle soup,” and then I searched for the right-sized connector.

Perhaps not as big a deal as it is continually made out to be, this relatively insignificant blip on my life’s timeline remains a parable of sorts. We more than live our lives thinking that similar is the same. We tell our spouses we love them without actually showing it. We avoid attending worship, figuring we can just pray and read our bibles at home. We claim a pro-life position while supporting self-proclaimed pro-life candidates who believe abortion is an option within the first trimester. A man dresses as a woman and is in every way accommodated as one. Similar is not the same, and if anything, to live as such is to embrace logical and empirical contradictions. It is a logical contradiction to believe that red can also be blue, and as such, red is a viable substitute for blue. It is an empirical contradiction to act as though a penguin is a feasible substitute for a carrier pigeon.

Logically, red will never be blue. Logically, the mandate to study the scriptures is not the same as the mandate to be present among the worshipping fellowship. Logically, love spoken is not the same as love displayed. Empirical evidence proves penguins are flightless. Empirical evidence shows it’s a human child from the moment of conception. Empirical evidence proves men cannot menstruate.

Crème of chicken soup is not chicken noodle soup.

There’s one particular aspect of orthodox Christianity that the Bible presents unequivocally. I’d say Psalm 25:5 enunciates it reasonably well: “Lead me in your truth and teach me, for you are the God of my salvation.”

Christians desire truth. Not something similar to truth. We want actual truth. We want God’s truth. And not only do we want it, but we want to be immersed in it, and we want Him to teach it to us continually. And why? Because He is the God of our salvation. His truth saves.

Thankfully, truth has been revealed. The Word of God—the Bible—is truth. Christians stake a fundamental claim there because they know that the Savior, Jesus Christ, is the Word made flesh (John 1:14). To hold fast to His Word as truth is to hold fast to Him, the same One who announced that He is the way, the truth, and the life, and the only viable avenue to the Father (John 14:6). Another way—something similar but not the same—will only ever be a half-truth and unable to save us. Who among us would want half-truths, anyway? Who would accept a glass of water with even the tiniest drop of urine mixed into it?

Similar is not the same. We want and need the real deal. Anything less is crème of chicken soup and won’t measure up.

Theological Etiquette

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I don’t know about you, but my early morning startup process is a mixture of ingredients. Coffee in hand, it typically involves a brief interaction with the Bible as prompted by a devotional resource. After that, as long as nothing is pressing, I spend a few minutes reading, whether that be an article or a casual scroll through social media. Last Sunday’s routine enjoyed a visit with John 1:14 followed by commentary from Luther, a portion of which encouraged believers to “further and increase [God’s] kingdom, which is in so many suppressed and hindered by the devil and the world.” Luther continued by saying this happens when we “open to Christ our treasures and present them to Him, as the wise men did. And how? Behold, His Word is written (Matthew 25:4): ‘Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.’”

Not long after visiting with these things, I read a relatively intuitive quotation from Edmund Burke, a member of the British Parliament during the American Revolution and a critic of Britain’s treatment of the colonists. He said, “All men that are ruined, are ruined on the side of their natural propensities.” In other words, pay close attention to your natural inclinations in any particular situation. Doing so can spare you some of life’s biggest headaches, the kinds that will inevitably do you in.

This is incredibly insightful, so much so that it came to mind later that morning during the Adult Bible study. We’re currently studying Saint Paul’s letter to the Ephesians. Last week, we continued our walk through chapter 5, which began with revisiting:

“Therefore, be imitators of God, as beloved children. And walk in love, as Christ loved us and gave himself up for us, a fragrant offering and sacrifice to God. But sexual immorality and all impurity or covetousness must not even be named among you, as is proper among saints. Let there be no filthiness nor foolish talk nor crude joking, which are out of place, but instead let there be thanksgiving. For you may be sure of this, that everyone who is sexually immoral or impure, or who is covetous (that is, an idolater), has no inheritance in the kingdom of Christ and God. Let no one deceive you with empty words, for because of these things the wrath of God comes upon the sons of disobedience. Therefore, do not become partners with them; for at one time you were darkness, but now you are light in the Lord. Walk as children of light (for the fruit of light is found in all that is good and right and true), and try to discern what is pleasing to the Lord” (vv. 1-10).

Relative to this, Burke’s words seemed strangely appropriate. They understand that restraining the types of behavior Saint Paul forbids requires self-awareness, the kind born from genuine honesty.

I didn’t know it, but philosophically, Burke appears to have been a man after my own heart. He wrote a book entitled A Vindication of Natural Society. I managed to read about ten pages of it on Google Books before ordering a hard copy for myself. In the book, Burke chisels away satirically at deism’s popularity while also showing how proper manners help steer and uphold morality while fortifying the boundaries of natural law. He doesn’t necessarily use the following example, but it came to mind as I read those ten pages—and I shared the thought with the Bible study attendees.

Consider a man opening a door for a woman. When a man does this, he isn’t just being properly polite. He’s also acknowledging essential distinctions between men and women. There are things men can and should do that women cannot and should not. The same is true in the opposite direction. There are things women can and should do that men cannot and should not. And yet, while these things might be otherwise offensive to some, the distinction is acknowledged and upheld by an act of humility. Burke argues that the practice of manners—which are, for all intents and purposes, societal rites and ceremonies—restrain darker inclinations.

Now, think back to Burke’s original quotation insisting that one’s natural propensities, if unguarded, can be ruinous.

Everyone has improper tendencies. Let’s say a particular man has a propensity for lording over women, treating them as shameful lessers. By making a conscious effort to begin opening doors for women, this man takes a step toward restraining this unfortunate inclination. He’s submitting himself respectfully to the role of caretaker without unnaturally emasculating himself. The process acknowledges a man’s biblical role of headship, yet it does so in love. The practice of manners—the societal ceremony—helped maintain this framework. I’ll give you another, more personal, example.

I had a good circle of friends in my earliest high school years in Danville, Illinois. Believe it or not, even as testosterone-enriched athletes, we were never inclined to swear. The rest of our teammates were. Outnumbered in this regard, as a result, there came a time when swearing began infecting our circle. To stop it, the four of us pledged to punch one another anytime an inappropriate word crossed our lips. A few days and lots of bruises later, we brought what was becoming a natural propensity under control.

It’s too bad I cannot continue employing such tactics as a clergyman. But I digress.

In short, my friends and I knew ourselves. We were honest about what was becoming a dreadful propensity. We were Christians, and we sensed foul language’s incompatibility with our faith (and, as Burke might suggest, its erosive effect on a moral society). With that, we warred against the tendency with a ceremony capable of maintaining the boundaries (Ephesians 4:29-30, 5:1-13). We did this before the propensity ruined us. Interestingly, the ceremony was unpleasant when used. It hurt. But it was worth it. I should say, it’s likely even Saint Paul would have approved. In 1 Corinthians 9:27, the verb for “discipline” (ὑπωπιάζω) means to strike something physically. Paul appears willing to use extreme techniques to keep his own body under control. Getting punched, perhaps by Timothy, wasn’t off the table.

During last week’s Bible study, I wondered out loud if any of this was relevant to worship style. Of course, my wondering was rhetorical. How could it not be? That’s one of the benefits of traditional worship’s maintaining of historic rites and ceremonies. In a way, they’re theological manners.

Tradition understands man’s propensities. It knows we want things to be our way (anthropocentrism). To restrain this more-often-soiled-than-not tendency, rites and ceremonies—spiritual etiquette—carry the worshipper along in ways designed to exchange anthropocentrism with Christocentrism. In other words, their purpose is to force man out from the center of his own universe and put Christ firmly in the middle.

Understandably, rites and ceremonies are multifaceted, and like getting punched by three friends all at once, they can sometimes be uncomfortable. I get that. They’re strict means of exercise. But the most rigorous kinds of training often produce the best results. In this case, the singular goal of each word and motion is a heart fixed securely on Christ by faith and a new propensity—a Spirit-driven inclination—to imitate Him in the world around us (Ephesians 5:1).