Tag Archives: listening

Not Recording… But Recording

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The following has been on my mind for some time. I’ve only just now felt the urge to parse my thoughts. Essentially, Jennifer and I were sitting together and watching a news report on the Nancy Guthrie case a few weeks ago when something relatively small (but actually not very small at all) slipped into the host’s conversation.

Nancy Guthrie’s Ring Doorbell footage was playing on the screen. The suspect was visible, moving about the Guthrie porch area, doing what he could to cover the camera’s lens and then break into the home. At one point, Dan Bongino joined the broadcast. Bongino is the former Deputy Director of the FBI. The host and Bongino both commented on the FBI’s impressive technological capacity, how the Bureau likely had the tools to use the video’s contents to identify and track down the suspect, even though his face was covered by a ski mask.

But then came the statement that bothered me.

The show’s host mentioned that, even though the Ring Doorbell camera was turned off and not recording, the FBI was able to obtain the footage we were watching at that very moment, which was, in fact, stored at Google. Nothing was added to the comment. There was no explanation. No clarification. The conversation simply moved on.

I immediately turned to Jennifer and said, “Did you hear that? The camera wasn’t recording, but somehow the FBI was able to acquire recorded footage from Google’s servers.”

That detail, while it seemed to matter very little to the host or Bongino, has not left me. We are told our devices are dormant until activated. We have a Google Home device that sits quietly on a cabinet near our dining area. It’s not supposed to listen unless prompted with what’s called a “wake word,” and it’s not supposed to record until that wake word is used and the command to record is given. It’s certainly not supposed to store audio without our consent. Still, notice the logic. To hear a “wake word,” it has to be listening—always.

And so, the FBI obtained uninterrupted video footage from a Google device that wasn’t awake.

How many times has the Thoma family joked about this sort of thing? More than I can count. It’s become something of a running gag in our house. For example, if the kids are horsing around, poking fun at each other, mock-threatening in that exaggerated, theatrical way siblings do, someone might laugh and say, “I’m gonna murder you.” They all laugh. And yet, almost instantly, one of them will add, “In Minecraft.”

It’s reflexive now. The joke, of course, is that our Google device is always listening. So, if an algorithm somewhere flags the word murder, we quickly clarify that no actual murder is about to take place, but rather someone is going to get revenge in the blocky video game universe of Minecraft. The kids laugh, but they also qualify. They tease, but they also amend the record. And that’s the curious part for me. Again, we’ve been assured the device isn’t listening. And yet, here we are, instinctively adding digital disclaimers at dinner, as though an invisible guest might be taking notes.

But we have good reason to believe it’s happening. Maybe you’ve had the same experiences we’ve had. There’ve been times when we were discussing something obscure during dinner or while sitting around the corner on the couch—talking about something oddly specific—and moments later, we discovered advertisements or suggested articles or videos related to that very topic appearing in our feeds. No one looked anything up on the internet during the original discussion. No one shared a video link by text. We simply spoke. Then, suddenly, strangely, there was the topic of our discussion in digital form on all our phones.

We laugh and say, “Big Brother’s listening.” Maybe he is.

This also has me wondering out loud that if a Ring camera can be “not recording” and yet still have retrievable footage stored somewhere, what exactly does “not recording” mean? Technology companies use careful language. My guess is that “recording” may not mean what ordinary people think it means. In other words, maybe it means something other than the typical layman’s understanding of “on” and “off.” Whatever the definition might be, the former Deputy Director of the FBI just told me that federal investigators can, in fact, access recordings from a device that’s not recording. And they can use it against you.

I suppose for me, the question in that moment became something more like, “What’s the price I’m willing to pay for convenience—or personal safety?” I like the fact that we have cameras around the outside of our home. Writing for public consumption has proven the cameras necessary. But I also like the convenience of seeing that a package was delivered while I’m away. I like being able to adjust the thermostat from an app. I like calling out into the thin air, “Hey, Google, what’s the weather going to be like today?” even though I live in Michigan and I can pretty much guarantee it’s going to be cold.

But for all the things I might appreciate about technology, convenience and personal safety are rarely free, especially in the modern home. The modern home hums with interactive devices. I was at Home Depot a week or so ago and passed by a refrigerator with an interactive screen bigger than my desktop computer’s two monitors combined. And so, I suppose the question changes a little. I should probably be asking whether we understand the scope of what we’ve invited into our homes.

Having said all this, I’m not sure where to go next. Although I suppose Lent is an appropriate season for asking these kinds of questions, especially that last one.

Lent is a season of examination. The examination most certainly could reach into our digital habits. But in the end, its reach isn’t technological. It’s spiritual. Lent is in place to help us slow down. We quiet the world’s noise. We take inventory. We ask what has quietly crept into the house of our hearts and what’s humming in the background of our souls.

Sure, we worry about devices that are always listening. We joke about invisible listeners, and we clarify our ribbing jokes with “in Minecraft,” just in case. But God’s Word reminds us that there is, in fact, One who truly hears every word and knows everything about us. Read Psalm 139 if you don’t believe me. The first twelve verses will tell you everything you need to know:

“O Lord, you have searched me and known me! You know when I sit down and when I rise up; you discern my thoughts from afar. You search out my path and my lying down and are acquainted with all my ways. Even before a word is on my tongue, behold, O Lord, you know it altogether. You hem me in, behind and before, and lay your hand upon me. Such knowledge is too wonderful for me; it is high; I cannot attain it. Where shall I go from your Spirit? Or where shall I flee from your presence? If I ascend to heaven, you are there! If I make my bed in Sheol, you are there! If I take the wings of the morning and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea, even there your hand shall lead me, and your right hand shall hold me. If I say, ‘Surely the darkness shall cover me, and the light about me be night,’ even the darkness is not dark to you; the night is bright as the day, for darkness is as light with you” (vv. 1-12).

What the Psalmist declared could be either terrifying or comforting. It’s terrifying if God is merely a cosmic surveillance system waiting to use our words against us—to capture us in wrongdoing and bring swift judgment. On the other hand, the Psalmist’s words are comforting if the One who hears and sees is also the One who went to the cross for every intentional or unintentional crime of thought, word, and deed we’ve ever committed (Matthew 12:36). In other words, the difference is the cross.

And that’s where Lent is taking us—to Good Friday’s holy massacre.

This world is an uneasy one. The assumption is that we’re being watched, not only by corporations and governments, but by sin, death, and the devil, forces far more formidable than the FBI. And yet, in the midst of these things, the Holy Spirit calls us by the Gospel to remember that we are seen fully by God—and loved and cared for still. The Lord who knows what is whispered in our dining rooms is the same Lord who bore our sin in His body on the cross. He does not need devices or algorithms to track us down. He certainly didn’t look upon His world with His first inclination being that it would only end in eternal imprisonment. His first response was love. His first response was rescue. His first response was to act. And so, He reached into this world personally. Through the person and work of Jesus Christ, God came down Himself.

Perhaps that’s the best direction to go with all of this. We fear unseen listeners in plastic devices sitting on shelves in our living spaces. And yet, the One who truly sees and hears us—the One who knows the worst that we are—was already there all along. Even better, He took upon Himself human flesh and joined us at the table. He wasn’t invisible. He was seen. He showed us just how much He cares. And now, through faith in His sacrifice—inevitably demonstrated through repentance, faith, and the amending of the sinful life—the verdict is declared to those who believe: Whatever you’ve done, it isn’t enough to condemn you. You are forgiven. And this happened in reality, not in Minecraft.

A True Friend

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I learned something about friendship last Saturday while driving to give a presentation in Plymouth. I suppose I already knew it innately. However, I’d not yet formed the thought in a graspable, and therefore shareable, way.

Essentially, I had to be up and doing (as Longfellow would say) before everyone else in my home that day. And so, I crept through my morning routine lest I awaken the multitudes who’d finally been granted a Saturday morning to sleep in. Having showered and dressed, the sun just beginning to share its intentions, I kissed my still-sleeping wife, Jennifer, and left. I returned to our bedroom several minutes later to retrieve a forgotten item. Jennifer was now awake and scrolling through her preferred newsfeed. I grabbed the overlooked item, kissed her screen-lit cheek, and left for the day.

About fifteen minutes into my journey, I called Jennifer. The conversation went something like this:

“Hello?”

“It’s just me,” I said. “I took a chance you hadn’t gone back to bed.”

“No, I’m awake,” she replied. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I was just thinking about something.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m glad my first visit with Chris Pratt was in Guardians of the Galaxy rather than watching him in Parks and Recreation with you and the kids.” The night before, my family and I had just finished the final episode in a several weeks-long binging of the mentioned television show.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I become endeared to characters I like and the people who play them,” I explained. “And then I expect certain things from their performances. If I had known the character Andy Dwyer before Star-Lord, I would’ve expected certain behaviors from Star-Lord, and I might not have enjoyed Pratt in the role as much. Instead, I brought Star-Lord to Andy Dwyer and not Andy Dwyer to Star-Lord. I guess I’m saying it was just better for me that way. It was better to meet Star-Lord before meeting Andy Dwyer.”

“Okay,” she said hesitatingly, yet still sounding just as happy to be an audience for my relatively useless observation as she is with the more essential aspects of my life. “I can see how that might be true.”

“Yeah, so that’s all I wanted to say.”

“Well, be careful on the road.”

“I will.”

“What time will you be home?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “I’ll call when I’m on my way.”

The conversation became a tender goodbye, and I continued my drive.

So, what does this have to do with a lesson in friendship? Well, Jennifer once again showed me that she’s more interested in simply talking with me than in the content of the conversation. I had absolutely nothing of value to share, and I could’ve just as easily kept my thoughts to myself. Still, I wanted to call her and tell her what I was thinking, even if it was ridiculous. Something assured me I could. In a simpler sense, it’s not necessarily the subject that matters between genuine friends. It’s the friendship itself that matters. When that’s true, hearing the other person’s voice can easily become so much more important than what they say.

But there’s something else about genuine friendship that I’ve learned along the way with Jennifer. Sometimes, what’s said (or done) must eclipse that comfortable sentiment. One of friendship’s chief responsibilities is honesty. Far too many unfortunate proverbs are being shared about how a true friend accepts you for who you are. When I see a decorative wall print that says something like that on the shelf in a store, I tend to turn it around backward or hide it in a stack of nearby pillows. No one needs to see it. Unrestricted acceptance of any and all behavior is not the definition of a true friend. Genuine friendship cares enough to communicate truths that you may resist acknowledging on your own. A genuine friend—someone who truly cares about you—will risk everything, even your wrath, to steer you toward truth. Indeed, “faithful are the wounds of a friend” (Proverbs 27:6). Knowing our world and the ever-strengthening gravity of its dreadfulness, none of us should be without such a friend.

All of this came to mind because as I reached for a book on my shelf this morning, I accidentally bumped a nearby greeting card, which resulted in several toppling over and cascading to the floor. Rather than putting them back, I gathered more from across multiple shelves, eventually putting them into a box in a cabinet where I keep such things. When I opened the box’s lid, a handwritten note from a former friend was on top. I won’t share the details, but just know the friendship ended badly. What I will say is that its final discussion had to happen. I made the painfully necessary phone call. He needed to hear that he’d wandered too far beyond the borders of faithfulness to Christ and was teetering at the edge of a dangerous ideological cliff. Ultimately, he cursed my concerns and jumped. It’s been several years since we’ve spoken. I sent him a note a few years back, but nothing came of it. Likely, I’ll never hear from him again. Admittedly, when I discovered and read the note, I could hear his voice behind its scribbled words. I realized I missed it. The content of our conversations was vast and sometimes pointless. But when he spoke, I listened, not necessarily because of what he was saying, but because I liked being his friend.

Perhaps the better lesson learned from this morning’s rambling is this: Don’t throw away the friends who care enough to tell you the truth. Apart from the Lord and His Word, they’re your next greatest asset for navigating and enduring a world doing its level best to pull you toward destruction. With that, there’s a reason God’s Word commends friendship, offering that “two are better than one…. For if they fall, one will lift up his fellow. But woe to him who is alone when he falls and has not another to lift him up” (Ecclesiastes 4:9-10). There’s a reason Saint Paul encourages us to “bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ” (Galatians 6:2). There’s a reason he rejoices in the mutual encouragement that comes from faith exercised relative to the self and others (Romans 1:12). There’s a reason Solomon writes so uncomplicatedly, “One who is righteous is a guide to his neighbor, but the way of the wicked leads them astray” (Proverbs 12:26), and that “oil and perfume make the heart glad, and the sweetness of a friend comes from his earnest counsel” (Proverbs 27:9), followed by the well-worn advice that “iron sharpens iron, and one man sharpens another (Proverbs 27:17).

We don’t need coddlers. We need honest friends. And if we’re so scandalized by the truths they tell us, ultimately resulting in us tossing them from our lives like spoiled meat, we’re likely the problem, not them. This means we need to have and be the kind of friend who is ready to hear others confess their faults and willing to let them show us ours. To be a friend like that takes the type of hardshell humility that only the Holy Spirit can bestow. By hardshell humility, I mean the meekness that can handle its own reflection because it understands its need while knowing the One who met it—Jesus Christ—the greatest friend any of us will ever know (John 15:12-15).

Confronting our failings is never easy. Ash Wednesday is this week, and if ever there was a time to confront our dust-and-ashes nature (Genesis 2:7, 3:19, and 18:7), it’s then. As you do, remember Jesus, the perfect friend. He steered straight into this world’s awfulness, risking everything, even His life, to make you His own. Any friend who’s willing to give up his own self-security to save you from something dangerous is precisely the kind of friend you need. A friend like that certainly isn’t disposable but indispensable.

Again, Lent is soon upon us. Many people give up something for Lent. May I make a suggestion?

Set aside the defenses you’ve constructed around your easily bruised ego, fear of the truth, and ridiculous fragility. Own up to your strayings and rejoice that God’s love was manifested to you by His Word given in the Scriptures and demonstrated through friends who care. His warning against Sin is an essential proof of His concern. Don’t write Him off. He didn’t want to leave you ignorant of your condition, and He has more to tell you. You are not lost. Christ has come. By His life, death, and resurrection, the debt of your sins has been paid. Through faith in Jesus, you receive the merits of His work and are set free from your failings.

A friend who deals in these things is a friend indeed.

Politeness

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To start, be careful out there this morning. The wind is crisp, and the roads are somewhat snowy. Still, you can make it to church.

The weather was a lot worse yesterday, and I spent most of yesterday’s late morning and afternoon at a bustling volleyball tournament in Brighton at the Legacy Sports Arena. I’d never been to such a place or event. When I say bustling, I mean it. It took me thirty minutes to find a place to park. When I finally got inside to see my daughter play, I discovered a packed house.

It would seem that when something is a priority, weather is not really an issue.

Interestingly, I listened to the folks around me (people from places less than twenty miles away) talking about how most had rented hotel rooms near the arena to ensure their kids wouldn’t miss a moment the entire weekend. By the way, the tournament continues today, and Evelyn’s team is scheduled to play this morning at 9:00 am. She won’t be there. Her coach knows it. Evelyn will be in worship. There is no higher priority than being with her Savior.

Well, on to something else I’ve been thinking about all week. It was a rough week in a person-to-person sense. Relative to one-on-one communication, I’ve learned a lot in my half-century of life. I probably don’t need to share two of the most important lessons I’ve learned because you likely already know them. You already know at least two rules that, when applied, can save an eroding relationship and lay the groundwork for repairs.

The first rule is to listen attentively. Attentive listening involves far more than one’s ears. A careful listener hears everything said and a whole lot that’s been left unsaid. Everyone has their “tell”—a unique behavior that pulls back the curtain on the hidden self. I do. You do. Two strangers might not know the tells, but friends will. Among friends, an attentive listener can spot them, and if the friend’s goal is to fix what’s broken, he can use them to steer toward repair. This might sound sneaky, but it isn’t. It’s purposeful for all the right reasons. Either way, giving someone your undivided attention is one of the most important demonstrations of respect. When a person feels heard—and maybe even that the one listening understands what’s been said and what’s hidden beneath the surface—they most often will snuff their own fuse.

The second rule is basic politeness. In any contentious conversation, if at least one participant commits to remaining within the boundaries of civility, the relationship has a far better chance at survival. I don’t just mean that while one is shouting and interrupting, the other is remaining calm. I mean that a polite person is aware of certain things. A genuinely polite person chooses his words carefully. He knows his own tendencies—the countless sin-stained responses (sometimes well-deserved) he’d prefer to give—yet he keeps those to himself. Instead, he dresses his thoughts in courtesy’s clothes. He lets polite civility be his shield against accusation. In all my years as a pastor, each filled with more than its fair share of stinging interactions, I’ve never walked away from one having regretted being polite. How could I? As the saying goes, “Civility costs nothing and buys everything.”

On second thought, as a Christian, I’m not so sure I agree entirely with the saying that civility costs nothing. Being polite requires some sacrifice.

The very definition of politeness is “behavior that is respectful and considerate of other people.” It means giving some space to another person’s immediate context. In the meantime, our 21st-century world appears pierced by the belief that crass impoliteness is the better way. Perhaps worse, we’ve become a society where it’s entirely acceptable for a person’s feelings to govern his manners. In other words, the expectation is that others must adjust their current mood or emotional condition to match yours, no matter what it might be. If you’re mad, then others had better watch out. If you’re sad, then others had better not be happy. And why is this? Because the self is what’s most important.

Looking at what I’ve typed so far, I see I mentioned being polite involves sacrifice. Therein lies a necessary clarification that must be made. Again, to be civil with others means to adjust one’s behavior. In a natural law sense, civility promotes harmony for societal stability. For Christians, it goes further. Civility is the first step toward the kind of service that identifies with someone, thereby becoming an inroad for lifting others from their troubles. Civility is willing to temporarily endure with someone to deliver them to something better (1 Corinthians 13:5-7). Civility’s opposite—rudeness—demands that others come to where it resides and stay there. It is entirely self-seeking. It insists that others rejoice in whatever it deems worthy of praise. It demands that others suffer as it has suffered, eventually multiplying its misery. It makes things worse, not better.

Thinking about these things this morning while simultaneously reflecting on Saint Paul’s words in Romans 12:6-16 (the Epistle lesson appointed for this morning), another aspect needs further clarification.

At first glance, Saint Paul appears to side with the 21st-century’s self-centered demands when he writes in Romans 12:15: “Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep.” Indeed, it sounds like God’s people must indulge others’ emotional frailties entirely and in every circumstance. But he isn’t. Instead, he set the standard for doing these things in verse 9, writing, “Let love be genuine. Abhor what is evil; hold fast to what is good.” With these words in hand, the image becomes that of discernment. It’s the image of someone holding tightly to what is objectively good while reaching down into the darkness to rescue someone else. The one helping doesn’t submit himself into every darkness. And the darkness he does reach into, he doesn’t do so permanently. Paul insists in verse 21, “Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.” Evil must not be coddled nor granted the last word. Instead, identify with the person. Reach to them. As you do, rejoice if rejoicing is appropriate. Weep if weeping is necessary. Do both intending to bring a person trapped in darkness to the light above—to the good you’re holding onto.

Somewhat tangentially, perhaps this is one of the inherent angles to Paul’s encouragement to set our minds on things that are above, not on things below (Colossians 3:1-4). Could this also be meant for believers perpetually stuck in life’s ditches—to look upward for the hands that can help?

Maybe. Maybe not.

Either way, assuming that politeness produces dividends is an uncomplicated axiom. Most regular folks will not be found marveling when someone like Justice Clarence Thomas says that politeness opens doors that education cannot, or as Margaret Walker insists, that good manners can buy what money can’t afford. These things go without saying. The same is true relative to the Gospel. Its glory is dimmed by the poorly mannered and confused by the rude (1 Corinthians 13:4-5). And so, naturally, Paul reminds us, “Be gentle, and show perfect courtesy toward all people” (Titus 3:2), letting our “manner of life be worthy of the gospel of Christ” (Philippians 1:27).

Introversion as a Superpower

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Thinking back on the events of the past week, I’m thankful that I was able to attend the Exegetical Symposium at Concordia Theological Seminary in Fort Wayne, Indiana. It’s the first time in about five years or so that I’ve been able to get away to attend what is really two symposia—an exegetical symposium followed by a systematic symposium—offered over the course of four days. Although, having now returned, I remembered three reasons why I don’t make more of an effort to attend.

The first is that I never really feel like I’m getting my money’s worth. I mean that in a good way. There’s so much offered across the expanse of the two-part event. But as it would go, I can usually only afford to get away for a day or two. This time around, my inability to stay for the whole thing stung a little more than in the past because one of my favorite professors, Rev. Dr. David Scaer, invited me (and Bishop Hardy) to sit beside him at the event’s concluding banquet. Unfortunately, I was already back in Hartland, Michigan, when I received the invitation. Still, what I did get to experience while I was there was incredibly enriching. I thoroughly appreciated the papers given by the professors who beamed everything I remember appreciating about them while a student.

The second reason is as I just hinted. When I’m on campus, I miss the tutelage of insightful professors, and the collegiality of fellow seminarians, many of whom would become brothers in the trenches of a warfare that unfolded in ways few of us expected. When I see these friends again, it is a homecoming of sorts.

I’ll explain the third reason this way.

I learned something rather important about myself within the past ten days, some of those days spent traveling to and from events in Vermont, and the others, as I already mentioned, spent at the Symposium. Well, maybe a little more accurately, I didn’t necessarily discover something new about myself, but rather, I found myself finally willing to admit something I already suspected may be true.

I’m anti-social.

Okay, maybe I’m not anti-social in the clinical sense. Instead, perhaps the devout craving for solitude that almost always washes over me in a crowd is, at a minimum, suggesting I’m far more introverted than I ever truly realized.

I took a moment to look up the typical behavioral patterns of introverts, and for the most part, it seems I fit the bill. I prefer quiet in order to concentrate, which means I’m more than comfortable being alone. I’m not a fan of group work, but much prefer to do things myself. I’m often exhausted after being in a crowd, which explains why I’m in desperate need of a nap after Sunday morning’s usual activities. I dig into and use my imagination more so than my intellect both to solve problems and to relieve stress. Finally, I prefer to write rather than speak. But, having claimed all these individualities, I would not say I lack confidence in a crowd. I can’t remember a time when I was afraid to assume the pulpit. I can’t recall ever being afraid to take the lead in a public conversation when asked to do so. I’m also pretty sure I use more than just my imagination to unpack any given topic at hand. Still, the truth is, in these situations, I’m most comfortable settling in and sitting quietly while someone else dominates the conversation.

I say these things more so in relation to the Symposium, which, again, was a series of events infused with the kind of brilliance God doles out to a select few among us, with one of the Lord’s divine goals being that those wellsprings of information would shine the bright beams of their wisdom upon the rest of us. And yet, in between the Symposium’s scheduled speakers and the papers they presented, I also experienced coffee and conversation on occasion with various fellows whose only apparent goal was to, no matter the audience, prove their intellectual prowess to all within earshot.

Now, I don’t want to complain too much about this, mainly because if there was ever a time and place for vibrantly deep and tangential theological thought leading to discussion, it’s at such a Symposium. Still, you know the kind of person I’m talking about.

It’s easy to tell when someone is intelligent. It’s even easier to tell when someone wants you to think they are intelligent. This is one aspect of such contexts that must be endured rather than enjoyed, namely, the high probability of being cornered by someone you may or may not know intent on proving his cleverness. In my opinion, pocket flasks were made for such moments.

For the record, no, I don’t carry a flask. Although, I do own two.

I’ll add it’s also highly probable that what’s being peacocked in those moments seems, more often than not, to be of very little value to the Church. When that’s true, I may look like I’m listening, but in reality, I’m praying that God would smile on me by rewinding the clock to give back to me the hour I just wasted. And considering the vigor with which some of these conversations unfold, I almost feel guilty for not caring. An example of this involved listening to someone insist that Luther, influenced by Saint Jerome, considered belief in Semper Virgo (the perpetual virginity of Mary) as fundamental to salvation. Firstly, let me take a quick sip. Secondly, just know that mentally I begin to wander off into the weeds when the foundation of any theological argument appears to lessen the import of the Bible’s perspective, choosing to rest solely on non-biblical sources, instead. Thirdly, the doctrine of the Virgin Birth—the fact that the Son of God was born of the “clauso utero” (closed womb) of a virgin—is fundamental to the Christian Faith. It matters in more ways than we’ll ever be able to comprehend in this life. But Semper Virgo is not fundamental. And while Luther may have believed Mary was forever a virgin, he never imposed it on salvation’s equation. A Christian can believe Mary was forever a virgin if he or she wants to. Or not. It doesn’t matter. And our own Lutheran dogmaticians have long affirmed this, saying things like, “If the Christology of a theologian is orthodox in all other respects, he is not to be regarded as a heretic for holding that Mary bore other children in the natural manner after she had given birth to the Son of God” (Pieper, Christian Dogmatics, Volume II, p. 308). This is a reasonable analysis, especially since biblical texts such as John 2:12, Matthew 1:25, Matthew 12:46, and Matthew 13:55-56 appear to suggest by their contexts something other than Semper Virgo. But again, because the Greek words used in these texts (ἀδελφοὶ, most often used of male siblings; and ἀδελφαὶ, typically used for female siblings) have been used in other contexts to describe fellow believers, neighbors, and countrymen, the exegesis is open and inconclusive, giving folks the freedom to take whichever position they prefer. Personally, I think the texts and their contexts aren’t that complicated. But that’s just me.

Taking another quick sip, although this time from the practical opinion of a husband, I’m guessing the only person Semper Virgo would have really mattered to was Mary’s spouse, Joseph. If Semper Virgo is truly a thing, then we should be spending more time heralding the durability of the poor guy, and we should probably at least consider that there’s more to the reason he’s one of the select few the Bible grants the descriptor of “righteous” (Matthew 1:19). I’m guessing it was not only because he had a merciful heart, but because he endured never having the opportunity to enjoy the God-given delight granted to marriage for making babies. Even more, maybe Semper Virgo actually is true, and another of its proofs is Joseph’s disappearance early on in the Gospel narratives. His absence is a hint to his death at an early age. I can imagine a man married to a woman with a strict “hands off” policy dying well before his time.

In a prattling world of nonsensical chatter—even as it meets with theological things—I sometimes wish more people could discover and embrace the superpowers of their inner introvert, because for as counter-intuitive to its clinical definition as it might seem, introversion is one particular personality type naturally equipped for listening, observing, and then learning.

I think that may be where this morning’s meandering is finally carrying me.

When it comes to basic conversation, taking turns at listening is not only helpful, it’s also polite. A person who monopolizes the conversation is rude. The rude behavior blossoms into offensiveness when the monopoly is one of bloviating grandeur that becomes the imparting of wisdom no one really cares to receive. It’s what Ralph Waldo Emerson meant when he said, “The louder he spoke of his honor, the faster we counted our spoons.” On the other hand, both contributing and listening—namely, listening, and the subsequent learning that occurs naturally from it—are key aspects of the Christian faith. The Bible is not silent in this regard (Proverbs 19:20; Romans 10:17; Ecclesiastes 5:1-3; and the like). Even the Lord Himself regularly emphasized listening and learning as crucial to the salvific exchange (Matthew 11:15). This is true not only because the message of the Gospel to be heard and learned is God’s chosen power source for salvation (Romans 1:16), but because the critical aspects of listening and learning flank what I already mentioned: observing. Together, the listening and learning of faith become the fabled sixth sense that calibrates the other five senses for rightly engaging with the world around us.

When we listen and learn through the lens of the Gospel for faith, we see things as they really are.

Having said all this, I suppose I’ll end by sharing a portion of something from Luther’s Commentary on St. Paul’s Epistle to the Galatians (1535) that my friend, Terry E. Hoese, posted on Facebook last week. At its core, I think it speaks to what I’ve shared here. By the way, I was blessed to see Terry at the Symposium, and was able to spend time in a wonderful conversation with him!

“Never should we think that we are so holy, so well instructed, and confident that we have learned it all. Because the more confident we are, just as much, we can err and fall, placing ourselves and others at great danger and risk” (p. 92).

Finally, I don’t know if any of this was helpful to you or not. Whether it was or wasn’t, I hope I didn’t sound too negative. I appreciated my time at the Symposium. As I said, I was enriched, and this is because there’s always so much to be mined from everything it offers—even by way of the sometimes maddening side-conversations. But as I said, no matter if a conversation is enjoyable or annoying, every interaction will be for a Christian a time of learning. They’re all opportunities for clarity. Through the lens of the Gospel for faith, all human dealings are opportunities for observing and then navigating this world in faithfulness to Christ. Even better, they’re times for communicating that same Gospel, that is, if you can get a word in edgewise.