Tag Archives: rain

Let Life Sound Like Life

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I did something unusual on the drive to my office this morning. After a minute or two of familiar music, I turned it off and drove the remaining twenty-three minutes in silence. Not necessarily quiet, but silence.

Actually, my actions may not have been entirely accidental. Yesterday, two things happened. First, a friend wrote a post about leaving social media. It made perfect sense to me because I have the same feelings fairly regularly. Second, as I always do, I led my congregation’s monthly Ladies Guild Bible study group here at Our Savior. It’s a fantastic group of ladies who are devoted to Christ and His Word. The topic of the study was peace—what it is, what it isn’t, and how, from a Christian perspective, it has little if anything to do with our circumstances. Admittedly, the study’s conversations stayed with me, too. And so, here’s what I mean.

I drive a black two-door Jeep Wrangler. I’ve driven several Wranglers in my lifetime. The one I have now has a hard top. It’s slightly lifted by about two inches. The tires are also a bit larger than stock. Anyone who’s driven a Jeep Wrangler knows they’re not necessarily serene vehicles. Put a soft top on it, which I’ve owned before, and “not necessarily serene” becomes a massive understatement. They become wind tunnels. Maybe the newer models aren’t so bad. But the ones I’ve known were never quiet. Even with a hard top, wind slips through where it can. The road hums. Things creak. At seventy miles an hour—at least that’s the pace I’m going to admit—the whole thing speaks in resonance and vibrations.

And yet, for one reason or another, this morning’s ride was rather peaceful by comparison to most.

Usually, all my Wrangler’s sounds are buried beneath something else—music, podcasts, and news clips from various sources. Apparently, I’m inclined to drown out the natural sound every day, and to do so as a matter of habit. But not this morning. Today was wind, asphalt, engine, motion, a Buick in the passing lane slowing everyone else’s pace, a truck hauling who knows what to who knows where, the rhythm of rain (that would eventually become snow) tapping against the windshield and being sent away for a few seconds by the wipers before returning. All of this was happening.

I don’t want to get too philosophical here. However, there is a lesson to be learned. There’s a lesson in everything, if only we’re willing to consider the possibility.

Concerning my morning drive, I wondered how much of life we miss because we’re always piping something else into it. We insulate ourselves from the ordinary textures of being alive. I get why we do it. Real life isn’t polished, and perhaps worse, it doesn’t flatter us. In that sense, the real world is noisy in ways we’d never willingly choose. I mean, who wants a life that rattles and hums, whether literally or figuratively? And so, for one reason or another, we do what we can to cover it up, choosing instead to curate our surroundings. I listen to music and such while driving to pass the time. But is passing the time always best? Well, when someone or something else is thinking for me, maybe not. But regardless of the reason, I suppose one of my concerns is that, when we pipe so much extra stuff into our lives, we risk losing our bearings. In other words, we risk forgetting where we are, what we’re supposed to be doing, and maybe even who we’re with because we’re always somewhere else listening to that somewhere else’s noise.

Does that make sense? Maybe not. Again, I don’t want to be too philosophical. In the end, I’ll simply say that sometimes it’s good to turn things off and unplug—not because the anticipated silence will be actual quiet, but because it’ll be an opportunity to let life sound like life. And by the way, regardless of how some might ultimately define peace, only Christians know what peace truly is when life is making a racket. But again, even in a superficial, everyday sense, even mortal peace doesn’t always come from hearing what we prefer. Sometimes it comes from hearing what’s been there all along. I suppose a Jeep Wrangler, absent all artificial sound, traveling noisily down US23, is sometimes just the place to learn that lesson.

Imperishable, Undefiled, and Unfading

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One would think I should’ve been a weatherman because I’m so obsessed with the seasons. Although, it isn’t an obsession. It’s frustration. I live here, but I’m not meant for this climate, especially not the back-and-forth Michigan is currently enduring.

I dare say even the ones who adore autumn in this state will know what I’m talking about. The days are becoming wildly different.

I suppose one way to describe this is to say that, indeed, summer is over, and as a faithful doorman, autumn is watching for winter, preparing to hold open the gates when it arrives. Until then, autumn fidgets. It keeps opening and closing the door, stepping out to scan the horizon for winter’s caravan, and then stepping back inside again to watch and wait. By this, autumn stirs wildly different weather, sometimes all in one day.

Again, Michiganders will know what I mean. One moment, the sky is clear, and the sun is shining, warming all within reach of its bright array. It’s as if August locked the door, barring September and its followers from entering. But with little more than a glance to the horizon, thick clouds are invited over and into view. The door is thrown open. The sun is nudged away, its beaming warmth exchanged with chilly darkness and drizzling rain. In other words, to endure Michigan’s autumn means to be in August one minute and then October the next. One moment, the sky’s sapphire happiness is vast and cheerful. The next, you’re in deep space, a hundred million miles from our solar system’s star.

But then winter finally arrives, and that’s that—no more confusion.

I began by saying I’m not meant for this climate. I mean that in more ways than one. Interestingly, one of those ways, in part, explains why I’d never willingly leave Michigan. In truth, physically, I’m suited for Florida. My body feels better when I’m there. My back feels better. I have fewer migraines. However, God put me in Michigan. This is where my vocation’s muscle is flexed. I’ve come to realize my vocation—my combined roles as a husband, father, pastor, and the like—are less about location and more about devotion. I really can live just about anywhere when I’m confident that God has me right where He wants me. Where He puts me is a part of what He wants for me. What He wants leads to eternal life (John 6:40), which is eternity’s joyful location—an inheritance far beyond this life’s comforts.

When a Christian trades interest in this life’s comforts for the joy of the life to come, it’s incredible what can be endured. This world, steeped in its undoneness, is seen for what it is. Still, even as we endure, it’s amazing how the sun perpetually shines when, by faith, you know you’re not an inheritor of this world but of an altogether different sphere.

Saint Peter referred to this inheritance as “imperishable, undefiled, and unfading, kept in heaven for you” (1 Peter 1:4). He went on to say that this remains true, even as we are “grieved by various trials, so that the tested genuineness of your faith—more precious than gold that perishes though it is tested by fire—may be found to result in praise and glory and honor at the revelation of Jesus Christ” (vv. 6-7). Luther explained:

“This means that our hope is not set on possessions or an inheritance present here on earth, but we live in the hope of an inheritance which is at hand and which is incorruptible, and which is undefiled, and that does not fade away. We possess this good eternally, only we cannot see it yet. … All things that are on earth, even though they may be as hard as iron and stone, are perishable and cannot last. Man, as he grows old, grows ugly; but the eternal good does not change, but remains fresh and green forever. On earth, there is no pleasure so great that it does not pall in time. We see that men grow tired of everything, but this good is of a different nature.” (Luther’s Works, Weimar Edition, 12:269.)

“…there is no pleasure so great that it does not pall in time.”

In this life, the seasons change. The cold moves in. The clouds pall the landscape. The light dims. And yet, eternal life’s season—our inheritance—remains unphased. It’s ready and waiting (John 14:2-6). It stands sturdy and cheerful and sure, beaming brightly beyond this world’s veil of tears (James 1:17). What’s more, as Luther remarked, not only do we know this, but we own its resplendence right now. “We possess this good eternally,” he wrote, “only we cannot see it yet.” It’s true. Our mortal eyes cannot see heaven’s glory. But faith sees it. And it’s aware that the light feeding heaven’s extraordinary brilliance—Jesus Christ—is alive with us right now, and He’s radiating luminously through us to a darkened world in dreadful need of rescue (John 8:12; Matthew 5:14-16).

For Christians, when life in this world becomes attuned to this hope-filled future, there’s little that the temporal darkness can disrupt. Knowing I’m not an inheritor of this world—that my time here is quite temporary—I see everything this life throws at me differently. More importantly, courage for faithfulness to Christ, my Savior, is within reach every moment of every day (Ephesians 6:10).

Having said all this, I need to be clear. I still intend to live in Florida one day. If God intends it, it’ll happen. Until then, I’m where I need to be.

A Beeline to Faithfulness

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That was quite the wind and rain we experienced last week, wouldn’t you say? I think it’s safe to say that autumn has arrived.

Being unable to move very quickly because of my injury, the normally simple inconvenience rain causes became a bit more concerning. At one point on Tuesday, my daughter, Evelyn, and I were standing beneath the canopy near the church’s main entrance trying to decide how we would go about making our way to the car in what had suddenly become a torrential downpour. Thankfully, I had already moved the car into the circle drive near the entrance, so it was only about fifty feet away from us. Still, she was concerned that at my pace, I would be drenched by the time I made it, and so she offered to run to the car to fetch my umbrella and then come right back, and then together we’d make our way over.

What a sweetie.

In the end, we decided just to make a run for it. Well, she ran. I hobbled with fierce determination. Although, we only did this after first calculating another option and its possible outcomes. Essentially, we measured a simple dash to the car against Evelyn running to the vehicle, opening the hatch to retrieve the umbrella, and then running back to me, only for the two of us to then return to the car holding the sail-like device amid the blustering rainstorm, stopping at one door to allow one of us to climb inside as the other then circled around to the other to get in, being sure to first close and shake the umbrella. In the end, a beeline to the car seemed the better plan. Taking a hint from Longfellow, sometimes the best thing any of us can do when it’s raining is to let it rain. In other words, sometimes things are what they are and there’s nothing we can do to change them.

I suppose another lesson to be learned by this artless scenario is that our over-contemplated attempts at avoiding the discomforting things in life often result in making things worse rather than better. Digging even deeper into the moment, I’d say we sorted through the distinction between simply talking about doing and actually doing. As Evelyn and I negotiated, the rain only seemed to get worse. Had we made straight for the car when we first came out, we’d have been a lot less wet. But we didn’t. We stood there trying to decide what we were going to do, which involved a second option involving excessive details that, the more we talked about them, the more cumbersome and toll-exacting they seemed to become. I don’t know if it relates completely, but as I type this, I’m remembering the way Saint Paul often spends time in his epistles dealing with the contours of the Christian life.

I’m guessing there are plenty of folks who, when they visit with those portions of Paul’s writings in which he speaks about genuine Godliness, figure he’s being prescriptive, that is, he’s telling his readers how to live their lives in the world. That may be true some of the time, but not always. Occasionally he’s being descriptive, which means he’s simply describing what Christians have become by the power of the Holy Spirit through the Gospel for faith in Christ. When he does this, there’s an accompanying sense that enough time has already been spent talking about what it all means and now it’s time to just go and be it. I suppose in a practical sense, the more time we spend being unnecessarily cerebral about all of it, the more allowance for devastation our inaction seems to prove.

Think about it in a localized sense. There’s a reason why Saint Paul urges Christians not to let the sun go down on their anger (Ephesians 4:26). He knows the tendencies of Man. He knows that the longer we wait to reconcile, the more likely it is that the rainstorm of hatred will intensify. Of course, as the hatred grows fiercer, the worse things become and the less likely it will be that the two people will ever truly dry off in peace. On a larger scale, the more sedentary Christians remain, prattling away on social media about our troubled world without ever lifting a finger to change anything, the worse things are likely to become. One only needs to look around to see the necessity of Christian action. A glance will reveal the spin-rate of this world’s undoneness is continually picking up speed. School Boards across the country are often unopposed when they introduce sexually explicit materials and Critical Race Theory curriculums in their districts, often beginning as early as preschool. Christian business owners are taken to court and oftentimes fined out of existence simply for holding to the tenets of their faith and the basic science of Natural Law. What was once the quieter, but nonetheless satanic, mantra of “safe but rare” has become the full-throated cry of “Shout your abortion!” and the call for legalized slaughter of full term infants.

The rain is falling, folks. Sure, you can take some time to examine the best way through it, but one way or the other, you’re going to have to get wet. So, stop talking about it and get going. Make a beeline for faithfulness. Of course, the best place to start is by going to church. There’s not much use in trying to weather the storms if you haven’t been equipped accordingly to do so. You need what Christ gives by His Word and Sacrament gifts. Strengthened by these, may I suggest your next few steps for steering into the downpour be ones of faithfulness in your vocation as parent, child, friend, or worker? A lot can be accomplished simply by teaching your little ones while standing true to Christian conviction before family, friends, and co-workers. As you pick up speed in this, think about getting involved with your local Pro-life organization. Or perhaps you might help register Christian voters before the next election. Heck, I say if the Spirit is carrying you along with a brisk enough stride, take a chance at running for office. I already hinted at how holding a seat on your local School Board could make all the difference in the world to the next generation of citizens.

Whatever you’re thinking about doing, don’t think too long. Get out there and be who God has already made you to be. Yes, you’re going to get wet. That comes with the territory. But no matter the outcomes, the calculations for a beeline to your eternal life were already made by Christ through His life, death, and resurrection. By His victory, the courage you need for the first few steps has already been delivered. The words “It is finished!” (John 19:30) are the clarion call.