Tag Archives: story

Below the Surface

Posted on by

It might be old news, but one of my all-time favorite films, Jaws, celebrated its 50th anniversary this past June—the 20th, to be precise. Of course, the Thoma family observed the special day by ordering a pizza and watching it.

What brings this to mind right now is that I just learned that a documentary about the making of the film was released on July 11. I haven’t watched it yet, but I plan to. I’m sure it’ll bring back memories.

I remember the first time I saw the film. I wasn’t very old, maybe seven or eight. My brother and I watched it on a Betamax player my dad borrowed from a friend at work. At least, I think that was the context. I can’t say for sure. Either way, I loved the movie, and I dare say it played a huge part in my fascination with horror films. Although Jaws wasn’t really a horror film. It was more of an adventure-like thriller with horror elements. It was slow-building and suspenseful. But its charm was that it was grounded in something that could happen.

Ask my family, and they’ll tell you there isn’t much that I fear. Scary movies never bothered me. I’m rarely startled when surprised. I was never afraid of the dark as a kid. I never felt the urge to rush up the basement steps after turning out the light. But I can admit, I’m no fan of sharks. I have my reasons. And as such, I can admit, even when I was a 20-something lifeguard working at a freshwater lake in the summer, I thought about what might be lurking beneath the surface every time I went for a dip.

Harrison and I were listening to movie soundtracks on Spotify several weeks back. Jennifer and the girls walked in just as I played the soundtrack from Jaws. Right away, they all knew the iconic two-note motif, even without me telling them. Go swimming in a pool, and at some point along the way, it’s the resident father’s job to dip lower, his mouth just above the rippling surface, and begin, “Dun-dunt… dun-dunt… dun-dunt-dun-dunt-dun-dunt…” When that happens, no matter how old the children are, there’s a crazed splashing as they dash for the pool’s edge.

I finished the fantasy-fiction book I was writing and sent it off to the publisher. I’m glad to say it has been accepted for publication. Two more are expected. Now I’m five chapters into something completely different—a thriller. For the record, I’m loving every minute of its creation. Stepping beyond myself for a moment to observe the writing process, I think movies like Jaws did more than just spark my interest in all things scary. I believe it played a role in introducing me to the power of storytelling, particularly in terms of tension and pacing. It taught me that what you don’t see is often more frightening than what you do. Spielberg’s restraint—the decision to show the shark sparingly—was brilliant. It left space for the mind to fill in the fear.

It’s hard to believe it’s been fifty years. But then again, some stories never truly grow old. They just circle beneath the surface, waiting to rise again.

I read a reply to one of my Facebook posts this morning. It more or less supported the point in a cultural sense. Ultimately, I deleted the reply, if only because it was crass and attacking. Essentially, the person believed that LGBTQ issues should be seen as entirely normal and, therefore, acceptable. His premise was that LGBTQ relationships have existed as long as heterosexual relationships. So, in other words, longevity equals legitimacy.

For the record, that’s just silly.

Age alone doesn’t validate something. Throughout history, plenty of things have been long accepted, yet we now easily recognize them as absurd. The Spartan culture, for many centuries, considered it honorable to dispose of newborns with birth defects by throwing them from cliffs. Although I wouldn’t put it past Michigan’s current leadership to write the practice into the state’s constitution. We already have an amendment that allows abortion up to birth, and in some instances, afterward.

But before I stray from my original thought, my point is that the age of a thing, or even its level of acceptability in cultures throughout history, says nothing about its morality or truth. Ultimately, sin has been around since Eden. Pride, murder, greed, envy, idolatry—all of these things have endured. Not one of them is new. And all along the way, God’s Word has spoken clearly against them. Just because something has endured doesn’t mean it’s good or right.

Indeed, the enemy of God’s truth has always worked subtly, patiently, and yes, sometimes through the slow-building suspense of cultural conditioning—until finally, it’s time once again for the fin to break the surface and for the attack to come.

By the way, that Facebook reply itself was a tired example of the premise. The desire to justify one’s sin is an ever-lurking predator. It waits patiently just below the surface of the conscience, always ready to offer an excuse, always prepared to snap with, “This is who you are,” rather than, “This is what Christ came to redeem.”

It’s no coincidence that the Bible often describes devilish things in predatory terms. Sin crouches at the door (Genesis 4:7). The devil prowls like a lion (1 Peter 5:8). These things are purposely framed as ensnaring and deceiving. The cultural arguments we hear today try to steer away from these descriptions. But in the end, they’re little more than recycled lies with polished packaging—that is, for the lifeguard who’s paying attention. They see the appeal to emotion or history. They recognize the labeling of objectively true things as “fascism” and “bigoted,” and they see the same old fin circling the swimmers.

I suppose my concern these days is that the Church, the appointed lifeguard, is too often lulled by the quiet of the water. Too many in our ranks are too often asleep in the chair, thinking all is well. Perhaps worse, among those who know the dangers, many are afraid to swim out into the crimsoned waters to help. We know we, too, could be attacked, and that the effort to help might have an irreversible cost to our reputation, our comfort, our families, and so much more. In other words, not unlike the tension that Jaws portrayed so well, there’s a fear of what you don’t see but know could happen.

But here’s the thing. Christians are not called to fear, but to faithfulness. Our calling is not to retreat. We’re not to remain on the beach. We are sent into the waters knowing full well what stirs beneath. I’d say this is true because we’ve already been carried into and through the better waters of Holy Baptism, which is a washing that doesn’t remove fear, but transforms it. Our LCMS President, Rev. Dr. Matthew Harrison, once described this kind of Christian courage in a way that I’ve never forgotten. He said something about how Christian courage is nothing less than fear that’s been baptized.

He was right in so many ways.

Grafted into Christ, fear becomes something altogether different (John 15:4-5; Romans 11:17). It doesn’t necessarily vanish. Instead, it bows. It gets reordered by the Gospel, and as a result, it no longer rules the heart (Philippians 4:7; Colossians 3:15). That’s because it has been fixed to Jesus. Indeed, “we were buried therefore with him by baptism into death, in order that, just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, we too might walk in newness of life” (Romans 6:4-5). This is to say, we are joined to the One who has already gone into and through the depths of darkness and emerged alive again (Revelation 1:17-18).

That said, we’re not here to tread water or stay dry on the shore. We’re here to swim, and sometimes that means swimming right into the blood-stained mess. We do this not because we’re immune to fear. We’re no fools. We know so many unseen and fearful things are gliding quietly beneath us (Ephesians 6:12). This is especially true in the waters of culture. But the point is that for Christians, fear is not preventative. We know that the worst that could ever happen in any situation—death—has no dominion (Romans 6:9; 1 Corinthians 15:54-57).

Summer Belongs to June

Posted on by

Welcome to June. It’s a little chilly. Nevertheless, it’s here.

Ever since I was a kid, summer always belonged to June. The poet, William Carlos Williams, scribbled, “In summer, the song sings itself.” Every kid knows he was right. When June came, that meant life’s doors were opening to easier days—summer days.

As a kid growing up in central Illinois, in the twilight hours, after we’d become bored with jumping ramps, climbing trees, playing hotbox, or anything else we felt like doing, we’d throw golf balls into the air to attract the bats. After an hour of watching them swoop and flitter and spin in this and that direction, and feeling like pitchers in our eighth inning, we’d head inside to watch whichever movie might be playing on whatever tunable station we could manage in our cableless house.

As an adult, the summer doesn’t necessarily promise me the same freedoms. Still, when June arrives, it seems the world starts loosening its collar. The daylight stretches further. Togetherness on the front porch or back deck lasts longer. Solitude’s silence hums with a kind of warmth that winter could never understand. Time itself seems to wander around barefoot.

Summer doesn’t ask for permission. It simply arrives and reminds us to live—that staying inside isn’t the only possibility. We can go outside, too.

A few weeks ago, I sat in a video conference with a publisher. I’ve been sitting on a handful of chapters for a children’s fantasy novel for more years than I can count. Only recently did a wind of inspiration hit me. In truth, it was my grandson’s birth. Inhaling the event’s freshness, I’ve been exhaling newness to the story. Contextually, I’d already been chatting with the publisher about crafting a religious liberty book, which I more or less completed last night. But this conversation was about the children’s book. Just for fun, I sent along the first six chapters, and with that, interest was sparked, and ultimately, encouragement to move forward followed.

Contextually, I began writing the story as a means to help my son, Joshua, navigate the challenging waters of my full-time seminary training. He was four years old when I began what would be three long years of commuting to and from Fort Wayne, Indiana. I would drive down on Sunday night and return to Michigan on Friday night. Meanwhile, even as a full-time student, I would also maintain my full-time Director of Christian Education (DCE) duties here at Our Savior, doing what I could to manage long-distance responsibilities, while also holding regular office hours and participating in activities on weekends.

To prevent the loss of Josh’s childhood along the way, we started writing a story together. The routine was fairly simple. Before I left on Sunday night, we’d sit together to talk about the story. In between classes and paper-writing that week, I’d add to the story based on what we talked about. When I returned the following Friday, not only was he happy to see me, but he also wasn’t dreading my Sunday departure because he knew I wouldn’t share the new material with him until just before leaving. And once again, after reading what I’d crafted, we’d talk about what should happen next, and then I’d go back to Fort Wayne and repeat the process.

In a sense, I share all of this, reminded of something I just read last night from George R.R. Martin. He wrote, “Summer will end soon enough, and childhood as well.” Again, that’s what I was guarding against when I began writing the story in the first place. It was a dreadfully taxing experience, one I’d never recommend anyone else try. Once it started, I didn’t want Joshua to get lost in the mess. With that, while the story endeavor was a relatively simple exchange, it became something sacred between us—a way to hold things in place; a way to let the summer of our togetherness linger just a little longer.

I managed quite a bit of text before the effort no longer seemed necessary. He adjusted, and we found other ways to manage the distance while growing closer, not apart.

Joshua is 25 years old now. His childhood has ended. All is well. Strangely, not long after Preston’s birth, I happened to glance at the story, and I remembered that its primary character, quite literally based on my son (even bearing his name) is the story’s narrator. He is recounting the tale for someone. The reader doesn’t yet know who it is. Something tells me it’s Joshua as a father visiting with his son. My gut tells me that son is Preston.

“Summer will end soon enough, and childhood as well.” True. Seasons come and go. But within those seasons, there are seeds of things that continue. The story I began for a little boy served its purpose. And yet, it appears to have waited patiently, like a half-built treehouse in the backyard. Now another little boy has arrived—new to the world, unaware of what stories await him—and suddenly, I hear the hammering again. Interestingly, I feel the warmth of June, and I know what I’ll be doing in my free time this summer. In fact, I created a writing schedule that carries me into July. If I stay on track, I’ll be done before the summer’s end. I really want to finish what began for Joshua, but now, too, for Preston.

Yes, time passes. But just like summer, stories have a way of returning, full of promise and life. King Solomon said it best: “To everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven… He has made everything beautiful in its time. Also, He has put eternity into man’s heart” (Ecclesiastes 3:1,11).

Childhood, like summer, may come to an end. But the God who governs all seasons is unchanging. In the same way that He weaves beauty into the warmth of June, He plants joyful opportunity among times of potential heartache. We don’t always see it. However, we can know it. Indeed, He interlaces incredible beauty into each of these moments, whether summer-like or winter-like. He reminds us that the seasons are His to orchestrate, and we can trust Him. The faithful God who gives us June, who gives us childhood, who gives us time and story and memory, He cares year-round (Psalm 124:1). And besides, just as Solomon said, He’s already sown eternity in our hearts. That’s a wink at faith—a glance toward the Gospel fact that something happened (the death and resurrection of Jesus), has been sown in us, and remains in full bloom, no matter the season.

I could sit here and continue to unpack this wonder, but I need to wrap up. In the meantime, just know that for believers, the seemingly fleeting beauty of summer and the tender brevity of childhood aren’t really lost to time, not when you have Jesus. With Jesus, nothing truly good ever slips away. Instead, it is preserved, perfected, and restored in ways we can hardly imagine.

And so, welcome to June. Summer is just beginning. Yes, it will eventually end. But the better story of God’s faithfulness is forever being told.