We offer plenty of cheerful statements at various times and for multiple reasons. “Happy birthday” is one. We say that year after year as we recognize the passage of another twelve months in a person’s life. “Congratulations” is another. We’ll use that word for many reasons, never just one thing. We’ll offer it if a person lands a new job, gets engaged, wins at bingo, or any other significant or insignificant occasion.
But then there’s, “Alleluia, Christ is risen!” No other declarative assertion in history compares, and only one event can claim it.
Jesus of Nazareth, the One mocked and physically abused into gross malfiguration, and then spiked to a cross until His body could take no more, He met with the last enemy, Death (1 Corinthians 15:26). And yet, He is beautifully, brilliantly, wonderfully alive! “He has risen,” the angel told the women visiting His tomb, “he is not here. See the place where they laid him” (Mark 16:6).
It’s likely they looked. But they didn’t need to. They already knew the scene well—the terribly dreary place palled by Death’s sights, sounds, and smells. They were sitting across from the tomb’s entrance watching Nicodemus and Joseph of Arimathea take the Lord’s limp body—battered, hemorrhaging, and likely beginning to stiffen—and wrap it in a linen shroud and place it inside (Luke 23:55). The women saw the Lord’s end—His brutally gruesome end. How could anyone survive such a thing?
They don’t survive it. No one does. Even in Jesus’ case, Death came, bit down hard, and then carried Him away.
At least, Death thought it had a hold on Him.
To call out, “Alleluia, Christ is risen!” is to know that at one particular moment on the timeline, somewhere out of sight, and sometime between Good Friday and Easter Sunday, a cosmic encounter ensued. Death’s trophy opened His eyes and took back His own life (John 10:18). Having never lost His divine authority over all things but only hidden it, He enacted His ambush. He pushed apart Death’s jaws, and in between its now fully realized predicament noted by terrified whimpers, took to His feet. And in the next few moments, as His body was restored, keeping only the scars from the nails and spear (for our sake), He leaned into Death and made it His trophy.
Jesus accomplished and forever sealed the death of eternal Death.
Calling out “Alleluia, Christ is risen!” is so much more than “Happy birthday” or “Congratulations” ever will be. It’s a phrase that genuinely meets with every single moment of life—from one’s birth to one’s final breath. Easter, a singular event, celebrates the defanging and ridding of humanity’s last enemy, the one residing at the center of all human fear: Death. Death has forever lost its power. There is no longer any reason for hopeless concern in this life, no matter how challenging life may be or what the devil or the world might bring our way. Jesus defeated such concern’s master. All who believe this—those who cling by faith to Jesus and His sacrifice on the cross—receive the merits of the same conquering Christ.
And what are these merits?
The forgiveness of sins. And, of course, where there is the forgiveness of sins, there is also life—eternal life—and salvation (John 3:16-17 and 6:40, Hebrews 10:10, 1 Peter 2:24, Matthew 26:28, 1 John 1:7, and so many others).
Indeed, alleluia, Christ is risen! May God continue to bless you by the power of the Holy Spirit for faith in Jesus. May He keep you enveloped by Easter Day throughout every moment of every day.
It was a Friday of unimaginable viciousness and cruelty, leading to a horrible death. And yet, the Church has forever named it “good.”
At first, it certainly seems counterintuitive to do so. Referring to such horror as good appears to grant dreadfulness a license. It seems to give a coaxing nod to all that makes for this world’s misery, allowing it a certain measure of liberty to run wild, letting it off the chain to choose and devour its victim.
In a way, there’s an element of truth to these things. I think the Gospel writer, Luke, meant for us to sense it when He recorded the Lord’s words to the ones who’d arrived at Gethsemane to take Him into custody. His words were plain. Before giving Himself over, Jesus said, “Now is your hour and the power of darkness” (22:53). In other words, “You’ve been granted this time. Make the most of it and do your worst.”
We are to know that absolute devilry was let off its chain in those moments. In the truest condition of godforsakeness—the Heavenly Father mysteriously abandoning the Son—absolute ghastliness was granted permission to unleash its most devastating weapons from its cruelest arsenal.
This was the terrible license allowed that unique Friday, a day we call good.
Jesus would have called it good, too. He hints at this during His arrest. When Peter takes his sword to prevent the engagement, Jesus asks him rhetorically, “But how then should the Scriptures be fulfilled, that it must be so?” (Matthew 26:54). He sternly commands Peter to sheath his sword, questioning again rhetorically, “Shall I not drink the cup that the Father has given me?” (John 18:11). Again, this is to say, “Peter, this must happen. If I don’t endure darkness’ fury and drink the cup of wrath owed to those who brought the powers of Sin, Death, and hell into the world, then it will be left to its rightful owners. That’s you and all of humanity. But you cannot meet what’s due. None can endure it. None can defeat it. For your sake, Peter, what’s happening is good. It must be me. It has to be me.”
And so, it was.
Good Friday stands in history’s record as the moment when everything that had every right to consume and destroy everyone for all eternity turned its fullest attention on Jesus. It was a horrific day for the Lord—so horrible that human language can never describe it sufficiently. Knowing this, give the day your attention. Approach it with care. Know that something much deeper is happening to the Lord than what mortal eyes or ears can receive. It isn’t just physical or spiritual cruelty of the worst kind. It’s far more than that. It’s cosmic in proportion and beyond anything anyone could have ever endured.
Embracing this fact with all solemnity, if you feel the need to let out a sigh of relief at some point along the way home from worship, please feel free to do so. Good Friday was a good day for humanity. It was the day the ultimate punishment for Sin was endured, and its eternal price tag was fully met. Jesus did it. He wanted to. Good Friday sees Jesus’ arms stretched on the cross as far apart as they can reach. This is more than His death. It is the image of a world-encompassing embrace from the Divine. He loves you. He gives His life for all.
I mentioned worship a moment ago. Be sure to go. Here at Our Savior in Hartland, Michigan, there will be two services. The first is at 1:00 p.m. This is the Tre Ore service. Tre Ore means “three hours.” It symbolizes the Lord’s three hours of suffering at midday on the cross. The second is the Tenebrae service at 7:00 p.m. Tenebrae means “darkness.” We know the meaning of this title. It’s everything into which the Lord goes for our rescue. These services will lead their visitors into and through the details of the Lord’s work. If you can, immerse yourself in them. I promise you’ll be blessed. You’ll certainly be imbued with a more profound sense of Easter’s acclamation, which, together with the forgiven Church, we’ll sing out two short days later.
As it happens on occasion, I crossed paths this morning with a social media post making the point that a person doesn’t need to go to church to be a Christian. For the record, this is not only a tired statement but also a theologically lazy one. The simple biblical fact is that Christians go to church. God mandates such fellowship. If you disagree, that is, if the Jesus you confess teaches it’s okay to be apart from Him and the gifts He gives in holy worship, then you’re following a false Christ.
I could go further with this, but I don’t want to. As I said, it’s a tired and lazy position. I’d rather steer into something Saint James wrote. It’s somewhat relevant to the way I started. Although, it reaches a lot further into the Christian life than worship attendance. Essentially, it establishes the premise that faith is one thing and faith adorned with deeds is another. Saying this, I mean what Saint James meant when he wrote:
“But be doers of the word, and not hearers only, deceiving yourselves. For if anyone is a hearer of the word and not a doer, he is like a man who looks intently at his natural face in a mirror. For he looks at himself and goes away and at once forgets what he was like. But the one who looks into the perfect law, the law of liberty, and perseveres, being no hearer who forgets but a doer who acts, he will be blessed in his doing” (1:22-25).
Do you know what the “perfect law, the law of liberty” is? Just know that whatever it is, James is not only insisting that we persevere in it but that such determination is somehow born from hearing it and then results in living according to it.
Maybe the best way to figure out what James means is to begin with the words he uses, namely, the word he employs for “perfect,” which is τέλειον. This word is equally translated as “complete.” In other words, the completed law—the totally accomplished law—establishes a standard for freedom. Variations of the same word are used in other places throughout God’s Word. But there is one crucial instance where it fully intersects with James’ understanding of the Law. It happens in John 19:30. It’s there the Lord announces from the cross the single word τετέλεσται, which is typically rendered as “It is finished.” Although, it’s just as accurately interpreted as “All is complete.”
By “perfect law, the law of liberty,” James has in mind Christ’s absolute fulfillment (completion) of the Law on our behalf. By His work, we have been set free, not only from Sin and Death but from the Law’s crushing burden as the only way of escaping eternal condemnation. In other words, instead of needing to keep the Law for salvation (which all of the Lord’s Apostles affirmed was impossible), we’re free to live in and according to it. It becomes a law of liberty, not one of bondage. James is saying that whoever keeps as one’s heading the Gospel of salvation through faith in Jesus Christ—whoever believes and perseveres in it—will become a “doer,” someone desiring to keep the Ten Commandments, not for salvation but out of love for Christ. These doers will do. And they will be blessed, not because they’re performing the Law, but because they’ve been set free in Jesus. This freedom moves them to desire faithfulness to Him. Faithfulness results in works. This is why James goes on the say:
“What good is it, my brothers, if someone says he has faith but does not have works? Can that faith save him? If a brother or sister is poorly clothed and lacking in daily food, and one of you says to them, “Go in peace, be warmed and filled,” without giving them the things needed for the body, what good is that? So also faith by itself, if it does not have works, is dead” (2:14-18).
Samuel Butler once said, “You can do very little with faith, but you can do nothing without it.” That was a sloppy way to say it, but I’m willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. He attempted to speak alongside James. His point is that a proclaimed faith is not the same as a faith that acts to save the unborn from abortion. Although, from the proper perspective, a proclaimed faith hints at a much bigger picture. The proclamation is itself a deed. And faith made it happen. Faith produces. And why? Martin Luther so famously answered the question relative to justification. He said, “God does not need your good works. Your neighbor does.”
Do you have to go to church to be a Christian? How about this instead: genuine faith moves a Christian to desire to be in worship with his Lord.
On second thought, I did want to go further with my initial concern for worship attendance.
By the way, the people here at Our Savior in Hartland, Michigan, are going to have plenty of opportunities for being in worship this week. Today is Palm Sunday. We’re entering Holy Week. There are services every day, sometimes more than one a day, all the way through to Easter. Should you attend all of them? I’ll simply say, give it your best effort to attend as many as possible. Each plays a role in leading us to the Triduum—Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and the Vigil of Easter. Attending any or all certainly wouldn’t hurt you. It goes without saying that you’ll be blessed. Do you know what else goes without saying? The fact that your faith already knows this, and it’s craving to act on the knowledge.
This past week, someone I was chatting with used the word “charming” in a sentence. The word stood apart from the rest of the conversation. I think this is true for two reasons.
The first is that, like so many other words that have faded from regular employment, “charming” has fallen on hard times. Linguistically, this happens naturally, and for various reasons. In the vernacular economy, words replace other words. One reason I’ve heard for this has to do with proportionate use. In other words, a term maintains its viability when a larger portion of its users fit its description. I don’t know if that’s relevant to “charming.” Although, having recently witnessed a young boy in a waiting room at a doctor’s office tell his mom to shut up and give back his cell phone, and then to see her do exactly as he demanded, I sometimes wonder. Charming means polite and friendly leading to likability. Polite, friendly, and likable did not fit this kid, and unfortunately, such behaviors are more so becoming the rule than the exception. With that, I wonder if the word really is of much use to us, except in cases of sarcasm. This leads me to the other reason.
Another reason the word stood apart is that in this case it was used positively. We both knew the person being described as a friendly and likable person. Indeed, he is charming in every sense of the word. But again, it seems more often than not, the word is scarred by cynical nuance. Charm is seen as a tool for getting what one wants. I read this morning that psychologists have decided on a name for this kind of charm. It’s called “Eddie Haskell Syndrome,” appropriately named after the character from the show Leave it to Beaver. Eddie was known for gushingly good behavior when adults were around. But when they weren’t, he was up to no good. He used charm to gain trust, but only so that he could get away with his deviant schemes.
We all know people like Eddie Haskell, folks who portray themselves one way and yet are completely different behind the scenes.
A few years ago, I told my son Harrison that being charming was a lost art, and it’s one I wanted him to embrace—and I wanted him to do it in a genuine way. By the way, it’s not like he wasn’t demonstrating the characteristics already. He was (and does). In context, he was experiencing a moment of exhaustion from trying to be polite while so many of his peers seemed self-centered and impolite. In that tired moment, I just wanted to encourage him to stay the course, telling him that while it wouldn’t get any easier, it certainly was the best way to live. The Bible definitely says as much. The advice Saint Paul gives in texts such as 1 Corinthians 13:4-7, Galatians 5:22-23, and Colossians 3:12 isn’t bad. It’s good. By this, I meant for Harrison to understand that charm—polite and considerate friendliness—goes a long way with people. A man who does these things makes others glad to be with him. This is true not just because he’s pleasant to be around, but because he emanates honorability. He shows he’s worth trusting, and what he says and does is worth emulating. It’s likely I told Harrison what Albert Camus said about charm. Camus said something about how charming people are the only ones who own a person’s “yes” before ever asking a specific question.
Considering our world, Camus’ words (and mine) are likely to be twisted toward the negative. Politeness, kindness, respectfulness, clean language—all the various characteristics that make for charm—these are goodie-two-shoes behaviors for many modern onlookers, things people expect others to do because they’re either culturally awkward or because they’re attempting to manipulate others. In one sense, the cynics are right on both accounts. Genuinely charming people are out of step with the secular culture, which in my estimation, is a good thing. We need more people willing to speak up and say things like, “Hey, that’s wrong. You shouldn’t use foul language like that.” Secularism is rarely on the side of such goodness. But charming people seem to emit goodness. Goodness can and does influence others. Charming people tend to make others want to be better, not worse. Again, this is a good thing. We could use a lot more of what charming people bring to the societal table.
Of course, charm can be used for bad, too. Even Proverbs 31:30 notes that charm can be wielded deceitfully. More than familiar with this, I should mention I’ll have a close eye on any “charming” young men cozying up to my daughters. I’m not stupid. And so, to all the Eddie Haskells, I say, “Beware. My Jeep Wrangler is far roomier than it looks. It can also get to undiscoverable backwoods places that other vehicles cannot.” My point: I’ll be watching for charm’s real fruits—Godly fruits. In particular, I’ll watch for the boys who encourage my daughters to walk with Christ. However, only the ones who genuinely want to join them in that walk will ever come close to getting my blessing. In other words, if you cannot care for and walk with my girls as they walk beside Christ, you may be a nice person, but you’re not the kind of “charming” Christopher Thoma and the rest of his family are tracking.
In the end, the topic of charm’s fading usage is an interesting one. Does it really matter all that much? I don’t know. Plenty of words have disappeared over time. Although, it’s true we’ve lost some pretty interesting words like snollygoster and brabble. Look them up. You’ll see we absolutely need to reinvigorate both. Relative to charm, however, the word itself might not matter, but its meaning certainly does. I suppose when its synonyms (words like amiable, delightful, engaging, and others) begin disappearing, too, we should be concerned because, as a society, we likely no longer belong to their meanings.
For one, it’s proof that my congregation’s littlest children are listening—really listening—to what’s being preached and taught. This should be an assurance for anyone among us who’d question our Christian school or the rites and ceremonies of our liturgies. Our children, more than supported by faithful parents, are taking God’s Word into themselves in the richest ways—ways that equip them not only for steadfastness but for communicating the Gospel with substance. In other words, we’re raising our children to be far more than “Jesus loves you” Christians. They’re ones who can speak of God’s love and then go further into the person and work of Christ, the substance of that love.
Proof of this can be seen in a series of pictures I received after worship last Sunday. The images, five in all, depict the events of Holy Week and the Triduum—from Palm Sunday to Easter. Giselle Graney made them for me. And oh, how wonderful they are!
For the record, Giselle is eight years old. But don’t let that distract you. It’s clear she knew what she was doing. By the way, I went down to the school to ask her about a few of the images’ details just to be sure. I learned she was at home feeling a little under the weather, so I called her mom, Kerry. I asked her to check with Giselle. Sure enough, Giselle was intentional, even with the seemingly inconsequential details. And by the way, what she put into the portraits proves a theological prowess that extends far beyond many adults—the kind of artistic demonstration of Christological depth that one usually only sees among the greats like Caravaggio and Rembrandt.
Give me a minute or two, and I’ll walk you through a few of Giselle’s images. I know you’ll be as blessed. But before I share, there’s one more thing to keep in mind: the rule of interpretation.
A line in The Picture of Dorian Gray comes to mind. This is likely because I recently spent some time in the book looking for another line that fit a paper I was writing. In the volume’s preface, Oscar Wilde writes, “All art is at once surface and symbol. Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril.” In other words, when looking at art, you see the details that are actually there. That’s the surface. But there’s always more to it. There’s meaning. Art attempts to make meaning visible. That involves interpretation. That requires the viewer to dig deeper into what he sees. It also involves prerequisite knowledge. Together, there in the substratum, knowledge and meaning challenge the viewer, just as the artist would have it. Giselle has done this masterfully. What’s more, she’s been paying attention to everything she’s heard so far throughout Lent. These images prove her heart is already cemented for the events circling Golgotha’s terrifying hill. And yet, she’s making her way there (and now, she’s taking all of us along) with a firm grasp on everything Golgotha itself makes sure. Even at eight years old, Giselle is demonstrating the heart-shaping power of the Gospel.
She gave me five pictures. I’m only going to talk about four. And I’ll share each before I describe it.
The first one depicts Palm Sunday. What do I like about it? First of all, this is the only picture she drew with Jesus in it—which I’ll get to in a minute. Until then, know she gets Jesus right. It seems most Palm Sunday images are inclined to portray Jesus as jubilant and smiling. And yet, Luke’s Gospel tells us He was crying, saddened that people had no idea what was actually happening, that He was riding forth to die, and that their rejection of Him as the Savior could and would only end dreadfully (Luke 19:28-44). Giselle’s Palm Sunday roadway is festively bright with colorful cloaks and palm branches. But her Jesus is tearfully sad. (See the cropped image above.) Giselle has been paying attention to the intricate details being preached to her. She didn’t just roll along in the usual pace of a springtime smiling Jesus—which I imagine is preferable to many. She showed us the Lord’s concerned heart, even when the world around Him expected an entirely different kind of king. This matters more to the Palm Sunday story than most folks might know.
Another of her portraits that caught my eye was the one detailing Gethsemane. Strangely, as I mentioned before, Jesus is not in it. Then I realized why. Jesus has already been arrested and taken away by the guards. At the picture’s top, there’s a star-filled sky. But beneath this sky, the theme is clearly darkness, as it should be. This is the beginning of hell’s onslaught against Him. Jesus said as much when the troupe approached to take Him away. Giselle heard her Lord say this last Wednesday during midweek worship. “This is your hour,” He said, “and the power of darkness” (Luke 22:53).
Still looking for Jesus somewhere else in the Gethsemane picture, the viewer only sees where He’s been. On one side, a blood-pocked portion of grass is found beside a tree. That’s where He knelt and prayed, His sweat becoming blood (Luke 22:44). On the other side, a rooster (Matthew 26:34), a sword and a bloody ear (John 18:10), and thirty pieces of silver (Matthew 26:14-16). Beneath those images, the words: “Jesus shines butier than any star.”
Did you catch that?
Intentionally or unintentionally, Giselle did two things there. First, she combined beautiful and brighter into a single word. When writers do things like that, it’s for emphasis—to draw attention to something. Intentionally or unintentionally, Giselle highlighted a profound point: what Jesus has endured—the betrayal, the suffering, the road to a grisly death—these make for the brightest, most beautiful demonstration of God’s glory (John 12:23-29; Mark 10:35-40). Indeed, Jesus displays a glory that is butier by far than any spinning celestial in the endless sky.
Another image depicts Good Friday. Again, no Jesus. But a moment of reflection determines His location. It is finished (John 19:30). The cross at the center is empty. Jesus is in the sealed tomb to one side. The rest of the portrait reveals a blackened sky (Matthew 27:45), the Father’s hand extended as He gives Jesus over as payment for Sin (Romans 8:32), a torn temple curtain (Matthew 27:51), dice used for casting lots (Matthew 27:35), the centurion’s helmet reverently removed in the presence of God’s Son (Matthew 27:54), a wilting flower (Isaiah 40:8, Romans 8:22) beside other rich images relative to the Lord’s powerful sacrifice. Displayed most prominently are the words, “Father, forgive them” (Luke 23:34). These are the first of the seven last words Jesus spoke from the cross. I just preached on these particular words two weeks ago. Giselle was there. She heard the reason they’re first. Amid the gory details, the forgiveness of sins rests at the heart of the terrifying but butier event. That’s why Jesus is doing what He’s doing. He’s winning our forgiveness. It’s His goal. The “them” isn’t just the people attacking Him. It’s us, too. And He never loses sight of us throughout the ordeal. This sentence leads His final string of sentences, serving as the heart for each.
Giselle gets this.
The last image I’ll talk about is incredibly rich. It’s Giselle’s portrait of Easter. Again, no Jesus. But by now, I think I get Giselle’s broader theme, intentional or unintentional. First of all, while we can’t see Him, the risen and ascended Christ has promised, “Behold, I am with you always, to the end of the age” (Matthew 28:20. But more important to the Easter narrative’s cadence, Jesus is always a step ahead of His beloved. In other words, the Lord is always out in front, accomplishing what none of us could or would if left to ourselves. We can only follow and discover His wonderful work. Here, in particular, the tomb is open. The sun is shining. The flowers are blooming beneath a beautiful blue sky. Scribed across the skyline are the words announcing what He’s already done, “He I Risen Allauilla!”
Now, before you criticize Giselle’s spelling, give the eight-year-old artist her due. She’s already proven her masterful ways. Did she really misspell some words, or did she find a way to avoid using one in particular since we’re still in Lent? As many who celebrate Lent already know, tradition sets the word aside until Easter. We don’t sing, say, or write it. (Notice, I didn’t use it in this paragraph.) Also, notice it’s not “He is risen,” but “He I risen.”
Okay. She probably misspelled both words. Nevertheless, here’s a chance to apply interpretation born from what’s already been a faithful demonstration of the Gospel. The words she gave us, even if by accident, are asking to be mined more deeply.
Start with “He I risen.” That’s easy. Jesus and Giselle. That’s John 14:19. Because He lives, she will live also. As far as the other, when I saw “Allauilla,” I saw Latin. My Latin is more than rusty, but I think a case could be made for “Alla uilla!” to be translated as “Come on, to the village!” Thinking this way, remember, everything Giselle has presented so far was born from childlike faith listening to and receiving God’s Word. Staying the course, “Come on, to the village!” seems awfully familiar to Easter. If not, then you’ve forgotten Matthew 28:5-8. It’s there we read:
The angel said to the women, “Do not be afraid, for I know that you seek Jesus who was crucified. He is not here, for he has risen, as he said. Come, see the place where he lay. Then go quickly and tell his disciples that he has risen from the dead, and behold, he is going before you to Galilee; there you will see him. See, I have told you.”
Do you know what I’d say in a moment like that? “Alla uilla! Come on! Let’s go to wherever Jesus is going and find Him!” And sure enough, Jesus is found on the way to the village of Emmaus (Luke 24:13-35) and then again later that same day in the upper room in Jerusalem (Luke 24:36-49).
Giselle has given me so much through these images. I’ll cherish them until I meet face-to-face with the One who inspired them. That being said, I hope you realize how significant the investment for faith made in this little girl has been, not only by her faithful parents but by a congregation intent on preserving the pure preaching and teaching of God’s Word and the right administration of the Sacraments. A church holding to this is invaluable. A Christian school serving as an extension of such a congregation is priceless. I’m absolutely sure that’s Our Savior Evangelical Lutheran Church in Hartland, Michigan. Behold Giselle’s demonstration and know the labor among us is not in vain.
I’ve been thinking that churches without lectionaries (which, in part, help lead through seasons) are really missing out, especially during Lent. Lent is an incredible time for spiritual maturation. Indeed, it’s supposed to be. It’s deliberately solemn. It’s intentionally reflective. The Christian Church aims herself during Lent in ways that she doesn’t at other times of the year.
Although, no matter the season, she doesn’t play by the world’s rules while doing this. She can’t. And why? Because the Church is bound to the Lord’s course for maturity. Here’s what I mean.
For Lent in particular, one of its chief aims is to pull down our defenses. It labors to explode the barricades we put around ourselves. Sometimes these barriers are erected to hide our real selves from others. In other words, we don’t want people to know how rotten we truly are. Perhaps they’re guarding an unholy self-righteousness that cannot see its own faults. In that sense, maybe they’ve been built to protect secret behaviors we just can’t bring ourselves to categorize as sinful because deep down inside, we know if we call them what they are, that means we’ll have to change.
Sometimes we just don’t know why the barricades are there. Maybe something dreadful happened to us, and now we’re guarded. Perhaps they’ve been learned from people who were nothing short of bad examples.
No matter what builds or supports our defenses, Lent is a flamethrower aimed at a paper house. It’s a wrecking ball, and with each of its concussive blows, more of humanity’s need for a Savior is revealed until, finally, we’re standing at Good Friday’s cross surrounded by rubble.
This is good. It’s all part of Christian maturity’s process—a course of spiritual development that involves admitting who we are at our epicenters—our dreadful nature and the need to see it wholly overthrown. It is a humble embracing of God’s truths—terrible or comforting—rather than boldly holding to one’s deceptive self.
In short, it takes spiritual maturity to admit to Sin and, thereby, to be found confessing it. In some ways, worldly maturity means reaching self-sufficiency. It means reaching the end of one’s life and, alongside Sinatra, saying, “I did it my way.” I heard that song played at a funeral. It made me sad. Christian maturity means steering clear of doing things our way. It means being utterly dependent upon Christ, upon doing things His way. Lent brings this into incredible focus. It reminds us that Sin is our way. And then it shows us the One hanging on Good Friday’s cross. It shows Him hanging there, not for Himself, but for us. This is His way, and it saves us.
In a way, Christ indicates this humble maturity in Matthew 18:1-6. It’s there He claims that the greatest in the kingdom of heaven are the ones who humble themselves like children. In other words, when a Christian grows up—as he matures spiritually—he will be less like a self-sufficient, independent adult and more like a child whose trust must be placed externally. Childlike faith won’t resist truth’s hand. It won’t see it as invasive. Like a terrified child, fearful of this world’s monsters, it knows its own inadequacies and calls to the One who can provide what’s needed. Relative to humanity, this means rescue from the sinful predicament that keeps mankind in bondage to Death.
Lent helps cultivate this awareness. It helps take strides toward this kind of maturity.
Pulitzer Prize-winning writer Saul Bellow once said, “A man should be able to hear, and to bear, the worst that could be said of him.” Ten minutes on social media and Bellow would have labeled us as an immature society. In a way, Lent agrees with him. Spiritual maturity braves accusation, not just from others, but from God Himself. It knows it can be wrong. And yet, Lent’s undertow—a gripping current leading to the cross—reminds the Christian just what it is that enables a believer to admit to the hard news and be preserved through it.
The Gospel—the good news that we have not been left to our dreadfulness. Jesus, the Son of God, has been given over for our rescue.
Indeed, God wants us to know the depths of our very real need. In fact, it’s His love that carries the dreadful communication to us. In other words, He shows us our Sins because He cares. But then, He nails its solution to a cross. Right there, pinned to its splintery beams, we behold God’s love in the flesh. This love changes us. It enables us to confess our deepest dependence and cling to the only One who can provide what’s needed.
Regardless of the season, this is the heart and soul of the Church’s message. But if you miss it the rest of the year, it’s all but on steroids during Lent.
My prayer is that Lent is leading you in this way. If you’ve taken a chance to immerse yourself in it, I’m sure, like me, you’ve learned it certainly is capable.
Lent is nearly upon us. The next three Sundays—Septuagesima, Sexagesima, and Quinquagesima—prepare us for its spiritual throttling.
In a way, worshipping communities that employ historic liturgies already have the upper hand on Lent’s penitential nature. They’ll easily recognize the following words’ shackling character used at the Divine Service’s beginning:
“Most merciful God, we confess that we are by nature sinful and unclean. We have sinned against You in thought, word, and deed, by what we have done and by what we have left undone. We have not loved you with our whole heart; we have not loved our neighbors as ourselves. We justly deserve Your present and eternal punishment.”
Or perhaps you know it another way:
“I, a poor, miserable sinner, confess unto you all my sins and iniquities with which I have ever offended You and justly deserved Your temporal and eternal punishment.”
Present and eternal punishment. Temporal and eternal punishment. Same thing. The spheres of this world and the next are both included.
Indeed, these words are incarcerating, leaving no room for escape.
Essentially, we first approach God’s altar admitting to something. Even as believers, the nature of faith has a sense of what that something is. Faith reminds the believer to think twice before approaching God according to our human virtues. We should never think He hasn’t the right to send us away in shame. We should never be so comfortable with ourselves that we begin to think His wrath is something we don’t merit. And so, before anything else occurs in the service, believers go to their collective knees in confession. We fold our hands. We keep our heads low. We establish a posture before the One who has every right to eradicate every swirling atom of this fallen creation. We do this agreeing to His description of humankind, not our own, a description rendered so eloquently—so searingly—in His holy Word.
I’m doing more reading these days than ever before, almost to the point of it being unenjoyable. I read somewhere along the way that Frank Lloyd Wright designed his unique structures in ways that communicated his heart’s greatest love for nature. What stirred in his heart caused him to say, “The space within becomes the reality of the building.” I get what he means. He was an architectural artist. And his words sound nice. However, I’ve seen some of Wright’s buildings. In my opinion, they’re as impractical as they are impressive. But what do I know? That being said, if you really want to see a genuine architectural rendering of a human heart, stop by any of the thirty-one prisons in Michigan. There you will see a more authentic representation of humanity’s viscera in an architectural form. You will observe an exterior adorned by multiple rows of massive fences decked in razor wire surrounding windowless cinderblock. What will you discover within? Through the facility’s massive metal doors, you’ll find wall after wall securing one human cage after the next.
A prison is the human heart’s best interpretation because, of itself, humanity is not free.
As I said, I’ve been reading quite a bit lately from lots of sources. Cyril Connolly is a writer I discovered by way of Rudyard Kipling. Connelly said something about how everyone is serving a life sentence in the dungeon of self. For as depressing as that might sound, he wasn’t that far from what Saint Paul meant by a number of phrases employed throughout his Epistle to the Romans. He writes things like “the law of sin and death,” “enslaved to sin,” and “the wages of sin is death.” Paul is trying to tell us something.
For one, he wants us to know we can’t keep God’s Law rightly. As humanity is enslaved to Sin, so is humanity dragged along by the innate desire to break God’s Law. Paul says as much, writing, “For the mind that is set on the flesh is hostile to God, for it does not submit to God’s law; indeed, it cannot. Those who are in the flesh cannot please God” (Romans 8:7-8). Naturally, when laws are broken, a judicial wage is earned: punishment. With this, we find ourselves closer to what Paul needs us to know by these phrases. Even apart from their proper context, we know something more about humanity. We not only begin to sense the handcuffs—the very real restraints that bind us to our treachery—but also the eternal punishment we’ve earned in destruction’s terrible cell.
And yet, God’s inclination has never been to punish, imprison, or destroy. He wants to show mercy (Luke 23:34, 6:36; 1 Peter 1:3; Lamentations 3:22-23). He wants to forgive. He wants to redeem—to buy back the criminals from their fate. He wants to set humanity free. Already knowing that the Gospel “is the power of God unto salvation” (Romans 1:16), the rest of the text surrounding Saint Paul’s select phrases brings this Gospel and instills the freedom God desires:
“We know that our old self was crucified with him in order that the body of sin might be brought to nothing, so that we would no longer be enslaved to sin” (Romans 6:6).
“For the wages of sin is death, but the free gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord” (Romans 6:23).
“For the law of the Spirit of life has set you free in Christ Jesus from the law of sin and death” (Romans 8:2).
The Good News is that Christ has won your freedom. He has paid the price. Faith in Christ binds the believer to Christ, thereby binding that same believer to the certainty that he cannot be condemned to Sin’s chains or held captive by Death’s cell.
The forthcoming Gesima Sundays are delivering us into this news in unique ways. Listen carefully. Lent will display its combat. Pay close attention. Good Friday will demonstrate the great exchange. Don’t miss it. All these things will culminate in a horrendously wonderful trial resulting in a hideously sweet verdict: Christ must take humanity’s place in judgment on the cross. The guilty ones are free to go.
And then Easter. Oh, Easter!—the joyful proof of the debt’s payment followed by the prison’s absolute demolition from the inside; a glorious work accomplished by the only Prisoner who could do it!
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).
I hope all is well with you so far this year. That might seem a strange thing to say, especially since we’re only a week into 2023. Still, we both know a lot can happen in a week. In truth, a lot can happen in mere seconds. Anything can change in an instant. An honest person—someone who knows by faith the inner workings of this fallen world—will not only admit to this but will embrace it as inevitable.
I’m guessing that for those looking in on faith from the outside, a Christian who rolls with change’s inevitability might appear to be living a disinterested life. Amid good or bad change, a Christian can speak alongside Job, saying, “The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord” (Job 1:21). Such a person might appear to be drifting through life as though it were a mighty river sweeping him away feebly in its current.
On the other hand, perhaps the Christian can roll with life’s punches because he understands the intricacies of life and its changes in a way that onlookers cannot.
Admittedly, I’m somewhat of a mixed bag regarding change. Some people thrive on change. I don’t. I prefer most things to remain the same. There’s certainty in the steady things. Although, like most people, now and then, I get the urge to move things around in my personal spaces. I’ll be sitting at my desk, and then suddenly, I’ll rise and move an entire section of books from one shelf to another. I’ll be sitting at the bar in my basement, and then somewhat abruptly, I’ll rearrange the movie memorabilia sitting on cabinets and hanging on the walls. Those landscape alterations might not seem like a big deal to most. However, the urge that stirs them is genuine, and it acknowledges something deeply relevant to life. The seemingly innate need to change things is a reminder that something is seriously wrong with this world, and whatever it is, it needs to be made right.
But there’s something else proven by the exercise. The urge to rearrange things returns. It might be a week later. It might be two years later. Either way, it returns. This proves that no matter what I do to get things in the right places, the deeper disorder remains.
By faith, Christians can get along in such a world, no matter the changes. Good or bad, we’re the kind of people who endure.
I’m sure I’ve shared before that I appreciate Washington Irving. I read his infamous The Legend of Sleepy Hollow at least once a year. I do this not only because he spends his best energy delving into classical tales from early America but because, unlike modern writers, Irving handles the frightful things with a poetic style. Or perhaps a better way to say it is that he seems to take hold of scary things and presents them nonchalantly, almost as though they ought to be expected even while they are surprising. For a Christian, that kind of storytelling makes sense. As someone fitted by the Holy Spirit to endure, Irving makes sense to us when he writes, “There is a certain relief in change, even though it be from bad to worse…it is often a comfort to shift one’s position and be bruised in a new place.”
Perhaps that’s part of what the Lord meant when He instructed His followers to turn the other cheek (Matthew 5:39). He doesn’t intend for His Christians to be punching bags. He means for us to know we should never expect to be hit only once. More will come. And so, don’t be foolish. Situate yourself for endurance.
Thinking about these things, I should mention that Christians are by no means complacent about change. Christian endurance is far different than giving up and floating helplessly downstream. The knowledge of the deeper disorder keeps us vigilant. Because of this, we’re far more attuned to change than the rest of the world around us. It seems for most people in the world, change is of little consequence so long as it doesn’t bring personal inconvenience. In one sense, that’s how things got so bad in Nazi Germany. The United States Holocaust Memorial Museum attempted to memorialize that reality with a wall plaque of Rev. Martin Niemöller’s words, which were:
“First, they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out—because I was not a socialist. Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out—because I was not a trade unionist. Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—because I was not a Jew. Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.”
Little by little, changes were made that targeted particular groups of people. Eventually, those changes crossed over into Niemöller’s sphere. But when they did, it was too late. Collectively, the little modifications had become unstoppable juggernauts. Truth be told, for as many people who lived relatively untouched lives during the 1930s and 40s, Christians were the first to see the dangers and sound the alarm, ultimately doing all they could to trip the Nazi jackboots. Many died trying. Rev. Dietrich Bonhoeffer was one. But he wasn’t the only one. There were plenty of others.
I suppose with the New Year comes both the awareness of and inclination for change. Mostly, I’m guessing a person’s New Year resolutions exist within the Niemöller-type frame. They’re personal, and it’s likely they’ll only allow inconvenience if a personal benefit is involved. People try to eat better, to exercise more, to be healthier. The intent in these things is good. And I’m certainly one to root for their success. I suppose what’s coming to mind this morning is not only the need to encourage continued endurance amid discomforting changes in our world but to encourage awareness of change beyond the safety of self. In other words, just because it doesn’t affect you doesn’t mean it isn’t worth your attention. It might be hurting someone else. That should matter to you. If it doesn’t, the time may come when you’ll have no choice but to be concerned.
For example, back in 2021, Scott Smith could have cared less about the demands of LGBTQ, Inc. in schools. But then his 15-year-old daughter was raped by a transgender student in the women’s bathroom at her high school. He responded angrily against the Loudoun County School Board (as any loving father should have), was arrested, and branded a domestic terrorist by the National School Boards Association, Merrick Garland, and President Biden. Interestingly, it took such a startling tragedy to stoke nationwide parental concerns for these and other issues. Now countless seats on School Boards across America have been seized by parents intent on jettisoning these radical—but already very entrenched—ideologies from our schools. They’re discovering and unbinding the dangerous grip of Critical Race Theory. They’re uncovering and dismantling the attempts by progressive ideologue teachers to read pornographic literature to 1st graders. They’re finding all these things and more, and they’re waging war against the disorder.
As the saying goes, Rome wasn’t built in a day. Little by little, changes were made. And now we’re cleaning up some pretty big messes. As Christians, we know the sources of these messes: Sin, Death, and Satan.
These are the powers at work in the deeper disorder.
Again, be encouraged to pay closer attention in the New Year. Perhaps a personal resolution for change might be to become more aware of what’s changing around you—whether the change is good or bad, who it affects, and what you can do to help. Doing this, I’m certain you’ll find ways to flex the already empowered muscle of faith in a world that desperately needs what you have to offer, not only for the sake of living peaceful and godly lives (1 Timothy 2:2) but for leading others to the only One who capable of bringing an all-surpassing order to the deeper disorder. Jesus accomplished this on the cross. He proved it by His resurrection. Now we live in this Gospel, owning the spoils of His victory, and employing them in the world around us.
We are not drifting through life. We are engaging in it with an altogether different kind—a divinely impenetrable kind—of endurance and discernment amid change.
I’m writing this note to remind and invite you to the Epiphany Divine Service tonight at Our Savior in Hartland at 7:00 pm. Epiphany sees Christmas depart, and a new season begins. In a way, and considering the meaning of the word epiphany, it’s almost paradoxical.
Epiphany comes from the Greek word meaning “to make known.” When someone experiences an epiphany, something is revealed, and the person becomes aware of something previously unknown. In a sense, Christmas is itself a preeminent epiphany event. God gives His son to the world. By His birth, so much is made known. The angels break through fantastically from heaven to declare it. Shepherds so wonderfully announce it to everyone they meet. There’s Jesus, the Son of God, in the flesh. Emmanuel, God with us. But then January 6 arrives, and with it, the season of Epiphany begins. It begins with the account of the Magi being led by a star to the humble residence of the Christ-child. Traditionally, and suddenly, January 6 sees that all of the seasonal pomp of Christmas is put away—hidden out of sight, put back into the boxes under the stairs, in the closet, in the basement. If epiphany means to make known, then this seems counterintuitive to the season’s message.
But it isn’t. Throughout the season of Epiphany, Christ is being revealed in incredible ways that Christmas could not fully deliver. For one, the hiding of Christmas’ divine pomp hints at Christ’s veiled divinity. As the Christmas Gospel declared, He is God in the flesh dwelling among us. And yet, unlike all other human beings walking around, their souls similarly veiled, Jesus is both the creator and deliverer of souls. Epiphany sets the stage in unmistakable terms that Jesus is who He says He is. His identity is revealed throughout as He does things no one else can do. This man is no ordinary man.
I can’t remember who said it, but someone noted that the Lord’s miracles toll an epiphany bell. They point to Calvary. They ring for the human senses a divine awareness of what’s actually occurring when this man suffers and dies on the cross. Human senses cannot fathom such an event as being anything so wonderfully divine, yet it is. The One who accomplishes the work of mankind’s salvation has proven by His miracles the merit of His words and deeds. He can say to a dead girl, “Arise,” and she does (Mark 5:21-43). He can speak to a vicious sky, “Be quiet,” and it submits (Mark 4:35-41). Beholding these things, He can say to you, “I will go to Jerusalem. I will suffer for your sins. I will die in your place. I will rise from death and give to you the merits of my effort” (Matthew 20:18-19). When He says this, you can believe Him. Epiphany is the clarion call of His trustworthiness.
As a side, Epiphany has the potential for tolling other bells.
For one, Epiphany encourages Christians to pay attention to the revelations of faith itself. For example, and perhaps on a personal level, I suppose the strangest epiphany born from faith is the realization (and the otherworldly sensation) of love for a Savior so secure that I’d be willing to die for Him rather than forsake Him. He saved me from eternal Death. The world may do its worst. Like the Magi, I’m willing to risk life and limb to be with Him. What do I have to fear?
When that realization lands on you—when that genuine aspect of faith becomes known—life takes on an altogether different hue.
Consider joining us for worship tonight at 7:00 pm. Be strengthened in this alongside your brothers and sisters in Jesus. I’m preaching tonight, and I hope to look out and discover you in the pews.
Cruciform Stuff 