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Liberty is No Enemy of Holiness

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As many of you know, I prefer to post and ghost. In other words, I share something, and then I rarely return to read the comments, if only because I believe humans weren’t designed to receive 24/7 input from an endless crowd of digital judges. It’s not healthy to live beneath the constant gaze of the commentariat. Admittedly, 24/7 commentary goes with the territory for anyone who writes for public consumption, which I do. Still, I’m wise enough to know that the soul can wither when every thought must be defended and every sentence explained. It’s better, I think, to set one’s observations before readers, entrust it to the Lord, and then move on with the quiet confidence that truth doesn’t require

That said, sometimes I break my own rule.

Essentially, I shared an image of myself, Dr. James Lindsay, Father Calvin Robinson, Bishop Mel Williams, and William Federer enjoying pre-conference whiskies and cigars on my deck. It wasn’t long before Facebook reply notifications began arriving. Usually, I scroll past those notifications. But this time I didn’t. I clicked on one.

A passerby had expressed concern: “That doesn’t seem like the best example to set for young parishioners.”

Now, his words are a common enough sentiment. The supposition is that anything capable of misuse must be avoided altogether by Christians, lest someone follow the example and sin. This is Pietism in its most socially acceptable form: the attempt to preserve holiness by limiting someone else’s Christian liberty.

Attempting to be funny (but not really), I replied, “It was a heretical-pietist-free evening. Praise God for that!” Maybe I shouldn’t have. But I did. With that, the conversation grew, and with textbook precision. My counterpart immediately invoked the dangers of addiction and disease. I responded that not all enjoyments lead to sin and then offered the ancient liturgical phrase, “Τὰ ἅγια τοῖς ἁγίοις” (The holy things for the holy ones). In other words, God’s gifts are for those sanctified by Christ, not denied by fear.

The back-and-forth continued. He warned against “promoting potentially harmful behaviors.” Identifying this as classic Pietism, I took another quick moment to lay out the contrast between moral restraint and moralism:

“You are conflating personal abstinence with holiness and assuming that visible restraint equals moral superiority… you make ordinary Christian liberty (whisky and cigars) sin-adjacent, implying that the ‘holy’ choice is abstention.”

Of course, what I just shared with you was not my entire reply. In my much longer response, I invoked God’s Word and fundamental human reason, adding that the dangers of sugar, gluttony, and social media are by far statistically worse for health than cigars or whisky. My point was not complicated: true wisdom is not found in prohibition, but in discernment.

Still, he kept on. Clearly wounded by personal loss, he shared his father’s tragic battle with lung cancer. Yet even his heartfelt appeal that others should keep their “unhealthful affectations” private revealed Pietism’s blind spot. Pietism mistakes personal experience for universal moral law. In fact, is that not one of the great dreadfulnesses of our age—the confusion of subjective perception with objective reality? People no longer ask what is true, but rather what feels true to them. Truth has become elastic, molded to suit one’s emotion or experience. But someone’s subjective conviction, however sincere, cannot alter objective reality. Reality fragments when truth is privatized, its authority giving way to the tyranny of preference.

That’s the soul of Pietism. The objective Gospel is recast as personal sentiment rather than divine fact.

I know some might argue it, but I think my final (and rather lengthy) reply was both pastoral and theological, weaving together compassion, Scripture, and principle. I wrote, “Your experiences are tragic, and you have my sympathy… But in my home, I will not make your weakness my law. Christian liberty is not sin. Compulsion is.”

Then, as before, I anchored the argument in God’s Word—Titus 1:15, 1 Timothy 4:4, Psalm 104:15, Luke 7:34, Galatians 5:1. Each text underscores that the Christian life is not defined by what we abstain from, but by what we receive rightly. Certainly, one could say that Pietism was born of good intentions. Indeed, it was a 17th-century reaction to cold orthodoxy and a response to the particular woes of the day, alcoholism being one of them. But good intentions can be deadly when they elevate personal zeal above divine grace. In its essence, Pietism teaches that visible piety proves a person’s inner holiness. When it does this, it replaces the Gospel’s declaration, “You are free,” with the conscience’s suspicious questioning, “Are you holy enough?”

That’s not good. That’s flat-out dangerous to the soul.

Still, the Pietist goes further, imposing on others, “Do not drink, smoke, dance, or play cards, because these things might harm your witness.” But the Gospel says, “All things are lawful—not all are beneficial, but you are free” (1 Corinthians 10:23).

I suppose part of the irony in all of this is that Pietism sees danger everywhere except in itself. It replaces real sin with symbols of sin, preferring the optics of sanctity to the substance of faith. It is less concerned with the heart that trusts Christ than with the appearance that pleases observers.

Maybe even the more profound irony is that Pietism claims to protect morality but ends up birthing hypocrisy. It trains Christians to hide, to present a sanitized version of life, and to confuse the suppression of appetite with the cultivation of virtue. As it does this, it unwittingly revives the very Pharisaical spirit Christ so often condemned—the one that tithed mint and cumin but neglected mercy, freedom, and joy.

Against this, Saint Paul, and ultimately Confessional Lutheranism, have a proper understanding of these things, one that stands firm. And it’s simply that God’s creation is good, and when received with thanksgiving, it sanctifies rather than defiles. When Scripture warns against drunkenness, it condemns excess, not alcohol’s existence. When Paul tells Timothy to “use a little wine,” he affirms alcohol’s benefit, not vice. When Jesus turns water into wine at Cana, He not only dignifies holy marriage, but also Godly fellowship and festivity. You know one thing Jesus doesn’t do in Cana? Magnify abstinence.

Make no mistake, the theology of Christian liberty does not promote recklessness. It insists that the conscience be ruled by grace, not by fear. It says that a Christian’s freedom is not to be licentiousness, but rather faithfulness. In this context, a Christian can receive a cigar or a dram of whisky as a gift, not as a threatening vice or idol. A Christian can also choose to refrain, not because of superstition concerning one’s holiness, but according to Godly discernment.

I quoted Saint Paul’s words in my final response, saying, “If food makes my brother stumble, I will never eat meat” (1 Corinthians 8:13). For the record, that’s not self-contradictory, not in context. Paul is writing about charity, not control. He’s teaching about sensitivity, not censorship. Saint Paul would never forbid meat. To do so would make his other writings on the subject instantaneously hypocritical. In this instance, he forbids the sin of despising the weaker conscience. Still, Paul’s compassion never becomes compliance with false laws. And so, I also shared Saint Paul’s words that “to the pure, all things are pure” (Titus 1:15), and that “everything created by God is good, and nothing is to be rejected if it is received with thanksgiving” (1 Timothy 4:4). I noted that God Himself gives “wine to gladden the heart of man” (Psalm 104:15). I even reminded that Christ was accused of being “a glutton and a drunkard, a friend of tax collectors and sinners” (Luke 7:34), not because He was those things, but because He partook freely of God’s gifts within holy boundaries with others.

My opponent’s final plea—that such moments be kept private to avoid tempting the “impressionable”—revealed one of Pietism’s most corrosive features. Pietism’s instinct is to hide the very goodness of God’s creation. It imagines that holiness grows in secrecy, that joy must be concealed lest someone misunderstand. But remember, Christ’s first miracle at Cana was very public. His critics were the ones who scowled that He did the things He did so openly and so freely.

I should also add that to hide God’s gifts is not humility. It’s ingratitude. To pretend that the Christian life is tidy, risk-free, and maybe even unembodied is so far away from spiritual maturity. Perhaps worse, it’s a denial of the Incarnation itself. Indeed, God did not hover above creation as though holiness required distance from it. He dwelt bodily in it in ways that Pietism insists we distrust. To recoil from the tangible—food, drink, fellowship, and the bodily joys of this life—is to behave as though God erred in becoming man. It is to imply that holiness exists only in the abstract, not in the enfleshed grace of Christ who came as one of us—eating and drinking—for our salvation. The Word became flesh, not vapor.

In the end, I suppose the entire debate comes down to who sets the boundaries of holiness. Is it human fear or divine grace? I think Pietists fear liberty because they cannot control it. Pietists are closet tyrants. But Christians are free from such tyranny in every way. They are enabled by the Holy Spirit through faith to discern and embrace Christian liberty, ultimately trusting in Christ, the One who governs it.

“For freedom Christ has set us free,” Paul wrote, “do not submit again to a yoke of slavery” (Galatians 5:1). The Pietist, though well-meaning, forges a new yoke from his own fears and insists that it’s righteousness. But freedom—true Gospel freedom—is not the enemy of holiness. It is its foundation.

So, pour the whisky if you want. If it will lead to your demise, don’t. Light the cigar if you prefer. If it will harm your physical condition, discern the foolishness of your action and don’t. But whichever you choose, laugh with friends who love Christ. And do so not to provoke the weak, but to proclaim the strength of Christian liberty and its discernment. Proclaim that God’s gifts are good. His creation is not the problem, and holiness is found not in rejecting or hiding His generosity but in receiving it in faith with all joy.

Endurance through Fire

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You’ll rarely find me ready to admit that my brain has run dry of words. And yet, the busyness of the past few days was as a black hole pulling into its twirling mass every last particle of my energy, and with it, not just thoughts that popped into my mind that typically become a few paragraphs here and there, but also the will to actually form them. It was a kind of gravitational pull toward emptiness—a reminder that even those of us who trade in words can find ourselves staring at a blankness that feels alive, swallowing thought after thought.

For me, in order to reconcile all the supposed “good ideas” I may have lost to the void last week, I think the point is not necessarily to fear the situation, but to recognize it as part of the cycle. In one sense, it was a pause before creation, a stillness from which the next torrent of keyboard taps would eventually emerge.

And those taps are happening right now.

I should say I do remember one random thought from last week that managed to stay with me. It might seem silly in the scheme of things, but since it’s the only thing that comes to mind right now, I’ll share it.

There was a moment while driving when I wasn’t sure if I still liked Star Wars. Yeah, weird. I’m the guy in your feed with a life-sized Darth Vader in his basement. I also have a Stormtrooper costume on display, one that was sent to me by the gent at Shepperton Studios in England who designed the original molds for the 1977 film. The trooper is armed with a holstered E11 blaster and all standard-issue equipment. I have some, but not all, of my original Star Wars toys from the 80s, too. My AT-AT stands beside my bar. The Millennium Falcon hangs by wires from the ceiling above it, with Vader’s TIE fighter in pursuit of an escaping Han and Chewy. Among countless eye candies scattered throughout the space, I can assure you, I’m no ordinary Star Wars fan.

But here’s the thing.

Perhaps that strange realization that startled me while driving was because, for most of my life, the Star Wars saga has been a wellspring of imagination and awe. But since Disney took over, what was once rich and expansive has now been drained of its mystery. It seems almost every corner of the galaxy is retooled and franchised into ideological submission, and now a void is staring back. Disney’s current trajectory—with its insistence on imposing LGBTQ, Inc.’s nonsense, combined with prioritizing quantity over wonder, and spectacle over soul—has transformed a universe once supercharged with myth into a factory line of shallow narratives, each one closing doors instead of opening them.

Thinking this through right now on my keyboard, I suppose my disenchantment isn’t necessarily a betrayal of my younger self, but a natural response to watching a beloved story collapse into an insatiable gravitational pull, leaving me waiting for the emptiness to let go, and for creation to feel alive again.

That said, this is simply where we are as a culture.

And if that sounds abstract, it isn’t. The point has faces and names. Just last night, sitting at my dining room table with Dr. James Lindsay and Chloe Cole, our conversation turned to this very thing—the strange willingness of our age to normalize what is gross, confused, or destructive, while shunning what is good, true, and beautiful. We agreed that the inversion isn’t accidental. It’s become a cultural reflex. In so many ways, the very same pattern that gutted Star Wars—trading mystery for ideology, and reverence for rebellion—now governs how society decides what deserves its affection.

It’s a pattern that doesn’t stop at Hollywood or politics. It seeps into everything, showing itself to be a symptom of something far deeper.

I guess what I’m saying is that we live in an age where tradition—what’s sacred—is no longer cherished, but instead repackaged until nothing generationally transcendent remains. In other words, we’ve been slow-burning the inherent wonder that makes most anything worth loving in the first place. What has happened to Star Wars is a cautionary tale in that sense. It mirrors what we’ve done to our own world—draining meaning for sellable content, trading soul for profit or popularity, and leaving ourselves with universes that look full but feel strangely empty.

Again, that said, you may not like what I’m going to say next… but… well, whatever.

I’d say the Church in America has not escaped this same gravitational pull, especially when it comes to worship. More and more, mainstream evangelicalism mirrors the same logic that gutted Star Wars—a reliance on endless production, flashy effects, and emotional manipulation designed to keep an audience engaged rather than a people fed. The holy spaces have become stages, and the pastors are little more than TED Talk speakers. The liturgy, if there is one, is a syrupy playlist of songs that repeat the same three lines twenty times, sometimes without even mentioning the God the people claim to worship. Every moment must be filled with lights, sound, and extraneous distractions.

I have a theory about this.

Not long ago, I saw a video from a megachurch memorial service. The pastor was speaking, but just over his shoulder, in clear view of the camera, a keyboardist played soft music the entire time. Why?

The theatrics of emotional manipulation. What is theater without its soundtrack?

Unfortunately, this wasn’t anything unique. It’s just one example of a wider pattern in megachurch (and smaller wannabe megachurches) culture where reverence is replaced with stagecraft. My theory is that these churches deliberately avoid reverence—with its quiet, cruciform ponderance—because it risks exposing how thin they are in substance. We’re told they’re attempting to be relevant, but it looks and feels suspiciously like entertainment—like franchising—running the sacred through the machinery of consumer demand. Just as Disney ruined Star Wars by trading the mythical for market share, churches are trading the sacred for the secular, reverence for relevance, mystery for marketing, and the otherworldliness of what’s holy for trendiness. The tragedy is that in trying to be accessible (which proponents of the “attractant model” insist is necessary), they end up being disposable—thin words paired with even thinner ditties that fade with the next generation. Christianity becomes a gathering of generic platitudes that stir the senses for a moment but leave the soul unanchored for the moments to come.

But unlike Star Wars, what I’m describing isn’t fiction. It’s the very lifeblood of the Church being stripped of its substance and wonder and, ultimately, sold back to us as theater.

The plain truth is that churches that adopt this theology and practice are not the ones that survive the fires of time. I said as much during my speech at yesterday’s conference. Charlie Kirk agreed with me. Dr. James Lindsay affirmed that he did, and primarily because both know that history has long proven it. History shows these forms of religiosity rise for a time, swelling in number and noise, but like fast food, they fill a generational moment, ultimately leaving that generation’s people malnourished. And when the next cultural storm hits—whether persecution, political upheaval, or even just the slow burn of the same societal disillusionment that we’re experiencing now—the thin scaffolding of lights and slogans simply cannot hold. And again, why? Well, it’s the same inversion we talked about in my dining room last night—the reflex to applaud what deforms and to yawn at what sanctifies, which leaves people brittle precisely when meaning is most needed.

Simply put, syrupy Christianity isn’t up to the challenges brought by real suffering. In those moments, people actually need the God who is holy, transcendent, and present where He promised to locate Himself.

By the way, I have a theory about this, too. I think that in the end, the even more profound tragedy isn’t that churches like the ones I’ve described eventually disappear, but that in their wake they leave generations who think they’ve “tried” Christianity, when in truth they’ve only tasted a diluted version of it. And so, they walk away, not only from Christ, but from a franchise built in His name that they mistakenly think He commissioned. In other words, people having a false impression of what Christianity actually is, that, I fear, is a far greater problem than the fading cultural mythos of even something as beloved as Star Wars.

You may or may not agree with me. That’s okay. In the end, though, I suppose what matters is not whether the Church can keep pace with the culture or stay in step with the latest trend, but whether we are anchored to something that can actually withstand the storms. The world can afford for Star Wars to become disposable entertainment. It cannot afford for the Church to follow suit. When churches trade away their sacred identity—when they sacrifice reverence for relevance—they train their people to crave sugar instead of bread. When famine comes, they starve. What the world needs is not another franchise in God’s name, but the God who breaks into our shallow emptiness, exchanging this world with the sacredness of the world to come. Strip that away, and you may have a show. Keep it, and you have a Church. And that is the difference between extinction and endurance.

I Was Not Disappointed

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It looks like I’m a little late to the party on this one. Really, I should be concerning myself with other things right now. I have a sizeable conference happening in six days. Still, I was asked by a friend last night if I was disappointed concerning the rapture date that came and went this past week.

No, I wasn’t disappointed. And here are my three reasons why.

First, I believe what the Bible teaches, which means I do not believe that God speaks to His people outside of His Word. He does not employ modern prophets. He does not give special revelations to anyone. If you say to me something like, “God spoke to me and told me I should be doing such and such,” regardless of my expression, you can pretty much guarantee I’m recoiling on the inside. Everything we need to know about God and His work to save us has already been revealed. And so, whenever someone stands up and claims otherwise, it’s by no means harmless zeal. It’s dangerous. And why? Because how do you know what’s being shared is from God and not prompted by Satan?

The Bible warns that Satan operates in this way (2 Corinthians 11:14). What’s more, he delights in twisting God’s Word and offering counterfeit revelations (Genesis 3:1). But he does more than that, too. Moses knew this. He gave a sobering caution in Deuteronomy 13:1–3, reminding Israel that even if a prophet or dreamer seems to perform signs, if his message leads you away from God’s Word, it is a test—and you are not to follow him. To seek or trust in “new words from God” beyond what has been given in Scripture is to invite deception (1 John 4:3). And Christ Himself makes this painfully clear: “Beware of false prophets, who come to you in sheep’s clothing but inwardly are ravenous wolves” (Matthew 7:15). They don’t simply mislead in minor matters. They lead people to embrace false christs. That’s why Jesus warns in the same passage that on the Last Day many will cry out, “Lord, Lord,” only to hear Him say, “I never knew you; depart from me” (Matthew 7:22–23). In other words, false claims of special revelation aren’t just theological mistakes. They’re devilish snares set with one goal in mind—to draw us away from the true Christ and His sure promises, and to leave us clinging to a counterfeit christ who cannot save.

My second reason is that rapture theology is very plainly a sham. How can I say this? Again, because I believe the Bible, and the doctrine of the rapture (as many seem to know it) isn’t in it. It was invented by the Anglo-Irish theologian, John Nelson Darby, a self-proclaimed prophet, in the 1830s, who claimed to receive special revelation from God apart from the Bible. He then proceeded to take three Bible texts (all three about the Lord’s second coming, two specifically referring to the resurrection of the dead on that day) and twisted them beyond meaning’s threshold. In other words, he built an entire theological movement on a false teaching—a doctrine that remains fantastically popular among Christians today. It’s not because they’re unintelligent or insincere. It’s because they earnestly long for Christ’s return. That desire is not wrong—it’s biblical (Philippians 3:20–21). But when it’s infused with falsehood, it can turn into despair, confusion, or even shipwrecked faith. That’s why it matters that we trust the Scriptures themselves, not speculation, for our hope.

And yet, speculation has been the lifeblood of rapture teaching for nearly two centuries. Its most famous modern champion was Tim LaHaye, author of the Left Behind series. Like the false teachers before him, when pressed for biblical proof, he pointed to Matthew 24:40–41, which reads, “Then two men will be in the field; one will be taken and one left. Two women will be grinding at the mill; one will be taken and one left.”

Sounds like a rapture, right? Well, hold on a second. Don’t forget about the recent outrage from folks concerned about others taking Charlie Kirk’s words out of context? The point here is that we should show the same concern for our Lord and His words. To do this means keeping Matthew 24:40-41 with what came before it in verses 37 through 39. So, together, the text reads:

“For as were the days of Noah, so will be the coming of the Son of Man. For as in those days before the flood, they were eating and drinking, marrying and giving in marriage, until the day when Noah entered the ark, and they were unaware until the flood came and swept them all away, so will be the coming of the Son of Man. Then two men will be in the field; one will be taken and one left. Two women will be grinding at the mill; one will be taken and one left.”

At the very center of the image the Lord presents is the phrase οὕτως ἔσται καὶ—“so it will be” or “it will also be the same.” With those words, Jesus draws a direct parallel between what happened in Noah’s day during the flood and the Lord’s return. The ones taken in Noah’s day were those swept away in judgment. The ones left behind were the faithful who were preserved from destruction. The grammar makes the meaning plain. According to the Lord’s imagery, being left behind in the field or at the mill when the final trumpet sounds is a good thing. They’re the inheritors of the new heaven and new earth. The ones taken are delivered into judgment.

The third reason for my lack of disappointment at a passing rapture date is, like the first and second, because I believe the Bible. Anyone who actually reads the Scriptures knows that predicting the Lord’s return is not only foolish, it’s flat-out ungodly. Our Lord Himself said in Matthew 24:36, “But concerning that day and hour no one knows, not even the angels of heaven, nor the Son, but the Father only.” That’s not vague. That’s not a maybe. That’s Jesus Christ—God in the flesh—saying plainly that not even He was given that information in His earthly ministry. If Christ Himself deferred to the Father on the timing of the end, what business does any man have trying to pin it to a calendar?

Saint Paul warned the Thessalonians about being unsettled or alarmed by people claiming special knowledge about the Lord’s return (2 Thessalonians 2:1–3). He told them not to be deceived, that it would happen according to God’s timing. Likewise, Saint Peter, in faithfulness to Jesus, all but repeats the Lord’s words in 2 Peter 3:10, saying that “the day of the Lord will come like a thief.” In other words, it will be sudden, unexpected, and impossible to chart out on a timeline, no matter how clever we think we are.

And yet, here we are again—people circling dates on calendars, skipping college exams, quitting their jobs, selling their cars, giving away their houses to total strangers, whipping up anxiety in others, and then acting surprised when the sun rises the very next morning.

The ridiculousness of it isn’t just in the failed prediction. It’s in the arrogant presumption that anyone can call themselves a modern prophet or apostle, stand onstage, and claim to share special revelations from the same God who already said He doesn’t do such things.

Hebrews 1:1-2 insists that God used to speak through prophets, but now He speaks to us by His Son. Saint John tells us plainly that the Son is the Word made flesh (John 1:14). To confess that God speaks through His Son is to confess that God speaks through His Word. And as Christ is the authority, so also His Word alone carries final authority for faith, life, and practice (Colossians 1:18).

That is why when the writer to the Hebrews declares that God has spoken by His Son, he means the Word. The Bible is it. Done. No more special revelations. Throughout history, Christendom has consistently maintained this. Chrysostom explained Hebrews 1 as emphasizing the finality of Christ’s voice, saying, “The prophets spoke in fragments, but the Son spoke all. Not one truth remained that was not spoken by the Son.” In Augustine’s On Christian Doctrine, he draws together John 1 and Hebrews 1, insisting that Christ, as the incarnate Word, is the measure of all revelation and, therefore, the Scriptures that testify of Him are sufficient for the Church. In his On the Incarnation, Athanasius does the same, labeling as heretical anyone seeking or believing any revelation apart from the Son, who he shows is the Word given in and through the Scriptures.

Still, people come along claiming to have received new revelations, even claiming to know something God has explicitly said no one knows.

The point is that all such claims will always be a denial of Scripture in the worst way, all beneath a rented tent and the illusion of special, namely, divine self-appointed authority. Anything that sets itself above (or even alongside) God’s Word as an authority is not merely in error but active rebellion against the very Christ who is the living Word and who alone has preeminence (again, Colossians 1:18).

I suppose I should wrap this up by saying that when it comes to genuine Christianity’s eschatological view, the Bible’s message is never to “calculate the day.” It’s “be ready every day.” Jesus said in the same breath in Matthew 24:42, “Therefore, stay awake, for you do not know on what day your Lord is coming.” Notice, not if He’s coming, but that He is—and that the certainty of what He has revealed in the Bible, not a false prediction, is where our comfort should be found resting.

So, no, I wasn’t disappointed. And when the modern prophets were once again proven false, I chuckled. Then I prayed for them and for the people who drank in their poisonous words. After that, I went right back to not being disappointed because my hope is not tethered to human speculation. My hope is tethered to Christ, the gift of His real presence and promises located in His verbal and visible Word (1 John 5:6-8; Hebrews 10:15; 2 Timothy 3:16; 1 Corinthians 2:13; John 14:26; 15:26–27; Hebrews 3:7). This is the One who said that when He comes, it will be in His time, in His way, and unmistakable to all. Until then, we’re not called to guess the day. We’re called to assume every day could be the one, while at the same time living faithfully in each He’s already given.

Not A Barrier. A Bridge.

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As you may already know, I was asked to give the opening prayer and speak a few words at the rally for my friend Charlie Kirk on the steps of the Capitol in Lansing last Monday. Regardless of the resulting criticisms, both from some in my own ranks who believed I shouldn’t have participated and from those in the progressive media who broadcast my words, stirring a plethora of vulgar comments against me online, I considered it a privilege.

Indeed, it was a genuine honor to stand before thousands and speak of the hope we have in Christ (1 Peter 3:15), while at the same time urging all to take up truth’s torch and go forth with courage. This was something I was compelled to do—something I needed to do—if only because I owed it to Charlie.

And yet, there’s another debt I owed to Charlie. Not only was it the debt of friendship, but also the responsibility of being seen and accessible in public, as he always was. Charlie never hid from the people he knew needed him, and in his own way, he taught so many to step forward with the same openness, to stand where those who are searching might actually find them. I’ve tried to follow that same pattern of visibility, even when it sometimes comes with risks.

And yet, there is a memory from this past Monday that will stay with me forever.

Long before I stood atop the steps at the microphone, I learned my better destiny on Monday was down among the brokenhearted (Psalm 34:18). During the forty-plus minutes before the event started, a handful of men and women—not many, just a few, but still complete strangers to me—saw me near the Capitol steps and wanted to talk.

A few were heavy with grief. Some were burdened by anger. One was carrying both to extremes. But all wanted to know the “why” behind what happened to Charlie. They wanted answers. They wanted hope.

But here’s the thing. How did they know to talk to me? These people who approached me didn’t know me from the next person. They didn’t know my role in the event. Still, they felt somehow that they did know me, that they could step forward and ask to talk, to ask me for help with whatever burdens they were experiencing.

How was this possible? Before I answer that question, let me tell you what happened during those private interactions.

One-on-one, each told me his or her story, and I responded with God’s Word. I gave the Gospel. I reminded each that death does not get the final word, that Charlie’s faith was not in vain, and that for all who dwell in Christ, there is victory over the grave (1 Corinthians 15:54–57). Those conversations—private interactions near the Capitol steps—are what I remember most.

This brings me closer to an answer to the question. But still, a little more first.

Not all that long ago, a brother pastor shared with me an August email from his LCMS District President discouraging pastors from wearing the clerical collar. In his own words, he suggested that clerical collars create “the wrong kind of distance” between pastors and people, and that perhaps a suit, tie, or even casual clothes would be better—maybe even more approachable.

I couldn’t disagree more. To diminish or even discard the pastoral uniform—the visible sign of the pastoral office—is to hide the very thing that helps the hurting and the searching find us when we’re out and about in the world.

Maybe think of it this way. If someone is in crisis and they need a police officer, they don’t want to guess who in the crowd might be one. They look for the badge, the hat, the uniform. In the same way, the clerical collar doesn’t confuse us with the rest of the crowd. It doesn’t conceal. It’s not necessarily concerned with approachability. People will find every excuse imaginable to avoid anyone for any reason, anyway. But the only way to know to approach or avoid is first to find.

That said, I do recognize that for some, the sight of a clerical collar does not bring comfort but instead stirs painful memories of being hurt by someone who once wore it. And yet, the uniform’s meaning is apart from the wound. In the same way, one corrupt police officer does not redefine the badge for every officer, nor does one corrupt person in uniform—whether a doctor, a soldier, or anyone else—undo the purpose of the uniform itself. The failures of individuals do not erase what the uniform is meant to signify, nor do they invalidate the faithful who continue to wear it rightly. For those who would never know us from the next man in the crowd, the collar gives a clear answer. It identifies us, unmistakably, as shepherds of Christ, and that is often all the invitation a suffering soul needs to step forward.

Admittedly, in today’s America, a pastor’s findability (if that’s a word) can be a dangerous thing. For example, I was with a group of pastors in Washington, DC, several years ago. I was the only one wearing a clerical collar. Passing near a group of protestors in front of the Supreme Court building on our way to the Capitol, I was the only one in the group that the protestors chose to spit on. Yes, it was a dreadful thing in the moment. And yet, I know why it happened. They could see me. And like it or not, they knew whose servant I was and what I stood for just by looking at me (John 15:18–19). The other pastors were not similarly persecuted, but that’s because they were entirely indistinguishable.

But even in those kinds of moments, the Lord has sometimes turned what was meant for harm into something surprisingly good. More than once, the hostility directed my way has ended up sparking conversations with people who would otherwise despise Christianity from a safe distance. They approached me precisely because they could tell who I was, and while some came ready to argue, others stayed long enough to hear the Gospel. Those exchanges, often uncomfortable, would never have happened if I had simply blended into the crowd.

This past Monday in Lansing demonstrated the best of these possibilities, certifying for me that wearing the clerical collar is valuable all the time, because you just don’t know. And so, I wear the collar everywhere I go. I always have, if only to be found in a crowd by whoever needs to find me. Contrary to the discouragement my friend’s district president mentioned before, the collar doesn’t put distance between me and the people. It actually closes the distance. It signals, immediately and unmistakably, that I represent Christ. It’s a sign that Christ still sends His servants into the world. Like Him or hate Him, like me or hate me, it doesn’t matter. Here I am. Let’s talk (Romans 10:14).

By the way, regardless of what people think the collar means, for generations, the pastor’s clerical collar has always been this kind of visible sign. Although at one time, Christians were more literate in this regard and didn’t need the explanation. Traditionally, the clerical collar was and is a wordless sermon. The black garment represents sin, death, and the brokenness of this fallen world—our human condition. The white tab or ring at the collar represents Christ and His righteousness, surpassing all the darkness. But even better, the collar is near the pastor’s throat, indicating the Gospel message that is to be preached and taught from that same man’s throat to a world in dreadful need of rescue. What’s more, even as the man speaking is covered in the black garments, showing his equal need for a Savior, that white collar insists that when he speaks as a called and ordained servant in faithfulness to Christ, regardless of his frailties, it is not ultimately his voice you are hearing, but Christ through him (Luke 10:16; 2 Corinthians 5:20).

Those who approached me before the event had no idea who I was, but they saw the collar and knew I was an emissary of Someone who could help. If I had been dressed like any other man in the crowd that day, they might have walked past, their grief locked inside. But because they could tell just by looking at me, they didn’t pass by. They stopped. They cried. We prayed. They received the comfort of God’s powerful Gospel (Romans 1:16). And by God’s grace, they left with the only kind of hope that will see them through this life’s storms, even ones of national import.

And so, as you can see, the most memorable part of that day was not necessarily speaking to thousands in memory of Charlie but consoling a handful in service to Jesus. But it only happened because, regardless of what you’ve been told, the clerical collar was by no means a barrier, but rather a bridge—a silent invitation to come and be comforted by Jesus.

Ashes to Ashes – The Author’s Exposition

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For starters, as a clergyman, I knew I’d take some heat for the book. I knew those scenes of extreme vigilante violence—moments when a man in a clerical collar arrives to erase the most vicious among us—I knew this would send some spinning into a fever.

Honestly, I’ve really only read one critical sentence about the book from an advanced reader, and the expressed observation didn’t surprise me. He noted something I did intentionally. Beyond this, it seems most folks, once they picked up the book, couldn’t put it down until they finished it.

Nevertheless, two individuals reached out to me privately with concerns. While separate, their concerns were essentially the same. I’ll attempt to paraphrase their thoughts. But before I do, you should know the book’s premise.

Essentially, Ashes to Ashes follows Reverend Daniel Michaels, a small-town Lutheran pastor who, while visiting one of his members, is somehow knocked unconscious, and when he awakens, he finds the church member dead. From there, the story steers toward a human trafficking network operating under the cover of a nearby church-run women’s shelter. With the possibility of law enforcement being compromised and the guilty hiding in positions of authority—right out in plain sight—Daniel shoulders the unbearable burden of both grief and responsibility. What follows is a harrowing descent into vigilante justice—brutal in every way—scenes as messy as they are decisive. Daniel wages war against predators in their homes, alleys, and shady motels, each encounter leaving more blood on his clerical collar than before. However, threaded through the brutality is a much deeper conflict. I won’t reveal too much, except to say the novel builds inexorably toward a pile-up collision between repentance, vengeance, vocation, hope, redemption, damnation, right and wrong, Law and Gospel, ultimately leaving readers scorched along the way by some of the best narrative writing I think I’ve ever produced in my entire life.

Seriously. I’m so proud of this book. I immersed myself in Reverend Daniel Michaels’ world, and I employed every ounce of my creative faculties to bring the reader into it, too.

All of this said, and to paraphrase a concern: “Isn’t it dangerous to put a clergyman that close to this stuff? It seems unbecoming of a guy like you to write something this.”

I hear the concern. The question is serious. It deserves a serious reply.

First, take note that there’s no swearing in the book. Also, no sex or nudity. There is one scene in which an abused girl is noted as naked, and yet, Reverend Michaels, after he deals with the man in the room abusing her, and before he moves on to other rooms with the same fury, he covers her up, brushes her blood-stained hair, and tells her she’s going to be okay. His gentleness with the victims is markedly profound. He cares.

Second, admittedly, there is gore. And yet, the book isn’t about glorifying the results of a pastor’s rage. It’s about putting vocation into the most severe of circumstances—into the refiner’s fire—and watching what burns away, and what does not.

If you felt a shiver reading that, good. You were meant to. The book is a meditation on the threshold of talk and action—the proximity of hero to villain, prayer to fury, genuine justice to unbridled vengeance. Daniel prays before and after; the words are “always crisp.” And yet the soundtrack in his head is Johnny Cash’s The Man Comes Around, a cracked, apocalyptic psalm about a God who, whether or not we want Him to, does, in fact, come around. And He chooses how He’ll do it.

So, how does He use us in the process? Where do we fit in? The book never lets the reader relax into easy answers, because the context isn’t easy.

In one of the two messages I received, I was told I “put the man in the collar too near the sword.” That comment was referring to Romans 13—the government’s bearing of the sword.

My reply: Yes, I did—and on purpose. Not to baptize vigilantism, but to force an honest Christian reading of Romans 12 and 13. Paul’s words are prescriptive, not descriptive. And so, what does that mean exactly in a world where “the powers that be” can be both God’s servants for good and, at times, participants in harm. For example, when a nation sanctifies the slaughter of its own unborn children, that is not righteousness—it is evil dressed in legality. Evil doesn’t become less monstrous because it is legal or convenient. It remains blood crying from the ground (Genesis 4:10), and the Church’s unwillingness to confront it makes us complicit in the very silence that lets it thrive.

There’s a funeral sermon in the novel that walks that blade’s edge aloud. Daniel proclaims, “‘Vengeance is mine,’ saith the Lord, ‘I will repay,’” then warns that we too often hear the verse only as comfort for victims and not as a warning to the evildoers. And so, Daniel preaches, “Do not mistake God’s patience for apathy… He will act.”

But, again, what’s our role?

Whatever the answer, you’ll notice in that same sermon—in the same breath—Daniel wrestles himself back to the Gospel’s center. He preaches the Lamb who ultimately bears vengeance in His own body so that sinners might become sons and daughters. We are transformed into those who can take action when action is required.

If, while you’re reading the book, you feel the tension in these things, then the story’s doing precisely what it’s supposed to be doing. I refused to rest in the cheap catharsis of tidy judgment or pious quietism, both of which are a pestilence in the Christian Church today. Instead, I chose to walk Daniel straight into the furnace and keep him there until the sparks started flying and you, the reader, flinched.

Ashes to Ashes isn’t tidy, because life isn’t tidy. Evil certainly isn’t. It’s raw, relentless, and sometimes terrifyingly close to home.

And so, in this world’s darkest pages, what must we bring to moments like these?

One of the comments I received was that in the moments of confrontation, Reverend Michaels offers no grace to the villains. I suppose I’d ask, is grace the appropriate first response in every situation? I’m one to say no. Hopefully, there’d be time for grace in any normal situation. But first, evil needs to be subdued and the victims protected. Unfortunately, sometimes that means making a mess. Sometimes that mess is bloody, and the villains ultimately lose out on grace’s opportunity.

Another comment said straightforwardly that this book “could scandalize the weak.” That concern is baked into the book’s DNA. The dedication page itself anticipates readers who’ll “see autobiography where none exists.” In the end, it’s fiction, though painfully plausible fiction, and if a reader can’t figure that out, they probably shouldn’t be reading it to begin with. Also, it is not a sermon in disguise. In fact, the story risks discomfort precisely to protect Christian preaching from naïveté. In other words, keep it simple, and remember: if we will not name evil, no matter its form, our sermons deserve to be taken less seriously by those in the pews who’ve likely already experienced what we refuse to see.

Another paraphrased comment: “It valorizes anger.” No. It interrogates it. Daniel’s anger is understandable, but it is also corrosive; he knows “refinement and ruin come from the same flame.” His most powerful moments are not when his fist is clenched and the Colt 1911 is raised to judge, but when his conscience is pierced. He is repeatedly pulled back to his calling, to the Gospel, even as judgment drums in his ears. The novel’s best question isn’t “How far will he go?” but “What will the fire leave behind when it’s done with him?”

If someone reads Ashes to Ashes and comes away thinking, “Pastors should punch harder,” then they read carelessly. The arc is faithfulness-shaped: a parade of revelations that corner the reader with the same double-bind that corners Daniel—do something and don’t become someone else while you do it. In that corner, you discover why he wears the collar while doing what he does. It’s not to bless sin, not to cosplay a crusader, but first, to let the demons know who’s coming for them; and second, to do everything he can to hold on to who he is—to Whom he belongs—when the room is filling with smoke.

I suppose I should add my own concerns at this point.

If anything, the Church needs two kinds of courage right now. It requires the courage to be clear and the courage to act. Mercy without either of these leaves victims unprotected. It turns us into the thing we hate. In a little town—Linden, Michigan—a place that smells like spring and looks “peaceful and quiet,” evil was buying time and gaining strength because the only thing opposing it were people wearing piety’s mask of politeness. The book tears the mask off and demands that the Church, and I suppose, all of society, look in the mirror.

It demands, “Do something. Stop sitting idly by and do something.”

So, to those who wrote to me with worried words: I’m with you in the worry. You should know I wrote Ashes to Ashes to earn that worry—not to dismiss it. But I’m also asking you to step into the furnace with me for close to four hundred pages. Watch what burns. Watch what stubbornly will not. And when you’re done, preach Christ crucified like it matters for victims and perpetrators alike. Then go to the altar and receive what we cannot manufacture: genuine mercy that doesn’t blink in the face of horror, and the holiness that can stand and act in any circumstance without losing one’s soul along the way.

If you want a copy, visit https://www.amazon.com/Ashes-Christopher-I-Thoma/dp/1955355053/.

Everything Has A Lifespan

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I’ve been simmering in what I wanted to write about this morning since last Sunday. Essentially, after nearly 70 years, the congregation where I received my first call back in the 90s—where I also met my wife and got married—was closed. Needless to say, the closing service was a bittersweet one.

The sanctuary was full that morning, probably fuller than it’s been in a while. I think what got me the most was the bustling before the service. It wasn’t the regular bustle of a congregation preparing for just another Sunday. It was the noisier hum of memory. People who hadn’t seen each other in years—old friends, former members, even children now grown with families of their own—all were moving into and through the pews, greeting one another.

I moved around a little, too. Not a lot, but a little. I saw folks I barely recognized. And for some reason, I couldn’t sit still. I had to go to them. This would be the final benediction in a place that had shaped so many of us. There was joy, of course, in the greetings. There was joy in the memories that came from the brief discussions. The baptisms, the confirmations, the weddings, and funerals that stitched our lives together reappeared in those moments like smiling presences. It was impossible not to feel grateful for what had been.

But there’s more.

I won’t say that the ache of finality was absent. That was a hovering specter, too. The knowledge that this beloved place would no longer echo with hymns, that its altar would no longer receive faithful Christians at its rail, that the building’s doors would finally close—this thought hung heavily.

It is one thing to know that seasons change, but it’s something altogether different to stand in the very moment when one passes into another, to feel it slipping away while at the same time holding what it gave you.

If anything, the whole event was a reminder that everything, even a congregation, has a lifespan.

Like people, organizations are living things. Congregations are, too. They grow and mature, and as they do, they store up countless moments of both joy and sorrow. They have seasons of health and vitality and, sometimes, seasons of struggle. And eventually, as with all things under heaven, they reach their appointed end. To say these things is not to be negative. It’s to be honest.

We do well to remember this, if only for the sake of keeping a proper perspective relative to all things in this life. When we know that nothing here is meant to last forever, we learn to cherish what we have for as long as we have it.

There’s a song by Poor Man’s Poison that my wife, Jennifer, has taken a liking to. It’s called “Ireland Sky.” In it, there are the lines, “When you wake, just take it all in. Be sure to live for right there and right then. ’Cause we only have today, but tomorrow we may die. So let’s shout out loud to the starry sky.”

At first thought, you might think the song is hedonistic—or maybe epicurean in nature. But it isn’t. It’s born from an Irish blessing. It’s meant to wish you well along life’s way, trusting that as you go, the winds will always be at your back, even as you keep in mind life’s brevity. It’s meant to keep you from taking lightly what God has entrusted to us in the present. In other words, don’t hurry past today. It may seem ordinary, and yet, as the closing service last Sunday brought into crisp focus in a very unique way, even the ordinary things are gifts that will one day be remembered as extraordinary.

Of course, all of this is easier said than done. And admittedly, I’m the worst offender. I go along from day to day at top speed, missing so much more than I likely realize. Still, moments like last Sunday have a way of landing right in front of me, slowing me down, if only for a while. They demand that I stop and take notice. They remind me that the things I so easily label as “routine” are in fact the very things that are likely shaping me most profoundly.

Parents, I can’t even begin to describe the profoundness of this relative to children. What we might be tempted to brush off as routine—Sunday after Sunday of getting the kids ready for worship, only to traipse out the door when you’d much rather go back to bed. And when you get there, a hymn sung a hundred times over, a liturgy you don’t even need the hymn book to follow. What glorious mundaneness! These are the stitches that, over time, hold together the fabric of a life rooted in Christ. These are the things that take deepest root in young hearts. Children may not always grasp the whole meaning in the moment, but they are absorbing more than we realize. They are learning the rhythms of God’s grace, the cadences of His Gospel, the shape of a cruciform life that’s fixed to the only One who remains immovable in this world’s winds.

Don’t fool yourself into thinking your children will pick these things up later when they get older or when life slows down. They won’t. Because they’re just like the rest of us. That means they need to be taught—led to participate alongside us now. The sights, sounds, and smells of it all. Yes, the Word! But I’d say even the sun through the stained glass, the creak of the family pew, a familiar friend’s voice, the smell of the extinguished candles. All of these things become part of the landscape of their souls. Even if they wander far, these things remain. They become landmarks, signposts pointing them home to something better.

This is all just one more reason why it matters so deeply to keep children connected to worship. Doing so is to invite them into the holy patterns of the Church’s life. When they see their parents kneeling, when they hear their grandparents singing, when they sense that they themselves belong to something larger and older and holier than their own small world—they are being catechized, quietly and intensely, in what it means to be the people of God.

I mentioned before that some of the people I saw last Sunday I barely recognized. That’s because they were children when I knew them. But they’re grown now. And their presence was proof that the foundation they received remains. The congregation may have reached its end, but what was established in those little hearts is still alive, still bearing fruit, still part of God’s larger story.

I suppose that is an aspect of the hope to be had in a congregation’s closing. Indeed, the Word of the Lord endures forever. What was preached, sung, prayed, and lived in that place is not lost. Instead, it carries on in the lives of those who were shaped there, most especially, the children.

Parents, with that in mind, don’t hurry past the ordinary mercies of today. Give your children the gift of showing up, of kneeling, of singing, of praying, of being present in the places where God promises to meet us. I can assure you that in these seemingly small things, eternity is breaking in.

Truth is Truth No Matter the Source

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There it is again—that word. Autumn. Or “the fall.”

Isn’t it interesting how the season that leads into the deathliness of winter carries the same title as the moment the barrier between this world and sin was ruptured? I’m not surprised. With Autumn comes an increase in darkness. For me, that’s its most unfortunate part. I’m an early riser. In late spring through to summer, the sun awakens with me—sometimes even a little before me. I’ll be just opening my eyes, and I’ll see its radiance already beginning to sketch out the horizon behind our home. It’s as though if I started walking toward it, I’d eventually go over its edge and tumble into its embrace.

But those days are fleeting. The sun won’t rise today until 6:59 AM. In winter’s depth, it’ll be closer to 8:00 AM.

Can you tell my seasonal affective disorder is taking hold? It happens every year at this time, and I can’t even begin to describe the internal war I wage against it—how I crave sunshine and its warmth, and how I have to equip myself for the 285-day stretch that Michiganders go without it.

To take the edge off the long grayness, I find it’s best to distract myself. That means pouring myself into other things. It means doing so with deliberate focus on Christ. In the quieter, free-thinking moments like this one, it means an even deeper examination of my surroundings through the lens of the Gospel.

For example, since I’ve already mentioned the word “fall,” thereby having wandered into the realm of homonyms—words that are spelled the same but have different meanings—how about the word light? It’s a homonym, too. It describes not only the brilliance that scatters the darkness, but also the opposite of heaviness. How does the Gospel reflect on this?

Easy. Christ offers us rest, ensuring us His burden is light (Matthew 11:28–30). He also says, “I am the light of the world” (John 8:12). In English, the word light bears two different meanings, and yet can combine to reveal the fullness of our Lord. He’s the radiant burden-bearer who dispels all darkness.

For another mental distraction, take the word cross. It is the shape of suffering, and it is also the action of being “crossed”—to oppose, to offend, to stir wrath. Indeed, the cross of Christ offends the world (1 Corinthians 1:18, 23), even as it saves the world (Galatians 6:14). It will forever frustrate me when I hear or read the words of Christians saying how we should focus less on the cross. Fewer sayings are more ignorant when poured from a believer’s lips.

The word grave is a homonym, too. It’s the tomb that holds a body, yes, but it’s also a word we use for something serious that demands our attention. Christ’s tomb demands our attention. While ultimately empty of His body, it was not empty of meaning. It was a serious thing that Christ suffered, died, and was placed in a grave that, in the end, could not hold him. The grave, something usually filled with death, was emptied of death (Luke 24:1–6; 1 Corinthians 15:54–57).

These layered words remind us that God wastes nothing relative to His Gospel, not even language. I appreciate this. And for a guy like me, especially during fall and winter’s depths, words provide the best distractions. As far as I’m concerned, they are open windows letting in the sun, so long as I’m paying attention.

It is here that I find a meaningful connection to someone who is, perhaps surprisingly, a human homonym: Dr. James Lindsay. He is an avowed agnostic, which means he does not share the faith that undergirds my life. Still, he’s a friend, and he’s someone who knows words. More importantly, he knows how words have been twisted, redefined, and repurposed in our age to smuggle in new creeds and new “gospels.”

James knows a lot about a lot. In particular, he’s a skilled troublemaker among secularists. For one, he uses his expertise in Marxism and, most especially, Gnosticism, to show elitists their inherent foolishness. He bears a thoroughness in this regard that very few can rival. Best of all, he understands Gnosticism’s modern offspring—“woke” ideology—better than most Christians do. He understands how, like the ancient Gnostics, today’s ideologues claim access to a kind of hidden knowledge that ordinary people cannot see until they are “awakened.” He points out how the language of “wokeness” mimics the Gnostic division of the world into the enlightened and the unenlightened, the knowers and the blind.

In Gnosticism, the material world was seen as corrupt and evil, something to be transcended through secret knowledge. In the same way, the woke framework teaches Marxist materialism underpinned by the belief that society is systemically corrupt—shot completely through with oppression, privilege, and hidden power structures—and that only through redistribution and initiation into its special vocabulary can one begin to see the truth. The Gnostics divided people between the “spiritual” and the “carnal.” The woke do the same, dividing people between the “oppressed” and the “oppressors.” Both set up hierarchies of purity and enlightenment that, ironically, only end up deepening divisions between the haves and the have-nots.

And just as the Gnostics denied the goodness of creation and the incarnation of Christ, woke ideology denies the givenness of created reality—especially in matters of the body, sexuality, and identity—recasting even biological facts as oppressive constructs.

Men can be women and women can be men. In fact, both can be neither, both, or something altogether yet undiscovered. It’s a spiritual thing—an identity thing—accessible in a sphere of understanding that only the truly enlightened can enter.

James knows all of this stuff inside and out. This is why his voice is so important. He has traced these parallels with clarity. And while he does not confess Christ, he’s more than an expert witness relative to things Christians need to know. He helps Christians see that the battle we are facing is not new. The names have changed. The vocabulary is updated. But the heart of the heresy—the very same things Saint Paul and Saint John wrote against in the New Testament (Colossians 2:8–9; 1 Timothy 4:3; 1 Corinthians 15; 1 John 4:2–3; 2 John 7; John 1:14)—remains the same.

That said, it’s right about this time every year that the criticisms begin arriving at my door for inviting speakers like James to participate in our annual “The Body of Christ and the Public Square” conference. But my reply is always the same: First, don’t get your panties in a bind. It’s a conference. Second, if I were on trial for murder, my chief concern wouldn’t be whether the expert witnesses testifying on my behalf were Christians. I’d want the best in the field. And regardless of anyone’s pious pomposity, Christians are not experts in everything. And when someone like Dr. James Lindsay has peered into the shadows of false religion, having tracked the corruption of language and belief as intently as he has, ignorant Christians like me should listen. Regardless of his confession, God is clearly using his talents in a very particular way.

I’m guessing He’s using our friendship in a particular way, too.

And so, let the critics rage. They will anyway, no matter the speaker. Personally, I think it’s some sort of weird jealousy. But that’s another eNews message for a different day. In the meantime, let them scoff. My answer will remain the same. The situation before us is too urgent to waste time on pious posturing. The woke gospel is nothing less than old Gnosticism with a fresh coat of paint, and it is devouring our institutions, our families, and even our churches. If a man like James Lindsay can map these lies with surgical clarity—and his map is accurate—then shame on those who throw stones and plug their ears because they dislike the messenger. Even Saint Paul quoted the pagan poets and philosophers when their words were true (Titus 1:12 [from Epimenedes’ Cretica]; and Acts 17:28 [a combination from Aratus’ Phaenomena and either Epimenedes’ Cretica or Cleanthes’ Hymn to Zeus.])

In other words, truth is not less true because it comes from an uncomfortable source, nor does it lose its weight when it is shouted down by a mob with good intentions.

In the end, God has always used unlikely instruments to shame the wise and awaken the complacent. In my humble opinion, we don’t need any more critics hiding behind pews. We need a few more folks on the field, willing to see, to listen, and to do the heavy lifting. The fall is here. The nights are long. But Christ is the Light—and the darkness will not overcome Him.

Now, take your place on the wall. And perhaps, I’ll see you at the conference. Visit here to register: https://bodyofchristandthepublicsquare.org.

It’s No Surprise

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I’m sure you’ve heard about the shooting in Minneapolis by now. I waited to write something until this morning, if only because I wanted more information first. But now I know the dreadful details in full.

A 23-year-old man, Robert Westman—his transgender name, Robin—opened fire during Annunciation Catholic School’s morning mass. Two children are dead. Eighteen more were wounded.

Why did he do it?

Well, he left a thorough manifesto behind. The theme scribbled through its pages: hate. He hated Trump. He hated Christians. It seems he hated anyone unwilling to embrace and perpetuate his dysphoric condition. Strangely, he wrote of hating children. He fantasized about killing them, ultimately writing across his weapon, “This is for the children,” and “Where is your God?”

I heard political commentators asking last night, “What normal person dreams of killing the most vulnerable among us?” I thought to myself, “Well, abortion and transgender rights are fundamental planks in the progressive left’s platform. With that, the hatred of children is not as strange as it might sound.”

I say that because, within these ideological places, a devilish concoction is being brewed.

First, someone like Robert likely grew up learning that life in the womb is disposable, therefore making him more than capable of interpreting children outside the womb with the same diminished value. Then mix in a child’s natural lack of acceptance for things that are obviously ridiculous. In other words, children see things with a kind of uncluttered honesty—able to distinguish a man from a woman without mental gymnastics or political jargon. I can imagine that when Robert went out and around as “Robin,” children stared. Children do that when they see something weird. Understanding this, it’s not that hard to see why Robert, a deranged transgender, would hate and therefore target them. Anyone who can pierce through self-made illusions and preferred confusion with the plain light of truth becomes, by nature, an enemy.

And then, of course, relative to truth, we’d expect him to hate Christians. In these situations, that detail never surprises me.

The question he wrote on his gun’s magazine—“Where is your God?”—isn’t surprising either. That same question echoes through history whenever tragedy strikes. The psalmist wrote, “My tears have been my food day and night, while they say to me continually, ‘Where is your God?’” (Psalm 42:3). Evil has always taunted God’s people, daring us to believe that He is absent, indifferent, or even nonexistent when trouble comes. It is Satan’s go-to sneer. It is his preferred avenue for mockery.

But what Satan tends to forget is that the One inside of us is so much stronger than the one in the world (1 John 4:4). And so, the witness of God’s Word, and therefore, Christ himself, remains something far different than what this godless world would propose.

By the power of the Holy Spirit at work in us for faith, given through the Gospel (Romans 1:16), a Christian knows God is by no means absent. He is in no way blind. The Gospel proclaims (and imputes the capability to believe) that at the cross of Jesus, we see God in the flesh entering into our suffering, bearing the fullest weight of sin and death (Isaiah 53:4–6; 1 Peter 2:24). The question, “Where is your God?” finds its answer there: our God is with us, even in the valley of the shadow of death (Psalm 23:4; Matthew 1:23). He is not far off—He is present, even grieving, and ultimately, redeeming this confused and fallen world (John 11:35; Revelation 21:4).

The hope Christians bear in these moments is not that evil will never strike, but that evil will never own the last word (John 16:33; Romans 8:18). Christ’s resurrection is the exclamation point of Christian hope. Death itself has been defeated (1 Corinthians 15:54–57). And now, through all moments of darkness, Christ—the light of the world—forever shines, and the darkness cannot overcome Him (John 1:5).

For a time, this may be incredibly difficult for the families and friends of Annunciation Catholic School’s community to grasp. It may be difficult for many of us, too. Still, that’s the hope we’re given. It’s also the message we’re charged with bringing. Indeed, Christ is the answer to Westman’s question. Christ is the answer to every question that requires hope. That’s because in Jesus, we behold a God who comes near (John 1:14), who suffers with us (Hebrews 4:15), and who promises to make all things new (Revelation 21:5).

May God bless and keep you in this as you pray for and serve the victims of this tragedy. But don’t stop there. Jesus declared, “Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you” (Matthew 5:44). That command is never easy, but it is essential. It reminds us that no one is beyond the reach of God’s mercy, and that our battle is not against flesh and blood but against the powers of darkness (Ephesians 6:12).

So while you pray for grieving families and a wounded community, also pray for those on the left who are already blaming conservative Christians for Westman’s actions, directing their ire at “conservative intolerance” or whatever. Pray that the light of Christ would break through their foolishness. Pray that God’s mercy might yet turn their visceral hatred into genuine repentance. Pray that the Gospel would consume their confusion and instill faith.

Because only the love of Christ can truly silence the enemy’s mockery and answer once and for all the question, “Where is your God?”

A Steady Voice

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Typically, by the time I’ve arrived at my office on Sunday morning, I already know what I want to write about. When I arrived this morning, I wasn’t sure. I thought I might scribble something about the wedding I preached at yesterday. But it only took a moment for something else to catch my attention, and if you’ll bear with me, you’ll understand why something so simple could be so important.

I’d only been in my office a few minutes when I heard a bird singing somewhere outside my window. Well, singing might not be the best description. It was calling out, and its voice was distinctly rhythmic. It made the same sounds in the same patterns for quite some time. Essentially, it made two longer calls followed by six shorter ones. Three or four seconds would go by before it repeated the pattern exactly.

It started as little more than background noise. Birds sing in the morning. And others were. Who cares? But then, it became more distinct among the other birds’ tunes. And because I know very little about birds, after a minute of focused listening, I went outside to find the one that had my attention.

There, on one of the tree branches not far from my office window, was a cardinal. I tried to get a little closer, but he stopped mid-song and flittered away.

I went back inside and did a quick Google search on cardinals and their reasons for singing. It turns out that cardinals typically sing in the morning, often well before the sun rises. Their chirping serves one of two purposes—either to attract a mate, which usually happens in the spring, or to announce their presence in their territory, sending a clear message to any rivals that they’ve staked an official claim on the space.

Now, as I tap away at my keyboard, I realize that seemingly small melody was far more than part of the landscape’s noise, random and of little interest to me. First, it was deliberately communicative, carrying a message of invitation or warning. As a preacher, that’s familiar to me. Second, even though more than a few birds were singing, the cardinal’s message remained steady and consistent. That’s familiar to me, too. Third, I suppose the cardinal wasn’t necessarily concerned with whether I, or anyone else, was actually listening. Still, it sang because it had a reason to sing, and it kept singing until its message had been delivered to the right audience. Again, something very familiar to me.

In one sense, I suspect all of this suddenly mattered to me because I just told someone on Friday that I sometimes feel like my words are little more than background noise being drowned out by the louder, flashier sounds of everyday life. I imagine many pastors feel that way. The culture shouts. Entertainment blares. So many things clamor for attention. When it comes to what pastors are to be, do, and deliver, temptations to compete with these things increase tenfold.

Maybe we should change worship styles to be more entertaining. Perhaps we should shorten the sermon, or at least deliver it in a way that seems more like a TED talk than preaching. Maybe we should thin out the Gospel a little, too, so that it’s less offensive. I mean, preaching about a God who was crucified isn’t all that attractive. It just doesn’t seem to compete with the world’s message of success. In fact, maybe we should avoid speaking about sin while we’re at it. Preaching repentance can get somewhat uncomfortable. Perhaps we should first focus on attracting the crowd. We should trade theological depth in doctrine and practice for a less demanding piety. Even better, maybe we shouldn’t be so creedal, so strict with our boundaries. The culture will never accept us if our expectations are too rigid—if we require the culture to assimilate into us rather than the other way around. The same goes for consistency. Everyone knows that flexibility and innovation and newness are the ways to keep people interested.

But then there’s the cardinal. He simply is what God has made him to be.

The cardinal doesn’t change his tune depending on who’s listening. He doesn’t speed it up to keep up with the noise around him. He doesn’t change his pattern. He sings of warning and invitation, sin and grace, Law and Gospel. He sings the song he’s meant to sing, over and over again. It’s as if he does it without concern for the results—as if he’d been sitting on a tree branch listening when the Lord said, “He who has ears to hear let him hear” (Matthew 11:15).

In the same way, the truth a pastor speaks—whether in the pulpit, in a counseling session, across the table with someone at lunch, or before this world’s kings—doesn’t have to out-shout the chaos (1 Corinthians 2:1–2). This morning, the cardinal was a reminder that consistency definitely matters more than volume (Galatians 6:9). The call that seems ignored in one moment may be heard by exactly the right ears later.

In the end, my calling as a pastor—and in a sense, yours as a Christian parent, friend, co-worker, or neighbor—is to be clear, steady, and faithful to God’s Word. We may feel small or irrelevant, but our task is not to dominate the air. It’s to fill it with the sounds—His Word—trusting that He will make sure the right ears hear it at the right time. Interestingly, some will receive the words as invitation. Others will hear them as warning. But either way, the message will reach its hearers and cut through the noise (Hebrews 4:12). How could it not? The Gospel is the most potent message there is. That’s because it isn’t just words. It’s the means by which the Holy Spirit works to convert and convince the human heart and instill faith (Romans 1:16, 1 Corinthians 2:4–5, Romans 10:17). Unlike all other messages, its delivery is actual presence, and its truth marks very real territory.

To close, I suppose I’ll simply say that while the world may shift its tune a hundred times over, the Gospel never changes (Galatians 1:8–9, Hebrews 13:8)—and neither should the voices that carry it. Sing it in season and out of season (2 Timothy 4:2), in joy and in hardship (Philippians 4:12–13), in full confidence that the Lord who gave you the song will see to it that, in His time, it will be heard (Isaiah 55:11).

Alignment

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Maybe you heard recently that the Earth’s rotation appears to have sped up a little. Jennifer laughed at me when I told her. But that’s only because I was in the early stages of a migraine when I mentioned it, and I blamed my crackling brain on the whole world suddenly accelerating.

Apparently, scientists have been tracking the phenomenon for years. It seems that some days have been ending a fraction of a millisecond sooner than they used to. Like a gazillion other wonders in the natural world, they still don’t know why it’s happening. Some say it’s because of changes in ocean currents. Others suggest it’s due to variations in atmospheric pressure (which I’m certain is responsible for my migraines). But whatever it is, in the end, it’s not something any of us would actually notice while making breakfast or driving to work. However, in the more precise world of atomic clocks, even these tiny shifts are enough to spark curiosity.

Of course, it’s easy to laugh at these things as whimsical. But it’s obscure bits of information like these that remind me just how fascinating God’s handiwork really is. Our planet is not a static stage beneath our feet. It’s part of a vast choreography, spinning, tilting, and gliding through space in concert with the sun, moon, planets, and stars.

Based on something Jennifer shared with me recently, it seems that every so often, the great dancers of our solar system move into rare, harmonious formations that catch our attention and, perhaps, set before us in unmistakable terms the divine order woven into the chaos. What I mean is that just this past week, on August 10, six of our solar system’s planets gathered along a single line, forming a planetary alignment. To the naked eye, it appeared as if these distant worlds had agreed on a meeting place, shining together in the same stretch of sky like old friends who rarely get to visit together. I looked it up. A planetary alignment is not necessarily unprecedented. They happen from time to time. The next one is February 28, 2026. Seven planets will align on that day.  Still, the rarity lies in their visibility and timing. For me, a guy who is consciously looking at everything through the lens of the Gospel, it’s another reminder that so much around me is keeping a schedule that I didn’t set, and yet it’s one that, even if I wanted to push against it, I’m inevitably bound to follow.

If you’ve ever stood beneath a dark, unpolluted sky and just looked, I’d be willing to bet you were moved in some way. It’s hard not to be. Jennifer and I went out onto our deck and took pictures of the Northern Lights last spring, and then again in June. Admittedly, it was pretty amazing. Especially when you realize what’s causing those multihued streaks. They happen when charged particles from the sun, carried along on solar winds, slam into Earth’s magnetic field and collide with the atmosphere’s protective layers. The collisions become bursts of light in greens, pinks, purples, and reds, painting the sky like an undulating canvas. It’s already breathtaking from our deck in Linden. And yet, Jennifer wants to visit a dark park, which is a reserved area where artificial light is largely restricted, set aside for seeing the night sky free from light pollution. Jen showed me images taken in dark parks. We’re so used to light pollution, we don’t know what we’re missing until we see it. And when we do, it’s breathtaking.

For me, I’m not necessarily moved by the vastness of space. I’m more astounded that the heavens above me are not random. They operate under laws that have held since the beginning, laws that both govern and reveal the Creator’s design. These are the same laws that govern the tides, the seasons, the migrations of birds, and probably so many other things we’ll never even know.

But this carries me further, especially as we get closer to our forthcoming conference on October 4. Along with folks like Trey Gowdy, Dr. James Lindsay, and William Federer, we’ll also hear from Chloe Cole.

Now, before I say anything more about her, it’s worth noting that what I’ve written so far, whether about planets or humans, ultimately comes down to the same foundation: natural law. Just as the heavenly bodies move according to fixed principles, so too does human life. And both flourish when aligned with natural law’s order. Sure, we can ignore that order, setting aside laws we don’t like for this or that ridiculous reason—say, we don’t want to use Kepler’s Law because someone named Kepler once hurt our feelings. But do this while engineering a satellite and you’re destined for failure. Your plans might look neat on paper, but in reality, you’re going to end up designing something that’ll likely get destroyed before leaving the Earth’s atmosphere. And if it does make it into space, it’ll immediately become nothing more than a piece of space junk hurling toward who knows what.

In other words, your opinions do not affect reality. Reality is constant, steady, and unshaken by what it carries in its calculations.

As a young teenager, Chloe began questioning her gender identity, and instead of being guided with care and patience, she was rushed into “gender-affirming care.” This included puberty blockers, cross-sex hormones, and ultimately a double mastectomy—all while she was still a developing child. At the time, she was assured these interventions would solve her struggles and bring her peace. Instead, they left her with deep regret, permanent physical changes, and a realization that she had been led down a path built on ideology rather than truth.

Now, still only twenty years old, Chloe has become one of the most outspoken voices in the nation, warning about the dangers of pushing minors into irreversible medical procedures. She speaks with a rare combination of clarity, courage, and compassion—sharing not only her own painful experience, but also urging others to protect children from similar harm. Her testimony is more than a cautionary tale. It’s a living and breathing example of what happens when a society rejects the natural order God has established.

It’s also a demonstration of the hope inherent in returning to it.

For those who will hear her in person, I think that the impact will go far beyond what anyone might normally experience from headlines or soundbites. Chloe’s presence among us—her vulnerability, and also her ability to speak truth without bitterness, even as she continues to be relentlessly attacked for her detransition—it gives her story a weight that must be experienced in person. Essentially, she embodies everything I just described. She’s living proof that when we live in step with God’s design, not in defiance of it, there is hope for restoration, even after deep hurt—even after it seems like we’ve already hurled our satellite into deep space. Her journey reminds us that truth isn’t an abstract principle. In fact, in her case, it not only governs her existence, but God also put it in place as a lifeline. She reached out to grab what was real and found her way back to a better life.

Now she wants that for others who are suffering from the same dysphoria. By God’s grace, she has discovered a world she didn’t know existed, and yet, was already there. In that world—the real world of faith—she was pulled into Christ’s gravitational embrace. And within that embrace, she discovered a courage to reach out and pull others in, too.

In the end, whether we’re talking about the Earth’s rotation, the precise timing of planetary orbits, or the moral order woven into human existence, the truth remains the same. Reality is fixed because its Author is unchanging (Hebrews 13:8). The heavens declare this with every sunrise and celestial alignment (Psalm 19:1). And lives like Chloe’s affirm the otherworldly blessings and strength God grants to those who, by the power of the Holy Spirit given by the Gospel, turn to Him in repentance and faith, choosing to walk in His ways rather than their own (Isaiah 40:31, Proverbs 3:5–6). It’s this loving God, the One who keeps the planets in motion and the seasons in balance (Genesis 8:22, Job 38:33), who is also holding our lives in His hands (Isaiah 41:10), desiring us to live in harmony with His design (Micah 6:8). And when we do, whether in the wonder of a night sky or the courageous witness of a life recalibrated, we find ourselves anchored in His truth and, ultimately, aligned with His eternal purpose: the salvation of our soul (2 Corinthians 4:18, John 3:16-17, John 6:40).

If you have yet to register for the conference, you can do so by visiting: https://www.bodyofchristandthepublicsquare.org. Do so soon. Space is limited.