Tag Archives: thoma

The Symphony of Family

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Every family is a symphony. Every member is a skilled musician with a unique instrument in hand. Every moment is a song, and every word is a note carrying its melody. Early last week, the Thoma family’s ensemble just grew by one performer. Preston Michael took his seat among us, and as you might imagine, for this grandpa, his promise is most rapturous.

I got to meet him the day after he was born. His dad—my son, Joshua—introduced us. I didn’t get to greet Preston properly, though. He’s currently in the NICU, and he’ll likely be there for a few more days. Nevertheless, at the time, his wriggling fingers, crinkly nose, and peeking glances were silent greetings that sang straight into my heart—a kind of resonance that only children and the angels who guard them can produce (Matthew 18:10). I finally got to hold him yesterday, and what a joy it was.

I can promise you that I intend to be the kind of grampa whose hug is felt long after I’ve let go.

With Preston’s birth came an in-rushing of familiar sensations. The day after he was born, Joshua and I talked about it while Jennifer and Lexi went down the hall for a turn with him. We spoke as only fathers can. I wondered aloud something like, “When you were born, I remember experiencing a particular sensation. It was a sudden awareness—almost a presence—something I felt like I could reach out and touch if I wanted to.” I told Joshua that when I first saw him, I knew everything in my life would be different, that nothing would ever be the same again, and that whatever happened from here on out, I was all in for him. I loved him. He was family.

Joshua confirmed the sensation. I’m not surprised. I imagine that, for most parents, the moment their child arrives—finally intersecting with the world in a touchable way—it is an event like none other. In a sense, even though the Earth still revolves around the sun, there’s a shift in gravity’s center. The child becomes the middle, a luminescent joy around which all other planets must spin. Indeed, as it was when I first became a father, it was the same for Joshua. Everything was different now, and no matter what the future held, trusting Christ, Josh knew it was going to be incredible.

We both admitted it wouldn’t be easy. In that moment, roles reverted. I was the dad again, and he was the son, with both of us recalling the challenges as we knew them. We acknowledged times when Josh made life more complicated and times when I wasn’t the best parent I could’ve been. Still, we returned to where we started.  There we were, acknowledging that the lack of ease doesn’t negate the joy of parenting. If anything, it serves to remind us even more of family’s wonderfulness.

I’ve always believed that while God has fashioned some indescribably splendid things, of them all, family is one of His best. He brings two very different people together, a man and a woman, and from their union, life! However, not just human life (which, of course, is the wonder above all others), but instead the actual experience of living—the lived reality of vocation and recreation and relationships and all the things that a human experiences. The thing about family, however, is that while we’re out and about in the world living, even as that same world will so often be vicious and unforgiving, there will always be a group of people—a place—where living assumes love and where the cardinal rule of governance is forgiveness. In other words, God has designed the human family to be reminiscent of Himself. When everything around you is coming undone, or when you’ve been as unlovable as you can be, there will be someone willing to take you in, forgive you, and continue to love you.

The writer George Bernard Shaw, while he was a philosophical and spiritual mess, managed to get something right when he wrote that “family is but an earlier heaven.” In a way, Christians know at least two deeper truths in this.

First, we know that marriage, the institution that establishes families, is a glorious image of the Gospel itself. Saint Paul described marriage as a mysterious representation of something much grander: the relationship between Christ and His bride, the Church (Ephesians 2:32). Go anywhere else in Paul’s writings, and you’ll see this relationship is what it is because of the forgiveness won and exacted by the Groom, Jesus.

Second, we know family can at least be an atom-sized glimpse of heaven because, as I mentioned before, love and forgiveness are a family’s glorious essentialities. This is to say, the Gospel of Christ’s life, death, and resurrection show us a family established by grace born from devoted love. Born into this by baptism into faith, heaven becomes our rightful home. As believers, we’re those whose robes have been washed and made white in the blood of the Lamb (Revelation 7:14). By this, we belong, not because of anything we’ve done, but because of what God has done for and to us.

In short, God adopted us as His children (Galatians 3:26, Romans 8:14-15). He made us family. And now, no matter where His believers are from or what scars their pasts inflicted, God always takes in His family.

I don’t know what Preston’s future holds. But I do know he’s been born into a family that loves him, one that knows its frailties, and because of those insufficiencies, things won’t always be easy. And yet, God stands at the podium. With baton in hand, He’s conducting with grace-filled movements, coaxing from His white-robed orchestra such lovely sounds. It’s a divine composition of His care, ringing out melodies that sound like “I love you,” and “I’m sorry,” and “I forgive you,” and “It’s good to see you,” and “I’m glad you’re home,” and so many more. Preston now has a seat on this stage, and like everybody else in the orchestra and audience, I can’t wait to hear him play.

Things Are Not Always As They Seem

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Grab your coffee. I have a lot to say.

I’m guessing you’ve heard the saying, “Things are not always as they seem.” Truer statements have been made throughout history. Still, this is one worth remembering, especially now that artificial intelligence (AI) has become so prominent.

Relative to images of people, to gauge their authenticity, I’ve learned to look at the hands. It seems AI has difficulty creating human hands. There was an image of Trump going around not that long ago that seemed quite real. He was on his knees in prayer in a dimly lit church. It was defended as authentic and promoted with the byline, “This is what we want in a president.” Agreed, a praying president would be nice. The only problem is that the man in the picture had twelve fingers. I’ve shaken hands with President Trump. If he had such alien-like hands, I’m sure I would’ve noticed. Although a twelve-fingered, non-woke, pro-life extraterrestrial that affirms two genders, believes in secure borders, promotes religious liberty, and understands Critical Race Theory and Socialism as the devilish ideas they are, well, I might actually vote for such a creature.

I read an article several months ago about how 20 million of the 200 million writing assignments submitted in schools last year were as much as 80% AI-generated. That’s not good, especially since many of the assignments were university and research-level work. With this as education’s trajectory, could it be that, as a society, we’re not progressing but regressing? I wonder how many of those assignments were submitted in Michigan. U.S. News & World Report shared that Michigan is currently number 41 in education in the United States. Florida is number 1. Go figure.

Within the last year, I’ve seen occasional Facebook advertisements for sermon-generating software from a company called SermonAI. I’ve started reporting it to the Facebook overlords as sexually offensive. Why? Because there isn’t a “perverse” option, and when it comes to perverted behavior, a pastor preaching a sermon written by a machine seems pretty weird. Even if the resulting sermon’s content is good, it certainly stirs concerns relative to a pastor’s call. I mean, Jesus didn’t call ChatGPT to stand in His stead and by His command. He called a human man. He called a pastor.

A few weeks back, Elon Musk shared an AI-generated video of Kamala Harris. I half-laughed and half-cried through the whole thing. With a near-perfectly generated voice, the machine said things most already knew to be true. It confessed to knowing about Biden’s cognitive decline for many years, admitting the debate in June as proof the charade was over. It admitted to being a woke DEI candidate, which, technically, Harris already admitted during a sit-down conference conversation in 2017, saying, “We have to stay woke. Like, everybody needs to be woke. And you can talk about if you’re the wokest or woker, but just stay more woke than less woke.”

For clarification, woke means things like accepting that men can get pregnant, that the only way to conquer racism is with more racism, and that it’s reasonable to put people in jail for thought crimes. If you don’t know what thought crimes are, you should look up the term, especially if you have plans to travel to England.

The AI software even mimicked Harris’ word salad tendencies, which are the rambling go-nowhere speech patterns she often falls into during unscripted Q and A sessions. I looked up “word salad” to see if it had any clinical references. It does. It’s sometimes referred to as jargon aphasia, and across multiple sources, it appears to happen for one of three reasons. First, it’s an actual disorder, and the person speaking cannot communicate sensibly. Second, it can result from anxiety medication usage. Third, it’s a narcissistic defense mechanism. People in positions of authority who don’t know what they’re talking about will do it to make their listeners think they do. There’s no question Harris is a top chef when it comes to word salads. I’ll leave it to you to decide which of the three reasons fits.

While you’re deciding, one of my favorite Harris word salads involved an attempt at off-script intellectualism during a speech at Howard University. After some toothy cackling, Harris turned solemn, attempting intellectual eloquence, “So, I think it’s very important, as you have heard from so many incredible leaders, for us at every moment in time, and certainly this one, to see the moment in time in which we exist and are present, and to be able to contextualize it, to understand where we exist in the history and in the moment as it relates not only to the past but the future.”

What? That demonstrated genuine cognitive depth akin to a twelve-fingered Trump.

I could go on, showing how this message’s first premise haunts us. Indeed, things are not always as they seem. Knowing this, discernment is necessary. However, to get there, study is required. For example, did Trump really say that there’d be a bloodbath if he didn’t win the forthcoming election in November? Yes, he did. But what did he mean by it? Was he talking about a violent uprising, as the Democrats and media keep insisting, or was he referring specifically to the economy and the effects of certain trade agreements relative to American auto manufacturers? For the proper context, skip the baiting headlines and find the actual speech. You’ll have everything you need to decide.

How about the plot to kidnap Michigan’s Governor Whitmer? Was it really the brainchild of right-wing extremists? Look into it. Having graduated from the FBI Citizen’s Academy in June and experienced first-hand the Bureau’s prejudice against conservatives, I found it interesting that many in the extremist group were actually FBI informants or agents. The others were mostly exonerated. Those who weren’t—the handful who pled guilty—also pled entrapment, insisting they never would have come up with the idea, let alone acted on it, had it not been for the government’s influence. In other words, they were set up. Considering the timeline and its significance, the notably stalwart-against-right-wing extremism, Gretchen Whitmer, was handily re-elected, and both legislative chambers flipped from Republican to Democrat. A massive shift like that hasn’t happened in Michigan since 1983. It seems awfully Reichstag-like. What do I mean by that? Search “Reichstag Fire.” Even the first few paragraphs of the Wikipedia article will tell you everything you need to know.

How about the inconceivable idea that Planned Parenthood, as a commercial gimmick, might provide free abortions during the Democratic National Convention in Chicago next week? “That’s blatantly untrue,” were one friend’s stern online words. “That’s spreading misinformation!” Except, it isn’t. A Planned Parenthood branch—Green Rivers in Saint Louis—announced they’re taking their mobile clinic to Chicago, where they’ll park during the convention. “Here we come, Chicago!” they tweeted joyfully. “Our mobile health clinic will be in the West Loop… Aug 19-20, providing FREE vasectomies & medication abortion. EC [emergency contraception] will also be available for free without an appointment.” The post included a link for online reservations.

How about an easier one—a question that requires no investigation but instead begins with mere sensibility?

Should I trust the science? Should I get this vaccine and take that pill and wear this mask and have that procedure performed simply because the doctors and scientists—the experts—said I should? I wouldn’t even buy shoes without doing some research. I certainly wouldn’t do it simply because the shoe salesman—the product expert—said so.

In all things, investigate, discern, and then act. For Christians, the ultimate motivation for this is faithfulness to and alignment with God’s will. That’s the Bible’s uncomplicated direction. And why? Well, for one, only God truly has our best interest at heart. Therefore, we ought not to prefer above God those who can kill the body but cannot kill the soul (Matthew 10:28). We ought not to live in alignment with the world in ways that contradict His Word and trade away our eternal future (Mark 8:34-38). We must be “wise as to what is good and innocent as to what is evil” (Romans 16:19). Indeed, in all things, “we must obey God rather than men” (Acts 5:29).

Knowing this, we dig deeper. Inspired by the Holy Spirit, King Solomon urged, “The heart of him who has understanding seeks knowledge, but the mouths of fools feed on folly” (Proverbs 15:14). Fools post images of 12-fingered Trumps, vehemently arguing the image is real. Hosea insisted, “Whoever is wise, let him understand these things; whoever is discerning, let him know them; for the ways of the Lord are right, and the upright walk in them, but transgressors stumble in them” (Hosea 14:9). Saint John warned that Christians ought to test each spirit before believing it (1 John 4:1). Still, people blanketly believe that as an ELCA Lutheran, Tim Walz is a genuine Lutheran Christian. ELCA Lutheranism is more cult than Christian. It is in no way Lutheran. Genuine Lutheranism does not deny God’s Word is inspired, inerrant, and immutable. Genuine Lutheranism does not support nor promote abortion, transgenderism, social causes that fundamentally reject the Gospel while allowing cities to burn, and all the other leftist ideologies Walz and his beloved ELCA endorse.

The writer to the Hebrews described mature Christianity as the kind with “powers of discernment trained by constant practice to distinguish good from evil” (Hebrews 5:14). Saint Paul reminded the Church in Philippi to pursue the kind of love for God and one another that abounds in “knowledge and all discernment, so that you may approve what is excellent, and so be pure and blameless for the day of Christ” (Philippians 1:9-10). He said the same thing with fewer words in 1 Thessalonians 5:21, writing, “But test everything; hold fast what is good.”

I’ve already gone on long enough, and I think you get the point. So, how about I close with this?

Things are not always as they seem. Therefore, investigate. Become familiar with the characters’ names and the mechanisms’ histories. Read a transcript on occasion. Watch a congressional hearing. Read a little about the actual differences between LCMS and ELCA Lutheranism. Consider the various details you just can’t get in a two-paragraph article or a 30-second news clip. Finally, make sure you’ve answered your own nagging questions about whatever it is you’re investigating. Those questions may actually be unspoken warnings to keep digging.

When you’re finally ready, act. Put your knowledge to work. I’ve heard it said that knowledge must be put where people will trip over it. The Bible speaks similarly, noting that those who have the Word of God and the knowledge it gives will practice it. Those who do not ultimately deceive themselves in ways that could result in their unfortunate judgment (James 1:22, 2 Peter 2:21-22, Hebrews 10:26-30).

Investigate, discern, and then put your knowledge to work. Start tripping people with knowledge. And not only the identifiable (and beneficial) boundaries of right and wrong, truth and untruth, but also the better facts of sin and grace—namely, the life, death, and resurrection of Christ for the world’s rescue. As a Christian who knows stuff, you may only be working part-time if that’s missing from your efforts.

Fake Palm Trees

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If you’ve ever been to my office, then you know I have a palm tree. Jennifer bought it for me as a Christmas gift last year. It’s fake, of course, mainly because I’m no horticulturist. Even a cactus will see me coming and take its own life. Nevertheless, real or fake, the tree rises from my office’s corner, a few of its frons reaching toward and over my desk. I like it. It looks real enough for its purpose, which is to help with the winter doldrums.

I wrote a few years ago in an AngelsPortion.com post about wanting to grow a live palm tree here in Michigan. If you’re interested, you can read about it here. I researched the different kinds, eventually learning there is one capable of withstanding occasionally colder climates. Unfortunately, in this case, natural law reestablished itself. For starters, a palm tree that can withstand occasionally colder climates is not the same as one that can withstand cold climates. Occasionally colder and regularly cold are two very different things. The former assumes more warmth than chill. The latter understands the opposite. Michigan is not just occasionally colder than places like Florida. It’s cold, and it can be so for long periods—as many as eight months. I think the way I described it in the post was that snow does not exist in Michigan; instead, Michigan exists in snow.

I grew up in central Illinois. It gets cold there. It has snow, too. I read C.S. Lewis’ The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe as a kid, and I’ve since reread it to my children as an adult in Michigan. There is the following moment in the volume between Mr. Tumnus and Lucy, which reads:

“It is winter in Narnia,” said Mr. Tumnus, “and has been for ever so long….”

As a kid, I don’t remember reading that line and thinking, “Ugh, just like Illinois.” Maybe that’s because I thought a lot differently about winter as a child. I can assure you I absolutely do remember reading the story to my son, Joshua, and thinking, “Narnia must be located somewhere here in Michigan.”

I won’t drone on about this anymore. You already know my love affair with summer. Relative to real and fake palm trees, however, there is at least something to be mined from my complaint. Maybe think of it this relatively simple way.

A human with XY chromosomes, even as he may suffer characteristics or physical abnormalities that make him appear feminine, is a male, and as is usually the case, his baseline capabilities native to his chromosomal standard, if left to develop, will prove predominant. In the same way, a human with XX chromosomes, while she may suffer from abnormal masculine attributes, is a female, and her developmental trajectory will inevitably prove it.

Lin Yu-ting and Imane Khelif, two individuals with XY chromosomes who unsurprisingly dominated the female Olympic boxing scene and ultimately fought one another for the gold, are artificial palm trees in Michigan. To this very day, even after suffering the typical progressive rhetoric, the International Boxing Association (IBA) insists they are men, having disqualified them from participating in IBA-sanctioned bouts. Yu-ting and Khelif were tested chromosomally, and the results were unquestionable. They are men. Both were given the opportunity to appeal the results. Yu-ting did not. Khelif did at first but then withdrew the appeal.

Why? Because a second test, like the first, would have doubly certified both are artificial palm trees—fake women—and they do not belong in women’s sports.

“Then why were they allowed to compete in the Olympics?”

First, you’re asking why the same organization that gave us an opening ceremony awash in transgenders with uncovered genitalia parodying Da Vinci’s “The Last Supper” would allow men pretending to be women to compete in female sports. That alone should answer your question. The International Olympic Committee (IOC) was infected by the woke mind virus years ago, and gender has long since lost its meaning among its members. Second, while the IBA determines gender through testing, the IOC’s only gender determination comes from what’s printed on an athlete’s passport.

“But it’s not that simple, Pastor Thoma. These athletes are human beings suffering from a rare condition.”

And yet, strangely, these poor, marginalized human beings suffering from a rare condition handily destroyed every female boxer from every other country, eventually competing for gold in their individual weight divisions. What an underdog story this is. Or isn’t.

With respect, I’m not buying that argument. I’m convinced the “rare condition” discussion was popularized and used as a pity-generating excuse to make more room for gender confusion, especially since it didn’t emerge until much later in the controversy—and it was never fully substantiated. In addition, the IBA and its doctors—collectively, the recognized worldwide boxing authority—outright rejected the premise relative to women’s sports. Instead, they insisted XY boxers would always put XX boxers in danger. That’s no small thing.

Still, as blurry or unsubstantiated as the excuse may be, let’s say these men actually do have an abnormal condition. My response would not change, except maybe to say their condition saddens me. Such is sin’s dreadful fingerprint upon human flesh. Nevertheless, a person with no arms, for as unfortunate as his condition might be, cannot participate in an arm-wrestling competition. That is his lot. I have a terrible back. There are things I cannot do that others can. This is a thorn for me. I plead daily for relief. And yet, Saint Paul teaches: “I was given a thorn in my flesh, a messenger of Satan, to torment me. Three times I pleaded with the Lord to take it away from me. But he said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness’” (2 Corinthians 12:7-9). Paul carried on in his lot, unable to be or do anything other than what he was.

If Lin Yu-ting’s and Imane Khelif’s conditions prevent them from competing, then so be it. It’s tragic, but it’s a tragedy that exists within reality, and we all bear thorns that prevent us from one thing or another in that sphere.

And so, yes, it really is that simple. Behold the XY’s innate advantage over its XX counterpart. Blow after blow, it asserts its natural physical dominance over its female opponents, and it does so to the women’s danger. To micromanage and ultimately convolute the issue through supposed transgender or intersex equality excuse-making only demonstrates a cultural infection that threatens to uproot far more than women’s sports. It threatens humanity’s future.

A real palm tree will not grow in a Michigander’s front yard. If you see one, it’s fake. It does not belong.

Vacation’s End

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Last week, more than one person asked me about my vacation. Some wondered aloud if it had been sufficiently refreshing, asking if I felt rejuvenated. In most instances, I gave the same answer. It was usually something like, “Vacation is always nice, of course, but the first week back in the office is like drinking from a firehose.” That is a less descriptive but congenial way of saying two things I’m really thinking.

The first of my two thoughts, if fully extrapolated, would probably sound like, “To understand what I mean by firehose, imagine you’re getting a cool drink from a water fountain when, suddenly, the water pressure explodes into your mouth with such force that it knocks you to the floor. Imagine further, after managing to get back to your feet, you lean into the Niagara-like stream, intent on reaching the valve to lessen the pressure, but you can only slip and slide backward, unable to make any progress.”

That’s what the first week back from vacation is like. Last week, I described the allure of “home.” It seems almost bi-polar to admit there’s a dread that palls the return, too. It rides in on the realization that summer’s pace is still only a fraction of the forthcoming autumn’s pace. In other words, it’s tough now, and in a few weeks, it’s only going to get worse.

My second thought is a newly realized but somewhat altered version of something I heard Jennifer say. The night we returned, I overheard from the closet Jennifer comforting Madeline in her post-vacation blues, saying, “I’ve never heard anyone say with glee after vacation, ‘Well, I feel fully rejuvenated and ready to get back to work.’” I realized she was right. I’ve never heard anyone say that, either. If I did, I don’t think I believed them. When I return from vacation, while I may feel partially rested, I do discover wondering thoughts like, ‘Why can’t life remain at this pace all the time?”

I’ve confessed here before to self-diagnosing Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD), which is a depression that sets in during certain seasons of the year. Autumn and winter are very hard on me. Shorter days mean leaving home and returning home in the darkness, with barely a hello from the sun along the way. I don’t enjoy those seasons. I endure them. If there’s something called Vacation Affective Disorder (VAD), I probably have it, too. In fact, the day before returning home from vacation is so powerfully threatening for me that I’ve noticed I don’t feel much like eating. I have to make myself do it. It’s a bizarre sensation. It’s also very real.

Relative to these burdens, I do have two things going for me. First, I don’t like to lose. This means that once I conceptualize SAD and VAD as the imposing specters they are, I begin laboring toward their defeat. It’s then I stop wondering if I can make it through and start thinking about how I’ll make it through and what it’ll be like on the other side. Second, I’m not a quitter. Whatever I start, I finish. I’ve always been that way, especially when facing adversity. In a strictly human sense, it’s probably one of the only reasons I’m still a pastor. The harder Satan (and certain people) push to drive me out, the more I find myself leaning into the attempts with a concrete-like unwillingness to budge. Of course, as I do this, I remain in constant prayer that the instinct is not pride-driven. It certainly has that potential. Looking backward with humble honesty, I can see times when I stood my ground for foolish reasons. Conversely, I can also see plenty of times when God weaponized these personality traits, ultimately using them for His glory and the good of His people.

I’m not a subscriber to the weird world of psychophysiology (sometimes called biopsychology), which is the field of study devoted to the interconnectedness of the mind and body. I don’t dig all that deeply into it because its two-fold perspective excludes the spiritual dimension. Still, I had a conversation this past week with someone I care about, and it got me thinking about the basic premise. Truly, there’s something to be said in a cursory sense about the mind/body connection. For example, I mentioned during the conversation General George Patton’s insistence that “to win any battle, you have to do one thing. You have to make the mind run the body. Never let the body tell the mind what to do.” His wartime record proved his words true. But regardless, the Bible speaks on occasion about the connection. Saint Paul writes in Colossians 3:2, “Set your minds on things that are above, not on things that are on earth.” In Romans 12:2, he writes, “Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewal of your mind, that by testing you may discern what is the will of God, what is good and acceptable and perfect.”

In both texts, Paul pits the mind against what’s physical. It isn’t a Gnostic thing he’s doing. Instead, he’s simply acknowledging the importance of what Christians know by faith to be the better rudder for navigating what we experience with our physical senses. Digging deeper, that’s more or less epicentral to his words in 2 Corinthians 4:7-9, where he writes:

“But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us. We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed.”

In other words, even as we see and experience the world churning around and against us, there’s something else we know: we are not inheritors of this world but of the world to come. And so, Paul continues:

“We know that the one who raised the Lord Jesus from the dead will also raise us with Jesus…. Therefore, we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So, we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal” (vv. 14, 16-18).

I mentioned before that psychophysiology does not calculate for the spirit. It certainly doesn’t account for the work of the Holy Spirit. The Bible doesn’t make that mistake. It makes sure we understand each facet of body, mind, and spirit relative to the Holy Spirit’s work to instill faith. Chapter 8 in Paul’s Epistle to the Romans is a great place to see this. It’s there Paul refers to believers as those “who walk not according to the flesh but according to the Spirit” (v. 4). In other words, the Holy Spirit empowers Christians to yield their fleshly bodies to God in faith. Paul describes the Christian mind in the same way, reminding the reader that “those who live according to the flesh set their minds on the things of the flesh, but those who live according to the Spirit set their minds on the things of the Spirit” (v. 5). Following some elaboration, he eventually brings the body and mind together with the spirit—all beneath the banner of the Holy Spirit’s work. He writes:

“You, however, are not in the flesh but in the Spirit if, in fact, the Spirit of God dwells in you. Anyone who does not have the Spirit of Christ does not belong to him. But if Christ is in you, although the body is dead because of sin, the Spirit is life because of righteousness. If the Spirit of him who raised Jesus from the dead dwells in you, he who raised Christ Jesus from the dead will also give life to your mortal bodies through his Spirit who dwells in you” (vv. 9-11).

The first few weeks after returning from vacation are hard on me. They’re an existential wrestling match between body and mind, presence and purpose. I’m guessing it’s the same for many of you. But there’s something else happening there, too. The Holy Spirit is at work. By His might, I can shift my perspective away from these things toward the Gospel of Christ’s life, death, and resurrection. It’s by this Gospel I am thoroughly sustained. This isn’t to say that the challenges suddenly disappear or that the frustration is magically lifted. But I do discover I have the bodily strength to endure and the mental clarity to sort through and eventually understand beyond the immediate discomforts.

So, even as the first week back may feel like drinking from a firehose, and life’s pace may continue to increase, I am reminded that my truest rejuvenation doesn’t come from a vacation. Only by the Holy Spirit at work through the Gospel am I renewed and sustained, not only for whatever this life might send my way but for the life to come. Such knowledge makes even the busiest seasons bearable and ultimately purposeful.

One more thing. While I may take vacations, God doesn’t. He’s ever-vigilant and always working, ready to give what we need the most. As a result, His life-sustaining Gospel remains here at Our Savior in Hartland, Michigan, season after season.

Your Home is Worth Fighting For

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Vacations are nice, but home is better. I’ve heard it said that anyone can make anywhere a home—that our roots are portable. That may be true for some. For the rest of us, there’s another, more deeply rooted instinct. No matter where we are or where we’re going, at some point in any adventure, it’s likely we experience home’s gravitational pull. We find ourselves amazed by the exotic only to be equally astounded by the powerful need for what’s familiar. One of my favorites, Charles Dickens, wrote in his second volume of Martin Chuzzlewit that home is a word “stronger than any magician ever spoke, or spirit ever answered to in the strongest conjuration.” Maya Angelou described the desire for home as an ache that lives in all of us. For most, the ache means that no matter where we are or who we are with, the one place where we’re loved the most—where our absence is noticed the most—is home. As such, home always wins.

Today is my first day back from vacation. I needed the time away. I needed a burdenless pace for two uninterrupted weeks. It’s likely you know what I mean. It’s also possible you’ve experienced the jarring contrast of a vacation’s end. One minute, you were countless miles away, floating neck-deep in a swimming pool, and the next, you were neck-deep in man-made complications—two completely different pools of existence with very different demands.

Still, and once again, the ache proves stronger than the vexing differences. I’m home, and I’m glad for it. Measured against the “everyday” of life’s good and bad, it’s the place from which I set out each morning and the place to which I return each night. I go into the world to tackle or be tackled, and I return to my home knowing it’s where I most belong.

Interestingly, when I arrived at my “other” home (my office) this morning, things were a little different. It wasn’t anything significant. A few things were moved or added to my desk, a couple of books had been borrowed (thankfully, appropriate notes were left behind to track the borrowers), and my message box in the main office was no longer empty but full. Because these changes were slight, the overall vibe of “home” was intact. Imagine if I’d returned and my desk was gone, or cement blocks existed where my windows used to be. The ache would likely be lessened; maybe even gone altogether.

Before leaving for vacation, Pastor Pies, our emeritus pastor and my predecessor, stopped by with a copy of his doctoral thesis. I’d asked if he might allow me a copy to take along on the plane. He graciously obliged. The title of his thesis (which he tested among God’s people here at Our Savior in Hartland, Michigan, back in 1991) is “Christian Preaching as Dialogue in an Evangelical Lutheran Church.” Fancying myself more interested in the science of sermon preparation than most, I was glad to read it. For example, I appreciated that after making the case for preaching as God’s work through faithful ambassadors (2 Corinthians 5:20), Pastor Pies insisted, “Neither the power of God’s Word nor the operation of the Holy Spirit should be punctuated so as to excuse or justify inept preaching.” He went on to say that while God’s Word is efficacious, preachers have a “responsibility to preach it in a relevant way, sharing its timeless message in a timely manner…. This necessitates, in addition to prayer and the guidance of the Spirit, hard work under the blessing of God.”

I appreciated those words. They’re quite valuable. Still, something less conspicuous near the thesis’ beginning stood out for me, too. While explaining the setting for his study, Pastor Pies described Hartland, Michigan as a like-minded community attempting “to preserve everything they believe worth preserving while incorporating that which they consider to be valuable and useful.” He went on to describe the useful and valuable things as traditional social values, home and family, neighborhood unity, and community cooperation.

I had a thought. If, after writing this in 1991, had Pastor Pies been suddenly abducted by aliens, only to be returned to Hartland in July of 2024, would the ache he likely felt for home all those thirty-three years had been soothed? I ask this because a man who thinks he’s a female cat is currently running for a seat on the Livingston County Board of Commissioners. I ask because I’ve been in the company of elected officials openly commending the idea of biological boys being allowed to compete in female sports and use female bathrooms. I ask because local cohabitation rates are very nearly eclipsing traditional marriage. I ask for other reasons beyond even these.

In short: so much for Hartland as a place of traditional social values. So much for Hartland as a place for home and family. By the way, how’s it going in your corner of the nation—the world? Did you happen to see the opening ceremony for the 2024 Olympics in Paris this past Friday? Leonardo da Vinci’s portrait of the Last Supper was parodied grotesquely. Drag queens and all, it was a deliberate mocking of Christianity. Some are now trying to say it wasn’t, but most honest observers aren’t buying the new back-peddling. The similarities were far too obvious, and it’s nothing less than gaslighting to say we didn’t see what we saw.

I remember watching the Olympics as a kid. The opening ceremony was always a heart-lifting demonstration of world unity through competitive excellence. Not so much anymore. And, of course, Christianity is forever the easiest target. The Parisian magazine Charlie Hebdo printed a cartoon image of Muhammed a few years ago. The magazine’s office was firebombed, and nineteen people were attacked and killed.

As I prefer to remind folks on occasion, today’s world is a distant and alien land compared to what it once was. That said, there’s something else that can be said about your home.

It’s worth fighting for.

I’ve heard it said that fighting to preserve one’s home is not a choice but a duty. I agree. And while I’m no fan of Friedrich Nietzsche, he once wrote, “He who has a why to live can bear almost any how.” Again, I agree. Considering one’s home, the genuine ache we experience for it is, for many of us, the only “why” we need to push back against and endure almost anything that would threaten it.

Threats against one’s home abound. In America, one of the most important ways to protect your home is by voting. It’s not an end-all action by any means, but it is a significant one. Here in Michigan, several key voting dates are approaching. For example, Friday, August 2, is the deadline to request an absentee ballot for the upcoming Primary Election on Tuesday, August 6. Sunday, August 4, is the last day for early voting in the Primary Election. Concerning the 2024 General Election on Tuesday, November 5, early voting begins on October 6. October 21 is the deadline for registering to vote in the election in any form. November 1 is the deadline for requesting an absentee ballot.

Let these dates meet with your aching for home. Let each be an opportunity to remember its value. In faithfulness to the One who gave it (Hebrews 3:4), act to protect and preserve it. Choose candidates who will lead in ways that uphold God’s moral and natural law so that, if you’re ever absconded for thirty-three years, when you return home, it will still be home, not only for you but for generations to come.

Real Family

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I tell myself every year I’m not going to write and send an eNews message while on vacation. Every year, I fail to keep this pledge. I know why. There are two reasons.

First, it’s because I’m a writer at heart. For me, writing is far more than a byproduct of my task as a pastor. It’s in my DNA. Somewhere along the twirling genetic strand responsible for my development as a human being is a switch. In the off position, writing is a chore. But mine’s been flipped to the “on” position. I do it because it’s who I am, and as such, it’s harder to avoid writing than it is just to sit and do it.

My wife, Jennifer, more or less highlighted the second reason I continue to fail at keeping the “no eNews” pledge. It happened during a relatively recent conversation between us concerning death. She asked where I’d like to be buried. Assuming the conversation wasn’t hinting at a secret desire to off me in the pool while away, I floated along in its stream, implying I didn’t really care where the family returned me to the ground. My only two requirements have been that I not be cremated and that the mortician embalms me with my remaining whisky, fully aware that, even as I’m friends with many of the funeral directors in the area, the former is more probable than the latter. Beyond that, the family can sink me in the pond in the backyard for all I care.

From there, Jennifer asked if our church had ever considered using some of its property for a cemetery. I told her it had been discussed at one time years ago, but nothing ever came of it. It was then she betrayed a profound love for the people in our congregation and how she didn’t want to be buried in a random cemetery somewhere. When it came time for her burial, she wanted a place where she, and perhaps the generations of Thoma kin to follow, could be laid to rest together with their realest family—their church family. When she said that, not only did I know she was describing something I somehow knew I also wanted but never realized, but I understood why I would continue writing a message like this on vacation when I really don’t have to.

It’s because I love my family. The hundreds of people who receive this eNews every week at Our Savior Evangelical Lutheran Church in Hartland, Michigan, where I serve as pastor, are a part of that family—my realest family. Along with my immediate family, these are the people who, when the final trumpet sounds and our corrupted bodies are raised incorruptible to stand before the throne of Christ (1 Corinthians 15:51-57), I will count it all joy to experience this beside them. I’d count it a privilege to be alongside the Christians among whom I lived and breathed and served and worshipped in this life.

Maybe it’s time to revisit the idea of a church cemetery. With twenty-six acres, we certainly have the space. I’ll leave that to the church leaders at Our Savior, who may be reading this right now. To everyone else, I’ll simply encourage you to give thanks to God for your church family. In this life and the next, they’re the realest family you’ll ever know.

By the way, for the editors out there, I know “realest” isn’t a word. I just like how it sounds.

The Theater of Humanity

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We arrived in Florida a little differently this year. Jennifer drove. She left a day early with Harry and Evelyn. I flew. Madeline went with me. It’s better that I flew to Florida and didn’t drive. My back is terrible. More than three hours in the car equals a few days of vacation ruined. That’s how long it takes me to recover, and I need every day I’m away to be as vacationy as possible. Indeed, I need two unscathed weeks of palm trees and a pool.

Unfortunately, when we landed, our phones exploded with the news that President Trump had been shot. Some of you texted me. Others left voicemail. Thanks be to God he’s okay. Now we pray for the families of the casualties and injured. Usually, I’d suggest praying for the perpetrator, except he’s already been neutralized. Now, he answers to eternity. Had his life been spared, we might know more. It’ll be a lot harder to get to the bottom of things now that he’s dead.

The White House noted that the FBI would be running the investigation. I wonder how Trump’s folks feel about that given the agency’s relative weaponization against him. By the way, I don’t say that lightly. I was nominated and accepted into an eight-week citizen’s training with the FBI this past spring. I learned firsthand just how partisan the agency has become. Passing jabs at conservatives was common. So were the excuses for “mostly peaceful” groups like Antifa, Black Lives Matter, LGBTQ, Inc., and Pro-choice extremists. I’m by no means inclined to believe the FBI has President Trump’s well-being in mind. They answer to ideologues who rile crowds, comparing Trump to Hitler and labeling him a “threat to democracy” and “the end of America.” Their boss, Joe Biden, rasped at a recent fundraiser, “It’s time to put Trump in a bullseye.”

It appears someone may have been listening.

I hope I’m wrong about the FBI. I hope I’m wrong about Biden and his administration. I hope they’ll get to the bottom of this. I also hope their gabbling is nothing more than campaign rhetoric. I hope the Democrats’ continued stoking of the so-called tolerant left and the subsequent assassination attempt are only coincidental. Either way, the images of Trump covered in Secret Service agents—a man who’s been through so much, the American flag now billowing above his blood-smeared face, his breaking through the agents’ shielding to fist-pump the word “Fight!”—this image was seared into the hearts and minds of billions worldwide. It will unify many.

This has me thinking of something else.

I began by saying there aren’t too many things I like more than palm trees and a pool. That said, there’s almost nothing more entertaining than an hour in an airport terminal watching passersby. You never know what you’ll see. A woman dragging her angry child by a leash a short distance across the airport floor, his shoes squeaking like well-worn brakes as he tries to hinder her momentum—an oblivious tween wearing headphones two paces behind the struggling mother. A heftier man with bleach blonde hair and fishnet over a bright t-shirt doing all he can to be a woman but without an ounce of success. Two clerics in flowing cassocks pulling bags, and one has a cane that he doesn’t appear to need for walking. A beeping trolley with an elderly woman in its passenger seat. An eager crowd of Florida-bound travelers waiting and watching a bedraggled ensemble disembark an arriving plane, their vacation has come to an end. Atop all of it, a bird that somehow found its way inside and is now flittering from steel beam to steel beam above the unsuspecting bustle.

Like the bird, an inconspicuously observing man with his own past, present, and future sitting beside his oldest daughter and thinking, “I wonder what else there is to these people.”

For as weird as the theater of humanity might be, I appreciate individuality. Each person is gifted and uniquely valuable, no matter who they are or what they believe. If this were not true, Christ would not have told Nicodemus about God’s love extending itself to the extremities of death for the whole world (John 3:16). He would not have told His disciples, “Look, I tell you, lift up your eyes, and see that the fields are white for harvest” (John 4:35), which was to say that every person in this world is worth laboring to retrieve.

Still, the importance of uniqueness has become misapplied, reaching a fever pitch in society. We currently exist in a culture hellbent on amplifying individualism above everything else, the result being extreme division. The attempt on Trump’s life is proof. Perhaps just as worse, society has learned to praise and protect abnormality while shaming normalcy. A person who wants to get married, have children, go to church, and live a relatively normal life is considered the epitome of mindless conformity. But a man who disrupts the community of “family” and “friends” by quitting his job, divorcing his wife, and leaving his children to embrace his most authentic self as a six-year-old girl is heralded as courageous. Get in his way, and you’ll be sorry. Try to help his family, and you’re a bigot to be canceled.

I’m reminded of something Rev. Henry Melville wrote. Unfortunately, his words are often misattributed to Herman Melville, the author of Moby Dick. Nevertheless, Rev. Melville insisted in a sermon he delivered in 1855, “Ye live not for yourselves; ye cannot live for yourselves; a thousand fibers connect you with your fellow men, and along those fibers, as along sympathetic threads, run your actions as causes, and return to you as effects.” This is sermonically reminiscent of Saint Paul’s warning, “The eye cannot say to the hand, ‘I don’t need you!’ And the head cannot say to the feet, ‘I don’t need you’” (1 Corinthians 12:21). And yet, society has grown to despise such a message, and now we have a mess of self-concerned, handless, and footless bodies. We have a mess of separate and nearly unnavigable identities, with more and more people inventing new ones every day, each highlighting its own supposed uniqueness. In short, it has become commendable to cut the fibers that bind us to community. It has become laudable to stand entirely apart.

Yes, we’re all unique, and our individuality is essential. But our sameness is, too. In fact, it’s individuality’s point. We have roles to play in something bigger. This is true in microscopic ways, such as individual talents and skillsets used to support an organization, but also in much grander ways. A man or woman is only one-half of the single most important society-perpetuating and stabilizing equation. Relative to the Church, it’s why Saint Paul wrote, “For as in one body we have many members, and the members do not all have the same function, so we, though many, are one body in Christ, and individually members one of another. Having gifts that differ according to the grace given to us, let us use them” (Romans 12:4-6).

Use them for what? For the benefit of the community. This is a divine nod to something significant.

The more radically individualized and disconnected from community and its normalcy we become, the more our society seals its doom. We’re already seeing airplane crashes because a more qualified engineer was overlooked for another with lesser skill but with 7% more Cherokee DNA. Even now, people are losing the will and ability to communicate in fundamental ways, having become utterly incapable of engaging in honest conversation for fear of using incorrect pronouns and offending someone’s made-up uniqueness.

While I’m people-watching, I certainly do wonder about individual backstories. However, in the end, I’ve realized I can only really do this through the lens of sameness. I suppose therein lies one of life’s greatest ironies, which I’ve heard phrased, “Each of us is different, just like everybody else.” The adults before me were all children once. I wonder about the uniqueness of their upbringing. They all eat food. I imagine their favorite meal. I also wonder about their struggles. Everyone has sins that they wrestle to keep hidden from others and themselves. White or black, tall or short, we’re all members of the fellowship of sinful human dreadfulness. Rich or poor, well-known or societally invisible, God does not show partiality and cannot be bribed (Deuteronomy 10:17), and, therefore, none among us is above or below the other relative to the need for a savior.

But here’s the thing: even as God formed each of us as unique individuals, His greatest gift took aim at our sameness. He sent a Savior for all. By the person and work of Christ—His life, death, and resurrection—the whole world’s redemption was accomplished. He didn’t do it one way for Americans and another way for Somalis. We’re all the same in this. No one stands beyond the blast radius of the cross. Only according to this perspective does a genuine uniqueness come to light.

Those who believe this Gospel of redemption become the truly exceptional ones. They’re made holy. To be holy means to be set apart. Believers are set apart from a world intent on self-promoting shouts of uniqueness from the mountaintops. This world is set on having things its way—on doing, saying, and being anything it wants without consequence, all the while expecting commendation for the insanity. The Gospel for faith changes this. It’s the only thing that really sets a person apart, while at the same time drawing the one it inhabits to a better frame of reference. Suddenly, a person’s uniqueness becomes consequential to more than just the self. It becomes less about the spotlight and more about community. It’s moved to enact selfless love for the neighbor. And still, it knows more. Concerning the Church, suddenly, the community’s boundaries and preservation become paramount. That’s one reason why I appreciate tradition so much. It’s why the historic liturgy and the creeds are so valuable. They help bind and fortify the eternal community across time and location.

To wrap this up, I suppose I’ll close by acknowledging my appreciation to God for your uniqueness. I also give thanks for the more spectacular sameness of God’s love in Christ that binds us together in community. This sameness testifies to our value as individuals in the only way that truly matters.

Arlo is No Quitter

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The sun is just now on its tiptoes and looking over the horizon. Its ginger hair is streaming up and outward across the sky. So long as the clouds stay away, in a few minutes, its locks will be torrents of shimmering blondes, eventually becoming brilliantly invisible against a crisply blue sky.

Summer is the best. It hijacks my sense of direction. Almost every inclination leads me outside, no matter how hot it might be. The only problem for a guy who simply cannot shake the need—or, as Longfellow described, the desire to be “up and doing”—is to figure out how to best use the time and opportunities available. Although, there’s more to Longfellow’s little psalm. He wrote:

Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.

Indeed, we must be ready and willing to embrace and use each day’s peculiar opportunities. A lazy life of disinterest is no life at all. Still, we also must be sure to wait. In other words, rest exists in between the doing. One of the busiest men who ever lived, John Lubbock, was a husband, father, banker, archaeologist, politician, writer, vice-chancellor at a university, and likely so much more. Still, he made time to share with the forthcoming generations, “Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes on the grass under trees on a summer’s day, listening to the murmur of the water, or watching the clouds float across the sky, is by no means a waste of time.”

I think Lubbock was right. Although, I’m often the last one to take his advice. I know that needs to change.

Taking a brief moment away from typing this note, I just saw a familiar chipmunk outside my office window. A few weeks back, I started calling him Arlo. I don’t know why. He just looks like an Arlo. Anyway, stretching my legs, I moved to the window to watch Arlo skittering here and there and up and down the nearby tree. When I saw what had just happened to him, I was reminded of something.

I’ve mentioned in previous writings that while I don’t watch much TV, Jennifer and I have been taking time in the evenings on occasion to watch nature shows. I think she has officially become one of David Attenborough’s biggest fans. That said, and in full stride with his raspy voice, we’re both learning quite a bit about the natural world. Relative to animals, I’ve noticed something—well, maybe a few things—especially when it comes to the “up and doing” life so often requires.

In the wild, I’ve never seen a lazy animal. I’m also yet to see an animal exhibit self-pity during trouble or make excuses for its unfortunate plight. In fact, it’s always quite the opposite. Their resilience and determination are inspiring. It usually takes a pride of lions to fell a buffalo. There’s a reason for that. Buffalo aren’t quitters.

Arlo, the critter outside my window, is by no means a buffalo. Still, he’s another example somewhat closer to home. He is, right now, working feverishly to gather bits of something from the sidewalk beneath his tree. A moment ago, while I was watching through the window, he was dive-bombed by a swooping bluejay. I don’t know if bluejays catch and eat chipmunks. I know they catch and eat smaller birds. I’ve seen them do it. Either way, the aerial attack certainly had the jittery little furball hopping to attention. He leaped and dodged before scurrying up the tree. Still, the seemingly caffeinated critter is right now back on the ground and at it again. Arlo’s no quitter. Of course, he pauses every few seconds to check his surroundings. Still, he’s not in the tree making excuses. He’s not complaining to his friend Steve, the squirrel in the tree next door, about how everything appears to be against him. Arlo’s tiny. He’s weak. He can be swallowed whole. Still, he’s undeterred. He’s going to do what he came to do. If trouble arrives, he’ll deal with it accordingly. Until then, steady as he goes.

I’m rooting for you, Arlo, so long as you don’t find your way into my office and chew through any of my books.

Watching this through the Gospel’s lens, I suppose part of this morning’s outing is to say that while life is a balance between action and rest, both bring opportunities for Godly reflection. Doing what I’m doing here at the computer is not necessarily rest. It requires my brain to be up and doing. And yet, it is a laborious opportunity to reflect Christ to others. Taking a minute to rest and watch Arlo was reflective, too. His unwavering determination was a reminder that no matter how small or vulnerable anyone may be, no matter the troubles that come, I can run life’s race of work and rest with confidence (1 Corinthians 9:24-27), committing each of my days to the Lord knowing that He will care for me according to His good and gracious will (Proverbs 16:3).

God bless and keep you in the forthcoming day. I pray it affords you time to ponder the Lord’s love, no matter what you may be up and doing.

Consistency

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Do you listen to podcasts? I do. I know it betrays my slowness to the media streaming party, but I really only started doing so with any regularity within the last year. When I’m out and about in the car for long periods, my go-to for travel noise has always been news radio or music. I suppose everyone has their preferences.

I told my family during dinner last week that I know someone who prefers listening to operas while driving. As an art form, in my opinion, opera is just the musical’s fanciest form. I’m not knocking it. It’s just that when it comes to musicals, I’ve never been a fan. The easiest explanation for my disinterest would be that I’ve always struggled to grasp the concept of a character who, let’s say, after being mortally wounded, feels the need to sing about it. That’s just weird. It’s just too much of a break from its narrative reality.

“Well,” my eldest daughter, Madeline, interrupted, “Star Wars is a huge break from reality.”

“Yes,” I replied, “and had Luke started singing after Vader cut off his hand, or had a company of Imperial Guards performed a dance number behind Emperor Palpatine as he sang his evil plan, I’d ditch Star Wars, too.”

I know it’s an unpopular opinion. Many people adore musicals. Madeline is one of those people, and I’m pretty sure I won’t convince her to join me on the dark side of this conversation. But here’s the thing: even when it comes to my favorite sci-fi and horror films—movies that can be as weird as weird gets—the good ones have a baseline element of consistency that holds the weird stuff together. That baseline connectivity has its natural limits. That’s what’s meant by narrative reality. It’s what makes each of the story’s parts work together in harmony, even when they might not be entirely feasible. When an element of the story strays too far beyond the narrative reality’s boundaries, the story becomes harder to accept. Relative to Star Wars, there’s certainly a lot more flexibility in this regard because the narrative reality is already fantastical. Nevertheless, the rule still applies. The broader the disconnects, the harder it is to accommodate and ultimately accept the framework as a whole. It’s why so many of us Star Wars nerds had trouble with the midichlorian idea introduced in the prequels. As a scientific explanation of the Force, it strayed too far from the narrative’s mystical reality.

Now, a story set in the real world has far less flexibility. I just watched the movie Oppenheimer. Had the scriptwriter added kyber (the fictional crystal used to power a lightsaber) to J. Robert Oppenheimer’s designs, I’d have stopped the flick and moved on to something else. The idea is too far beyond believability’s boundaries. This is the trouble with musicals.

I just searched for and found a list of the highest-grossing musicals in America since 1982, and barring a few, nearly all had storylines written to exist according to ordinary human reality. The Phantom of the Opera, Les Misérables, The Sound of Music, and most others all take place in our natural world. For example, Grease is set in the 1950s. A bunch of high school guys in the 1950s building a car they can race against a rival gang is a scenario that exists in our reality. I’m just saying I’d be more inclined to watch it if, when Danny Zuko started singing and dancing in the garage, the other characters dropped their wrenches and looked at him strangely, asking, “What the heck are you doing?”

Again, I know much of this is entirely subjective. And, hopefully, you’ve sensed my playful mood this morning. I don’t necessarily prefer musicals. But I also don’t mind them. They can be great fun. I actually liked Grease. I absolutely loved The Little Shop of Horrors. Still, looking at what I’ve just written, even as I drifted into a subject I did not intend to discuss, the examination remains aligned with my original reason for mentioning podcasts. My primary intent was aimed at narrative consistency.

Something I’ve noticed while listening to podcasts, especially the longer ones in which someone is being interviewed, is that by the end of the discussion, the guest is rarely the same person he was at the beginning. I’ve been listening to Joe Rogan’s podcast quite a bit. It can be challenging sometimes because of his weird spirituality wrapped in foul language. Nevertheless, Rogan is a genuinely smart guy. I learn things listening to him. However, apart from James Lindsay’s, Riley Gaines’, and Elon Musk’s interviews with Rogan, many of his other guests have exhibited inconsistent personalities.

Because Rogan sits with each guest for several hours at a time, my first thought was that the inconsistencies likely occurred because most relaxed their guard and became more comfortable, thereby displaying a more genuine self. That can happen during lengthy conversations, and perhaps that’s what’s happening in this instance. For example, I sat beside Lara Trump at a dinner a few weeks ago. She was genuinely cordial at the beginning of our time together, but by the time she ascended the stage for her speech, she was funnier and more neighborly. Her unprotected self was different.

That said, it makes something else I’ve experienced relative to the lengthier podcasts so much more bizarre.

I’ve noticed I appreciate most guests at the beginning of the podcast more than I do at the end. In other words, I like their protected selves better. Their unprotected selves speak more crassly, less deeply, and oftentimes more vainly. Perhaps this is where my commentary on musicals applies.

I was listening to an interview with Mike Baker, a former CIA operative and the host of a reality show on Discovery+. I don’t remember the show’s name. Near the beginning of the interview, Baker spoke fondly of his own young children. Further along, he talked about the gender-confused craziness (and countless other horrors) children are being forced to endure in schools and universities and how we, as parents, need to do everything we can to protect them while modeling behaviors that demonstrate respect and concern for others without sacrificing truth. He kept the same message throughout. At the podcast’s beginning, I was nodding along with him. An hour into the episode, as he became more comfortable with the host, his premise became effortlessly draped in the grossest profanity. To hear his unprotected self using the f-word to describe raising children in a moral way was too distracting, too disjointed.

Parents model acceptable behavior for their children. The words we use are essential transfer mechanisms for whatever it is we want to teach. This is to say, words are critical to modeling. Profanity does not teach a child language forms that are capable of showing respect or concern for others. In fact, profanity is a gross demonstration of the absolute opposite. Not only is it communicatively lazy, but it shows everyone within earshot who and what’s most important to the speaker: the self.

I don’t remember who said it, but I once heard self-love—vanity—described as love’s grossest form. I agree with the sentiment, especially when considering the nature of Christ. Our Lord was not a self-lover. Everything He said or did was completely outwardly focused and for the benefit of others. That’s the Gospel’s essence. Jesus gave His all, sacrificing Himself in every way for everyone else.

I told Jen this past week that I learned a new word: orgiastic. It is as it sounds. Its root is the word “orgy,” and its purpose is to describe perverted behaviors. For example, sex is a gift from God. An orgy is sex’s perversion. Love is a gift from God. Self-love is its perversion. It is orgiastic. Writing to Timothy, Saint Paul lists self-love alongside pride, greed, slander, and so many other grave sins (1 Timothy 3:2-5). He spends more ink in 1 Corinthians 13:4-7 describing just how outwardly focused genuine Christian love must be. Returning to what I’ve been talking about so far, language is also a gift of God. Profanity is its perversion. Profanity is orgiastic.

In the end, this is nothing new for Christians. By the power of the Holy Spirit at work for faith, we naturally seek to guard God’s gifts against perversion. We strive to exist within His narrative reality. The Bible certainly deals with profane speech in the same way it does with self-love. For starters, Saint Paul addresses profanity on more than one occasion in his epistle to the church at Ephesus (Ephesians 4:29; 5:3-4). I’m guessing it must have been a problem there. The rest of the Bible deals with it, too, especially when it comes to showing how the spoken word reveals what’s in someone’s heart (Proverbs 4:24; Colossians 3:8-10; Matthew 12:36, 15:11; Luke 6:45; Proverbs 10:32; and the like). To close out this lengthier pondering, and for the sake of offering a final takeaway, I suppose a person concerned about raising moral children while describing the effort’s importance using the filthiest vocabulary just doesn’t make sense to me. In fact, it seems weirdly severed from sensibility altogether. It’s a lot like a story’s character getting shot in the chest and then breaking into song as he bleeds to death. It’s just too disconnected to be believable.

Be a Man

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The Thoma family doesn’t go out to dinner very often. It isn’t just that dining out has become quite expensive. Instead, it’s that we’ve always been more interested in family dinners at home. Any time we’re required to share a dining space with others, it seems the genuine Thoma frivolity becomes unfortunately inhibited. At home, we can be us, laughing as loudly as we’d like at whatever we like. We play games. We rib each other. Sometimes, we even throw stuff. We don’t make a mess. We’re not messy people. But we do things at home we surely wouldn’t do in a restaurant.

I should admit that in restaurants, Jennifer is the governess. She maintains the boundaries. I certainly know where the boundaries are. However, my threshold for public tomfoolery is a little higher. I can easily become a part of whatever hilarious thing Harrison or Madeline might be doing that requires a little more volume or risk. Thankfully, Jennifer anticipates this and brings us back into orbit. She doesn’t quell the fun. She maintains its appropriateness.

When things are no longer in tomfoolery mode but instead require actual discipline, it’s often the other way around. Jennifer is much gentler. I stand at the borderlands’ edges, allowing nothing illegal to cross. Ultimately, my sons are expected to be Godly men, and my daughters are expected to be Godly women.

Looking back at what I’ve written, two things come to mind.

The first is that fathers and mothers—men and women—are very different. I probably don’t need to tell you this. Or maybe I do because it sure seems these roles are more than confused these days. Men are portrayed as inept and effeminate ninnies in movies, TV shows, and commercials. Women are depicted as hardnosed boss-girls who shepherd the men around like children, but that’s only when they have need of them. The genuine give-and-take of naturally complimentary roles has been lost to artificial ideologies meant only to disrupt. Perhaps worst of all, the ability to define the actual roles has already been sacrificed at confusion’s altar. What is a woman? What is a man? Fewer and fewer can answer these questions, lest they give a truthful answer and be canceled. In fact, the answer is becoming more elusive, not only relative to gender but to species. For example, a 22-year-old man who thinks he’s a female cat is running for a seat on the Board of Commissioners here in Livingston County. I have a quick story about this.

I was picking up my daughter, Evelyn, from volleyball practice at the Hartland Community Education building when I drove past this candidate and his friends having a picnic-style demonstration on the facility’s front lawn. There were only a handful of people with him. It was by no means a grand event. Nevertheless, he placed signs near the facility’s driveway, one of which read, “Protect trans students like you protect your guns.” If I hadn’t been in a hurry to get Evelyn home to Linden and then back again to Hartland for a church meeting, I may likely have stopped to ask for clarification. This tendency does get me into trouble sometimes. Just ask Jennifer. She shifted into governess mode a couple of times yesterday at a conference in Detroit to keep my tomfoolery at bay. However, one particular gent in a breakout session who insulted me for being Lutheran rather than Catholic did receive a word or two. Actually, he received four.

Still, I believe in conversation, especially for the sake of invalidating untruths. I certainly had more than my fair share of questions before I rounded the first turn in the parking lot to fetch Evelyn that day. In particular, I would have asked the 22-year-old cat woman with male genitalia if “Protect trans students like you protect your guns” meant registering trans students with the government. Next, I would have asked if that meant red flag laws, too. In other words, if a trans student behaves in ways that make me nervous—like, say, demanding drag queen story hours at the local library—I could call the cops and have him, or her, or whatever taken away and locked up, letting the situation get sorted out in court before allowing him (or her, or whatever) to go home. Along those same lines, I’d have asked if he thinks we should keep all trans students locked away in safes to help keep children safe.

This is only one thread in gender confusion’s fabric. But this fabric is so easily unwound when the hard truth pulls on it. Speaking in an elementary sense, the fact that two men cannot create a child excludes such madness from any real claim on Father’s Day. Inherently, the word “father” assumes and requires “mother,” so whether a man and woman procreate or adopt, fatherhood remains innately a man and woman thing, not a man and man thing. The same goes for Mother’s Day.

I told you two things came to mind. The second is the blessing of home.

Everything I described begins in the home. If a child’s home is unsteady or confused, then everything beyond it will be, too. Beyond this, I once heard someone say that home is a pre-heaven of sorts. Indeed, home is a place where your seat at the table is certain. The rule of forgiveness secures it, and everyone there is family. Oliver Wendell Holmes said something about how our feet may leave home, but our hearts never will. This is to say that we’re forever rooted in a lifeblood sort of way with our home. Who we are, what we’ve learned, who taught us, and why—all these things go with us. And yet, even as they’re carried away on two legs, they are forever bound to the source, no matter where we might be. In my opinion, this is just another way of highlighting the significance of fathers and mothers and that no matter where a child goes, he can never really shake loose from the home his parents made. Good or bad, it’s forever a part of him.

Wrapping this up, I say, since it’s Father’s Day, grab hold of confusion’s fabric and pull. Do what you can to dispel gender confusion. Treat your dad like the manly man he is and ought to be. Rejoice and publicly share those things that show dads to be the God-given heads and protectors a family needs and requires. Maybe even take a chance at grabbing this world’s absurdity by the jugular. June certainly would be the month to do it. Women, demand alongside Saint Paul that the men in your life “act like men and be strong” (1 Corinthians 16:13). Husbands and fathers—the gents crafting the next generation of men—insist beside King David, who instructed his son, Solomon, “Be strong, and show yourself a man” (1 Kings 2:2). Even better, demonstrate manliness for them. Demonstrate it for your daughters, too. Be tough when toughness is required. Be courageous. Most of all, shepherd them toward Jesus, and along the way, do everything you can to hold the line on truth while invalidating untruth. My guess is that when they eventually leave home, and they will, no matter where they go, their hearts will be permanently sourced by something far stronger and more certain than this world’s sin-draped irrationality.