Tag Archives: word of god

Work that Matters

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I’m not going to lie. There’s a particular kind of exhaustion that follows our “The Body of Christ and the Public Square” conference here at Our Savior every year. As usual, I definitely felt it when my head hit the pillow last night. I suppose I’m feeling it right now as I type this while also knowing I need to finish the sermon for this morning.

I’ll get to it. In the meantime, a few quick thoughts need to materialize.

For starters, the people here at Our Savior who come together to make the event happen are not strangers to the same exhaustion I described. They already know that by the time the guest speakers have been delivered to airports and all the attendees have gone home, a year’s worth of work will have just coalesced into an eight-hour event. And when I say “a year’s worth of work,” I mean it. I started conversations with next year’s potential speakers a few weeks ago.

By the way, this year marked our twelfth year doing this and our twenty-fifth conference. Our MC, Dr. Chad Savage, has been with us since very near the beginning. He mentioned something during the event that caught my attention. He said he read that most conferences of this sort last about four or five years, holding one event per year, before eventually running out of steam and disappearing. If that’s true, then what we have here—the partnerships we’ve cultivated and the opportunities we’ve been given to influence—well, it’s all pretty special. If anything, it says something about the people here who keep showing up to do the work. Year after year, they take on arduous tasks, having already decided that the work is worth doing.

But I need to admit something to you. Within the last two or three years, I’ve told myself the forthcoming conference would be the last. This back-and-forth conversation with myself typically happens the week before. I know why. Because the pre-conference week is no different than every other already over-scheduled and under-accommodated week. Except this one has a thousand additional things from a year’s worth of planning to execute.

And yet, having said that, when I experience the congregation members around me smiling and serving and commending the effort to the Lord, as if they’re privileged rather than taxed by the burden, the thought of calling it quits dissipates.

Every year, the people here pull together to accomplish something that requires considerable time, patience, and dedication. They make room in their already busy lives. They accept responsibilities and fulfill them, knowing that few of the attendees, if any at all, will ever know or see how much they gave of themselves to make the experience possible. They do all this without expecting anyone to remember the part they played.

But their faithfulness takes shape in an event that makes it possible for people to gather, listen, think, and leave better prepared to engage in the world around them. It truly is a glorious demonstration of service, and again, I want you to know that ours happens because Christians in this place have decided the work is worth doing, even when nobody knows who’s doing it.

This year, Neal McDonough, Nick Freitas, Timothy Goeglein, and Father Calvin Robinson joined us as speakers. I spoke, too, as I always do. But that’s not important, because I already know and love this congregation, so I’m willing to do what needs to be done to see her double down against an encroaching world.

But the speakers don’t necessarily know or understand this place’s commitment to her Lord and what He has cultivated here. At least, not the first-timers. But then they arrive and get close to us—they’re brought into the trenches beside us—and suddenly, they understand.

In a way, you know that understanding has taken hold when the relationship for them is no longer celebrity to fan, or speaker to audience, but when they give up that distance backstage, letting their very real humanness show. That’s when you realize they see the value of a place like this just as much as you do.

I don’t know if that makes any sense. Maybe think of it from the other direction. A person’s public reputation can sometimes make it easy to forget the person himself. There’s a distance there. We recognize a face, associate it with a podcast or a movie we’ve seen or whatever, and we begin thinking of someone almost entirely in terms of what he represents. The same probably goes for the guest speaker. He gets an invitation and understands the relationship from a distance.

But then he reaches a moment when he’s willing to light up a cigar, sip a whisky on your deck, and talk about everything and nothing conference-related. That, for example, was my time with my friend, Father Robinson.

Or maybe, rather than requiring a limousine service to catch his flight, he prefers to climb into your Jeep Wrangler and spend an hour together with a new friend, talking about everything and nothing, during the hour-long drive to the airport. That was my experience with Neal.

Even better, when I dropped him off at the airport, I told him that even though I hadn’t met his family, I hoped someday I would. I barely got the thought out before he interrupted me, gave me a hug, and said, “You will.”

Neal became more than a speaker at our conference. He has become a friend. And friends are more interested in continuing the work together than getting an honorarium check and then saying goodbye.

And for the record, Neal’s expressed sentiment wasn’t meant only for me. He made it clear that his affection extends to the people here at Our Savior, too—to what we’re doing in this place. While driving, the more he learned about us—the intensity of our biblical fidelity, rich and reverent liturgy, creedal faithfulness, and the muscle we put into providing a tuition-free Christian school to the community—the more he insisted that when he comes back to Michigan (and he has every reason to do so since his son attends college here), he wants to stop by to say hello.

Believe it or not, that didn’t surprise me. I’ve already experienced it a hundred times with other speakers who’ve joined us here, some actually asking to return over the years. Like so many others, this place got under Neal’s skin in the best possible way.

As an aside to my critics, let me just say that it’s in moments like these that you’re reminded how much gets lost when we know people only from a distance. It’s not until you’re side by side that you can understand how we’re both human beings concerned with human things. But we’re also concerned about things that mean so much more—things like faith, how that faith is communicated to and maintained in the world around us, the well-being of our neighbors, family, and the kind of world our children will inherit after everything we’ve lived for is finally represented by that little line between the dates on our headstone.

It was a delight visiting with Neal about this stuff. It was a pleasure getting to know Nick. Of course, I never regret my time with Father Robinson or Tim Goeglein. They are men I respect deeply.

But regardless of the speaker, anyone who has ever taken a chance and cultivated a relationship with our efforts here in the middle of nowhere Michigan has left the place knowing there’s a group of diligent people more than willing to take responsibility for the things worth caring about.

In a way, that’s pretty much what our conference is meant to encourage.

Engagement in the public square begins with understanding that the people affected by public decisions are our neighbors. Questions concerning human life, religious liberty, education, family, and the freedom to speak truth reach into actual homes. They shape what parents can do, what children are taught, and how freely Christians can live according to their convictions.

I firmly believe that sincere faith in Christ, vividly shown through love for God and for their neighbors, is what moves the people in this place to care about these things. It most certainly moves them to participate when participation becomes uncomfortable. And why wouldn’t it? Christ told His Christians that we bear responsibilities toward the world around us.

I mentioned in my speech yesterday that the public square will be occupied by someone. The people who made it possible for Neal McDonough, Nick Freitas, Timothy Goeglein, Father Robinson, and me to give speeches are convinced that the Church’s absence in the public square is a bad thing. And so, they’re making sure Christians know they belong there. Even better, they want Christians to know they can serve on a school board, or speak at a public meeting, or talk to a friend about what God’s Word says about a topic deemed too political, or maybe even help organize a conference that, over the course of twelve years and twenty-five events, has equipped and strengthened thousands of Christians to do these things and so much more.

Since I already mentioned the critics, as some of you already know, an event like ours draws both good and bad attention. Every year, there are those who belittle the effort, including some within my own Lutheran Church—Missouri Synod’s circles. But whatever. I deal with it every year, and I expect I’ll be dealing with it for as long as we choose to continue the effort. I mean, if I made my critics’ approval a condition of service, then I’d already have my reason to quit.

But the people here at Our Savior doing the work deserve better than that. And so does the community benefiting from it.

I’ve already rambled on for long enough. So, to close, just know that I’m thankful for our speakers, our attendees, and especially the people of God here at Our Savior whose dedication makes this gathering possible year after year. Their service equates to a bright-beaming light of encouragement. Their willingness reminds me that preserving what’s good involves people from all walks of life who are willing to do what needs doing—especially when the work is hard.

As I said, I expect I’ll hear from the critics again. But in the meantime, there are good things worth defending, and there are Christians and neighbors who need to know what those things are and how to get in the game and defend them.

The Language of Faith

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It’s no secret to folks around here that Friday is technically my day off. It’s also no secret that I use Fridays to catch up on everything I couldn’t accomplish during the week. Typically, I use the day to reply to emails, maybe clean up the messes that have accumulated on my desk and shelves throughout the week, jot notes for the forthcoming week’s classes, chapels, and Bible studies, and finally, write Sunday’s sermon—or at least get it started.

I also use Friday to remember things I might’ve easily forgotten, which means I gather and sort through handfuls of sticky notes with messages I’ve written to myself all week, so nothing gets lost.

To do all this, I used to drive to the church to perform my Friday routine. Lately, I’ve been doing these things from home. I clean up whatever messes I may have created, then toss most of what I need into my rolling bag on Thursday night. Then on Friday morning, I set up my laptop on the dining room table and get started. In between tasks, I mow the grass or do other necessary chores around the house. Then it’s back to work, making sure nothing is forgotten, all so that the next week starts above water, not below.

I should at least mention that Jen works from home, and the dining room table is only a few steps away. I like that. It’s an opportunity for us to spend most of the day together, even though we’re focused on other things. Still, for me, it helps make it feel more like an actual day off than less.

Now for something seemingly unrelated.

This past Thursday, the day before the routine I described above, I visited a longtime friend and church member who is, each day, being pulled by dementia further and further away from most everything she knows. Thankfully, when I walk into her apartment at the assisted living facility, she immediately recognizes me, brightening the space with her quirky trademark smile.

Still, as our time together begins, her struggle shows itself. She does all she can to remember. And even what she can remember becomes nearly impossible to follow. The nouns and verbs and adjectives are all out of order. When they do land in reasonable positions, the story they tell is fantastical. People who’ve been dead for years suddenly are in the other room, sleeping next to the penguins someone else brought by earlier that morning, so we need to speak softly. Then she’ll ask me if I enjoyed the Snickers she never gave me when I first arrived.

For me, it’s the time with her that matters most. I do my best to sort through what she’s saying, and I don’t for one second get frustrated, even after an hour-long visit. I certainly don’t spend any energy trying to correct her. For one, I’d never think of telling her that the people she’s mentioning are no longer with us. In a sense, I don’t believe that anyway. The people she mentions—folks who’ve died in the faith—they’re not gone. They’re simply away.

In a mortal sense, my time with her is kind of like playing bingo—like anticipating the next number to emerge from the spinning bingo cage. Sometimes the conversation’s numbers line up, and we get a bingo. Sometimes they don’t. Either way, it’s obvious we’re both just happy to be together playing the game.

But here’s what I really wanted to tell you about my visits with her. And maybe this is what connects us to my introduction.

I’m not just her friend. I’m her pastor. And so, I visit her for a reason. And no matter how far from me the dementia drags her, when that pastoral reason begins, “In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit,” there she is. She’s back.

Next, I’ll say, “If we say we have no sin, we deceive ourselves and the truth is not in us,” and she’ll join right in with, “But if we confess our sins, God who is faithful and just will forgive our sins and cleanse us from all unrighteousness.” That’s a whole lot of words to keep in order. And yet, she does.

A little further along, I’ll say, “The Lord be with you,” and she’ll reply without hesitation, “And also with you.” I’ll pray, and at the end, we’ll both say “Amen.”

After that, I’ll maybe sing a few stanzas of a familiar hymn, and guess what—she’ll sing along. I’ll read a portion of the scriptures, and she’ll sit quietly listening, even smiling or nodding during the parts you’d expect any normal person to smile or nod at. Afterward, I’ll start, “I believe in God,” and by the time I’ve reached “the Father almighty, maker of heaven and earth,” she’ll have already stepped in and joined me. Further along, I’ll begin, “Our Father, who art in heaven,” and she’ll immediately join in, finishing the prayer without fumbling once with a single word.

I’m guessing you know where I’m going with this.

As a man who needs almost every Friday to keep from forgetting what’s ahead, I’m sitting with a woman who’s losing all memory of everything behind her. When we’re together, we more than represent the human condition from both directions, each of us struggling in our own way. And yet, no matter how far away our human frailty might carry either of us, what the Gospel has placed so deeply into us through Christian liturgy—what the Christian Church has believed and confessed for centuries—miraculously closes the gap.

In those moments, we’re together. I’m there. She’s there. Before and after, I may have forgotten to return a phone call or reply to a certain email. Before and after, she’ll have forgotten the names of her grandchildren while insisting that her mother is stopping by soon to help her paint the kitchen. Nevertheless, in those moments of Christocentric liturgy, something so much deeper is carrying us both, and it shows itself in a back-and-forth conversation that confesses the redeeming Christ who’s conquered all our frailties with such clarity that it’s hard not to be astounded.

Now, imagine if she’d grown up apart from such things. Imagine the disadvantage if her parents had treated worship as just one more negligible activity among many, rather than something that led to moments like these—moments when none of those other things matter for a mind that can no longer remember anything, but can only go with what has been instilled.

Yes, I know, the Lord’s promises to His people have never depended on the strength of their memories. Still, what we say and do so often that it becomes memory matters far more than we might imagine.

Sunday after Sunday, what God gives in holy worship’s liturgies is something we’ll certainly need someday, especially when our own words begin to fail, and so much of what we do know becomes little more than a heap of words and people and places and things we can no longer put in order. Even with that being true for my friend in the worst sort of way, the words of faith still come easily for her. She remembers her Lord. She hears and reveres His Word, confesses His person and work, and prays the very prayer He taught her. And what a comfort it is to know that, even as she may be forgetting everything else, she hasn’t forgotten any of that.

And, of course, my heart is well-served when I see her return in those moments, even more so when she recognizes and smiles at the one privileged to bring it to her.

The Legend of Hollow Clancy

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Not all that long ago, I told my son Harrison that I almost certainly produce more reading material than I consume. Don’t get me wrong. I read a lot. And yet, regardless of my intake levels, I never seem to run out of things to say. A person only needs to look around. There’s always something to observe, analyze, and describe if you’re willing to take the time.

Still, I should read more than I do, if only to expand my repertoire. It’s true I have a habit of revisiting books I’ve already read. Doing so always proves fruitful. It seems there’s always something new a person can take away from repeat visits with a favorite volume. For example, I’ve read Charles Dickens’ The Cricket on the Hearth more times than I can count, and I always notice something new. The same goes for C.S. Lewis’ The Screwtape Letters. Interestingly, when I see folks online posting supposed meme-form quotations from Screwtape as prophetic musings applicable today, I can usually tell whether the quotation is genuine. Most of the time, it isn’t. You’ve heard the saying “Familiarity breeds likeability.” Well, familiarity also breeds discernibility.

Another book I read at least once a year is Washington Irving’s The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. I crack it open every autumn. Indeed, when the Michigan sky begins gathering its grays, when temperatures begin dipping lower, and the chlorophyll in the leaves begins breaking down, leaving behind the colors my wife enjoys so much more than I ever could, it’s right about then that I start sensing the story’s draw.

I can’t say for sure how long I’ve been doing this. It’s been at least fifteen years or so. Before that, it was only occasionally.

I first fell in love with the story as a kid in Illinois. An older gentleman, one of the librarians at the Danville Public Library, saw me reading Stephen King’s Cycle of the Werewolf and thought I might enjoy it. He was right. Since the story is in the public domain, I took the liberty of publishing my own hardcover version in 2019 under my personal imprint, Angels’ Portion Books. I designed an elegantly eerie cover, scribbled a description designed to draw even the least interested reader’s attention, and then inserted my own introduction at the beginning of the manuscript, explaining why the story owned my devotion—and why it deserves everyone else’s, too. I did the same for a few other volumes I’ve always enjoyed, such as The Call of the Wild, Treasure Island, and, as you might expect, The Cricket on the Hearth. Each has a cover blurb and an introduction meant to lift what lives in my heart and set it into another’s.

Since I’ve written thousands of pages about thousands of things, odds are I’ve likely shared with you before the one line from The Legend of Sleepy Hollow that captured me so many years ago.

Very near the end of the story, just after Ichabod goes missing and the townsfolk do what townsfolk do—which is gossip—there’s a passage that explains how they “shook their heads and came to the conclusion that Ichabod had been carried off by the Galloping Hessian.” Contextually, this means most in the community accepted that, in a moment of sheer terror, their schoolteacher, Ichabod Crane, had been captured by an otherworldly specter and likely hauled away screaming into a terrible world between worlds.

How dreadful for Ichabod!

But then, the very next sentence is, in my opinion, the volume’s most frightening. It reads: “As he was a bachelor, and in nobody’s debt, nobody troubled his head any more about him.”

Wait, what?

For the record, headless horsemen don’t scare me. Werewolves and vampires don’t scare me, either. Aliens? Ghosts? Psychos in hockey masks with machetes? Yawn. Just ask my family. They’ll confirm I’m yet to discover a book or movie that has what it takes to put me on edge in the traditionally frightful sense. And also for the record, I’ve been reading and watching this genre since I was very young.

Still, there’s something different about the terror The Legend of Sleepy Hollow ultimately stirs. Since I already mentioned C.S. Lewis, it’s somewhat reminiscent of the very first line of his must-read volume A Grief Observed. The sentence reads: “No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear.”

What I mean is that it’s not so much Irving’s well-described spectral eeriness that puts a reader on the edge. It’s not even the headless Hessian who, as the majority of the Hollow’s residents superstitiously suspect, returned from the grave to carry someone away. It’s the grief of knowing Ichabod Crane evaporated from a community—the kind where everyone knows everyone—and no one cared in the least. They simply went about their lives as if he never existed in the first place.

That’s the real terror in the story. And even as a kid, I remember sensing it. I remember reading that one line and thinking, “How could it be that no one cares about what happened to Ichabod?” I know he was more or less an outsider. I know he didn’t necessarily even love the woman he was pursuing, Katrina Van Tassel, but was more interested in her father’s wealth. Still, that particular sentence is so distinct compared to everything else around it. It had me wondering what it would be like to disappear without even the slightest concern from anyone who knew me.

Although I suppose people did pay some attention to Ichabod’s disappearance. But it was all the wrong kind. Never mind Ichabod. Individual community members were concerned only to check their accounts to make sure he didn’t have any outstanding debts on their books. Han Van Ripper, acting as his executor, worried only about what to do with what few effects he’d left behind. And finally, without a splinter of memory for the missing man, the people immediately hired a new teacher and established a new schoolhouse in a different quarter of the Hollow.

In short, they cared about anything and everything surrounding Ichabod, but not Ichabod himself. Imagine that. Imagine in a tragedy’s aftermath being concerned with everything but the victim.

I’m pretty sure Irving’s narrative only pretends to be a ghost story. Really, it’s a commentary on something else. With that, for some reason, what I said before about familiarity breeding discernability has come back to mind.

Imagine if Irving would’ve gone further with his callous conclusion. Imagine if he’d given moral space to the headless Hessian’s actions, excusing them because, well, the angry ghost was struggling with a hyperfixation disorder. I mean, his head was taken off by a cannonball during the Revolution, resulting in a seemingly uncontrollable desire to wreak havoc while searching for it. Imagine if, rather than focusing on justice for Ichabod, the community aimed its investigation at understanding and proving the Hessian’s condition to help others living within the phantom plane avoid the same behavior.

By the way, anyone familiar with the story also knows Irving lets us wonder if it wasn’t actually the Hessian ghost who took Ichabod, but rather Brom Bones, Ichabod’s rival for Katrina Van Tassel’s love. Irving describes Brom as appearing “exceedingly knowing whenever the story of Ichabod was related,” even laughing when the pumpkin found at the scene is mentioned.

Imagine if Irving added additional material excusing Brom as suffering from some sort of maladaptive disorder, which he clearly does. Along the way, Brom is described as a “roistering blade” who looks for opportunities to fight pretty much everyone. He even leads a gang of young men Irving calls the “Sleepy Hollow Boys.” If Brom were alive today, he’d almost certainly be tagged with an impulse-control disorder—or maybe clinical narcissism—something likely caused by childhood trauma.

Imagine if Irving left the reader to assume that no matter what happened to Ichabod, whether it was the Hessian or Brom who offed him, it wasn’t either of their fault. Not really. They were both mentally ill. Which means they didn’t do it. Their conditions did.

Yeah, I know, technically, those imaginings aren’t in the story. And yet, they aren’t far removed from Irving’s own trajectory. He certainly framed the impulse that inspired them.

And so, I say once again, familiarity breeds discernibility. Admittedly, there’s something awfully familiar about all this. But I can’t quite put my finger on it. I mean, aside from a clinical diagnosis of the story’s villains, what’s so familiar about the people of Sleepy Hollow finding plenty to discuss after Ichabod’s demise—that is, everything except Ichabod himself?

The only thing I can think to say is that, for some reason, Irving’s tale feels less like an old ghost story than it should. It’s almost as if something happened relatively recently, and whatever it was, it proved that three centuries later, human beings still have a remarkable talent for making the victim the least interesting part of the tragedy.

People Who Go To Church Are Happier

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Every year, about this time, I write something about summer’s departure. The folks here at Our Savior, the people who know me best, have come to expect it, if only because I know I can tell them such things. I keep very little hidden from them. They’re family. And it’s right around this time of year that I start to feel something they’re already expecting me to re-explain.

In one sense, I suppose people do certain things because the calendar says it’s time to do them. For example, when summer ends, you cover the patio furniture, maybe bringing a few deck items into the garage. While you’re in there, you may do a little cleaning. You notice the sun going down earlier. Maybe you start prepping your gardens. Or you finally decide to give the snowblower the lawn mower’s parking space.

If you’re me, you begin writing what amounts to a eulogy for June, July, and August.

I was talking with Jennifer about it on Wednesday. We were sitting on the front porch together watching the sunset. I confessed I’m starting to feel it. And by “it,” I mean the dread.

I tried to explain why the transition from summer to autumn is so difficult for me, even though I know the person I’m confessing to absolutely adores autumn. Yes, she’s one of the sensible people. The sensible people can look at the changing season and say Autumn is beautiful. Because it is. The trees are magnificent. The air is crisp. It means warm fireplaces, favorite blankets, cider and doughnuts, sweaters, and evening bonfires.

Yes. I know. But none of that helps.

Trying to explain the sensation to Jennifer, the closest comparison I could think of was being told by someone you love that she doesn’t love you anymore. I told her it feels like summer has sat across the table from me and said she’s leaving. But there was no fight. There was no scandal. I didn’t mistreat her. If anything, I showered her with devoted affection every single day. And yet, there she is, looking at me with that terrible calmness people sometimes have when they’ve already made up their mind before any substantive conversation could begin. She’s packed her things. She already has another place to go. And although I keep pointing out all the reasons she should stay, she’s not even listening anymore. In fact, even as I’m still pleading, she’s already gotten up from the table and is gathering the last of her things.

And here’s the worst part. I’m a sucker for her abuse. She’s going to come back to me. She does every year. And when she does, she’ll embrace me, and I’ll fall in love with her all over again. But then August will come, and once again, she’ll push me away.

For the record, I’m a relatively even-keeled guy. But this is my personal crazy. And just know, I do what I can to fight it. Indeed, I’m committed to resisting the seasonal sadness. I’ve tried sun lamps. Although to no avail. I have a fake palm tree in my office that somewhat helps. I’m looking at it right now. But notice I said it somewhat helps. Because there it is— pretending. Its green plastic leaves and its tropical ambition—all a manufactured defiance against Michigan’s very real autumn.

Jennifer bought it for me for Christmas a few years ago. It’s supposed to make the room feel more like summer. And, to a point, it works. Until I remember it’s fake.

Now, I’ve probably said enough on the topic already. But you need to know that what’s coming this Tuesday will make matters worse. Tuesday is when our church’s school begins its academic year. Most schools have already started, but ours hasn’t, which means I’m still living in a kind of disputed territory. Summer has filed for separation, but the decree isn’t final yet.

Tuesday is when the arbiter arrives. He’ll bring a bunch of papers issuing formal decrees that divide the property and mandate schedules and locations and times and so many other things. He’ll set the documents before me, and I’ll read them. The morning’s easier pace goes with summer. High-speed mornings and crowded, inflexible schedules, those come to me. The longer, unaccounted-for evenings, those go with summer. So do bare feet on the deck, open windows, and laugh-filled strolls up and down the hill in my side yard with my grandson in the wagon. Summer also gets custody of the fireflies and the croaking bullfrogs in the pond. She also gets to keep the strange freedom of stepping outside, even after a long day of visitations and meetings and whatever, and discovering by the sun’s position that there’s still an entire day waiting for you. The arbiter grants me darkness when I wake up and darkness before I leave the office.

The next thing you know, there I am, standing in the driveway while summer drives away with more than half of everything.

I know this all sounds so overly dramatic. But seasonal melancholy has never cared much about proportionality. And I warned you what to expect. Every August, my heart folds its arms and says, “I want July.”

But now, something else you should expect from me: the Gospel.

There’s a Christian difference between sorrow and despair. Christians are allowed to grieve departures. We are allowed to miss what’s good. We’re even allowed to cry about it. Jesus Himself wept at a tomb, even as He knew He was about to reverse the reason for sadness.

What I’m saying is that the answer to all of this is by no means that I just need to convince myself that I secretly love November. I don’t. And I likely never will. I’m built for summer. I’m wired for hot, sunny days. The answer is to remember “the earth is the Lord’s, and the fullness thereof” (Psalm 24:1). In other words, August belongs to Him. He also owns November. He owns the shortening days. The long ones belong to Him, too.

But there’s still more.

Christ, who is God in the flesh, is “the same yesterday and today and forever” (Hebrews 13:8). No matter the season, He doesn’t pack His things when the leaves start falling. He doesn’t somehow love me in June and lose interest in October. Or maybe better said (because I know plenty of folks who struggle with the kind of depression that extends well beyond any seasonal boundaries), my emotional condition at any given moment does not determine God’s feelings for me. In other words, when my corrupted and sinful heart tells me that everything is getting darker, colder, and farther away, the Holy Spirit works in me the knowledge that God’s promises remain exactly where He put them. In fact, He labors in ways to point me outside of myself to what’s actually true. He points me to Christ crucified and risen. He points me to my baptism. He points me to His Word. He points me to His wonderful supper. There, His verdict on everything has already been rendered. I am forgiven, redeemed, beloved, and most importantly, His. My sadness doesn’t make Him any less faithful. His promises remain true when the sun is shining at nine o’clock at night, and they remain true when it sets at 4:30 PM.

By the way, did you know studies have shown that people who go to church are happier? I wonder why that is. Oh wait. Could it be that the One who made us actually knows what we need?

I just looked back at some peripheral research I did for my doctorate. Believe it or not, I looked into this stuff. And the numbers are pretty remarkable. Gallup conducted a study on happiness levels among churchgoers and those who attend infrequently or not at all. They discovered that 67% of Americans who attend worship weekly describe themselves as “very satisfied” with their personal lives. If you remove the qualifier “very,” interestingly, the number jumps to 92%. In other words, nearly everyone who attends worship weekly reports being happier with life. Even better, more than two-thirds are willing to add the word “very.”

And by the way, it goes beyond simply asking people whether they’re happy. Harvard did a more generic survey a few years ago concerning long-term health data. They found there was 30% less depression in the church-going population. There’ve been a few other longitudinal studies that have found faithful church attendance equals less anxiety, hopelessness, and loneliness, while also being associated with a stronger sense of purpose and the ability to explain why that is.

Of course, statistics are not the Gospel. Not to mention, I know full well that Christians get depressed. I just spent the first half of this morning’s write-up telling you about how hard autumn is for me. Besides, I’m a pastor. I know darn well that Christians suffer terribly. I know darn well that Christians sit in pews with tears in their eyes and sometimes cannot explain why they hurt.

Now, I know correlation, as statistical science rightly reminds us, does not by itself prove causation. Still, I have to smile a little at the numbers. That’s because I know God’s heart. He loves me. And so, He gathers me to Himself in worship. A very important byproduct is that He puts me beside other sinners who need His merciful love just as much as I do. We receive His Word together. Even better, He gives us brothers and sisters who notice when we’re missing. In the liturgy, He gives us words to confess, prayers to pray, hymns to sing—all sentences we can speak when we simply cannot find the right words on our own. And in the middle of all of it, Christ is present. That’s the promise.

And so, the researchers come along with clipboards and spreadsheets and discover that, strangely enough, people immersed in all of this seem to fare better. Go figure.

So, to wrap this up, yes, summer is leaving me again. And yes, I’ll likely write another article next year that sounds an awful lot like this one. I’ll complain that the sun is setting too early. I’ll bristle at the thought of Michigan’s forthcoming cold. I’ll probably say something reminiscent of the arbiter who arrives every year to divide the possessions, and I’ll remember I’m getting the shorter end of the custody stick.

But am I really? Because I am keeping Christ. Or more accurately, Christ is keeping me. And unlike summer, He has promised never to leave me nor forsake me (Hebrews 13:5).

So, yeah, summer may leave. But she does so beneath a promise far superior to the season, which is that Christ doesn’t leave. With that, Ecclesiastes 3:11 makes a little more sense to me: “He has made everything beautiful in its time.” That includes Michigan’s autumn. And why? Because Christ is the beauty in every season.

Hold Fast to What’s True and Push Back

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If you visit with my weekend message every Sunday, you’ll remember that I was in the emergency room last week. At about one o’clock last Sunday, I made the trip because my eye had swollen shut.

Essentially, for the last few weeks, I’ve been dealing with an unrelated issue involving the gel inside my eye pulling away from the retina. Apparently, this can happen with age. However, there’s a possibility that the process can cause a retinal tear, so I went to see a retina specialist, and now I’m paying close attention to any changes in my vision.

That’s the background. It isn’t the actual story.

Let me start by saying that if you’ve never had a retina specialist inspect the deepest recesses of your eyeballs, blessed are you. It’s not a pleasant experience. It’s thoroughly intrusive. There are instruments. There’s pressure. There are moments when you wonder whether the doctor is deciding whether he wants to examine your retinas from the front, or simply push your eyeballs through the back of your skull and inspect them from the other side. And the thing is, you simply hold still and endure it because that’s what you’re supposed to do.

After the examination, my eyes were irritated—my left eye more so than the right. I also had a few blurry spots in that eye. I assumed this was the result of the examination itself, not to mention that’s the eye that had already been having the most trouble. Either way, the doctor had just spent considerable time poking, prodding, pressing, and otherwise doing things to both eyes that I absolutely did not enjoy.

So, I figured whatever was irritating my eye would get better with time.

A few days later, something resembling a stye developed beneath my eyelid. I didn’t know it was there. Not yet. The irritation continued. Then the swelling started. I later learned that something had apparently been torn during the examination, and the area had become infected. Again, I didn’t know that at the time. All I knew was that my eye was becoming increasingly useless.

Now, I couldn’t get an immediate appointment with my regular doctor, so I went to an urgent care in Fenton. The PA looked at it and said it was probably just a stye. Okay, fine. Drops were prescribed. But before walking out the door, I asked about getting an antibiotic, too, because by then, I had begun to suspect that something else was going on. And for the record, I’m hardly a person who goes fishing for antibiotics. I can barely remember the last time I needed them. In fact, I rarely make trips to the doctor for anything. Most everything that ever happens to me can be solved with a two-fingered pour of Scotch. But in this case, I had a distinct sense that something more than whisky was required. And so, I asked. I was told antibiotics weren’t necessary. Use the drops. Apply warm compresses. Give it twenty-four to forty-eight hours. It would get better. So, I did exactly what I was told, and I did so religiously. But it got significantly worse.

Two days later, I called my doctor’s office and more or less begged them to find a place for me. They gave me an appointment for the following morning, which was Friday. Again, I explained the entire history. I explained the retinal examination. I explained the irritation that followed. I explained how the swelling progressed. I explained that the drops were not helping. Same conclusion. It’s probably a stye. This time, I was prescribed a different drop—something stronger.

Again, I asked about an antibiotic, just in case. Again, I was told no. Again, I was told to continue the warm compresses and give the new drops twenty-four to forty-eight hours. Again, I went home with the new drops and did exactly what I was told. And again, it only got worse.

By early Sunday morning, the situation had changed considerably. I woke up and couldn’t see out of the eye because it had swollen shut. I could barely force it open to use the drops. The swelling had spread around the eye socket, and I was beginning to feel pain along the bone beside and beneath the eye. The entire area had become extremely sensitive to the touch. I woke Jennifer and told her I was going to the emergency room.

Now, get this. The woman in scrubs at the check-in desk, after I explained why I was there, tried to talk me out of checking in. “It’s probably just a stye,” she said. “I get those all the time.” She asked to see the drops I was using. She recognized them and suggested I just needed more time for them to work. She said her styes, with the same drops, usually went away on their own after about ten days or so. At one point, she told me that looking at me was almost like looking at herself when she had one.

Needless to say, it was late, and I was already exhausted. My eye was swollen shut. Every medical professional before this had already told me I had a stye. And now, before I had even officially checked into the emergency room, its gatekeeper was essentially telling me the same stupid thing—and was trying to talk me out of checking in.

I nearly left. I really did. I almost walked back out to my car, went home, and kept fighting whatever was happening to me with the stupid little drop squirter and warm compresses. And why? Well, forget the pressure building in my eye for a moment. There’s a strange psychological pressure that develops when enough people with medical credentials keep telling you the same thing. Eventually, you begin wondering whether you’re experiencing what you’re experiencing, that maybe you’re the unreasonable one. Am I overreacting? Maybe the “experts” are right and I just need to give the drops another day—or as the lady at the check-in desk insinuated, ten more days.

But I’m telling you, I knew something was wrong. With that, I insisted that I be seen by someone.

The first doctor who came in was a student. I gave her the entire history, beginning with the retinal examination and continuing through the visits, the drops, the compresses, the swelling, and the increasing pain. She examined the eye and then left. Eventually, another doctor came in. (By the way, is there a class in nursing and medical school devoted to not writing anything down? I gave the same history again and again and again at every visit along the way.) With that, a similar examination. But this time, something was different. At one point, the second doctor said something along the lines of, “I’ve never seen a stye actually do what this one is doing.” I didn’t like the sound of what she was saying. And yet, her words were sort of reassuring, if only because someone had finally acknowledged something other than what everyone else had been saying all along.

She said she wanted to do a little research. And then she left. Eventually she returned with the ER’s supervising physician.

Keep in mind, all of this occurred over several hours. If you’ve ever been to an emergency room, then you know time operates very differently there. Entire civilizations can rise and fall while you’re sitting beneath fluorescent lighting waiting for someone to tap on the door or curtain and say, “I’m Doctor so-and-so. What’s brought you in here tonight?” Again, is anyone writing anything down?

Anyway, the supervising doctor examined me, performed a few tests, and then, suddenly, there it was. This wasn’t simply a stye. She was certain I had preseptal cellulitis. The infection was spreading through the tissue around my eye, and it had progressed to the point that it could become orbital cellulitis, which is considerably more dangerous. If you don’t get on it right away, you can go blind. This is to say, I needed an antibiotic. Like, days ago! And as if that wasn’t enough, she said the drops I had been using so diligently were actually making the situation significantly worse. Go figure.

Now, jump ahead a few days. After I set the drops aside and started slamming down a proper antibiotic, the swelling had almost completely disappeared by Tuesday. I could open the eye normally. I could see through it. The blurring was, for the most part, gone. Although there’s something else I should at least mention. We had some leftover antibiotics in our medicine bin from one of the kids’ prescriptions. After my visit to the doctor’s office, and before the emergency room visit, I had already started taking them. As it turns out, they were the same antibiotic the ER eventually prescribed. A slightly smaller dosage, but still the same stuff. I’m betting that those first few punches are why things were already turning around by Tuesday. And that only reinforced what had been bothering me all along. I knew something wasn’t right.

Now, to start wrapping this up, as with everything, there’s a lesson here somewhere. I suppose first, I should acknowledge that doctors know plenty of things I don’t. But that said, I’ve never been one to surrender my reason, senses, and judgment entirely because someone in authority has spoken. It’s just never proven to be a very good idea. Then came COVID, and that instinct stopped being theoretical. And not just for me. So many learned there’s a distinct difference between respecting expertise and abandoning your own capacity to think, observe, question, and make judgments.

I suppose next, you should know I had a brief conversation with the first ER doctor about my job as a pastor—because, making small talk, she asked what I do. Unsurprisingly, I wandered into how frustrated I was about everything happening at the moment, but at the same time I didn’t want to be rude, becoming the ratchety patient no one wants to deal with. I told her that Christian sensibility often leaves guys like me somewhere between arrogance and passivity. What I meant was that conviction can rather easily become egotism: I know what’s what and I refuse to accept anything other than what I want. But humility has its own danger. A Christian can become so reluctant to assert himself, so determined to avoid conflict, that he begins distrusting what is plainly in front of him and allows dangerous falsehood to slip through unchallenged.

Remember, I almost walked out of the emergency room. I’d been told the same thing so many times that I was beginning to distrust what I could quite literally see happening to my own face. And so, maybe the lesson in all of this is that humility never requires us to pretend we don’t know what we know. It doesn’t require us to ignore the evidence in front of us or surrender our judgment whenever the opposition speaks confidently. Christian humility starts with recognizing that we can be wrong. But it also recognizes that everyone else can be wrong, too.

After this whole episode, I’m convinced that this is one more reason why Saint Paul wrote, “Test everything and hold fast to what is good” (1 Thessalonians 5:21). For as humble as Christians ought to be, we’re not supposed to switch off our brains and obey whoever happens to be standing before us. I mean, just think about the Bereans. They were praised because they listened to Paul himself and then searched the Scriptures to see whether what he was telling them was true (Acts 17:11). Indeed, they didn’t reject the teacher. But they also didn’t surrender themselves to him. Not yet. First, they listened. Then they tested what he said, measuring it against the truth of God’s Word.

That’s a faithful Christian posture toward every earthly authority, if ever there was one. Show respect to the office. Receive good and honest counsel with gratitude. Be humble enough to admit when someone knows more than you do. But never—ever!—confuse humility with surrendering your responsibility to seek and maintain truth.

In the explanation of the First Article of the Apostles’ Creed in Luther’s Small Catechism, Luther writes that God “has given me my body and soul, eyes, ears, and all my members, my reason and all my senses, and still takes care of them.” This is to say, God made you, and He gave you the necessary faculties (eyes, ears, senses, and the like) for feeding a reasonable mind capable of discernment. And then, later in his explanation of the Third Article, Luther insists that “the Holy Spirit has called me by the Gospel, enlightened me with His gifts, sanctified and kept me in the true faith.” This means that, yes, our reason and senses are gifts from God. And yet, they are not chief. For the Christian, they are ultimately steered by the Word, the means through which the Holy Spirit establishes faith and keeps us anchored to what is really true. Indeed, God’s Word stands above every human authority, and it is by God’s Word that every human claim must finally be measured.

It even helps keep our own claims in check, because just as pride can make a person unteachable, blind agreement for the sake of a person’s authority or celebrity can also lead people away from plain truth.

So, to all of this, I say listen carefully. Think clearly. Ask questions. Test what you’re being told. Be humble enough to be corrected, but courageous enough to say, when necessary, “I hear what you’re saying, Doc, and I think you’re wrong.” And through it all, let faithfulness to Christ and His Word remain the goal. Because in the end, the Christian’s task isn’t to defend his own opinions or surrender to someone else’s. It is to hold fast to what’s true.

Excommunication? Yes.

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I spent the early hours of this morning in the ER. Unfortunately, it couldn’t be avoided. I’ve been dealing with trouble in my left eye for the last few weeks, and somewhere along the way, it appears a retina specialist injured it badly enough that it became severely infected. It has only gotten worse over the last week, and, as it turns out, two different eyedrop prescriptions from two separate but equally concerned visits were making things worse. I woke up early this morning realizing that a trip to the ER was unavoidable. Hopefully, I have what I need now. And, as it would be for any grossly disfigured, pirate-like person, I didn’t want to leave anyone waiting on the plank. So, after some rest, time with God’s Word, and prayer, I started tapping away at something I’ve been thinking about all week and was determined to get out.

Maybe you heard the news about Governor Healey in Massachusetts? If not, maybe I should actually start with something else first. And by something else, I mean a definition of excommunication, if only because some Roman Catholics are calling for Healey, a confessing Roman Catholic, to be excommunicated. I’ll get to the reason for the calls in a moment.

In the meantime, let me just say that excommunication is probably one of the most misunderstood practices of the Christian Church. For the most part, people hear the word “excommunication” and imagine punishment. But that’s not excommunication’s point.

Excommunication exists for repentance, absolution, and restoration. Jesus establishes the pattern in Matthew 18:15–20, showing Christians how to move patiently from private admonition toward gathering the whole Church’s engagement. But the process only progresses step by step as the sinner refuses to hear God’s Word, repent, and amend. Still, even in the final step—excommunication—restoration remains the goal.

All of this is to say that excommunication is the Church, in love, refusing to allow an impenitent sinner to exist comfortably in dangerous falsehood that leads away from eternal life to eternal condemnation. For the sake of the faithful, it also means guarding the Church from pretending that open, persistent, and unrepentant sin is somehow compatible with a faithful Christian confession.

Now, back to Governor Healey.

Healey, a Catholic, gleefully signed legislation last week eliminating the state’s previous legal restrictions on abortion after 24 weeks. Under the new law, abortions will be legal right up to birth. You read that right. As it is here in Michigan, a full-term baby can now be aborted in Massachusetts, too. The state’s Catholic bishops had already condemned the measure, even going so far as to call it a “gravely immoral” measure. Of course, that’s a sanitized description. I’d call it state-sanctioned barbarism.

I’ve implied the appropriateness of excommunication for Christians who openly defend and support abortion. In fact, I can think of a couple of folks in the past who transferred from Our Savior to other local LCMS congregations because I spoke those words out loud. I remember my District circuit visitor at the time mentioning the Johnson Amendment, seemingly in passing, and implying that I might be offending someone’s civil rights. I found the argument strange. Why? Because, ultimately, he didn’t ground his position in the Word of God, but instead said something more like, “You’d better be careful what you say about the state, because the state says so.”

That said, forget for a moment that God’s Word seems to matter very little to folks in these situations and instead consider that too many are way more confident than accurate with their Johnson Amendment invocation. Essentially, under section 501(c)(3), churches and other tax-exempt organizations are prohibited from financial partisanship. This means churches cannot use the congregation’s money to intervene in political campaigns on behalf of or in opposition to particular candidates. An easy example is that it can’t donate to or print materials on behalf of a local candidate or party.

What the Johnson Amendment does not say is that churches must become politically mute. Churches remain free to preach and teach concerning anything and everything under the sun. They may take positions on political issues, ideologies, legislation, public policies, and whatever, even when those issues divide candidates. And that’s good, because almost everything in our world is, in some way, Christological, and as such, the Church has both the freedom and the responsibility to engage with it, while also shepherding God’s people through it.

Still, remember that excommunication looks like punishment to the onlooking world, even though it isn’t. Add to that the misunderstanding that many interpret the Johnson Amendment as protection against political persecution or punishment, and we have a problem. But the problem only exists when a person gets both excommunication and the Johnson Amendment wrong at the exact same time.

Regardless of the fact that nothing, not even the U.S. Constitution, supersedes God’s authority, the Johnson Amendment does not say that a church must suspend its doctrine whenever a sinner happens to hold public office or the sinner’s dealings are labeled “out-of-bounds” politically by the culture. The Johnson Amendment does not erase the Lord’s instructions in Matthew 18. In fact, the IRS itself recognizes this by identifying a “formal code of doctrine and discipline” as one of the essential characteristics associated with churches.

Therefore, excommunication cannot be called a political punishment when exercised rightly. The Church is not saying, “You voted incorrectly, so we’re going to hurt you.” The Church is saying, “Through your actions in the public square, you are persisting openly and unrepentantly in something God calls sin, and because we love you too much to lie to you about it, we cannot pretend everything is fine. Repent, be absolved, and amend the sinful life.” And this would be the same process for everyone, whether the sin was committed in a voting booth, at a governor’s desk, in a bedroom, or wherever.

In short, the IRS’s concerns revolve around dollars. It can regulate a church’s use of finances in the public square. But it does not administer the Office of the Keys—the Church’s authority from Christ to forgive and retain sins among its Christians in the public square.

Looking back at everything I’ve just written, I need to be clear, especially for the usual suspects who are likely already preparing to email or message me privately. Understand that I’m not at all suggesting that to be a Christian, one must be a registered Republican. All political parties are imperfect human institutions, and there are plenty of things within the Republican Party that Christians can and should criticize. However, we shouldn’t pretend the two major parties occupy morally equivalent ground on matters about which God’s Word speaks clearly.

They just don’t. Not anymore. Not in 2026.

For one, the modern Democrat Party is nothing like what it used to be. It has committed itself institutionally to dreadfully ungodly positions concerning abortion, human sexuality, marriage, and a whole host of other platform planks that stand in direct contradiction to Christian teaching. And these are not obscure planks buried somewhere on page seventy-three of a policy document. They’re the defining commitments of the party—its principal talking points. On the other hand, while the Republican Party is often just as embarrassingly imperfect on other topics, when it comes to the fundamental moral questions, it remains the only major American political party whose stated positions leave any meaningful room for Christian conviction in the public square.

So, again, to my critics, I would never say that voting Republican makes someone a Christian. Salvation does not come through a ballot box, and the GOP is not the Kingdom of God. But what I am saying is that if Christians care at all about faithful engagement with the world around them, they forfeit the right to pretend that political choices occur in some morally sterilized chamber where God’s Word no longer applies. I’m also saying that at some point, continued political association with official platforms that stand in opposition to God’s Word becomes more than association. It becomes advocacy. It becomes cooperation. It becomes the deliberate lending of oneself—opinions, voice, vote, money, influence, public service, and so much more—to perpetuate things God has strictly forbidden.

That’s where I think the question of church discipline becomes unavoidable.

If a Christian willfully persists in sin, the Church needs to act according to the Lord’s mandate. If throughout correction, the person remains steadfastly impenitent, even as the goal of restoration remains, the door of heaven is closed until he repents. That’s why the Church calls this the Office of the Keys. It means the authority Christ gives His Church to forgive the sins of the repentant and to retain the sins of the impenitent—to open the door with the Gospel and, when necessary, to close it until repentance comes (Matthew 16:19 and 18:18, as well as John 20:22–23).

There’s no doubt in my mind that this applies when the sin has been folded into someone’s politics. If a Christian knowingly and willfully supports and/or makes possible the destruction of unborn life, openly celebrates the mutilation of healthy bodies in the name of gender ideology, or publicly advances other teachings fundamentally contrary to the Christian faith, the Church cannot simply shrug and say, “Well, that’s your political opinion.” Labeling something “political” isn’t a baptismal font. It doesn’t wash the sin away.

So, I suppose the harder question, then, is not whether someone has a D or an R beside his or her name. The question I’m suggesting we consider is whether political loyalty has become an actual loophole that allows, first, for a Christian to deliberately, publicly, and unrepentantly participate in what Christ confesses to be sin, and second, for a pastor to be absolved of having to deal with it like all other sins.

I think it has become just such a loophole. And I think we need to close it, regardless of the fallout, if only because the topic itself is not complicated. In Confessional Lutheranism, we already know that no matter the real or hypothetical scenario, everything must be observed through the lens of God’s Word. That also means, regardless of person—regardless of someone’s job or political office or opinions or whatever—no exemption from Matthew 18 exists for anyone. We all fall under its authority.

In Healey’s case, Massachusetts’ own Catholic bishops have already identified the moral character of what occurred. If they’ve pursued correction according to the Lord’s mandate, and still there has been no repentance and amendment of the sinful life, then Healey should be excommunicated. She used the authority entrusted to her to oppose Christ’s holy Word, then celebrated the moment and smiled for the cameras while doing it, proving her willful rebellion.

In the end, some folks will read everything here and immediately start tallying sins. “But what about this Republican position? What about that Libertarian one?” The question is not whether other sins exist or whether the Church has failed to confront them consistently. The question is whether clear, persistent, public impenitence should simply be ignored. I’m saying it shouldn’t.

Of course, the devil is remarkably skilled at taking what is objectively true and smearing it with enough subjectivity that, before long, God’s Word becomes “your interpretation,” or “your opinion.” That trick has been working for a very long time. Once that happens, the next move is kind of predictable. Rather than asking what the Church is obligated to say and do in all circumstances according to God’s Word, people start asking what the Church is permitted to say and do in certain contexts according to the government’s allowance.

But just remember, the Church’s responsibility to respond to anything doesn’t live or die according to the government’s rules. I can promise you that faithful adherence to the Johnson Amendment’s tax-exemption concerns will not be a part of the Last Day’s calculus. There’ll be no IRS agent seated beside the throne of Christ.

Besides, the Church should never be more concerned about its 501(c)(3) status than its call to bear the Office of the Keys. One comes from the heart of Caesar. The other, from the heart of Christ. Only one survives the grave.

Socialism Simplified for Christians

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If you hadn’t heard, Michigan was pretty much ground zero for something disturbing last week. Essentially, our primary elections signaled that the Democratic Socialists of America (DSA) are no longer flittering around like gnats at the political margins. They’re gathering in plague-sized formations and moving toward the center of the Democrat Party’s power.

For starters, and just to name a few, Abdul El-Sayed won the Democrat Party’s nomination for the U.S. Senate. No, El-Sayed doesn’t call himself a democratic socialist. However, the DSA supported his candidacy, and plenty of prominent DSA members appeared at his events and celebrated his victory as a win for the DSA movement. Search the name “Hasan Piker.” You’ll see. And, of course, it makes sense that guys like Piker would be there. El-Sayed shares Piker’s and the DSA’s platforms. His economic vocabulary and class analyses are indistinguishable from what the DSA is selling.

But El-Sayed wasn’t the only attention-getter last week. There are a few more names worth remembering.

William Lawrence, a progressive activist knee-deep in the socialist movement, won the Democrat Party’s nomination in Michigan’s 7th Congressional District. Donavan McKinney, a candidate formally endorsed by the DSA, defeated the incumbent Congressman Shri Thanedar. Yousef Rabhi, another DSA candidate, defeated Ann Arbor’s twelve-year incumbent mayor. And, of course, there’s Michigan Congresswoman Rashida Tlaib. She easily won her primary.

I did some digging on Friday. Interestingly, the DSA had a little more than 6,000 members in 2015. Just last month, the organization announced it had reached 120,000 members, making it the largest socialist organization in American history. And it seems to be picking up serious steam. Its candidates won races all over the country—places like New York, Pennsylvania, Colorado, Washington, and others. But here in Michigan, they did really well. They proved they’re not just a bunch of disenfranchised weirdos gathering in obscure spaces to argue over mimeographed manifestos. They’re also not a specter of campus curiosity inevitably destined to fade after graduation. It’s a movement. They’re actually out and around. They’re winning nominations and getting elected. Not only that, but they’re raking in cash from big donors. With that cash, they’re directing campaigns, staffing organizations, and, unfortunately, taking serious ground in American politics.

On one hand, I’m not surprised. Much to the American citizenry’s discredit, we exist in a perpetual “It’ll never happen” mode. That’s definitely true for many in the Church. “Gay marriage will never happen.” Then it did. “Transgenderism will never become mainstream.” Now gender confusion is an epidemic among children. Strangely, we tend not to believe the radicals when they tell us plainly what they intend to do. And then they do it, and it’s too late.

The DSA has told us what they intend to do—like, right on their website. Read for yourself. But here’s the thing. Its platform is more than the carrots of tax rates and wages and healthcare being dangled before the belly-serving masses. Socialism, as a system, reaches into religion, private property, education, medicine, marriage, sexuality, childhood, and pretty much everything relative to family life. It reaches into these places because its fundamental assumption is that every sphere of human existence answers to the state.

Now, keep in mind, while both are antichristian, there is a difference between Marxist socialism and regular socialism. Marxist socialism openly renounces and abolishes God, criminalizing religion altogether. Plain ol’ socialism—the kind sweeping across America this very minute—doesn’t abolish and replace God on day one. It simply begins the essential process leading to it, arriving and wearing a much friendlier face in the meantime. It talks about fairness and compassion. It’s likely you already know its most popular slogans: Diversity, equity, and inclusion! But in the end, socialism isn’t a different road than Marxism. It’s a catechetical increment of Marxism. It’s the first few miles of the same highway.

In other words, before socialism can become full-blown Marxism, it must first train people to accept the premise Marxism requires—which is that government should control more, and the individual should control less. From there, no sphere of life exists beyond the state’s reach. This includes the Church. Ultimately, this means plain socialism is not an alternative to Marxism. It’s the necessary stage that prepares a nation for it.

And so, regardless of a starry-eyed DSA member’s best intentions, and despite socialism’s countless other conflicts with Christianity, this is where the contradiction draws an absolute line in the sand for believers, even as I’ve so strangely heard the term “Christian socialist.” Plainly, a Christian who actually believes the inerrant, immutable, and inspired Word of God cannot embrace socialism without surrendering something essential to the one true faith.

Christianity confesses an authority above the state (Exodus 20:3). Socialism doesn’t.

So, again, while a socialist government may permit Christians, at least for a time, to gather, sing hymns, receive the Sacraments, and speak privately about Jesus, a telltale sign of its trajectory is its irritation when the Church steps into the public square, points at the state, calls it to task, and says, “You are not the highest authority. We must obey God rather than men” (Acts 5:29). Socialism won’t tolerate such things. And by the way, remember this key indicator when your pastor or Christian friend tongue-lashes you for offending the supposed Church and state divide, insisting that the Church must not engage in the political realm. Kindly remind them they’re aligning with one of the most basic socialist principles.

Christian engagement in the public square offends socialism in the worst way. It’s a stick in the spokes of the socialist machine because it understands and confesses biblical truths that the machine cannot accommodate. For example, it understands that the state doesn’t give children to parents. God does (Psalm 127:3). It confesses that the state doesn’t define marriage. God does (Genesis 2:24 and Matthew 19:4-6). It goes to the mat arguing that the state doesn’t create male and female. God does (Genesis 1:27). It will not back down from saying that the state doesn’t grant human life its value. God does (Psalm 139:13-16). And it would never agree that the state owns the fruits of a man’s labor. God gives property and commands its faithful use (Exodus 20:15 and Acts 5:4). These are all basic doctrines of the Christian faith.

For me, this is also where the biblical doctrine of the Two Kingdoms becomes essential. God established both Church and state, but He gave them different tasks. The Church makes Christians. It bears and brings Word and Sacrament ministry to a world in need of rescue. The state has no hand in this, except to say that it accommodates the Church by bearing the sword (Romans 13:4) to restrain evil and preserve civil order so that the Church can, as Saint Paul insists, “lead a peaceful and quiet life, godly and dignified in every way” (1 Timothy 1:2). He continues, telling us why it’s good for the government to maintain a civil context in which the Church remains unhindered in its task to preach and teach the full counsel of God’s Word: “This is good, and it is pleasing in the sight of God our Savior, who desires all people to be saved and to come to the knowledge of the truth” (vv. 3-4).

The Two Kingdoms (separation of Church and state) doctrine does not silence the Church in the public square. On the contrary, it reveals the cooperative nature of the two in its cleanest form. But more importantly, it absolutely requires the Church to be ready and willing to push back hard against Caesar when he crosses boundaries God has established.

The state has a divinely ordained purpose (Matthew 22:21). But when it claims authority over every sphere of life, demanding in these spheres what only God is owed—which socialism clearly does—the Church must answer as it always has.

Caesar is not Lord. Jesus is.

Pleading the Fifth. Oh, the Irony.

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As you can see, this message—which I normally write and send on Sunday morning—is arriving a few days early. I’m leaving for the west side of Michigan tomorrow morning and won’t be back until Sunday evening. For anyone who cares, Jen and I plan to attend worship at Our Savior Lutheran Church in Grand Rapids. Maybe we’ll see you there. By the way, it’s not like I won’t have internet access. I will. It’s just that I’m not one to log into my online accounts using hotel Wi-Fi. So, I figured I’d just send something along today.

I suppose the obvious thing worth talking about is the Fauci hearing that happened yesterday. Did you watch any of it? I had it on while I was in my office. But I mostly listened to it while I was out and around. Admittedly, I found myself becoming uncomfortably angry, more so while watching than listening. And why? Because there Fauci sat beneath the Senate hearing room’s lights, confronted with this exhibit and that exhibit—all the facts—the documents, diary entries, prior testimony, and obvious contradictions in the record. Through all of it, Fauci remained relatively stoic, offering the same answer over and over again:

“On the advice of counsel, I respectfully decline to answer based upon my rights under the Fifth Amendment to the Constitution.”

Apart from being sworn in, this was the only thing he said throughout the entire hearing. It was his answer to every question, even those intended to expose the absurdity of his refusal, such as what day it was or what color the floor was. Interestingly, Fauci told CNN during an interview back in 2022 he would be “very happy to testify before any congressional oversight committee.” He insisted that he had “nothing to hide,” could “explain and validate everything” he had done, and would “cooperate fully.” Apparently, that willingness expired yesterday. I read that he invoked the Fifth Amendment 111 times. It felt more like a thousand to me.

Now, before I go any further, I’m going to offer the only qualifying statement I think Dr. Anthony Fauci deserves. (Eh-hem. That’s me clearing my throat.) Invoking the Fifth Amendment is not legal proof of guilt. The right against self-incrimination belongs to every American. It belongs to the innocent. It also belongs to the guilty.

There. Now to the obvious.

Yes, the Fifth Amendment is a shield against compelled self-incrimination. But I appreciate what Senator Rand Paul pointed out at the beginning of the hearing. The Fifth Amendment doesn’t erase facts. It doesn’t erase recorded testimony. It doesn’t erase the exhibits sitting on the table right in front of Fauci during the hearing. I would add that it also doesn’t certify a man’s level of honesty. It most certainly doesn’t require any onlooking American to pretend they cannot see what they’re seeing. It doesn’t require us to ignore why the Fifth Amendment shield is being raised. That’s because it also doesn’t erase common sense or basic human discernment.

Quite simply, to any normal human being, a man who repeatedly refuses to reconcile documentary evidence with countless statements he’s already previously made under oath doesn’t imply innocence. It suggests guilt. Again, any normal, thinking human being knows this. The logic plainly suggests that when Fauci won’t even acknowledge what he has already confidently acknowledged in the past, the visual here becomes that he was lying before, and now, he fears where admitting to what he previously said might lead.

Unfortunately for Fauci, with each invocation, the spectacle only got worse. And regardless of the Democrat committee members who attempted to run a block for Fauci by misdirecting the hearing’s aim with wild tangents, all the normal people watching knew that while Fauci kept silent, the evidence was talking. The documents were talking. His diary was talking. His previous testimony was talking.

Now, add the pardon to the calculus. Biden (purportedly) gave Fauci an unprecedented presidential pardon. It’s unprecedented because it was extraordinarily broad, covering all offenses related to anything he did between January 1, 2014, and January 19, 2025. It’s also unprecedented because it was preemptive. By definition, the word “pardon” requires an offense that needs forgiving. And so, pardons are ordinarily given after someone has been convicted. But Fauci was never charged for anything, much less convicted. So, why did he need a pardon?

That makes all of this look even worse.

Personally, I think Fauci made a mistake by accepting the pardon. Whatever legal protection it provided, it also created the unmistakable impression that he needed protection from something. Now, with the documentary record already contradicting so much of what he has said, every substantive answer risks exposing him further. And so, all he can really do is drone on and on from behind the Fifth Amendment to keep from colliding with evidence that already suggests conduct serious enough to warrant presidential pardon-level protection.

But regardless of Fauci’s tap dancing, I’m guessing most Americans can see right through it. Most Christians I know certainly can. But then again, Saint Paul instructs us to “test everything” and “hold fast what is good” (1 Thessalonians 5:21). That means, innately, we’re not required to surrender our God-given reasoning merely because an authority pleads the Fifth confidently. In the end, when testimony contradicts documents, and today’s claims contradict yesterday’s, recognizing the contradiction is not uncharitable. It’s Godly discernment. Discernment already knows that Fauci’s unprecedented pardon cannot protect him from perjury committed during a Senate hearing held on July 29, 2026. Fauci knows this, too. He knows Wednesday’s words create Wednesday’s liability. And so, he’s pleading the Fifth Amendment to keep from being convicted for previous lies spoken under oath.

It angers me to see him use the law to get away with all this. But until someone offers a lawful workaround, I’m more interested in the glaring irony hovering like a fog above all of this.

Set aside everything else that was said in the hearing and remember that no one present argued against Fauci being the architect for the COVID response. The Republicans criticized him for it. The Democrats praised him, calling him a hero. And yet, both agreed he was responsible for the framework that ultimately suspended the constitutional rights of hundreds of millions of Americans.

Of course, he didn’t design every community’s procedure. He didn’t need to sign every closure order. He didn’t need to lock every church door personally. The architect doesn’t need to swing the hammers on the job site. There were plenty in government in every community ready to swing hammers for him. The point is that his pronouncements and nearly omnipresent authority in all things COVID-related supplied the moral, scientific, and governmental cover for those people to do what they did.

2020 wasn’t that long ago. I remember all of it. I remember even the littlest things—like being shamed by a church member for posting a video showing how smoke particles, which are bigger than COVID, moved right through the masks Fauci was demanding we wear. I remember when I heard about a surfer in California, the only guy on the beach, who was arrested for being out on the waves during the lockdowns—and the horror!—he was on his board at an empty beach without a mask! I remember how Parks Departments around the country put makeshift wooden caps on outdoor basketball hoops to keep anyone from using them. I remember how so many businesses here in Michigan went bankrupt while establishments that performed abortions, sold liquor and lottery tickets, or in some way kept state revenue flowing were deemed essential. I remember how the government strangled religious liberty. I remember how unelected officials appointed to health department boards somehow presumed to decide that the preaching of God’s Word, the reception of the Sacrament, and the consolation of fellow believers was non-essential. I remember how churches were labeled super-spreaders and how Christians were forbidden from gathering for public worship. I remember how countless clergy stood in empty naves and sanctuaries preaching into cameras.

Unfortunately, I also remember how easily so many pastors and churches went along with this nonsense. I remember how more than a year past the lockdowns, at least 40% of Michigan’s churches were still closed, and how for many that were open, they still refused to admit Christians to worship without a mask. No mask, no entry. I remember how they called this love for the neighbor. Candidly, it deserved, and still deserves, another name: heresy. Any church that imposed a human rule barring believers from the in-person preaching of God’s Word and the reception of His gifts crossed an uncrossable line. They obstructed the First Table of God’s Law—the command to love God with all one’s heart, soul, mind, and strength (Commandments 1 through 3)—while pretending to uphold the Second Table’s command to love the neighbor (Commandments 4 through 10).

But Romans 13! But Dr. Fauci and the CDC!

Despicable heresy.

Beyond even these dreadfulnesses, don’t forget that Fauci’s framework and influence also kept families from elderly parents and grandparents dying in nursing homes. Forbidden from entering, they could only press their hands against windows while their loved ones died without familiar voices, a pastor’s prayers, or the touch of someone who loved them. And then those same families were obliterated by ideology. They argued over masks, vaccines, travel, holidays, and whether grandparents could hold their grandchildren. Here in Michigan, Governor Whitmer offered incentives that encouraged neighbors to report one another. We were “loving thy neighbor” when we regarded one another as biological threats and reported those not wearing masks or sitting within six feet of others at Thanksgiving dinner.

And have we forgotten Fauci’s recommendations for schools? Have we forgotten the generation of children who spent their formative years behind masks, never once receiving a hug from their teacher or seeing that same teacher smile? Countless struggled through remote classrooms well into the 2020-21 school year while school administrators pretended that a glowing rectangle was an adequate substitute for human presence. In our school here at Our Savior in Hartland, we kept the masks off, preserved the classroom as a place of genuine human contact, and refused to teach children that every face, breath, and touch was a threat. Interestingly, we were fine. No one got sick. And no one died. Of course, we had to deal with threats from local health officials on occasion. Still, the gratitude of our parents was overwhelming. Again and again, they thanked us for allowing their children to remain children.

Unfortunately for too many school communities around us, anxiety and depression only deepened. It’s also no surprise that suicide rates went through the roof nationally. The children were taught to fear everything—faces, voices, touch, singing, playgrounds, classrooms, and one another. Then the adults who taught them these things acted surprised when loneliness and despair flourished.

I could go on and on about everything I remember. I certainly did back when it was all happening. In the meantime, the point here is that Fauci openly and regularly defended stripping so many rights away, and he did so with the language of necessity. America’s constitutional rights had to yield. Questions had to wait. Dissent was dangerous, and opposing speech was villainized and punished. But obedience was called compassion. All the while, those being crushed beneath the rules were expected to accept that Fauci and his experts were doing what was best because they simply knew better. “Trust the science” gradually began to exclude a person’s right to examine the evidence, and instead began to mean, “Do what you’re told.”

The irony here is that now, suddenly, Anthony Fauci is quite fond of the Constitution’s protections. Now he wants its shelter from those in power sitting before him in the hearing. He wants the Fifth Amendment’s centuries-old insistence that the state may not compel a man to furnish his own harm. He wants precisely the kind of constitutional protection that the rest of us—the ordinary Americans—were told was reckless, selfish, and uncaring.

Fauci is entitled to invoke the Fifth Amendment. But he and his lawyer are fooling themselves if they think the revoltingly obvious disparity is going unnoticed. When Americans pleaded for their constitutional rights, Fauci’s answer was effectively, “Obey.” But when Anthony Fauci fears for his untouchable status, his answer is immediately, “I have rights.” The Constitution, it seems, was negotiable when it stood between the government and ordinary folks. It became sacred the moment Anthony Fauci needed it personally.

I’ve already gone on long enough, which I freely admit happens sometimes. I suppose I’ll simply return to where I started. I began by saying the more Fauci repeated his Fifth Amendment statement, the angrier I got. But here’s the thing. It’s okay to be angry. Saint Paul says pretty plainly, “Be angry” (Ephesians 4:26). Of course, the whole verse is, “Be angry and do not sin.” That means we can be angry, but we ought not let the anger steer us, dominating our every action or emotion, even when it seems like the villain is getting away with murder. Our anger must lead us into faithfulness. That means speaking the truth, maybe even disobeying the government sometimes to resist evil, seeking justice, and praying for an evil doer’s repentance. It may even mean trusting that when Fauci ultimately gets off scot-free—which he probably will—the One who comes again in glory to judge both the living and the dead, Jesus Christ, will do so in perfect righteousness.

Men may conceal the truth, governments may abuse their authority, and earthly justice may arrive slowly or not at all. Nevertheless, Christ is still in charge. Nothing is hidden from Him. The Constitution may or may not actually restrain rulers. Strangely, in this circumstance, it may even protect someone who appears worthy of what happened at Nuremberg. But in the end, it’s Christ—not Fauci, not the government, and not the spirit of the age—who will have the last word. I’m counting on it. I hope you are, too.

Politics = Unavoidable

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The 69th Regular Convention of The Lutheran Church—Missouri Synod gathered in downtown Phoenix last week. Delegates worshiped, elected officers, considered resolutions, debated amendments, called questions, cast votes, and did all sorts of parliamentary things you’d expect at a convention.

I did not attend. I watched closely from afar. Very closely. And I stayed in close contact with various folks on the floor. Quite a few, in fact. So many, I spent most of last week doing things I absolutely despise: texting and private messaging.

That said, and regardless of anyone’s relationship with my denomination, I suppose what I want to say this morning crosses all denominational lines. Essentially, even as so many of the usual suspects did all they could to insist that the LCMS’s churchly proceedings were somehow above or insulated from the politics of the civil realm, I can promise you that the event was political from the moment the first delegate arrived.

I know right away that using the word “politics” makes some Christians, especially Lutherans, uncomfortable. Politics has become a word that people use when they want to end a conversation. A pastor—or even a pew-sitting Christian—addresses abortion, marriage, education, sexuality, religious liberty, crime, or whatever from the Christian perspective and someone complains that they’re “getting too political.” Even some Christians are quick to respond in this way. I heard pastors actually say that kind of stuff from the convention’s floor microphones.

It’s no wonder that after my online commentary concerning an amendment that would add Charlie Kirk’s name to a resolution—an amendment that was voted down—I received no small number of Lutherans telling me that the Church and politics must never mix. Like, at all. Some, just to stick the knife a little deeper into the apparent loss, expressed a sarcastic sadness that the Charlie Kirk amendment was only voted down by a slim margin rather than unanimously rejected by all. Others spoke out, saying that if the LCMS ever started speaking directly into the political sphere, they’d leave the fellowship.

Curiously, a handful of the objections came pre-wrapped in assurances that the speakers appreciated Charlie and even agreed with much of his politics. They simply did not want the Church to say his name.

For the record, all of these responses are typical of the “absolute separationist” personality. An absolute separationist believes the Church should remain entirely removed from political questions and public affairs, leaving such matters entirely to civil institutions. Of course, these folks tend to insulate their real reasoning with statements like, “A Church engaged in politics is in jeopardy of losing its actual mission.”

That certainly sounds virtuous—that is, until you actually try to live beneath absolute separationism’s maxim.

By definition, politics is the ordering of our common life in this world. It concerns authority, law, justice, public responsibility, institutions, and the decisions that determine how people exist in community together. If politics is entirely removed from the Church’s calculations (as absolute separationism hopes to achieve), then the Church makes a dangerous assumption about Christian life in a world whose hostility toward the Gospel is hardly theoretical. A Church operating beneath that assumption pretends that laws, institutions, and public decisions exert no pressure upon her mission or determine how openly she may carry it out.

And so, I return to what I said at the beginning, which was that the LCMS convention last week stood in politics’ shadow before anyone stepped to a microphone, whether the separationists are willing to admit it or not.

For starters, the convention met in the Phoenix Convention Center, a facility operated as part of the government of the City of Phoenix and supported by public tax dollars. In fact, I learned on Friday morning that the city maintains an actual convention-center department. It negotiates contracts and regulates the building’s usage. And beyond the facility itself, don’t forget everything else the local government provided. Police and emergency personnel stood ready. Roads, airports, public transportation, utilities, parking structures, and all kinds of civil mechanisms carried anyone and everyone associated with the event into and through to its conclusion.

All of this is political stuff, and it made the LCMS convention possible.

But what if different political winds were blowing and no Christians were present in the public square to represent the Church? What if all Christians suddenly embraced the absolute separationist ideology that the Church ought not mingle in politics or represent its concerns there? A local government could become overtly hostile to Christianity and refuse the rental contract. It could prohibit the Synod’s teaching about marriage or human sexuality. It could declare portions of God’s Word discriminatory. It could censor convention publications, arrest speakers, restrict travel, seize property, or surround the building with armed men.

“That’s ridiculous, Reverend,” you say. Tell that to Päivi Räsänen. Finland’s Supreme Court convicted her over the continued publication of a church pamphlet addressing marriage and sexual ethics. I just read last week how she’s prohibited from even visiting certain countries. Political hostility to Christian teaching is hardly a hypothetical exercise.

“But the Church can continue with or without a convention or a convention center.”

Yes, Christ has promised that much. And yet, the point is relatively simple. Good or bad, politics is, in truth, an “unavoidable” that determines a great many things. In a way, the LCMS acknowledged the unavoidable nature of politics when it adopted the resolution titled “To Condemn Political Violence and Encourage Participation in Public Life.”

So many wanted Charlie’s name erased from the resolution lest the LCMS dabble in politics. Even as I might have cried, I laughed instead. The title itself tells you everything you need to know. Its thrust is toward and into politics. It announces that politics has the potential for truly dreadful behavior. And while the LCMS initially embarrassed itself by voting down a relatively microscopic amendment to at least name the man who inspired the resolution—Charlie Kirk—still, whatever reasons the nays may have offered, their votes could not erase what the resolution itself admitted. They unwittingly acknowledged that evil politics—politics left unchecked against God’s established moral order—empowers the wicked. It creates widows. It creates orphans. It creates fearful communities.

Thankfully, Charlie Kirk understood that Christians cannot abandon the public square. He spent his life urging believers to speak, organize, vote, persuade, and refuse the lie that separationism leading to political silence is somehow a higher form of faithfulness to Christ. It isn’t. And a voting delegate who refuses to admit this, especially when it comes to what happened to Charlie, has already somehow missed the fact that the Fifth Commandment just walked into the room. Martyrdom or not, God forbids murder, including the assassination of people because of their political views. And yet, who enforces the restriction? The Church? The Church names the sin and forms the conscience. But the magistrate restrains the murderer and bears the sword. The same commandment lives in both spheres of Church and state.

The same is true of nearly every modern political question. Before any of them became political, they were already Christological. Life, marriage, authority, justice, truth, mercy—they all belong to Christ before any legislature, court, party, or candidate could take them up. Christ owns the whole world, and His people have no reason to surrender any part of it as though it were outside His authority or beyond the reach of Christian vocation.

I’ve said it a thousand times, and I’ll keep on saying it: Caesar doesn’t somehow take ownership of something just by placing it on a ballot or talking about it during a legislative session.

And one more quick thing.

Lutherans should know this better than anyone else because Lutherans already possess a theological vocabulary capable of handling it. We are inheritors of Luther’s Two Kingdoms doctrine, which, of course, he lifted straight from God’s Word. We own the church-and-state framework that even the Founding Fathers commended as the best extrapolation of the concept.

As Lutherans, we confess that God rules through two kingdoms. Through the right-hand kingdom, He establishes and ordains His Church to preach and teach the Gospel, forgive sins, gather His people, and create faith. Through the left-hand kingdom, God establishes and ordains earthly government to restrain evil, preserve order, punish wrongdoing, and protect earthly life. The distinction preserves the Gospel from coercion. It also prevents civil government from pretending it plays a role in saving souls.

But nowhere in this biblical distinction is Christianity removed from public life. Rather, the Bible, and therefore the Two Kingdoms doctrine, teaches that Christians live under both kingdoms at the same time. It also teaches that they often interact with one another, accommodating and upholding each other in certain ways, each helping the other maintain its divinely ordained purpose.

I already pointed out the convention itself was an example of how the left-hand kingdom touches the right-hand kingdom. In other words, the Church cannot avoid dealing in political things. But even with that example, I don’t just mean that she must deal in legal contracts and pay taxes for this or that. I don’t even mean she must occasionally push back when laws threaten life, redefine marriage, corrupt children, punish Christian confession, or reward wickedness. I mean she must already be active in holding the civil government to its ordination. She must already have a hand in shaping the entirety of the political landscape. She doesn’t do this to make the government a theocracy. We are not Dominionists. Ultimately, she does it to preserve a society that supports her purpose. She must be allowed to preach and teach the Gospel unhindered.

To do this, at a minimum, the Church must carry political things to her people. She must teach her people about the issues and how to engage faithfully with them in the civil realm.

For as much as the absolute separationists would hope, the two kingdoms are never completely sealed away from one another. And to believe otherwise—to pretend politics does not intersect with the Church or that it is someone else’s or another institution’s sole concern—is to miss the fact that politics has already entered the sanctuary, the home, the school, and the lives of God’s people. And a pastor’s silence relative to politics doesn’t safeguard the Christians in his care. It simply allows Christians to receive their teaching from another source. And trust me. The world has a truckload of catechists vying for the opportunity. The world is more than happy to teach Christians what they should believe about life, gender, morality, justice, freedom, and all kinds of other topics deemed too political by some.

Now, I’ve already gone on long enough. But before I finish, no, the Church must never become an auxiliary of a political party. I’m not arguing for that, and I don’t know any confessional Lutherans who are. Admittedly, too many in mainstream evangelicalism do drift wildly in that direction. But regardless of what you’ve heard about Charlie Kirk, I know for a fact that was not his argument. He did not believe that the Church should surrender her doctrine, worship, or mission to a political party. He simply urged Christians to bring their faith into public life, and then he demonstrated it.

I suppose I’m compelled to clarify this, not only because I knew Charlie, but because the warnings raised against naming him at my own denomination’s convention—that doing so might make the LCMS look as though it officially endorsed one party over another—were wildly misinformed opinions likely learned from very bad sources. In short, they pinned Charlie to a position he didn’t hold.

Actually, I guess maybe I’m not done yet. Forget about the Dominionists in mainstream evangelicalism for a second. I know plenty in the LCMS who go in the extreme opposite direction, treating political withdrawal as though it were the quintessential mark of confessional purity. Interestingly, some of the delegates who resisted naming him seemed to think they had insulated themselves from this criticism by first offering a testimonial. They appreciated Charlie Kirk. They agreed with much of his politics. Some even admired his courage. Then came the ecclesiastical disclaimer: his name still had no place in the Church’s mouth. It was the familiar rhetorical maneuver by which someone cites a favorable association as proof that the conduct now under examination cannot possibly mean what it plainly means.

Yes, the Church’s proclamation belongs to Christ alone. Her sacraments belong to Christ. Her hope rests in the resurrection of Christ. But you’ll never convince me that politics exists beyond the Church’s concern, especially when her members still live in cities, counties, states, and nations. Laws govern them. Their children attend schools shaped by elected boards. Their livelihoods are affected by public policy. Their church properties depend upon civil protections. Their unborn children live or die under political decisions. Their freedom to confess Christ publicly can expand or contract according to the people elected to office.

As I told someone very plainly yesterday on the phone, no, politics will never save the Church. But only a fool would believe that the Church’s absolute retreat from politics doesn’t somehow give the state the room to build the machinery by which the Church is persecuted.

The Furnace

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Actor Neal McDonough will speak at our “The Body of Christ and the Public Square” conference this fall. I must say I’m genuinely excited to welcome someone who has spent decades working successfully in Hollywood without compromising his Christian faith or his conservative convictions.

Folks closest to me know I have long wanted our conference to feature someone active in the entertainment industry who can speak honestly about what it means to remain faithful while immersed in a world that, for the most part, is opposed to Christianity. I’ve said before that when it comes to persecuting the Christian faith, Hollywood shares a lot in common with Nebuchadnezzar’s fiery furnace.

So far, as a writer who has bumped into Hollywood, my experience has been relatively good. That said, I’ve also learned from those in the know that it’ll take very little of my confessional Lutheranism or conservative leanings to see it come undone. The furnace’s flames are definitely there. They come through contracts, casting decisions, lost opportunities, ridicule, and the quiet warning that life would be easier if one would simply stop being so serious about what he believes. Interestingly, it seems the pressure is rarely presented as a demand to deny Christ outright. More often, it’s an invitation to sacrifice just enough to remain welcome.

That’s what makes Neal McDonough’s story so valuable. Of course, like everyone else in the world, he’s had his troubles. If I recall correctly, he struggled with alcoholism. However, unlike so many others in Hollywood, Neal hasn’t moved from marriage to marriage. He’s been married to his wife, Ruvé, for nearly twenty-three years. A strong marriage was essential to his survival. When he struggled, she was there. And he was there for her. With that, they’ve raised five children together, and he has been remarkably public about the boundaries he maintains to protect his marriage. Among them is his longstanding refusal to kiss another woman on screen who isn’t Ruvé, let alone participate in sex scenes.

Compared to so many others in Hollywood, he holds a hard line on things like that. One would think he’d be considered honorable for it. And yet, the decision has cost him.

Watch one of his interviews. Or read some of the articles about him—especially the ones that lean toward ridiculing him. You’ll learn that he has, indeed, been pushed aside, ultimately losing work, because he wouldn’t cross the lines his Christian conscience has drawn. He has also acknowledged that his personal restrictions probably explain why he has so often been cast as a villain rather than a leading man. It’s not that he couldn’t fit the role. It’s just that Hollywood doesn’t really care if the villain gets a leading lady. The villain is there for the audience to hate. The villain is only there to challenge the seemingly better man, the one who saves the girl, and then, as a reward, gets to sleep with her. Although I suspect most moviegoers don’t even pick up on that distinction. Most audiences have been conditioned beyond the ability to imagine a leading man who believes that sexual fidelity is as important as stopping the villain.

Now, think about that.

In an industry that celebrates nearly every imaginable boundary being broken, one of the truly rebellious acts by comparison is a husband refusing to pretend that his wedding vows have an “except while filming” clause.

Neal is probably right about such convictions having cost him roles, a whole lot of money, and the professional standing that comes with all of it. Still, he pushed through and remained in the industry. He didn’t retreat into silence. He certainly didn’t accept the premise that success required surrender. He found ways to work within his convictions, and the Lord has blessed him with A-list success.

Considering our forthcoming conference, that’s precisely the kind of encouragement our attendees need as we consider our own levels of engagement with the world around us.

For Neal—a man working in one of the most challenging fields for Christians—the answer has not been withdrawal. It hasn’t been accommodation, either. Thankfully, he knew the dangers of those actions early on. He knew that faithfulness often meant being called to enter difficult places without allowing those places to enter him. As it meets with our efforts, Neal will be a great addition to our lineup because our primary purpose is to teach that the public square doesn’t need Christians who have mastered the art of blending in. It needs Christians who know how to be who they are in Christ while holding the line.

Neal can help us understand what that looks like in a unique way, one that deals with real-world consequences. He can speak from the position of his career being at stake. He can talk about what it means to protect a marriage in a culture increasingly hostile to marital fidelity.

Again, Nebuchadnezzar’s fiery furnace comes to mind. Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego didn’t survive the heat because they found a way to compromise with it. They survived because, while refusing to bow to Nebuchadnezzar’s lies, the God in whom they’d placed all their trust preserved them. They didn’t know if He would act to preserve their earthly lives. They said as much before the guards threw them into the flames. Still, they knew God was faithful and that He would keep them for eternity. Trusting Him, they refused to compromise.

I often say that the Good Samaritan story is the account of our age. Perhaps the account of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego is a better fit. Of course, most folks reading this will never stand on a Hollywood set. Most will never face a studio executive or watch opportunities disappear because of Christian or conservative conviction. As I said, I’m a little closer to these things lately, and at the same time, I’m fully prepared for it to unravel.  So far, so good. In the meantime, most of our furnaces look more like classrooms, businesses, courtrooms, congregations, family gatherings, and a host of other settings.

But the thing is, no matter the setting, the challenge and its temptations remain. Bow just a little. Keep your head down. Stay quiet. Chalk it up as wisdom when you compromise this or that part of the Christian faith. Convince yourself there’ll be time for faithfulness soon enough. Until then, let the danger pass.

I admire Neal. I’m glad he’ll be with us. He’s a crisp example that you don’t have to win the rooms you’re in. But faithfulness is essential while you’re in them.

As we prepare for this fall’s conference on October 3, my hope is that Neal’s words will encourage everyone in attendance to enter everyday life with courage. As it meets with Christian conviction, I can assure you that the world doesn’t need a quieter Church. It certainly doesn’t need a Church that spends itself to blend in, doing everything it can to look and act like the world around it.

The world needs a Church that’s holy—set apart and standing out as immovably distinct. Simply put, it needs the faithful Bride of Christ, a body of believers who know all too well that the furnace is already burning, and yet, regardless of the world’s threats, they have no intention of bending the knee in adoration to anyone but the divine Groom, Jesus Christ.