Tag Archives: word of god

Prove It

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It’s right around this time each year that I’m reminded that my favorite of the Lord’s Apostles is Thomas. It’s not because the name Thomas is the patronymic origin for my own last name, which can be traced as far back in Germany as the 1250s. Instead, like Thomas, from among the twelve, I want to be the one who, even if foolishly misguided, along the way, demanded the real Jesus, the once dead but now alive Savior with scars.

I want to be bold enough in every crowd I occupy to demand that Christ do what He promised He’d do.

Still, Thomas has gained the descriptive prefix “Doubting.” Doubt is a tricky thing. Some theologians say doubt was the first sin committed in Eden. Maybe doubt is the word that describes what happened. I tend to think it was more than that. I think by the Devil’s line of questioning, he went straight for the jugular of faith, ultimately stirring absolute mistrust. “You will not surely die,” the Devil replied to Eve. “For God knows that when you eat of it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil” (Genesis 3:4-5). This was the Devil’s way of saying, “Not only did God lie to you, but He’s hiding something from you, too.” Eve unhesitatingly believed this and went straight to dining on the fruit. Adam, who was with her, did the same (v. 6).

I could be wrong, but I think mistrust and doubt are two very different things. This reminds me of a quotation I shared in my dissertation, having first shared it during a discussion with one of the pastors participating in my doctoral research. David Mills, a former editor for Touchstone magazine, once maintained:

“In the same way, ‘permissiveness’ is a very different thing from ‘licentiousness.’ The first means relaxing the rules too much, the other means actions characterized by license and lawlessness, and usually in a lewd, lustful, and dissolute way. They are not even close to the same thing…. The ideas are related but they are not the same. One cannot do the work of the other. You might as well, in a professional baseball game, send in Barry Manilow to replace Barry Bonds, because they are both rich, famous, talented men named Barry.”

In the same way, mistrust and doubt “are related but they are not the same.” Mistrust is the demonstration of a complete lack of confidence. It establishes plainly that a person is not trustworthy, and then goes no further except to act contrarily to the untrustworthy person. Doubt, while not necessarily a good thing, often makes demands before becoming mistrust. Its first vocalized insistence will likely be, “Prove it.”

That’s precisely what Thomas did. He wanted proof. Interestingly, he wanted the same proof Jesus promised He’d give. Even better, he was willing to go further. He didn’t remain apart from the other disciples but instead returned at their pleading to join with them in the upper room. That’s not mistrust. That’s a willingness to be convinced coupled with concrete expectations. He’s in a middle space between belief and unbelief, trust and mistrust.

Still, and as I hinted before, the middle space can be a dangerous place. In this circumstance, it could lead to mistrust. Jesus knew this. In fact, He acknowledged this hazardous progression when He said to Thomas, “Put your finger here, and see my hands; and put out your hand, and place it in my side. Do not disbelieve, but believe” (John 20:27). In the English, it sounds like Jesus said he was disbelieving. In the original Greek, the Lord’s words “Do not disbelieve, but believe” are more pivotal. The verb γίνου is in there. It means “to come into being, to happen, to become.” It presents the possibility of a change in location relative to one’s position. In other words, Jesus’ literal words were, “Do not become untrusting but become trusting [μὴ γίνου ἄπιστος ἀλλὰ πιστός].”

And then Thomas’ words, “My Lord and my God!” These are some of the most beautiful in all of the scriptures.

Samuel Johnson once said, “Nothing will ever be attempted if all possible objections must first be overcome.” I share these words only because they acknowledge the tension that exists between doubt and trust. That said, Jesus acknowledged the tension first and in a far better way.

The scene with Thomas ended with the Lord speaking somewhat rhetorically. His words may even have stung Thomas a little. “Have you believed because you have seen me?” the Lord asked. “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed” (v. 29).

On second thought, if the Lord’s words were stinging, I’ll bet the sting didn’t last long. Jesus wasn’t wholly directing them at Thomas. According to this particular Gospel’s author, John, they were aimed at us (John 20:31). And if this is true, then they’re encouraging, not indicting. They point to the blessed nature of faith. They’re meant to remind us that even as we won’t experience the exact proofs that Thomas was given, in the end, faith doesn’t require physical proof to overcome every possible objection or tension, just as Samuel Johnson described. Faith knows without seeing. It can believe without feeling or experiencing. This is true because its assurance is from another sphere altogether. It is convinced by something far more powerful than what the human senses could ever grasp (Hebrews 11:1). That something, or better said, someone, is the Holy Spirit—God, Himself—at work in the believer. Christians are made by the power of the Holy Spirit at work through the Gospel in both its verbal and visible forms—Word and Sacrament. But Christians aren’t just made. They’re endowed with that which helps them hold on when there doesn’t seem to be anything to hold onto. In those moments, they’re equipped to say to the world’s imposing accusations, “Prove it,” all the while knowing that sufficient proof for measuring all things is always available in the most trustworthy of all locales, God’s Word (2 Peter 1:12-21), just as the Lord promised (John 5:24).

For a Christian to say, “Prove it,” and then look to the Word of God for what’s needed, in a way, is the same as Thomas expecting to meet only with the real Jesus. Indeed, Jesus is the Word made flesh.

The Name Above All Names

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He is risen! He is risen, indeed! Alleluia!

I don’t have to tell you who the pronoun “He” is referring to in those traditional Easter acclamations. You know His name. He’s Jesus, the King of kings and the Lord of lords. He was dead and is now alive, owning the name that is above every name. Every knee in heaven and on earth and under the earth will one day bow in absolute reverence to this name, whether it’s the knee of a believer or unbeliever, friend or foe (Philippians 2:9-10).

This cosmos-encompassing event Saint Paul describes will happen in the flesh. The Lord’s resurrection has sealed its certainty (Job 19-25-27; 1 Corinthians 15:42-56). This final veneration will not be a commemorative act, one performed in memory of an exceptional individual who once was but is no more. It won’t be an act of devotion recalling a person indispensable to history but nevertheless long dead and buried. Graveyards are filled with the forgotten. Even the greatest are little more than “comets of a season,” Lord Byron would say. “The glory and then nothing of a name.”

And yet, Jesus, the One bearing the name above all names, His grave was a blink. He could not own one for long. Although I suppose if owning the grave means besting the sinister powers of sin and death that give a grave its claim, He certainly holds these powers’ enduring titles (1 Corinthians 15:55-57). He owns them as a superior champion owns a weaker opponent. They came for Him. They were strong. But they approached Him in bold assumption and were met by an ugly fact. “No one takes my life from me,” Jesus said, “but I lay it down of my own accord. I have authority to lay it down, and I have authority to take it up again” (John 10:18). “Now is the judgment of this world,” the Lord added, “now will the ruler of this world be cast out” (John 12:31). Indeed, and amen! His resurrection is the proof that His words were not empty. He’s alive, and if this is true, then even these darkly powers will be forced to their knees at this world’s final hour. They will coalesce from their formlessness in humble reverence for the One who is no longer the suffering servant but the Pantocrator—the ruler of all things created and uncreated.

Admittedly, the Lord’s work was not easy. The combat was stupendous, just as the lovely Victimae Paschali sings (LSB 460). But the good news remains as plainly splendid as it is plentiful. His foes were too weak. They lost everything, and their consequence was sealed for the great and final day.

In the meantime of eternity, to the victor goes the spoils. Among the prizes, to the Champion the most precious: us! He won us! And now, by the power of the Holy Spirit for faith, to be with Jesus is a believer’s forever. The grave is not our end. He filled in its gaping chasm. The devil cannot accuse us. He has been debarked. Death cannot consume us. It was defanged. And now, we are the Lord’s own, and we will be raised and adorned in bodies “like his glorious body, by the power that enables him even to subject all things to himself” (Philippians 3:21)!

Immersed in this joyful news, may your celebration of Easter be wonderfully full-throated as you call out to this conquered and whimpering world, “He is risen! He is risen, indeed! Alleluia!”

All For You

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Today is the Friday that, for centuries, the Church has called “good.” It is a strange designation, and yet, most appropriate. Without it, what hope against Sin, Death, and Satan would there be?

I’d say, “The Good Friday hour is upon us,” if that were sufficient. But it isn’t. It’s better to say, “The hours are upon us.” This is to say that the Lord’s death for mankind’s sin wasn’t swift. It didn’t happen in a flash. It didn’t come peacefully during sleep. It was preceded by ethereal misery.

When the Lord submitted Himself to the Devil’s viciousness, saying, “Now is your hour” (John 22:53a), and then allowed the fullness of Sin’s curse to crush Him, adding, “and the power of darkness” (v. 53b), unspeakable suffering began. There are no words to describe it. Which is why the Gospel writers really don’t even try. Like emotionless correspondents, they report the events. They speak simply.

For scope, Mark’s Gospel tells us the betrayal in Gethsemane occurred at midnight. That’s when it began. Beyond Gethsemane, Mark records:

“Then some of them began to spit on him; they blindfolded him, struck him, and said to him, ‘Prophesy to us, O Christ, who is it that struck you?’ The guards beat him…” (Mark 14:65).

All the inspired writers tell you these kinds of things. Within the limitations of human language, they present unfathomable cruelty in the plainest details.

“Then Pilate took Jesus and had him flogged” (John 19:1).

They don’t describe the event’s flaying nature. They don’t share the supernatural turmoil—the unseen grappling, the invisible but slicing dreadfulness occurring as the unholy trinity of Sin, Death, and Satan meet with God’s own flesh.

“When [the soldiers] had woven a crown of thorns, they put it on his head and a reed in his right hand, and they knelt before him and mocked him…. They spat on him and took the reed and struck him on the head” (Matthew 27:29-30).

The hours go on. Things get worse. But the writers scribble dryly. They don’t describe the bruising, the torn flesh, the streaming blood that pools whenever and wherever the Lord might stop to rest. Instead, He receives His cross and continues on.

“Carrying his own cross, he went out of the city to a place called Skull Hill, in Hebrew, Golgotha” (John 19:17).

The following is peculiar:

“As they led him away, they laid hold of Simon of Cyrene, the father of Alexander and Rufus, who was coming in from the country. On him they laid the cross that he might bear it after Jesus” (Mark 15:21).

Has the visible and invisible cruelty become too much for even the unholy trinity and its agents to stomach? We can’t see or describe it. But they can. They know every drop of its tarry horror. Beholding the Lord’s exhaustion, are they becoming sympathetic? Are they relenting a little?

No. Simon of Cyrene is of little consequence except to ensure that Jesus makes it Golgotha. Simon will be their ignorant mule.

“And there they crucified him” (John 19:18).

The writers are succinct. It’s a gory scene—ghastly all along—but they do not describe its carnage. Some might say it’s because the reader already knew a crucifixion’s harshest details, and to describe them would be a waste of precious papyrus. That may be somewhat true. However, it’ll never be the only reason. The Gospel writer John tells his readers that to record and share in print everything Jesus said and did would require more library real estate than the earth can provide (John 21:25). But if the world unexpectedly grew a thousand times larger, and the books suddenly appeared, some containing the Passion’s accounting within, what’s written would still be an atom-sized jot incapable of describing the Lord’s fullest work.

And so, our loving God has taken something massively incomprehensible and made it simple.

“For God so loved the world, that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life” (John 3:16).

“For Christ also suffered once for sins, the righteous for the unrighteous, that he might bring us to God, being put to death in the flesh but made alive in the spirit” (1 Peter 3:18).

“But God shows his love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us” (Romans 5:8).

“He is the propitiation for our sins, and not for ours only but also for the sins of the whole world” (1 John 2:2).

“[Jesus said] For this reason the Father loves me, because I lay down my life that I may take it up again. No one takes it from me, but I lay it down of my own accord. I have authority to lay it down, and I have authority to take it up again. This charge I have received from my Father” (John 10:17-18).

“For our sake he made him to be sin who knew no sin, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God” (2 Corinthians 5:21).

“Christ redeemed us from the curse of the law by becoming a curse for us—for it is written, ‘Cursed is everyone who is hanged on a tree’” (Galatians 3:13).

I could go on and on sharing more and more of God’s simplified yet preferred renditions of His great love for you accomplished through the person and work of His Son, Jesus Christ. But I won’t. However, I will encourage you to join with the faithful for Good Friday worship. I urge you to immerse yourself in the Church’s consolidated remembrance of the hours in which our Savior labored to set the whole world free from the grip of perpetual night.

For the readers beyond my congregation’s borders, if your church does not observe Good Friday, find one that does. Go there. Settle into a pew. If you can, spy a crucifix. See there a hint to Sin’s weight. “Here may view its nature rightly,” the great hymn whispers solemnly, “Here its guilt may estimate” (“Stricken, Smitten, and Afflicted,” LSB 451).

Even so, listen to God’s Word being read. Take in the Gospel preaching. Hear and rejoice that the Lord endured the horrible hours willingly. Take into yourself that His divine mind was thinking of you. You could not do it. But He could. And He did, all for you.

It was all for you.

P.S. If you need a place to go for Good Friday worship, here at Our Savior, we offer a 1:00 p.m. Tre Ore service and a 6:30 p.m. Tenebrae service. Consider joining us.

A Good Kind of Tired

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Holy Week begins today with Palm Sunday. Like any other week, Holy Week has seven days. And yet, it seems exceptionally longer than the others. By the time we get from Palm Sunday to Easter, a lot will have happened. For perspective, here at Our Savior, we will have packed at least ten weeks of sacred worship into these seven days. For our Kantor, musicians, and choirs, that’s an abundance of preparation and rehearsals. For the pastors, among so many other things, that’s a lot of sermon writing. I suppose that’s why you might hear me say in jest that the Lord and His pastors trade places on Easter morning. I often get very sick the week after Easter, usually from over-exertion. Although, I think it hit me early this year. I was terribly sick this past week.

Getting sick this time every year is one of many proofs that I could not do what the Lord did. He endured cosmic suffering. And yet, I count myself blessed if I can think through and preach a relatively coherent Easter sermon after Lent and Holy Week’s busyness has concluded.

I had an interesting conversation about these things last Sunday in the ER at Maclaren Hospital. A man sitting a few seats away from me in the waiting room started it. The worship pastor at his church, he endeavored to ask me how my church “does” Easter. I told him, even taking a chance at assuming between two clergy its exhausting nature. I assumed incorrectly. Along the way, he asked rather awkwardly why we continue doing it this way, especially when I almost always get sick year after year. At first, I took it as a reasonable observation and told him I had thought about cutting things back a little. But then he did something else. He took a passive-aggressive shot at what he believed was traditional worship’s tiredness. As he did, He explained worship shouldn’t be tiring, and he went out of his way to tell me that his church’s worship life could never be considered exhausting, that his church’s contemporary style was comfortable and easy—always fresh and new, always joyful, and always inspiring. He explained that worship is about praising God—about really feeling it, and blah blah blah.

Let me first say that’s not what worship is about. Praise is part of it (the lesser part, mind you) but that’s not its purpose. Worship begins with God. He serves us what we need—forgiveness. We respond with prayer, praise, and thanksgiving. Think Isaiah 55:11 and Ecclesiastes 5:1-3.

Next, I’ll ask, “Why?” What’s going on inside a person that would cause him to impose on a stranger in this way? I get that I’m easily identifiable in my clerical collar, and perhaps by it, I may represent a more traditional position. I’m no stranger to such interactions. But that alone doesn’t invite the imposition. I certainly didn’t ask for a critique of our worship style or life. As a normal human being confiding in someone I assumed might understand, I would never even think to steer into another church leader’s sphere in this way. I have no reason to criticize him. I’ve never been to his church.

Thankfully, few clergyfolk I meet are like this. Most just want to meet and visit—like normal humans. Also, thankfully, I didn’t have the time (nor the mood) to debate this particular guitar-slinger. I was seconds from being escorted to the bedside of one of my church members who’d been in a car accident. I was pondering my words to them and not to the worship pastor. Although, Blaise Pascal’s thoughts on reason would have been appropriate if the conversation had continued. Pascal once said something about how human reason’s final use is to admit there’s an infinite vastness beyond its capabilities.

What does this have to do with the interaction I just described? If I’d had the time and energy, I think it might have mattered in at least two ways.

First, Holy Week does sometimes feel unreasonably challenging. As I said, I’ve considered excluding some of the worship opportunities for this reason. And yet, as Pascal implied, even human reason admits to blessings that can only be reached by extending beyond what’s reasonable. No, the Lord doesn’t want us murdering ourselves with devotion. Still, we can (and often should) stretch ourselves past what we know is easier. This is the “no pain, no gain” principle. Still, even in an elementary sense, we also can’t remain infants, drinking only milk. We need solid food (1 Corinthians 3:1-13). The historic rites and ceremonies of the Church embody this opportunity, and if there’s ever a time to reach for solid food, it’s during this pinnacle time of the Church Year.

Some might refer to our worship style here at Our Savior as “high mass.” That description has various outside interpretations. Although, compared to other Lutheran churches, I can guess what it means. Still, I’m not interested in the other churches. I’m the pastor here. And no matter what is implied or who we’re being compared to, I’m convinced we’re enjoying solid food in this place—meat and potatoes, not frozen waffles and milk duds. It’s certainly far from being about the preacher or service meeting us right where we are, giving us what we like, and never demanding anything more. God does not call for us to remain forever where we are. We are to reach higher (Colossians 3:1-2).

By the way, a person should be able to tell when they’ve left the “where we are” of every day and entered into the new day of “higher.” Our regular worship is already wired for this. Stop by anytime. You’ll know you’ve stepped from the secular world onto holy ground. Holy Week is this on steroids, and for very good reasons.

This stirs a second thought relative to what’s reasonable. Pascal admitted to an endless array of things beyond reason’s reach. Isn’t that more or less a nod toward the nature of faith? It’s the same kind of nod Saint Paul offers in the Epistle appointed for today’s Palm Sunday celebration. In Philippians 2:6, Paul admits Christ’s incarnation was an ungraspable truth existing far beyond reason’s borders. Very little about it makes sense. However, as challenging as it is, it’s utterly accessible to faith. This is where I might have pushed back on my conversation partner even further, crossing the border into his doctrines and sharing how I think it’s strange how someone like John Calvin could ever insist, “Finitum non capax infinitum,” which is to say, finite things cannot contain infinite things. Of course, Ulrich Zwingli assumed it years before when debating Luther at the Marburg Colloquy in 1529. But either way, to say the infinite cannot be located in the finite is to be trapped behind reason’s barrier. It certainly binds God to human premises.

Since I’ve already mentioned Christ’s incarnation, if Calvin’s words are valid, then we must dismiss Saint Paul’s reason-pummeling words in Colossians 1:19-20, where he writes, “For in [Christ] all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell, and through him to reconcile to himself all things, whether on earth or in heaven, making peace by the blood of his cross” (Colossians 1:19-20). Had the conversation gotten this far, I would have encouraged my new ER friend to reconsider what the finite containing the infinite means for things like Baptism and the Lord’s Supper. I’m guessing he thinks these are just symbols. I wouldn’t attack him on this. But I would at least ask, “Is it possible they could be more?”

In the meantime, yes, the fullness of the infinite God was located in a finite human man—an object occupying a limited location. That man was Jesus. No, it doesn’t make sense. And Paul knows it. But that doesn’t stop him from upping lunacy’s ante in the Palm Sunday epistle with the reminder that the God-man Christ actually died. You think the incarnation is unreasonable; how about God dying? Paul goes further into irrationality, adding, “even death on a cross!” (Philippians 2:8).

The historic rites and ceremonies dig deeply into this, especially during Holy Week. From Palm Sunday through to Holy Wednesday and then the Triduum—the holy three days of Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and the Great Vigil of Easter—it’s a week that carries us into these things and more. It isn’t just a day or two of our favorite and most syrupy worship songs, whatever Bible verses the preacher happens to prefer at the time, and an engaging sermon with some fetching slides. It’s several days of reaching further.

To be fair, I should come at this from another direction. As insulting as the worship pastor in the ER waiting room was with his passive aggression (most of which I didn’t share), I’ll admit some in my more traditional camp do the same things he did; not a lot, but a few. They take similar opportunities to impose their pretentiousness rather than enjoying the conversation and encouraging others toward Christian worship’s inherent beauty and benefit. For example, they can make a pastor shepherding a storefront church feel lesser for not having what they have or doing what they’re doing. Again, there aren’t a lot of them. But as the saying goes, there’s one in every bunch. Confessional Lutheranism is no exception.

In conclusion, let me just say this: For those out there who are moving in the better direction—who are reaching higher—whether or not you have the classically ornate worship space, vestments, smells, bells, or whatever, I encourage you to stay the course. You already likely know we’re in a dark time in worship history, days when almost anything goes, and as it does, the faith that worship is supposed to feed becomes shallow and weak among so many. Nevertheless, anyone who’s served as a pastor for any reasonable length of time will tell you that shepherding God’s people from point A to point B takes time. Building the muscle to reach higher takes exercise. Catechesis is key. Introduce. Teach. Stay the course. As you do, rest assured your labors are not in vain, no matter the pace or progress.

And some final advice: If a man in a waiting room scoots a few chairs closer to you to have a genuine conversation about differing worship styles, enjoy the discussion. Such conversation can be refreshing and interesting. But if a peacocking purpose becomes obvious, before the conversation goes any further, I recommend leaning toward him and asking with wide room-scanning eyes, “You can see me?” That’ll close the conversation shop’s doors. Of course, if you’re not comfortable doing that, first, compliment his retro tee, and next, tell him the hospital called you to perform an exorcism, asking if he’s the one they called about. That’ll probably work.

Catchphrase

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Everyone has a catchphrase. By catchphrase, I mean something you say with regularity. In truth, you likely have more than one. If you asked those closest to you, I bet they could tell you what they are.

About a year ago, Jennifer came up with a great idea. She decided she would make bingo cards with our family members’ unique catchphrases. I liked the idea. It highlights each person’s originality. As someone who appreciates movie memorabilia, I assure you originals are always best. By comparison, my family is by no means a company of imitators. They’re valuable originals.

I haven’t seen Jen’s bingo cards yet, but that hasn’t stopped the family from playing the game. Interestingly, the contest has expanded to include mannerisms, too. It’s not unusual to hear someone call out “Bingo!” whenever anyone at the dinner table says or does something unique to their persona. Apparently, I tend to sigh and say more often than I realize, “I need to get on the treadmill.” Now, whenever I utter those words, someone will say, “Bingo!” Thankfully, I know they’re playing the game and not commenting on my physique.

There’s one sentence the Thoma family as a whole says a lot. We all say, “I love you.” If I were to choose the family’s official catchphrase, that would be it, and I can prove why it’s the best choice. On two separate occasions within the past month, I said something to one of the kids as they walked away, and their reply was, “I love you, too.” The funny thing is, I didn’t say, “I love you.” I said something else. Not hearing what I actually said, they defaulted to the assumption that it must have been “I love you.”

I liked that. I liked it so much I didn’t even attempt to clarify. Instead, I continued along my merry way in both circumstances, savoring the moment’s joy and filing it away as something I might eventually write about. By the way, I’m not just writing for you. I’m writing for my family, too. This is a record of sorts, a chronicling. They’ll read and remember these words long after I’m gone. God willing, their children will absorb the lessons learned, sharing in them, too. As with most things, there’s a lesson to learn if we pay attention.

Looking back, I suppose one lesson I learned is just how burdensome life would be in any family if the go-to assumptions about each other were anything but the “I love you” kind. What would life be like for someone whose default expectation is anything but genuine care or concern from their closest family members? Instead, they expect ridicule and insult. That’s no way to live. It certainly isn’t what God intended for families.

That reminds me of something else.

I surprised my family a few weekends ago by taking them to the new Texas Roadhouse restaurant in Fenton. We don’t go out to eat very often, so it was indeed a treat. While there, a child in the booth behind us proved herself all but demon-possessed. Repeatedly screeching at the top of her lungs, the present but oblivious dad did little more than lean to her and whisper an occasional “Shhh” before returning to tapping at his cell phone.

His efforts did nothing. The child continued shouting, kicking the booth seats, and ultimately disrupting countless meals within earshot of the ruckus—which, in the end, was nearly half the restaurant. How do I know? Because I made eye contact with many of the disgruntled patrons.

Doing our best to talk above the screeches, Jen and I shared with our kids how hard parenting can be. Part of its difficulty is knowing two things. First, a parent needs to know the appropriate threshold for action in any given circumstance, and second, they need to respond in a way that actually helps. Before providing a few challenging examples from our family’s past, I told the kids how vital every parenting moment is for filling the middle spaces of who and what a child will be as an adult. What a parent does or doesn’t do will resonate exponentially. The out-of-control child in the booth behind us was in the very process of becoming her future self, and her disinterested father, even as he did nothing, was a part of her formation.

To explain this, I reminded the kids about a time years ago when I took a hammer and smashed one of their digital devices. I know that sounds harsh. However, the device had become a terrible distraction for one of them. Warnings didn’t work. Taking it away from him didn’t work, either. Getting rid of it appeared to be the only solution. Of course, I could’ve sold or given it away, but doing so seemed too easy, too unimpactful. It left me feeling like a deeper lesson would be lost concerning people and things. Moreover, as a Christian father, I knew somewhere in the mix was an opportunity for the Gospel to shine, which is the only thing that provides real love in any messy situation. The Gospel brings forgiveness while showing our Lord is neck-deep in the messes with us.

Having warned him well in advance of what I planned to do, when he finally crossed the line, he and I went out to the garage together, and I made good on my words. Right before doing so, I told him how much I’d spent to buy the item and that I’d be at a loss of several hundred dollars by doing this. In other words, I was invested in the loss. And yet, I added, I was deeper in the mess with him than he might realize. I told him I’d rather lose all the money in my bank account and sacrifice every object I own than lose him to this world’s things. I love him far more. With that, I smashed the device. He hugged me and told me he loved me. For the record, he remembers what happened and occasionally tells me how thankful he is that I did it.

I told the kids I felt sick to my stomach right after doing it. I wasn’t sure if I’d done the right thing. I wasn’t sure the results I’d hoped for would ever materialize. But as I said, they did. And reassurance abounded at the Texas Roadhouse dinner table. Here we were, several years after the event, agreeing that it strengthened the love between a father and son rather than eroding it. That’s the exponential resonation I mentioned before.

So, what does this have to do with where I started? Well, my mind tends to wander as I type, so I’ll do what I can to tie this up.

I suppose the first thing that comes to mind is the disinterested father in the booth behind us. He needs to know that disciplining his daughter is essential. It’s certainly not unloving. She’s not going to hate him if he requires that she respect him and the people in her vicinity. But if he continues his indifference, the time for hating him will come. She’ll be a self-interested young woman incapable of concern for others, and when he does impose a requirement, she’ll rebel, seeing him only as an enemy. He’ll say, “I love you,” but the words will ricochet.

I suppose my next thought concerns what I wrote before the story I just shared. I had just finished expressing “how burdensome life would be in any family if the go-to assumptions about each other were anything but the ‘I love you’ kind.” The connection there might be that for a family built on Gospel love, even the more complicated moments can still sustain and ultimately prove the “I love you” assumption. In other words, no matter what’s happening, easy or complex, happy or sad, tranquility or anger, we can assume “I love you” from each other, even when those aren’t the words being spoken, and maybe even when the situation requires the kind of disciplinary readjustments that might make a parent a little sick to his stomach. Disciplining or being disciplined, we’ll know the person loves us. We’ll know we always have a way back to better days.

This is true because the comfortable assumption is one of repentance and forgiveness. This is the way back. It bears the relaxing notion of the Lord’s Gospel presence in every trial. A moment might sting a little, but we know we’ll get through it no matter what. And why? Because Christ is our Savior, and He’s made “I love you” the family’s catchphrase.

Satan is a Toothless Punk

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Last week’s eNews prompted an interesting response from one of its readers. The part that stirred discussion was my apparent disregard for Satan’s significance. Referring to the Lord’s words in Luke 22:53, I insisted that Jesus was not referring to Satan by the phrase “power of darkness.” I claimed sin was the power Jesus was talking about, implying I’m not one to give Satan credit as an all-consuming “power.” I did say that Satan is a big deal. Of course, if he weren’t, the Lord wouldn’t have needed to face off with him in all the ways He did. That certainly means the Devil is not to be trifled with. Still, he’ll forever be an agent of sin and nothing more. And so, when the Lord says to Judas, “This is your hour,” He’s speaking to Judas directly and engaging with the one actively inspiring his deeds—Satan. However, when the Lord adds, “and the power of darkness,” He’s referring to sin’s consuming reign in this world. I might consider adding death to the equation. Saint Paul certainly noted its relationship to sin. He wrote that sin once had dominion over us. Within this dominion, he explained that “just as sin came into the world through one man, and death through sin, and so death spread to all men because all sinned” (Romans 5:12).

Looking at what I just wrote, I think I’ll add it to this morning’s sermon manuscript. It certainly fits. One of my goals is to paint a portrait of sin’s deepest significance for the listeners.

Getting back to my original thought, I suppose if I’m wrong about this detail concerning Satan, I’m sure others will be willing to say so. Either way, we’ll find out on that great and glorious day. In the meantime, I won’t go looking for reasons (even biblical ones) to stroke Satan’s ego. He’s been defanged. I have nothing to fear from him, the toothless punk that he is.

Regardless of the person, if someone writes or says something worth remembering, I’ll file the truth of the words away. I do this mentally and physically. That said, I have various quotations printed and taped to the bookshelves in my office. I’ve had one for over a decade from Father Gabriel Amorth. He was the Roman Catholic Church’s chief exorcist for many years. It seems he’s somewhat popular, having become the subject of a recent film starring Russel Crowe. I appreciated something he said during a 2001 interview with an Italian news magazine. The interviewer asked Amorth, “Are you afraid of the Devil.” His response was as it should be:

“Afraid of that beast? He’s the one who should be afraid of me. I work in the name of the Lord. He is only an ape of God.”

As I acknowledged, Satan is a big deal. He’s clever. He’s tenacious. He’s strong. Even Jesus admitted this. In Luke 10, the Lord told His listeners, “When a strong man, fully armed, guards his own palace, his goods are safe” (v. 21). The term “strong man” was a familiar reference to Satan, and so, Jesus’ listeners knew who he was talking about. Still, the Lord concluded the acknowledgment of Satan’s strength as quickly as He began it, turning His listeners’ attention toward Himself, “But when one stronger than he attacks him and overcomes him, he takes away his armor in which he trusted and divides his spoil” (v. 22).

Yes, the Devil is strong. But Jesus is stronger.

In the scheme of things, the Lord spoke the words in Luke 10 well before venturing toward His death on the cross. Doing so, He assured us that the Devil was about to be disarmed and stripped of everything. Later in Luke 22, the time finally arrived for head-to-head combat. The strong man led a contingent to meet the Stronger Man praying in the Garden of Gethsemane. Strangely, the Stronger Man said to the strong man, “This is your hour” (v. 53). In other words, Jesus submitted at that moment and, as such, invited the Devil to do his level best to lay the Lord low. If you keep reading, you’ll see that the Devil embraced the challenge, ultimately delivering measures of dreadfulness we’ll never fully know.

But the strong man’s fun ended when the Stronger Man cried out, “It is finished” (John 19:30). Of course, the Lord’s cry was declarative. He was announcing that the price for our redemption had been fully paid. With a sense for Easter, His words can be heard as, “Alright, that’s enough. It’s my turn, now.” Because it was. By His death, the Stronger Man endured in our place against the strong man’s fury. In that same moment, the unholy trinity of sin, death, and Satan was ultimately taken to the mat and pinned. The Stronger Man walked away at the end of the three-day count, leaving the strong man defeated.

As believers, the Stronger Man is with us (Matthew 28:20). He claimed us as His own in our baptism (Matthew 28:19, Romans 6:3-8, Galatians 3:27, Revelation 7:14-17). We are not apart from Him. We are in Him, and He is in us (John 14:19-20), and greater is the One we bear (1 John 4:4). Because of this, the Devil has every reason to fear God’s people and not the other way around. We confessed as much at Lent’s beginning when we prayed the Litany here at Our Savior in Hartland last Sunday. At one moment along the way, we boldly petitioned that God would continue “to beat down Satan under our feet.”

By the power of the Holy Spirit for faith, that’s precisely what Christian feet can do.

Scan the Church’s hymnody. You’re sure to discover this kind of Christian confidence. You’ll likely experience just how penetrating this reality has been for Christians throughout history. Luther’s great hymn, “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God,” is a perfect example. Stanza three offers with astounding conviction:

Though devils all the world should fill,
All eager to devour us,
We tremble not, we fear no ill.
They shall not overpower us.
This world’s prince may still
Scowl fierce as he will,
He can harm us none.
He’s judged; the deed is done;
One little word can fell him.

Another is Erdmann Neumeister’s “God’s Own Child I Gladly Say It.” A middle stanza of this exceptional hymn demonstrates the same certainty, proving itself emboldened enough to impose demands on Satan:

Satan hear this proclamation:
I am baptized into Christ!
Drop your ugly accusation,
I am not so soon enticed.
Now that to the font I’ve traveled,
All your might has come unraveled,
And, against your tyranny,
God, my Lord, unites with me!

Perhaps another—Jacob Fabricius’ “O Little Flock, Fear Not the Foe”—spends a stanza mocking the Devil and his crew, calling their might “a joke, a mere façade!” Indeed, for those grafted to Christ (John 15:5), Satan is a joke, the kind that prompts regular laughter throughout heaven’s gloriously cavernous halls.

I don’t necessarily want to belabor the point. Suffice it to say that while I’ll admit the Devil is trouble, I do not fear him. By God’s gracious care, I can live with no small measure of certainty that he should fear me. And why? It’s not because of who I might claim to be of myself. It’s because of who claimed me and now stands between me and the strong man: The Stronger Man! And so, just as Luther so famously said, if the Devil would pull me down, he would first need to overcome the One who is my Redeemer and Defender. Christ is mine, and I am Christ’s. Period. I’m happy to let the Devil put that in his pipe and smoke it while I move on to more important things.

Complaining

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Perhaps like me, you’re not too fond of complainers. I don’t mean people who draw attention to things that need fixing. I mean those folks who simply complain about everything, no matter what it is.

I heard it said that if humans could somehow remove their opinions from most things, we’d likely find we have little to complain about in life. I think I agree. Pitched against Lent, it makes complete sense.

For starters, Lent leads to Golgotha. No one can arrive at Golgotha’s dreadful scene and actually grasp its significance without first having a handle on why it had to happen. Jesus is doing what He’s doing because He’s the only one who can. That’s important.

Of course, this reason has other dimensions to it. Perhaps the most essential is that the Lord loves us as no one could or would, so everything Jesus does, up to and including Golgotha’s exacting, is born from this love. His passion reveals His immeasurable yearning to save us. That’s one reason the crucifixion will forever be the heart of Gospel preaching.

Closer to where I began, another dimension is sin and the fact that we’re responsible for it. We let it in, and now everything is infected. Only Jesus remains untouched; that is, until, as Saint Paul described, He became the infection in a way that will forever be mysterious to us (1 Corinthians 5:21). Simply put, He bore every ounce of sin’s dreadfulness in Himself on the cross (Isaiah 53:6, 1 Peter 2:24). Yes, He carried and endured what we could see: mocking, injustice, bludgeoning, flogging, piercing, crucifixion, and death. These things are surface products, horrible in every way. There’s still something else He carried and endured in Himself that we couldn’t see. He gives it a nod when He’s arrested in Gethsemane. He tells His betrayer, “This your hour, and the power of darkness” (Luke 22:53). He wasn’t just submitting to the physical terrors. He was submitting to something else there. And it was the awful of all awfuls. He called it a power—an all-encompassing reality. As we are so often, Judas was the power’s agent.

I know some commentators think Satan is the power Jesus is referring to. Sure, he’s a big deal. Nevertheless, Satan does what Satan does because he, too, is infected by the power. If you haven’t guessed it already, I’m saying that the power of darkness is the reigning power of sin itself. It’s the all-consuming plague that holds each of us in its sway, ultimately poisoning the whole world with eternal death and condemnation.

So, what does any of this have to do with setting aside human opinion and thereby discovering fewer reasons to complain in this life?

Well, for example, there’s plenty to complain about, especially if, in our opinion, we somehow believe we deserve better than what this sinful world so often doles out. But the thing is, Lent teaches us the power of darkness thoroughly diseases us, and we don’t deserve better (Romans 3:12). Objectively, then, the calculation becomes quite simple. We own sin’s predicament and all its potential wages, including death. If our opinions have us convinced otherwise, Lent’s destination—the crucifixion of Jesus—must be a brutal demonstration of what’s really true: Behold, there on the cross! See what the sin nature warrants! See what you deserve for your crimes!

I guess what I’m saying is simply this: What is there to bemoan when the mineral element of everything wrong with this world is technically our fault? To complain about anything troubling is to complain about ourselves.

I think this is an incredibly recalibrating thought. Having recently felt the urge to say, “I don’t deserve to be treated this way,” this Lenten recalibration pulled me back from the edge of self-righteousness. It reminded me that I was experiencing exactly what sin offers to this world. And yet, having this awareness, navigating the contentious situation was a bit easier. Indeed, contentious scenarios unfold far differently when you can readily confess to being partly responsible for all contention in general.

That leads me to something else. The sinner that I am, and living in this sinful world, I’ll always find reasons to complain about the misery. By the way, and as I began, I’m not saying we should just ignore the travesties sin imposes. These things almost certainly require our attention. What I am saying, or better yet, asking is: How are things different for me now that I know the only One who could save me stepped up and did so?

The power of sin has been overthrown. I have been rescued. Jesus did it. Knowing this, the messes I find myself in are no longer occasions for complaining. Instead, they are opportunities to understand just how terrible sin is, acknowledge what my role in the terribleness might be, and observe the Lord’s crucifixion through tears of joy. Golgotha becomes less a reminder of what I deserve and more the ultimate emblem of hope in every sadness.

Even better, this hope is empowering. It moves its bearer beyond complaining. It strengthens for getting right to work making changes in a world that needs what Christians bring to the table. For every minute I spend complaining about how bad everything is, I lose a valuable minute meant for trusting Christ and, in faith, doing what I can to make things better.

A True Friend

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I learned something about friendship last Saturday while driving to give a presentation in Plymouth. I suppose I already knew it innately. However, I’d not yet formed the thought in a graspable, and therefore shareable, way.

Essentially, I had to be up and doing (as Longfellow would say) before everyone else in my home that day. And so, I crept through my morning routine lest I awaken the multitudes who’d finally been granted a Saturday morning to sleep in. Having showered and dressed, the sun just beginning to share its intentions, I kissed my still-sleeping wife, Jennifer, and left. I returned to our bedroom several minutes later to retrieve a forgotten item. Jennifer was now awake and scrolling through her preferred newsfeed. I grabbed the overlooked item, kissed her screen-lit cheek, and left for the day.

About fifteen minutes into my journey, I called Jennifer. The conversation went something like this:

“Hello?”

“It’s just me,” I said. “I took a chance you hadn’t gone back to bed.”

“No, I’m awake,” she replied. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I was just thinking about something.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m glad my first visit with Chris Pratt was in Guardians of the Galaxy rather than watching him in Parks and Recreation with you and the kids.” The night before, my family and I had just finished the final episode in a several weeks-long binging of the mentioned television show.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I become endeared to characters I like and the people who play them,” I explained. “And then I expect certain things from their performances. If I had known the character Andy Dwyer before Star-Lord, I would’ve expected certain behaviors from Star-Lord, and I might not have enjoyed Pratt in the role as much. Instead, I brought Star-Lord to Andy Dwyer and not Andy Dwyer to Star-Lord. I guess I’m saying it was just better for me that way. It was better to meet Star-Lord before meeting Andy Dwyer.”

“Okay,” she said hesitatingly, yet still sounding just as happy to be an audience for my relatively useless observation as she is with the more essential aspects of my life. “I can see how that might be true.”

“Yeah, so that’s all I wanted to say.”

“Well, be careful on the road.”

“I will.”

“What time will you be home?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “I’ll call when I’m on my way.”

The conversation became a tender goodbye, and I continued my drive.

So, what does this have to do with a lesson in friendship? Well, Jennifer once again showed me that she’s more interested in simply talking with me than in the content of the conversation. I had absolutely nothing of value to share, and I could’ve just as easily kept my thoughts to myself. Still, I wanted to call her and tell her what I was thinking, even if it was ridiculous. Something assured me I could. In a simpler sense, it’s not necessarily the subject that matters between genuine friends. It’s the friendship itself that matters. When that’s true, hearing the other person’s voice can easily become so much more important than what they say.

But there’s something else about genuine friendship that I’ve learned along the way with Jennifer. Sometimes, what’s said (or done) must eclipse that comfortable sentiment. One of friendship’s chief responsibilities is honesty. Far too many unfortunate proverbs are being shared about how a true friend accepts you for who you are. When I see a decorative wall print that says something like that on the shelf in a store, I tend to turn it around backward or hide it in a stack of nearby pillows. No one needs to see it. Unrestricted acceptance of any and all behavior is not the definition of a true friend. Genuine friendship cares enough to communicate truths that you may resist acknowledging on your own. A genuine friend—someone who truly cares about you—will risk everything, even your wrath, to steer you toward truth. Indeed, “faithful are the wounds of a friend” (Proverbs 27:6). Knowing our world and the ever-strengthening gravity of its dreadfulness, none of us should be without such a friend.

All of this came to mind because as I reached for a book on my shelf this morning, I accidentally bumped a nearby greeting card, which resulted in several toppling over and cascading to the floor. Rather than putting them back, I gathered more from across multiple shelves, eventually putting them into a box in a cabinet where I keep such things. When I opened the box’s lid, a handwritten note from a former friend was on top. I won’t share the details, but just know the friendship ended badly. What I will say is that its final discussion had to happen. I made the painfully necessary phone call. He needed to hear that he’d wandered too far beyond the borders of faithfulness to Christ and was teetering at the edge of a dangerous ideological cliff. Ultimately, he cursed my concerns and jumped. It’s been several years since we’ve spoken. I sent him a note a few years back, but nothing came of it. Likely, I’ll never hear from him again. Admittedly, when I discovered and read the note, I could hear his voice behind its scribbled words. I realized I missed it. The content of our conversations was vast and sometimes pointless. But when he spoke, I listened, not necessarily because of what he was saying, but because I liked being his friend.

Perhaps the better lesson learned from this morning’s rambling is this: Don’t throw away the friends who care enough to tell you the truth. Apart from the Lord and His Word, they’re your next greatest asset for navigating and enduring a world doing its level best to pull you toward destruction. With that, there’s a reason God’s Word commends friendship, offering that “two are better than one…. For if they fall, one will lift up his fellow. But woe to him who is alone when he falls and has not another to lift him up” (Ecclesiastes 4:9-10). There’s a reason Saint Paul encourages us to “bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ” (Galatians 6:2). There’s a reason he rejoices in the mutual encouragement that comes from faith exercised relative to the self and others (Romans 1:12). There’s a reason Solomon writes so uncomplicatedly, “One who is righteous is a guide to his neighbor, but the way of the wicked leads them astray” (Proverbs 12:26), and that “oil and perfume make the heart glad, and the sweetness of a friend comes from his earnest counsel” (Proverbs 27:9), followed by the well-worn advice that “iron sharpens iron, and one man sharpens another (Proverbs 27:17).

We don’t need coddlers. We need honest friends. And if we’re so scandalized by the truths they tell us, ultimately resulting in us tossing them from our lives like spoiled meat, we’re likely the problem, not them. This means we need to have and be the kind of friend who is ready to hear others confess their faults and willing to let them show us ours. To be a friend like that takes the type of hardshell humility that only the Holy Spirit can bestow. By hardshell humility, I mean the meekness that can handle its own reflection because it understands its need while knowing the One who met it—Jesus Christ—the greatest friend any of us will ever know (John 15:12-15).

Confronting our failings is never easy. Ash Wednesday is this week, and if ever there was a time to confront our dust-and-ashes nature (Genesis 2:7, 3:19, and 18:7), it’s then. As you do, remember Jesus, the perfect friend. He steered straight into this world’s awfulness, risking everything, even His life, to make you His own. Any friend who’s willing to give up his own self-security to save you from something dangerous is precisely the kind of friend you need. A friend like that certainly isn’t disposable but indispensable.

Again, Lent is soon upon us. Many people give up something for Lent. May I make a suggestion?

Set aside the defenses you’ve constructed around your easily bruised ego, fear of the truth, and ridiculous fragility. Own up to your strayings and rejoice that God’s love was manifested to you by His Word given in the Scriptures and demonstrated through friends who care. His warning against Sin is an essential proof of His concern. Don’t write Him off. He didn’t want to leave you ignorant of your condition, and He has more to tell you. You are not lost. Christ has come. By His life, death, and resurrection, the debt of your sins has been paid. Through faith in Jesus, you receive the merits of His work and are set free from your failings.

A friend who deals in these things is a friend indeed.

Headless Chickens

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I’m getting older. You know what that means? It means I’m losing more and more of my generation and its characters to death.

I received word this week that Carl Weathers died. Weathers was known for his breakout role as Apollo Creed in the Rocky films. He was great in those movies, but as a lover of sci-fi horror, I appreciated him as Dillon in one of my all-time favorites: Predator. When I learned he would be at the Motor City Comic Con last spring, I ensured my kids got to meet and get a photo with him. What a nice guy—genuinely friendly.

Strangely, I heard the news about Weathers after reading an article about how scientists believe they’ve unlocked one particular secret to aging. Every generation and culture has been chasing these secrets since the dawn of Man. And why? Because no one wants to die. Everyone knows it’s permanent. I suppose that’s the humor in cemetery fences. Why have one when those outside don’t want in, and those inside can’t get out?

Essentially, the article reported that cells age when their mitochondria start leaking. As they do, they release proteins that cause inflammation, leading to aging’s effects. Researchers theorize that by stopping the mitochondria from doing this, they’ll be one step closer to reversing the aging process altogether.

Will scientists ever figure out how to do this? To some extent, maybe. But will they ever defeat death? The Bible would say no.

First, death is far more than a natural phenomenon involving leaky mitochondria. Stopping this process won’t fix death. Physical death is merely the last decomposing fruit produced by a much deeper condition. Second, Jesus assured us that the earth has an expiration date. When it arrives, so will Jesus. He’ll return in glory to do precisely what the creeds declare: to judge the living and the dead. Hypothetically, even if scientists figure out how to keep people from aging, when that day arrives, those without faith in Christ and His salvific work will still be found locked in bondage to sin and eternal death, ultimately meeting the Lord as spiritual corpses. Such a person might look alive in this life but, in truth, is already dead. That’s what Saint Paul meant by describing living human beings as dead in their trespasses and sins (Ephesians 2:1). In a sense, the image of a chicken that’s had its head lopped off comes to mind. Running around this life’s yard, the chicken might look alive. But it isn’t. It’s dead. And it’s only a matter of time before its actual condition is settled.

I suppose it’s foolish to ponder death without including Saint Paul’s reference to it as the last enemy (1 Corinthians 15:26). We’ll have our share of enemies in life. I know I have plenty. Sometimes, I feel like a line has formed somewhere, and it’s comprised of folks who want to see me come undone entirely. If that line does exist, I know death is the last one standing in it. And when it’s his turn, there will be no outsmarting or outmaneuvering him. Plenty have tried. Plenty still do. And yet, there is that poetic but strangely inspired line that speaks an unflinching truth: “Because I could not stop for death, he kindly stopped for me” (Emily Dickinson).

It would be nice if science could help ease the aging process. I’d certainly buy a pill promising to reverse the disc degeneration in my back. A day without back pain would be nice. Nevertheless, such relief is not humanity’s greatest need. Look around. The world is a farmyard of headless chickens, so many chasing what cannot meet that terribly final necessity.

That’s not necessarily the case for Christians. We’re different than all the other chickens. We have the Word of the Gospel. The Gospel is restorative. It makes complete that which was incomplete. We have our heads. Saint Paul writes that Christ “is the head of the body, the church. He is the beginning, the firstborn from the dead, that in everything he might be preeminent” (Colossians 1:18). This is to say, we’re not running around the yard aimlessly toward an unfortunate end. Instead, by faith, we have the mind of Christ (1 Corinthians 2:16), and we’re living out the rest of our days in devotion to Him. That devotion has multiple aims, one of which is concern for what’s happening around us (Galatians 5:6; 1 Timothy 1:5).

Neil Armstrong once said that every human has a finite number of heartbeats. He also said he didn’t intend to waste any of them, which means he intended to devote himself to things that really mattered. Indeed, devoted people do incredible things.

On the way to school last Wednesday, Evelyn and I were listening to the news and learned about a man who died. His name was Larry Taylor. Taylor was an Army attack helicopter pilot in Vietnam and the last to receive the Medal of Honor in 2023 for doing something in June of 1968 that too many others wouldn’t. In short, four American soldiers were surrounded by aggressively approaching enemy forces. Taking inescapable fire, they were out of ammunition, having only a dozen hand grenades and their knives. If no one came to save them, they would die. Knowing this, Taylor flew straight into the chaos, lighting up the enemy ranks with as much firepower as possible before setting down in the middle of the mess. Thousands of bullets whizzing and rocket-propelled grenades flying, the trapped men grabbed hold of the helicopter’s skids, and Taylor flew them to safety.

At the medal presentation, a seemingly aloof crowd member asked Taylor, “What on earth would possess you to do what you did?”

“Well,” the 81-year-old hero and faithful member of his Christian church in Tennessee replied, “it needed doin’.”

Taylor was devoted to those men. Even as he faced certain death, his devotion was not self-concerned. Instead, he insisted on using what was likely to be the last of his heartbeats for something that mattered.

You have a limited number of heartbeats. Battles are happening around you that matter. Enemy forces in abortion clinics surround unborn children. More than 61 million of them have been killed. Countless students leave their homes and are besieged by teachers and administrators relentlessly firing radical sexual ideologies that overwhelm them. More and more are overcome each day. Christians are being bombarded in the trenches of America’s public square, having a mile-long line of battalion after battalion intent on eradicating them.

But you know something of death. You know it’s the last enemy. You also know that because of Jesus, it’s a toothless one. Therefore, if not even death can be our worst concern, what would keep us from a devotion to Christ capable of flying in to rescue as many as we can, even if it means risking ourselves?

Of course, that’s a rhetorical question.

My ever-vigilant prayer is that you’ll know the Lord’s remarkable rescue from sin and death. With such knowledge, I pray you’ll sense a Spirit-driven devotion to faithfulness far more robust than anything this world could ever use to terrorize you.

State of the State

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I was privileged to attend the State of the State address this past Wednesday in Lansing. Well, perhaps privileged is not the right word. Senator Jim Runestad invited me to be his guest. Therein lies the real privilege. He’s a good man and a faithful servant. It’s too bad he’s in his last term. We need more like him.

Overall, I suppose the event was worthwhile. Even though I crossed paths with people I’d just as soon avoid altogether in the future, I also met others in leadership I now consider friends. I had a chance to hide for a few minutes in Senate Minority Leader Aric Nesbitt’s office with my friend, Jeff Wiggins, and Senator Michele Hoitenga. They were great company. During the address, I sat beside Bridget Dean, the Mayor of Berkley, Michigan. I enjoyed the pre-speech conversation with her. I hope to see her again. Interestingly, my chair was on the House floor beside Representative Matthew Bierline’s desk. Matthew is one of two LCMS Lutherans in the House of Representatives. It was a pleasure visiting with him, too.

On occasion throughout the evening, some conversation partners wanted to hear firsthand why I would engage in the public square the way I do. I gave only the biblical reasons. For the ones asking from a position of genuine honesty, I get the sense their apprehensions were disarmed, even some who are likely to oppose my efforts.

We’ll see what comes of the conversations.

In the meantime, I could probably sit here tapping away at this keyboard all morning and never run out of stories to tell you. During the Pledge of Allegiance, I noticed several Democrat legislators refusing to speak. I asked Representative Bierline if that was normal. He couldn’t recall seeing that happen before.

Governor Whitmer’s speech was as I expected. She boldly opposes everything the Church holds dear. And yet, strangely, no small number of Michigan “Christians” helped choose her for Governor. The pastor she invited to give the invocation illustrated this. His prayer was not to God—not the real God, anyway. Instead, it was a prattling list of high praise for things the Bible would call sin. Worst of all, he prayed for continued blessing upon these warped endeavors. I don’t know if any roaming cameras caught it, but I’m pretty sure I was the only one in the room who turned and faced the other way during the prayer. It was clear the Invocator does not worship the same God I do. Let this be known.

The address was held in the Michigan House Chambers. As I mentioned, I had a floor seat rather than the gallery. I watched Whitmer ascend the rostrum like a determined preacher. While awkward with her colloquialisms, she exuded confidence that her administration was instrumental in recreating Michigan as a winning state.

I agree if she means Michigan is now winning the race toward dreadfulness.

She touted Michigan as a state that lets teachers “do what they do best: teach,” making it the envy of teachers in other states. And yet, U.S. News and World Report just released the state rankings in education. Michigan is number 37. Last year, we were 36. Our trajectory is by no means skyward. I wonder if this is because far too many of our school boards spend more time dividing learning communities with Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion initiatives while, at the same time, the classroom teachers are doing all they can to destroy spectral patriarchies and confuse genders rather than providing students with skills to be productive citizens in a functioning society built on objectively true things. By the way, when you add crime, fiscal stability, and other determiners to the ranking’s equation, Michigan drops to number 41. We’re nine spots short of being the worst state in the Union.

Conversely, there are categories in which we truly excel. I mean, Whitmer is quite proud that since Proposal 3 was passed in 2022, Michigan has become a top travel destination for those seeking an abortion. Proposal 3 memorialized in our state’s Constitution a woman’s right to kill her unborn child up to the very moment of birth.

If these things are what Whitmer means by winning, then she’s right. Relative to everything awful, we’re top-tier. Few can contend with us in the race to irreversibly damage our children physically, emotionally, and intellectually. Even fewer can keep with our pace to become America’s genocidal capital.

I walked away from the before- and after-speech conversations having experienced both optimism and dismay. I was optimistic about conservatism’s potential future. I met a young man with conservative aspirations. But then again, I always have such high hopes for starry-eyed conservatives, only to see those hopes dashed as they’re absorbed into what really is a power-hungry system. Not all can be Jim Runestads and maintain a steady course. Still, some good people are doing some great things. If their efforts are allowed to take root, my chief concern—religious liberty—will remain secure for at least a few days longer.

Unfortunately, the dismay I experienced was relatively familiar. Essentially, far too many of our leaders, once elected, begin demonstrating an inability to sense bare contradictory foolishness. Conservative or liberal, it doesn’t seem to matter. I’ll give you a few examples of what I mean.

Outside of the House Chambers, I happened to be standing very near to someone praising the radical gender ideologies cemented by Governor Whitmer and enforced by Attorney General Dana Nessel. I didn’t speak to her. I just listened. She emphatically announced, in short, that if a man decides he’s a woman, then he is, and for anyone to say otherwise is bigoted. In the same conversation, this person noted Michigan’s wintertime landscape as the best in the country, describing it as stunning. Thirty minutes before this, down in the Heritage Hall Stateroom, I was greeted by another gent who recognized me. I know he supported the vote last spring to redefine the word “sex” in Michigan’s Elliott-Larsen Civil Rights Act to include “gender identity” and “sexual orientation.” Attempting to schmooze, and somehow aware of my whisky endeavors, he asked me which I preferred to drink more, scotches or bourbons.

So, how do these obscure instances demonstrate contradictory foolishness?

Sight is a biological function. A person does not observe Michigan’s snow-covered landscape through one’s clavicle. The eyes are the organs for sight. Drinking is a biological function. A particular clergyman does not decide his Scotch or Bourbon preferences through his elbow. When the body is functioning as it should, the mouth receives whisky.

These two policy influencers go about their lives unquestionably submitting to biological realities while absurdly asserting that gender—the ultimate biological reality that produces humans capable of sensory perception and consumption—isn’t fixed but flexible, that it isn’t biological but rather a social construct. However, to fully realize this ideology (which they’d say can be changed at will) means extreme biological manipulation. And yet, if the mind determines gender, why is there a need for hormone therapy or surgery? Unless, of course, gender is actually rooted in biology.

I mentioned these conversations to Mayor Dean while awaiting the address. I told her the behavior reminded me of George Orwell’s “doublethink” concept, where individuals stake simultaneous claims on conflicting premises. Orwell described doublethinkers as those who will eventually be found telling a man they love him as they’re torturing him.

Governor Whitmer is a doublethinker. She stirred a standing ovation for Proposal 3’s passing. She immediately followed her words by demanding that we care for our “sweet and precious children” by guaranteeing them free school lunches. She added, “When kids are unsafe, they can’t reach their full potential.” Indeed, and amen. And yet, when does the child become precious enough for safety policies? Apparently, this is determined by location measured in centimeters.

Whitmer can tell children she loves them while making it possible to grind them to bits in the womb.

Doublethinkers are very dangerous. But in the end, the real danger is not just that they accommodate untruth. Instead, like Governor Whitmer on the rostrum, they enthusiastically preach untruth’s darkness. A lie gripped by an enthusiastic hand is the worst kind. If that hand also holds power, societies will unravel, and lives will be destroyed.

Following a few of these interactions, I couldn’t help but whisper, “God help us.” When I left the House Chamber following the speech, one person from the Democratic side of the aisle asked me what I thought of Whitmer’s words. I said I felt like I needed a shower.

Still, during the moments of deliberate conversation, I did what I could to convert and convince my discussion partners to something better.

In closing, I must confess I don’t belong in these circles. I said as much to Mayor Dean. I told her that the more I experience them, the less I want to. But I added that this is precisely why I steer into them whenever I’m invited. As a Christian who cares, I have something to offer. You do, too. Therefore, if you can chat with your local, state, or federal leaders face-to-face, do it. But again, only if you care. If you don’t care, stay home and enjoy what winning means to those who would just as soon push the Church into the shadows. If you do care, engage. Find your elected leaders. Ask them questions. Answer theirs. Praise what they’re doing well. Challenge what they’re doing wrong. Do what you can to invalidate untruths in ways that can’t be deleted from an email inbox, thrown into a trash can, or hung up on.

But there is something you should probably keep in mind. When you do this, be ready to be uncomfortable. Be prepared to experience trouble. In my experience, trouble is often the price exacted for faithfulness. And yet, as Christians, rest assured that we’re already built to endure the kind of trouble the world might inflict upon people like us. That’s because we’re not inheritors of this world. We’re inheritors of the world to come. We are set apart as Christ’s holy ones who know they have nothing to lose but Christ, making engagement with the world all the more possible and even more so necessary.