I Was Not Disappointed

Posted on September 28, 2025 by AngelsPortion

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not A Barrier. A Bridge.

Posted on September 21, 2025 by AngelsPortion

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hypocrisy

Posted on September 14, 2025 by AngelsPortion

Charlie Kirk’s death is still very raw for me. I can’t even begin to describe the strange mixture of anger and sadness I’ve experienced over the last few days. I’ve known Charlie for a long time. I keep making it clear to folks that it’s not like we were besties. Lots of people all over the world called him a friend. Still, he read and endorsed my books, called when he needed my help, flew Jennifer and me to his conferences, spoke at our “The Body of Christ and the Public Square” (BOCPS) conference pretty much any time I asked—all things that friends do for each other.

I remember at his “People’s Convention” in Detroit last summer, Charlie hosted a clergy gathering the night before the main event. Of course, I went. I was already in the room when he arrived. When he walked in, he saw me a few rows away and waved, mouthing, “How are you?” I nodded and mouthed back, “Well. You?” He gave me a thumbs up and then turned to give his respectful attention to the person on stage. When he finally took the microphone, of all the local pastors and leaders in the room—and there were many—he pointed only to me, calling me out by name and telling everyone in the room how thankful he was for what I was doing in Michigan and how glad he was to call me a friend.

Admittedly, it was a proud moment. And yet, I was also somewhat embarrassed. I’m just doing what pastors are supposed to do. I’m engaged in the world around me—representing the Church’s concerns in the realm of Caesar.

Before I go further, I should admit that Charlie’s death has torn open old wounds. For years, I’ve endured sneers from fellow LCMS pastors and laypeople who were critical of my partnership with him. Their jabs—sometimes private, sometimes very public—still sting. I’m sore from it. They made my friendship with Charlie into a liability, as though being friends with a brother in Christ who wasn’t Lutheran was somehow scandalous. Even now, as I wrestle with my own sadness, I feel the old irritation rising. It’s not the grief alone that’s raw. It’s the hypocrisy and the sanctimony of those who should know better, but don’t.

I wrote a few weeks ago about a cardinal I’ve heard singing outside my office window. Well, he was back this morning. At least, I think it was him. Either way, his song was familiar, and as before, he was unwaveringly defiant against the noise of the world as he welcomed the dawn. And yet, I also imagined how strange it would be for that crimson bird’s song to shift midstream suddenly—how hypocritical it would be for his melody to change from one that welcomed the sunrise to one that condemned it.

The day before Charlie’s death, I received an unfriendly email—much like the jabs I’ve been getting this year for re-inviting Dr. James Lindsay to BOCPS. I shouldn’t have been surprised by these things. Every year, in the month leading up to BOCPS, the usual suspects emerge from the shadows to criticize my efforts in the public square. For example, a few years ago, a fellow LCMS pastor blasted me for my friendship with Dinesh D’Souza. When I pushed back, he unfriended me. Another called to complain about my partnership with Ben Shapiro—because he’s Jewish—then unfriended and blocked me. Three years ago, an LCMS district president attempted to cancel me after I highlighted CRT’s presence in our own Lutheran circles, including a BLM rally hosted at Concordia University in Ann Arbor, where the school’s chief administrator spoke. Two years ago, a group of conservative pastors launched a vicious series of online threads criticizing me for working with Tim Ballard, a Mormon, to address child sex trafficking.

Now, before I light the fuse on what I really want to say, let’s get something straight. What I do with BOCPS is not complicated. It is well within the boundaries of “Two Kingdoms” theology. Essentially, I engage in what the Church has long called “cooperation in the externals.” In short, Christians may share a stage, or even a cause, with unbelievers in matters of the public square that affect both Church and society. What we may not do is share an altar or pulpit with a foreign confession. That line has always been clear. What I am doing belongs to the first category, not the second.

And so, the cardinal. I think of that bird and how strange it would be if his song welcoming the morning suddenly turned against it. This is to say, I behold such dissonance in much of what I’ve described so far.

One pertinent example: I find it perplexing that several of those expressing concern also openly support organizations like 1517 or the Institute of Lutheran Theology (ILT)—institutions that trade directly in theology, and in ways far more concerning than anything connected to someone like James Lindsay, who is not even attempting to speak as a theologian. One of my most vicious critics touts his confessional Lutheran authorship and professor status at ILT.

By the way, the distinction between cooperation in externals and fellowship in theology is not without precedent. The Scriptures give us several examples. God used Cyrus, a pagan king, to send His people back to Jerusalem to rebuild the temple (Isaiah 45:1; Ezra 1:1–4). Nehemiah appealed to Artaxerxes, another unbelieving ruler, for letters of safe passage and timber to reconstruct Jerusalem’s walls (Nehemiah 2:1–8). Paul himself claimed the rights of his Roman citizenship to preserve his ministry (Acts 22:25–29). In each case, God’s people worked with unbelievers in outward matters to accomplish the concerns of the Church. They did this without ever inviting them to share in the altar or the pulpit. That line was never blurred.

The difference must be made plain. BOCPS is a cooperation in the externals. James and I share a stage and its microphone to address matters in the public square that impact both Church and society, but we do not share an altar, pulpit, or confession, which makes what I’m doing with James far more appropriate than those in fellowship with 1517 or ILT. Supporting those groups does not constitute cooperation in external matters. It is a fellowship in theology. That is a different thing altogether.

Yet the line is equally clear in another critical direction. To say that a flawed or unbelieving voice can still reflect truth in the public square is not to say that a disqualified pastor should be preaching or teaching in the Church. Not only have 1517 and ILT wandered into dangerous theologies, but they also platform voices who should no longer be preaching or teaching God’s Word. The Church has its own God-given standards for those who do these things. Those standards are not negotiable (1 Timothy 3:1–7; Titus 1:5–9). Any man removed from office because of, let’s say, adultery, or perhaps embezzlement or sexual abuse, or some other extraordinary public sin, is no longer fit for that office, regardless of his eloquence or credentials. And yet, he cannot be barred from speaking in the marketplace of ideas.

This is not complicated.

And so, it is entirely appropriate to work with someone like James Lindsay in the public square. James is an agnostic and does not claim Christian faith, let alone to the office of preacher or teacher in Christ’s Church. He does not stand in our pulpit or at our altar. He stands at a microphone—and then afterward, is welcomed into my home to enjoy dinner with my Christian family, and then he and I head to the bar in my basement, where I share the best whiskies I can offer—while our conversation, of course, steers into matters that include the Christian faith. In every instance, he analyzes and exposes the corrosive ideologies of our time, and I do, too. Together, we offer one another insights that can be applied in defense of both the Church and society. To receive that help is no more a compromise of faith than Paul quoting pagan poets in Athens. And yet, as it was for Saint Paul, so also for me. My words are Gospel-infused, making them the most potent in the discussion.

In the end, all of this reveals that the issue for some of my critics is not really about partnerships or purity. The problem is selective condemnation. When the alliances are their own, they are sanctified. When the alliances are mine, they are scandalous.

I genuinely wonder why that is. Knowing most of these men personally, I’m more inclined to think it’s because they believe they are gatekeepers. If you are not one of the boys in their group, not tethered to the right circle of approved voices, then your work is immediately suspect.

In the meantime, I mentioned in my sermon last Sunday a quote from Ralph Waldo Emerson. He said, “We do what we do, and we call it by the best names.” The point was to highlight how easy it is for us to justify our own behavior with noble labels while condemning the same behaviors in others.

Uh-oh. I quoted from Emerson, a poet who, like Lindsay, was unwilling to accept the deity of Christ. In fact, also like James, he rejected the authority of Scripture altogether. Still, when Emerson described the frustrating dissonance that sometimes exists between what humans allow for themselves compared to what they allow for others—what they defend and what they condemn—he was absolutely right. And the Scriptures agree with him (Romans 2:1; Matthew 7:3–5; Matthew 23:27–28; James 1:22–24; Isaiah 29:13).

Since I’ve referenced Emerson, a man of ungodly belief and yet capable of, on occasion, reflecting certain sunbeams of truth through his cracked window pane, remember that the Apostle Paul argued that truth can flicker even in unlikely places, and to reject every beam of light just because the window is cracked is foolish.

But again, the real soreness of this moment is the more striking inconsistency of those who once condemned me for my friendship with Charlie, and who now, in the wake of his death, are posting tributes that call him a martyr. How could a man they kept at arm’s length suddenly be worthy of such a holy title? How could the same men who derided me for walking beside him in life be so eager to claim him in death?

The public square will always be noisy and unpredictable. The Church will be, too. But there is no license in either for hypocrisy.

It seems even a cardinal has this figured out. His song is consistent. He would never think to condemn in one moment what he welcomed in another. Instead, he chirps the truth of the one true God who made the morning. He may even do it while sharing a branch with a very different bird. That bird may not sing the same notes, or even understand the sunrise in the same way, but natural law’s branch still holds them both. And natural law’s dawn still comes, unconcerned by their theological differences.

Everything Has A Lifespan

Posted on September 7, 2025 by AngelsPortion

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

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

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

But there’s more.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Truth is Truth No Matter the Source

Posted on August 31, 2025 by AngelsPortion

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s No Surprise

Posted on August 29, 2025 by AngelsPortion

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

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

Why did he do it?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Steady Voice

Posted on August 24, 2025 by AngelsPortion

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alignment

Posted on August 17, 2025 by AngelsPortion

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rest and Responsibility

Posted on August 3, 2025 by AngelsPortion

Returning from vacation always puts me in a contemplative form.

When we landed yesterday at Detroit Metro Airport, having returned from our annual two weeks in Florida, I can assure you that I had one of those invisible moments where even the “ding” sound as the overhead seatbelt light went out seemed to carry a lot of weight.

Things were going to be very different from what they were only moments before.

And then there’s the aura inside the airport. Sheesh. Maybe it’s just me, but the people departing are far different than the people returning. The people preparing to board for vacation look bright-eyed and ready. Among those returning, some are wearing flip-flops and theme park shirts. Others are carrying totes probably filled with things they bought while away. All are carrying the quiet resignation of a settling reality. They’re sort of shuffling through the terminal, not like the people who are getting ready to leave. Those folks are eager for what’s next. The returning folks aren’t so eager for what’s next. Although they’re not resisting it, either. They appear to know that a vacation is precious. However, it can only be held for so long before you have to let go.

I suppose in a culture dominated by the relentless pursuit of pleasure, vacations run the risk of feeling a little bit like a secular salvation. That’s probably why resorts market themselves as paradises promising renewal through pleasure-seeking. Secularism pretty much champions the idea of this kind of escape. It suggests that genuine rest comes from detaching oneself entirely from the reality of responsibility, feeding the myth that fulfillment can only be achieved far away from who or what we actually are in the lives we regularly inhabit.

While waiting for our luggage at carousel 3, a man walked by in all black and high heels. He was trying his best to be womanly. He wasn’t fooling anyone, except maybe himself.

I share this because it’s an easy example. The modern push of transgenderism seems like an embodied form of what I’m describing. It’s driven by the notion that someone’s identity is actually apart from biological realities, and therefore, satisfaction can be attained by remaking oneself according to personal desire, rather than embracing the givenness and goodness of what’s real—of what God has designed.

In both cases, whether with gender or with the more benign realm of vacation marketing, the cultural message is the same: “Escape who you are. Reinvent yourself. That’s where fulfillment lies.”

But is any of this really true? While I can appreciate a resort’s marketing allure, I also recognize that a vacation’s escape is indeed a marvelous thing, but perhaps not in the way our culture imagines.

Vacations make space for things that generally have to wait. There’s more time for anything and everything, or nothing at all. It’s a moment in time to do whatever might ease life’s usual burdens. In the meantime, bills wait. Work waits. Life’s duties wait.

But here’s the thing. The duties do not wait idly. They wait hungrily. When we got home, I saw that the weeds in the flower beds continued to grow. The grass did, too. I found that one of our cars sat and leaked a steady stream of transmission fluid for two straight weeks, all over the driveway. The pre-vacation refrigerator that was emptied had to be refilled. The milk we forgot to dump was quite the clumpy sight. The house had that strange, unlived-in scent, and dust had settled on things that were cleaned before we left, reminding us of our absence.

And yet, even as I came home to these things, I’m not so bothered by them. There’s a goodness in them, too.

The dinner table was ours again last night. We all sat in our usual spots. Well, four out of the five of us did. Harry went to see some friends. And admittedly, we were all very tired. We woke Saturday morning at 2:30 AM to catch a 6:00 AM flight home. Either way, the discussion was as it always is. It wasn’t the novelty of vacation. It was something more rooted. By way of another example, I can say I experienced what I’m doing my best to describe when Jen and I drove back from a quick visit last night with Josh, Lexi, and Preston. Passing through town, I mentioned Linden’s landscape—its trees and such. They look and sound nothing like the manicured palm trees and flora in Florida. And while I didn’t say it, they looked and sounded more like home than paradise ever could.

That’s because Linden is home. And perhaps it is precisely this feeling that helps me understand why God’s Word might speak of rest—of vacationing—not as an abandonment of reality, but as a renewal within it (Matthew 11:28-30; Hebrews 4:9-11). Jesus, when tired, often withdrew to quiet places (Luke 5:16; Mark 1:35). He certainly didn’t do it to escape the burden He knew He would bear (Matthew 26:39, 42). He did it as a very real and very human in-between for re-engaging with strength (Mark 6:30-32). Unlike the secular goal of continually fleeing responsibility, God’s Word reassures us that work and rest, engagement and withdrawal, each have their sacred roles (Ecclesiastes 3:1-8). They are not opposed. Instead, they weave together to form a life that can actually be very good.

I think there’s something holy about returning to your place in the world, even if the transition is difficult. You belong there. You are needed there. I think if you’re listening closely enough, something around you may even whisper, “Welcome back. It’s good to have you home. And now, let’s get back to work.”

Don’t get me wrong. You’ll never hear me say that coming home from a vacation is easy. It isn’t. In fact, for the Thoma family, it’s one of the most challenging transitions there is. I can assure you there were tears. With as busy as our lives can be, vacation sees that busyness out the door for a little while.

However, I think we can all admit there’s something wonderfully reassuring about stepping back into the familiar spaces. As much as we crave what vacations can offer, there’s relief in sleeping in our own beds again. There’s reprieve in reclaiming the familiar routines that, in some ways, define us. After all, home isn’t just a building to which we return. It’s far more than that. It’s where the richness of our story unfolds. That story is layered. Within those layers, we experience the ordinary rhythm of work and rest.

As I’ve already more or less said, for as good as “paradise” may feel, there’s a holiness in the “ordinary.” In the end, coming home from vacation isn’t so much about losing something precious as it is rediscovering the beauty of that ordinary. For me, it’s a precise moment on the timeline when I’m forced to remember that rest doesn’t mean escape. Indeed, God sets something better—actually, something extraordinary—right in front of me every single day. Looking through that Gospel lens, I can make it through to next year’s getaway 365 days from now.

Below the Surface

Posted on July 13, 2025 by AngelsPortion

It might be old news, but one of my all-time favorite films, Jaws, celebrated its 50th anniversary this past June—the 20th, to be precise. Of course, the Thoma family observed the special day by ordering a pizza and watching it.

What brings this to mind right now is that I just learned that a documentary about the making of the film was released on July 11. I haven’t watched it yet, but I plan to. I’m sure it’ll bring back memories.

I remember the first time I saw the film. I wasn’t very old, maybe seven or eight. My brother and I watched it on a Betamax player my dad borrowed from a friend at work. At least, I think that was the context. I can’t say for sure. Either way, I loved the movie, and I dare say it played a huge part in my fascination with horror films. Although Jaws wasn’t really a horror film. It was more of an adventure-like thriller with horror elements. It was slow-building and suspenseful. But its charm was that it was grounded in something that could happen.

Ask my family, and they’ll tell you there isn’t much that I fear. Scary movies never bothered me. I’m rarely startled when surprised. I was never afraid of the dark as a kid. I never felt the urge to rush up the basement steps after turning out the light. But I can admit, I’m no fan of sharks. I have my reasons. And as such, I can admit, even when I was a 20-something lifeguard working at a freshwater lake in the summer, I thought about what might be lurking beneath the surface every time I went for a dip.

Harrison and I were listening to movie soundtracks on Spotify several weeks back. Jennifer and the girls walked in just as I played the soundtrack from Jaws. Right away, they all knew the iconic two-note motif, even without me telling them. Go swimming in a pool, and at some point along the way, it’s the resident father’s job to dip lower, his mouth just above the rippling surface, and begin, “Dun-dunt… dun-dunt… dun-dunt-dun-dunt-dun-dunt…” When that happens, no matter how old the children are, there’s a crazed splashing as they dash for the pool’s edge.

I finished the fantasy-fiction book I was writing and sent it off to the publisher. I’m glad to say it has been accepted for publication. Two more are expected. Now I’m five chapters into something completely different—a thriller. For the record, I’m loving every minute of its creation. Stepping beyond myself for a moment to observe the writing process, I think movies like Jaws did more than just spark my interest in all things scary. I believe it played a role in introducing me to the power of storytelling, particularly in terms of tension and pacing. It taught me that what you don’t see is often more frightening than what you do. Spielberg’s restraint—the decision to show the shark sparingly—was brilliant. It left space for the mind to fill in the fear.

It’s hard to believe it’s been fifty years. But then again, some stories never truly grow old. They just circle beneath the surface, waiting to rise again.

I read a reply to one of my Facebook posts this morning. It more or less supported the point in a cultural sense. Ultimately, I deleted the reply, if only because it was crass and attacking. Essentially, the person believed that LGBTQ issues should be seen as entirely normal and, therefore, acceptable. His premise was that LGBTQ relationships have existed as long as heterosexual relationships. So, in other words, longevity equals legitimacy.

For the record, that’s just silly.

Age alone doesn’t validate something. Throughout history, plenty of things have been long accepted, yet we now easily recognize them as absurd. The Spartan culture, for many centuries, considered it honorable to dispose of newborns with birth defects by throwing them from cliffs. Although I wouldn’t put it past Michigan’s current leadership to write the practice into the state’s constitution. We already have an amendment that allows abortion up to birth, and in some instances, afterward.

But before I stray from my original thought, my point is that the age of a thing, or even its level of acceptability in cultures throughout history, says nothing about its morality or truth. Ultimately, sin has been around since Eden. Pride, murder, greed, envy, idolatry—all of these things have endured. Not one of them is new. And all along the way, God’s Word has spoken clearly against them. Just because something has endured doesn’t mean it’s good or right.

Indeed, the enemy of God’s truth has always worked subtly, patiently, and yes, sometimes through the slow-building suspense of cultural conditioning—until finally, it’s time once again for the fin to break the surface and for the attack to come.

By the way, that Facebook reply itself was a tired example of the premise. The desire to justify one’s sin is an ever-lurking predator. It waits patiently just below the surface of the conscience, always ready to offer an excuse, always prepared to snap with, “This is who you are,” rather than, “This is what Christ came to redeem.”

It’s no coincidence that the Bible often describes devilish things in predatory terms. Sin crouches at the door (Genesis 4:7). The devil prowls like a lion (1 Peter 5:8). These things are purposely framed as ensnaring and deceiving. The cultural arguments we hear today try to steer away from these descriptions. But in the end, they’re little more than recycled lies with polished packaging—that is, for the lifeguard who’s paying attention. They see the appeal to emotion or history. They recognize the labeling of objectively true things as “fascism” and “bigoted,” and they see the same old fin circling the swimmers.

I suppose my concern these days is that the Church, the appointed lifeguard, is too often lulled by the quiet of the water. Too many in our ranks are too often asleep in the chair, thinking all is well. Perhaps worse, among those who know the dangers, many are afraid to swim out into the crimsoned waters to help. We know we, too, could be attacked, and that the effort to help might have an irreversible cost to our reputation, our comfort, our families, and so much more. In other words, not unlike the tension that Jaws portrayed so well, there’s a fear of what you don’t see but know could happen.

But here’s the thing. Christians are not called to fear, but to faithfulness. Our calling is not to retreat. We’re not to remain on the beach. We are sent into the waters knowing full well what stirs beneath. I’d say this is true because we’ve already been carried into and through the better waters of Holy Baptism, which is a washing that doesn’t remove fear, but transforms it. Our LCMS President, Rev. Dr. Matthew Harrison, once described this kind of Christian courage in a way that I’ve never forgotten. He said something about how Christian courage is nothing less than fear that’s been baptized.

He was right in so many ways.

Grafted into Christ, fear becomes something altogether different (John 15:4-5; Romans 11:17). It doesn’t necessarily vanish. Instead, it bows. It gets reordered by the Gospel, and as a result, it no longer rules the heart (Philippians 4:7; Colossians 3:15). That’s because it has been fixed to Jesus. Indeed, “we were buried therefore with him by baptism into death, in order that, just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, we too might walk in newness of life” (Romans 6:4-5). This is to say, we are joined to the One who has already gone into and through the depths of darkness and emerged alive again (Revelation 1:17-18).

That said, we’re not here to tread water or stay dry on the shore. We’re here to swim, and sometimes that means swimming right into the blood-stained mess. We do this not because we’re immune to fear. We’re no fools. We know so many unseen and fearful things are gliding quietly beneath us (Ephesians 6:12). This is especially true in the waters of culture. But the point is that for Christians, fear is not preventative. We know that the worst that could ever happen in any situation—death—has no dominion (Romans 6:9; 1 Corinthians 15:54-57).

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