Two of the little girls washed away in the floodwaters were sisters. Blair and Brooke Harber were their names. Blair was 13 years old. Brooke was 11. When they found their lifeless bodies fifteen miles downstream, they were still holding hands.
When Jennifer shared this with me last night, I thought this couldn’t possibly be true. Then I looked it up. It seems it is true. The New York Post reported it. So did the Houston Chronicle and the Associated Press.
But here’s the thing. I have two daughters. If there’s one thing I know for sure about them, had they been swept away in a similar tragedy, we’d have discovered them in a similar embrace.
Madeline and Evelyn are as different as night and day. One loves to fly. The other could spend the whole day fishing. One prefers all things scary. The other is most comfortable in cowboy boots. One slips into unfamiliar scenes with quiet grace. The other makes sure everyone in the room knows where she stands on pretty much everything. But for as different as they are, the love they have for Christ, their family, and each other has never needed them to be alike. It has only needed them to be near.
So, while Jen was reading to me about those two girls, I’ll admit I got a little choked up. Who wouldn’t? Although I didn’t let her see it. She was already struggling to read the article, and a husband needs to be sturdy at these times and in these ways. Still, it was hard to hear, not just for the sorrow of it, but for the unseen truth, something familiar to me, that stirred in the swirling muck of a dreadful situation. The kind of love those girls had, I see it in my own daughters. That kind of final grasp isn’t made in a moment. It’s made over the years through late-night whispers, shared stories, and tearful apologies. It’s born from a wordless understanding between two sisters who know each other sometimes better than they know themselves. It is a love that holds on.
I know Madeline and Evelyn would have held on, too. And I believe they still will, no matter how far the current of life carries them. Because love like that just doesn’t let go. Even better, they have a Savior who won’t let go of them. And together, as sisters, they know it. They know even if the world gives way beneath them, He is there. By faith, they know, just as the seemingly simple and yet incredibly profound song goes, “Little ones to Him belong. They are weak, but He is strong. Yes, Jesus loves me.”
The news out of Mystic, Texas, was shocking. The flash floods brought more than water. They brought terrible sadness. I just checked. As of only a few hours ago, forty-three people are dead. Fifteen of them are children. The Associated Press article I was reading reported that “27 girls from Camp Mystic, a riverside Christian camp for girls in Hunt, Texas, still were unaccounted for about 36 hours after the flood.”
There’s something especially jarring about the death of children. It’s a primal ache. The little ones among us are meant to be protected. I can only imagine how helpless the parents of those children are feeling right now. They sent them to camp, expecting them to return. But in the middle of the night, a cabin of eight-year-olds was swept away.
Tragedies like this awaken something deep in us. They are reminders that being an adult is, in part, about standing guard. Even when, as children, we resisted the watchfulness, something changed the moment we became parents ourselves. We began to understand. We realized that protecting children is one of the most fundamental callings written into the human frame.
At least, you’d think it was. It seems more and more that this essential truth has been blurred by design. It seems that deliberate choices are being made by adults that not only fail to protect children but actually drop them right into the rising ideological deluge, insisting it’s for their good, even as the current pulls them under.
A long-time friend of mine, Martha, stopped by my office this past Wednesday while in town on business. It was good to see her. We spent a little over an hour catching up.
When it comes to what’s going on in the world, she’s a lot like me. She wonders how things got so backward. At one point along the way, we touched briefly on the recent U.S. Supreme Court decision upholding the Tennessee law. Essentially, the law bans transgender hormone treatments and surgeries for minors. I was glad for the 6-3 decision. Martha was, too. At its core, the law is a step toward protecting children from irreversible harm.
I mentioned to her in passing that Michigan has similar legislative efforts in motion. For example, House Bill 4190 would prohibit doctors from prescribing hormones or puberty blockers to minors. It also bans gender reassignment surgery on kids. My friend, Jason Woolford, is the one behind this worthwhile piece. He is an example of someone willing to step into the gap and defend children where others hesitate. I don’t think I mentioned the like-minded Senate bills that would criminalize healthcare providers while giving parents the right to sue for damages. One is Senate Bill 291.
These are all noble efforts, for sure. Still, I told Martha that someone should at least consider drafting a bill identical to Tennessee’s law. Make it word for word. I realize that with Governor Gretchen Whitmer at the helm and the Democrats controlling the State Senate, it’s unlikely that anything will get through and become law. Nevertheless, a shift in power could be on the very near horizon. And so, push the identical bill. Tennessee’s law has already been stress-tested in the nation’s highest court.
I’m sure not everyone agrees with this approach. Some might argue that simply copying another state’s legislation overlooks the subtleties of Michigan’s political landscape. I wonder if that’s part of the problem. Perhaps we’ve become too concerned with tailoring bills to conciliate rather than to confront. In fact, the longer I stand at the intersection of Church and State, the more convinced I become that we’re overcomplicating things. Too often, bills are laced with endless nuances, providing this exception and that concession, all in hopes of pleasing as many as possible, and yet resulting in the legislation being neutered before it even reaches the Governor’s desk. The more I see this, the more I question whether the bill drafters truly grasp the dangers posed by the ideologies they’re supposedly trying to address.
Chiseling away at devilish ideologies is virtuous, but only insofar as truth continues to meet squarely against anti-truth. To do this requires both unwavering clarity and legislative precision. When it comes to radical gender ideologies in particular, anything else risks the grotesqueness embedding itself deeper into our schools, our medical systems, our laws, and our souls.
Now, I should probably steer preemptively into two critiques I expect to receive from what I’ve just written.
First, I have plenty of friends in government who’ll step from my seemingly simple-mindedness, calling me naïve—that I don’t know how things work in Lansing, or, bigger still, Washington, D.C. I expect that assessment. And to some extent, they’d be right. However, I would respond by saying that if political realism leads to bills that ban surgery but affirm the worldview behind it, even if only a little, then perhaps a little naïveté is exactly what’s needed.
That said, rest assured, I’m not ignorant of the legislative process. I am aware that the political world involves negotiation, committees, amendments, and such. Rest assured also that I’m not necessarily an absolutist. Like Jesus during His earthly ministry, I’m more of an incrementalist. Indeed, divine absolutism will eventually play out, and everyone everywhere will know when it does (Philippians 2:10–11). On that day, “He will judge the nations with justice and the peoples with equity” (Psalm 98:9). Meanwhile, the Lord didn’t reach into this world, taking upon Himself human flesh, and instantly demanding complete comprehension from those He encountered (John 1:9-14). He preached, He taught, and He walked with people (Luke 24:27; Matthew 4:23; John 3:2). He led them step by step into His identity and truth—patiently, deliberately, and with perfect clarity (Mark 4:33–34; John 16:12–13).
But take note: He did this, never compromising truth’s substance for the sake of palatability (John 6:60–66).
That’s the balance I prefer. I want to do everything I can to move the ball down the field, avoiding any plays that risk giving up ground. In other words, incrementalism must never become appeasement. I’ve seen how the slow erosion of truth so often hides behind the phrase “what’s politically possible.” Refusing to give ground is the only respectable posture.
But that means we must first understand and then acknowledge just how backward things are. Until we do, we’ll remain a society that embraces madness, the kind that creates bills that still allow exceptions in some instances for surgically mutilating its citizens under the banner of compassion.
The second thing I should probably steer into is likely to come from a now former friend (unfortunately) who I can hear saying something like, “Look, no one wants to see kids suffer. But we need to get the government out of this altogether. We need to let families and doctors make these deeply personal decisions without government interference.”
And that, right there, is a big part of the problem.
Even apart from Christianity’s boundaries, personal liberty has never equated to moral neutrality. Liberty understands that truth exists and that citizens must be free to seek, speak, and live according to that truth without fear of coercion or punishment. But liberty untethered from truth is no longer liberty—it’s radical individualism. When radical individualism invokes the Declaration of Independence’s “pursuit of happiness” phrase to justify the mutilation of children, then freedom has become a twisted version of itself. We end up using our nation’s founding documents, not in pursuit of truth, but as permission-granting sources for redefining it. And again, it’s the children who pay the highest price for such redefinitions. They are both the battlefield and the collateral.
“But that’s more or less a spiritual argument, Pastor Thoma.”
In a sense, yes. But so is the counterargument. Right now, the prevailing narrative in our world says that someone can be “born in the wrong body.” Having spent enough time around Dr. James Lindsay, I’ve realized this is a deeply Gnostic concept—one that severs the soul from the body and declares the physical form irrelevant or even hostile to the true self.
The Christian faith insists otherwise. Body and soul are not at war but in union, created by God in perfect harmony (Genesis 2:7). Our Lord took on flesh, not as a costume to be shed, but as the very substance of our redemption (John 1:14). Christ’s incarnation affirms the goodness of the human body—male and female—as God designed it (Genesis 1:27). To mutilate that body in the name of self-actualization is not compassionate liberation. It’s a spiritual act, and a desecrating one at that (1 Corinthians 6:19–20). To slice away organs or pump anyone, child or adult (because age does not sanctify the level of one’s error), with cross-sex hormones in pursuit of an impossible transformation is not compassion or the pursuit of happiness. It is bodily harm, sanctified by pseudo-Gnostic jargon cloaking a lie, one that is easily detected in Natural Law (Romans 1:25).
Ultimately, I hope that future generations will look back on this time in America as a dark age. I hope everything that’s happening relative to so-called “gender-affirming care” will be remembered with the same horror as lobotomies. Whether such somber reflection will ever occur, I don’t know. What I do know is that a generation of legislators did not defeat slavery with bills that allowed “grandfather” exceptions.
There’s one more critique I should probably address before wrapping up, mainly since much of this has focused on gender dysphoria.
Per usual, I will be accused of hatred for what I’ve written. I will be told that I just don’t understand and that I am invalidating someone’s identity. Someone may even wield dissenting Supreme Court Justice Sonia Sotomayor’s argument that my position is nothing short of advocacy for suffering.
To that, I suppose I might say, “Yes, I am advocating for suffering. Just not the kind you think.”
I’m advocating for what we Lutherans call the “Theology of the Cross,” a path marked by humility, struggle, and self-denial. It’s what Jesus meant by saying, “If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow me” (Matthew 16:24). The one following Jesus is less interested in worldly accommodation, but instead, is inclined to suffer all things, even suffering against internal desires, rather than be separated from Him and His redemptive work on the cross. All this stands in stark contrast to the world’s “Theology of Glory,” which seeks affirmation and comfort at any cost.
Every human being is born with backward desires. That’s the reality of sin. Taking up the cross in life’s combat, some fight against lust. Others wage war against drinking. Others fight dysphoric tendencies. Right now, we live in a culture more inclined to affirm and celebrate these disorders rather than restrain them. Still, Christ bids us to follow Him, not the “self.” It is not dangerous or unloving to say this. It is, however, unloving to affirm a lie, and it’s risky to give it room.
In the end, I expect to be called hateful for my positions. However, in every aspect of life, the courage to suffer for the sake of truth is the only way forward. It’s the best levee for holding back the water. That’s because its strength lies in a divine kind of love that brings truth, even when it costs something. Look to Jesus on the cross and see for yourself. There, love and truth are not in conflict but are inseparably joined—and in the most wonderfully protective way.
I wasn’t going to write anything this morning relative to the Fourth of July celebration. I intended to wake up, get some coffee, and just relax.
However, just a few minutes ago, I read an online piece about what actually went into planning and executing particular liberty-securing special military operations in early American history. It was dangerous. It was the embodiment of diligence. It was the deliberate offering of one’s own life for the sake of others. It was early mornings without the certainty of evening rest. It was calculated suffering, guided by conviction, and sustained by the hope that a freer nation might actually be built—brick by brick, battle by battle, prayer by prayer.
In other words, for our Founding Fathers, it was anything but waking up, drinking coffee, and relaxing.
Maybe we should set aside our barbecues and eat turkey instead. It sure feels a little like the Fourth of July could be interchangeable with Thanksgiving Day. We could sing our anthems, light our fireworks, and gather around tables not because we have earned this freedom, but because God has so graciously granted it, and for that, we are incredibly thankful.
The Apostle Paul wrote, “For freedom Christ has set us free; stand firm therefore, and do not submit again to a yoke of slavery” (Galatians 5:1). He wasn’t talking about national liberty. He was talking about freedom in Jesus. This is freedom from sin, death, and Satan. Still, where Christian liberty exists, there is true liberty in every sense of the word. It makes sense, then, that we would give thanks for the national freedom to gather and to worship our Lord without fear.
This is, in fact, a place where Church and State meet—not by confusion of their roles, but by acknowledgment that God rules over both. By His rule, we have the greatest freedom secured by a Savior, and another freedom He has so graciously given, made sure by patriots.
That carries me to something else.
Liberty rightly understood is not license. It is a gift to be stewarded, not an idol to be polished. God’s Word reminds us: “Live as people who are free, not using your freedom as a cover-up for evil, but living as servants of God” (1 Peter 2:16). In other words, liberty is not measured by the expanse of its seemingly endless boundaries. A person is not truly free if freedom means indulging in that which destroys. You are not living in liberty if you believe a person is free to murder an unborn child or redefine human sexuality. Genuine liberty pursues what is good, right, and true.
So, I guess what I’m saying this morning is that I’m thankful for liberty and the price paid for it, both on the cross and the mortal trenches. And yet, looking up from the trenches, I’m thankful for the preservation of this nation only insofar as she continues to understand liberty rightly, that she repents where needed, and that she pursues righteousness where lacking.
Yesterday, I was on a national phone call with Dr. Ben Carson. He asked me to speak. Of course, I agreed. One thing I said was that, in a sense, any nation with Christians living in it is blessed. That’s because they know what to pray for. Not only that, but they can hold the line on truth (1 Corinthians 16:13), and they can speak that truth in love (Ephesians 4:15). Their love for Christ always supersedes their love of country, and in that sense, they serve as purifying elements, whether they realize it or not.
Now, I don’t mean these things in a dominionist way—as if to say only Christians should run the government. What I mean is that when Christians live in faithfulness to Christ and therefore live faithfully according to their vocations, loving their neighbor and fearing God, the nation is naturally enriched, even when it doesn’t know why. Christians truly are any nation’s salt and light (Matthew 5:13-16).
I suppose I’ll close with that.
Remember that as Christians, we are dual citizens. While we walk the soil of this great republic, we belong to a Kingdom not of this world (John 18:36). And yet, when considering America by comparison to so many other nations, we are bound to be thankful for both. In such thankfulness, keep the proper perspective. When you see the fireworks booming, remember the thunderous response of the dark sky and cracking rocks at the Lord’s crucifixion. He won your truest freedom there. When you see the fireworks flashing, remember that His divine light has shattered the darkness. When you see the flag waving, remember that the banner of Christ’s cross is forever raised over every nation, tribe, and tongue. And by the power of the Holy Spirit alive in you by the Gospel, you go forth in service to Him with a bit of extraordinary insight. You know, “Blessed is the nation whose God is the Lord” (Psalm 33:12).
It’s been several weeks since the “No Kings” protests. However, I just saw an online advertisement this morning for “No Kings 2.0” scheduled for the Fourth of July. I did some checking around, and it seems this is only a rumor.
My daughter, Madeline, told me the group gathered in Fenton a few weeks ago for their first attempt. There were people there with signs and slogans. In Lansing, they gathered on the Capitol’s steps. I didn’t pay it much attention at the time, which is probably another reason why I’m only now offering commentary. I have plenty to keep me busy these days. And besides, the whole thing felt like just another performance of the usual twisted pageantry. I remember seeing an image of a sign from the Lansing event that displayed the slogan “86-47,” which is the not-so-subtle numerical code calling for the 47th president’s removal by any means necessary, including death. In other cities across America, people wearing all black and face coverings gathered in public places and spray-painted the “No Kings Here” mantra on historic monuments, essentially defacing memorials actually put into place as emblems against tyranny. That’s ironic, isn’t it? Still, the groups marched and chanted like voodoo shamans performing their dark rites and ceremonies.
If you’re not familiar with the relatively fizzled No Kings movement, as I already hinted, the essence is pretty predictable. Like most everything that bubbles up from the progressive left, it was just another resistance to President Trump. With this particular effort, they framed him as a self-coronated dictator. The organizers aimed to present the movement as a spontaneous, grassroots uprising, as though everyday Americans were uniting against what they claimed was an unprecedented crackdown on illegal immigration.
But in truth, it was and remains more of the same: a theater of outrage designed to imply that Americans are universally appalled by the dismantling of the so-called “woke” infrastructure—that we’re incensed President Trump refuses to pander during “Pride Month,” which LGBTQ, Inc. has claimed not merely as a season, but as a sovereign domain over the entirety of June itself.
In the end, it’s a familiar pattern. These are the same voices that rage not so much at what Trump does as that he remains entirely unmoved by their contempt. He doesn’t flinch. He simply continues forward undeterred and, perhaps most offensively to them, unbothered.
For the record, and as the saying goes, I voted for this.
Beyond these things, what I find most interesting is that while the protests wanted to appear organic, the entire operation was orchestrated and paid for by ideologically captured groups, nearly all of which are connected to George Soros.
Now, some will read that sentence I just typed out and say, “Uh-oh, Thoma is becoming a conspiracy theorist.” But I’m not. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned Soros’ name in anything I’ve ever written. What’s the difference here? Well, the receipts are in. The documented funders of the “No Kings” protests included groups such as Indivisible, the ACLU, MoveOn.org, 50501, and various teacher unions and organized labor federations, all of which had received their funding for the effort from Soros’ Open Society Foundations. That’s not a conspiracy. That’s basic bookkeeping.
Setting the ledgers aside for a moment, while mindful of the effort’s truest geist, the irony of the No Kings protests—beyond the faux-revolutionary aesthetic and its TikTok theology—is that they presume to cast down the idea of kingship while fully prostrating before their own tyrants. They say they will not bow, and yet, they’re already on their knees in so many ways.
They slather praise on transgender activism as it tyrannically jackboots through female locker rooms and right into women’s sports. They still wear masks in their cars while declaring the unvaccinated to be “anti-science.” Their costumes are rainbow t-shirts that say, “Love is love,” while they do all they can to cancel anyone who would claim marriage is for one man and one woman. They converge on businesses, first emerging from vehicles with a “Coexist” bumper sticker ironically surrounded by other stickers with crass anti-conservative slogans. Then they march into the business offices wearing their government DEI badges, insisting that racism can only be quelled by applying more racism.
The authority they wield doesn’t come from thrones or castles but from 501(c)(3) and 501(c)(4) corporations. Their language isn’t regal, but it is rehearsed. Catchphrases have become decrees, and school boards have become their courts. And their reigns are no less absolute than the supposed tyrants they say they want to depose. Except, unlike the kings of old, they demand far more than taxes and loyalty. They want your mind. They require your memory and morals. They absolutely demand your children. And just try taking a public stand against their mandates. Try dissenting, even politely. You’ll discover how quickly the No Kings crowd finds its enforcement arm. In fact, I realized this firsthand in a place where I thought I’d be relatively safe from it.
This past Friday, during the convention of the English District of the LCMS, a lay delegate approached me during the morning break. His two-fold goal? To announce his pride in the Democrat Party and to accost me for my public opinions on abortion and LGBTQ issues. Think about that for a second. I was sitting alone at a triennial gathering for supposedly biblically minded clergy and laymen. This individual—a representative of a sister congregation sent to embody and, if possible, move the District according to its theological positions—sought me out of his own volition to assault biblical positions. Scary. Although the gathering onlookers (who did and said nothing, by the way) enjoyed quite the intermission at my expense.
Before I stray too far, I guess what I’m saying is that the No Kings folks are not really trying to rid the world of tyrants. Tyrannical ideologies already enslave them, and as such, they more or less prove they’re okay with kings, especially the ones who sanctify their sins. The ones willing to call their rebellion by name must be overthrown. In that sense, they don’t want freedom, at least, not like they’re saying. They’re after dominion. And I suppose in the most ironic twist of all, they cry “No kings!” while building a congregation of progressives, one formed by the gospel of “self” and served by priests in rainbow vestments intent on leading all of us in the new liturgy of control.
That’s not just cultural irony. It’s a theological tragedy. And that’s really the crux of it. As Christians, we know this isn’t just about politics or public policy. In the end, it’s not even about power. It’s about divine things.
God’s Word insists that every human heart has a throne, and every throne demands a king. If Christ is not seated there, someone else—or something else—will be. This isn’t conjecture. It’s reality. Saint Paul wrote, “You are slaves of the one whom you obey—either of sin, which leads to death, or of obedience, which leads to righteousness” (Romans 6:16). In other words, you will serve a master. Your heart will be devoted. You will bend the knee. This is because the heart is not some morally neutral chamber of vague intentions. It is, as the Bible says, the seat of human desire and its fruit. That’s why Solomon wrote, “Keep your heart with all vigilance, for from it flow the springs of life” (Proverbs 4:23). What fills the heart rules the life.
Interestingly, this principle doesn’t apply only to individuals. It seems to apply to entire societies. Indeed, every group has its creed. Every society bows before something. “They [entire generations of people] exchanged the truth about God for a lie,” Paul writes, “and worshiped and served the creature rather than the Creator” (Romans 1:25). But Paul doesn’t stop there. He later warns in 1 Corinthians 10:20–21 that our devotion never exists in a neutral zone. It is aimed either toward the divine or toward the demonic. There is no third option. There is no spiritual vacuum.
And so, to come back around to the No Kings crowd. They spray-paint their slogans in defiance, but they’re not really free. Sure, they declare autonomy, but it’s an illusion, if only because autonomy requires clarity of thought and freedom of conscience—neither of which survives long under the tyranny of hatred. Their obsession with Donald Trump—regardless of what he does—isn’t principled resistance. It’s programmed allegiance. And in that sense, they are not without a king. Their hatred has become their monarch and lord. It governs their emotions, their actions, and even their sense of righteousness. But hatred is a brutal master. It blesses confusion, punishes dissent, and demands unquestioning loyalty. So, no, their chants aren’t declarations of liberty. They’re the sound of spiritual captivity—liturgies offered to the ever-hungrier lords of the age.
As for me, I will not bow to these new kings making jumbled decrees from their cathedrals draped in “self.” Instead, I’ll bow to the One who wore a crown of thorns. I’ll do this while steering into our nation’s Fourth of July celebration with incredible thankfulness for the Founding Fathers and their extraordinary courage. Indeed, I am blessed to be an American. That said, I intend to love this nation, not as an idol, but as a gift worth serving and supporting, most especially as one forged in the understanding that true liberty means responsibility before God, not license to rebel against Him. I intend to be a citizen who remembers that even a constitutional republic can fall if its people forget that true freedom requires virtue, and virtue only endures when rooted in Christ.
So, to the No Kings folks, if you do decide to attempt a 2.0 effort, go ahead and do it if you must. March and chant and graffiti your slogans across the faces of the dead, doing so well-funded and furious as ever. But do not pretend you have no king. You do. The only question is who—or what—occupies your throne (Matthew 16:15).
If you haven’t already heard, the U.S. military used our country’s infamous bunker-buster bombs yesterday to take out Iran’s nuclear sites. Whether one agrees with the decision or not, it’s a sobering reminder: the world our children are navigating is growing more perilous by the hour. That said, when I woke up this morning, I had already intended to write about a significant role reversal I experienced last week. I’m going to stay the course, yet I can already sense how this morning’s news will impact it.
Essentially, my daughter, Madeline, recently earned her private pilot’s license. As a Father’s Day gift, she took me on an hour-long flight. We departed from Bishop International Airport in Flint, flew to a small airstrip in Linden, landed and launched twice, and then returned to Flint. On approach into Flint, she performed a maneuver called a “slip.” I looked it up and found the following definition to be exactly as I experienced:
“A slip is an aeronautical maneuver that involves banking the aircraft into the wind and using opposite rudder to maintain a desired flight path while increasing descent rate or correcting for wind drift.”
In plain terms, Madeline banked us left, and yet, we didn’t turn. We slid sideways while descending rapidly. Just above the runway, she finally straightened the plane, leveled us out, and touched down as if we were angels gently descending from heaven.
She was amazing.
Now, I started by saying I experienced a significant role reversal. To frame all of this in the proper perspective, it really wasn’t all that long ago that Madeline’s life was in my hands in every way imaginable. Indeed, it’s as if only recently, I was tucking her into a car seat and securing the five-point harness, even adjusting the straps to fit her comfortably while ensuring maximum safety. I was the one who checked twice—sometimes three times—that every latch was secure, every buckle snug, because that’s what a father does to keep his child safe. He does things like hold her hand in public. He hovers behind her on staircases that she is still too small to climb. He steadies the handlebars on her first bike ride, jogging alongside her down the sidewalk, ready to catch her when she tips. Everything about her very existence—the entirety of her well-being—is entrusted to him.
But last Sunday—Father’s Day, no less—somewhere just beneath the clouds, the roles reversed, and I found my life was entirely in my daughter’s hands. I climbed into the copilot’s seat and fastened the belt, which she then refastened because I hadn’t done it correctly. She proceeded to adjust it accordingly. And then she was the one now glancing over the vehicle’s every dial, confirming each setting, running her hand along the controls, reciting the pre-flight checklist items with unbroken concentration. I did nothing. She captained the headset, talked with the towers, and guided me through what to expect.
I guess what I’m saying is that the magnitude of that transfer wasn’t lost on me. It was exhilarating, yes, but also profoundly humbling.
Still beaming a couple of days after the flight, while Madeline and I were driving together, I told her again how proud I was of her. I mentioned a quote that had resurfaced in my mind as we flew—something from C.S. Lewis’ The Four Loves. He wrote so profoundly, “To love at all is to be vulnerable.” I explained how placing my life in her hands had revealed something. It wasn’t just that I trusted her. It was more about the depth of love I have for her, the kind that knows just how much she loves me, too.
I’ve known Lewis’ words for a long time. I’ve reflected on them in the context of marriage, friendship, pastoral ministry, and countless other situations where love demands a certain measure of risk. But I’d never thought to apply them to my kids until now. And yet, there they were, soaring right beside us at 2,000 feet on Father’s Day.
I’m usually pretty good with words. But this morning, I’m feeling somewhat limited. The English language doesn’t really have the capacity for genuinely communicating the moment your parental life shifts from giving care to receiving it—from being the one at the controls, both literally and metaphorically, and then, in an instant, letting go of the illusion that I would always be the one doing the work to keep my child safe. That kind of vulnerability doesn’t come easily, especially for a dad. But it is, I think, a place where, if we’re looking through the lens of the Gospel, God shows us just how complete love can be in a family.
I suppose something else comes to mind in all of this, too.
I would imagine that most Christians are familiar with the text of Proverbs 22:6, which reads, “Train up a child in the way he should go; even when he is old, he will not depart from it.” Most folks see that verse in terms of instruction in moral grounding and right living. That’s not wrong. But it misses the heart of the verse.
Its primary aim is that we would raise our children in the “way,” namely, faith so that when they do climb into the cockpit of life, so to speak, they do so not only with competence but with wings outstretched for trust in Christ. In that sense, Proverbs 22:6 reminds us that even as our children’s hands might reach to ours for learning character, skills, and such, it is far more critical that they know to reach for the Lord’s hand in all things. Only then can they truly navigate both the clear skies and the storms with spiritual wisdom and poise. Only in Christ will they know how to take off, how to “slip” when necessary, and how to land with grace.
Anyone considering these things honestly will recognize something more.
Without question, the world my children are navigating is by no means the same one I inherited. Long before the latest news about Iran, the skies they were flying in were already far more turbulent. The voices buzzing through the coms are more confusing, almost unintelligible. The instrument panel in front of them, while more advanced, is almost entirely calibrated by a secular age that denies God’s existence altogether, calling His Word foolishness and insisting that truth itself should be wholly despised.
My point is that the role of Christian parenting cannot be passive in any of this. It cannot be content merely with getting one’s kid into a good college so that they are materially successful. All of that ends when they breathe their last. As I’ve often said from the pulpit, this world and everything in it carries an expiration date. You may not see it, but it’s there. That said, we are not just raising children to exist and survive among temporal things. We are raising them, as Luther said, “to believe, to live, to pray, to suffer, and to die” (LW, Vol. 47, pp. 52-53), which, by default, means we’re raising them to exist in this world with eternal things in mind. We’re raising them to stand, to speak, and to boldly hold the line when others around them are folding. We’re raising them to do these things, not with arrogance, but with conviction formed by the eternal Word of God.
That’s why Proverbs 22:6 matters so deeply. Indeed, to “train up a child in the way he should go” means to help position them for good character and success. But the “way” it mentions is not abstract. It is the cruciform road that leads through repentance and faith in Jesus. When we train our children in this way, we’re grounding them in the very mind and heart of God.
And they need this grounding. They’re already being told that truth is subjective and that steadfast Christian conviction is cruelty. Worst of all, the surrounding world insists that biblical godliness is an artifact of a bygone era. They are surrounded by cultural winds that do not merely blow—they howl. If they are to fly straight—if they are to correct for this world’s drift—they will need spiritual discernment. They will need courage calibrated by sound doctrine and faithful practice. They will need to be taught to see everything in this world through the lens of who they are in Jesus.
In a sense, the time has already come for me to realize that my kids are now flying and I’m not. If you haven’t yet arrived at the same realization, then just know that you’ll be there soon enough. The time is coming when your little ones’ hands will be on the controls, and your hands will be folded in prayer.
That time comes sooner than we think. Parents, the preparation begins now.
When the choice is between faithfulness to Christ and the world’s distractions, choose faithfulness, even when the child doesn’t want to. Lead the way. Even as they might kick and scream to get free from the car seat, strap them in and set out. Do this not only because you’re teaching them how to fly but why to fly. Do this, remembering your children will one day be at the controls, and they’ll be faced with circumstances you never imagined.
Still, when this happens, you’ll be okay, even if things appear to be going south. You’ll be confident that you did everything possible to keep them connected to Christ. You’ll be able to hope that, when it matters most, they’ll know to lean not on the wisdom of this world but on the One who will never steer them wrong. Even better, you’ll know that even though you’re not in the cockpit, Christ is, and regardless of what anyone’s bumper sticker might say, He’s no copilot.
If you have a moment, I have an early morning observation to share.
Sometime last week, a conversation erupted in an online forum for families associated with our local school district. Essentially, a collection drive was orchestrated, and for those elementary students who participated and ultimately reached a particular goal, a celebratory activity would be their reward. The original post was from a woman bothered that her child was excluded from the activity. Did she and her child participate in the collection drive? No. And yet, her problem was that while the kids who did participate had their fun, the students who didn’t were kept busy off to the side doing something else, but still within view of the other kids. This mother felt it was inappropriate to keep any of the children from enjoying the activity, especially when all the children could see it happening.
I don’t know how you feel about this, but I have at least two observations I’d like to offer. And I won’t lie to you. They feel somewhat contradictory. Still, give them a chance. I think you’ll see that the two thoughts, while seemingly in tension, actually point to the same underlying concern that many of us have, which, in the end, boils down to the formation of character. In other words, both revolve around the same question: What kind of people are we trying to raise?
I’ll start with the more contentious of the two, just to get it out of the way.
The first is that it’s troubling we feel the need to entice children with rewards in order to prompt benevolent behavior. It may seem harmless to offer a small celebration for those who participate. And yet, beneath this is the subtle and unfortunate lesson that doing good is only worth our time if there’s something in it for us. In other words, when generosity is trained to function as a transaction, it ceases to be true generosity. Children begin to associate helping others not with compassion or responsibility but with the personal perks that follow. That kind of moral formation may produce momentary results, but over time, it undermines the deeper virtues we hope to cultivate. True goodness, if it is to mean anything at all, should stand even when no one is looking—and especially when no one is offering a reward.
Personally, if I were to rule the world, I would not allow these types of activities in schools at all. Instead, I would build rhythms of service into the classroom life—moments where students are invited to help not for a prize but because someone needs help. I would normalize the idea that compassion is part of being a decent human being, not a means to an end. Rather than gamifying kindness, I would frame it as a basic responsibility, just as we expect students to clean up after themselves or treat their peers with respect. When we treat generosity as performative, kids internalize the notion that doing good is about being seen. But when we treat generosity as expected and ordinary, kids begin to understand it as part of who they’re meant to be.
Again, I won’t lie to you. On occasion, we organize activities in our Christian school, such as the one described above. And yet, for the most part, I think we lean far more into the former frame of mind than the latter. Interestingly, our incoming Kantor made such a comment this past week. While visiting among the students, he said he experienced a spirit of genuine care and concern for one another that he’d never experienced among students anywhere else. That, of course, made me smile.
The second point I wanted to make is much easier, and it steers directly into the woman’s concern, which was that everyone deserves the reward, regardless of whether or not they earned it.
I say, probably like many of you, not everyone deserves a trophy. I know that sentiment has become somewhat cliché in our cultural discourse, but in this case, it’s deeply relevant. If a student didn’t participate in the effort, regardless of the reason, then it stands to follow that he wouldn’t be included in the celebration meant to recognize those who did. Those were the parameters, and the school families were well aware of them in advance. To bend the rules or to insist otherwise is to flatten the meaning of both achievement and reward. It cheapens the accomplishment of the children who gave their time and energy while simultaneously reinforcing the idea that effort is optional and that outcomes should be distributed equally, regardless of the input.
This isn’t just about collection drives or school events. It’s about a broader cultural confusion between fairness and sameness. Fairness involves recognizing and rewarding effort, commitment, and virtue. Sameness, on the other hand, insists that everyone be treated identically, even when their choices and behaviors differ. When sameness becomes the goal, excellence is discouraged, and mediocrity becomes the norm. Worse still, it breeds resentment, resulting in anti-achievement. Children who do what’s right may begin to ask why they should bother if the rewards are the same for everyone.
In short, if we want to raise children with integrity, we can’t afford to teach them according to the first point, which is that virtue is transactional. But neither can we teach them according to the second point, which is that one’s effort is irrelevant.
I suppose in the end, as with all things, the Bible weighs in on this discussion, coming to rest in character’s domain, which is a land that prizes humility, integrity, charity, good order, and so many other godly traits. And by the way, they’re not negotiable characteristics, but rather, they are essential for society’s stability and flourishing.
Concerning the first point, I don’t have to go far to hear straight from the God-man’s mouth that when we give, we should not do so “as the hypocrites do… to be honored by others,” but instead secretly (Matthew 6:1-4). This behavior is a fruit of faith, one that already understands it isn’t meant to be paraded or purchased—it’s meant to be lived for its own sake. If it can be an open reflection of God’s goodness at work in us for the sake of encouraging faith in others, then so be it (Matthew 5:13-16; Ephesians 2:8-10). God will work that result. In the meantime, we understand the first concern regarding these things. When we train our children to do good only for what they can gain, we inadvertently lead them into works-righteousness and away from the heart of Christ, who gave freely and called us to the same.
God’s Word also affirms the principle of just reward. In Galatians 6:7, Paul writes, “Do not be deceived: God is not mocked, for whatever one sows, that will he also reap.” This isn’t about merit in the salvific sense—grace remains unearned—but it does speak clearly to how the world is meant to function when aligned with God’s order. Labor deserves its wage (1 Timothy 5:18). Diligence bears fruit (Proverbs 13:4; Proverbs 10:4; Galatians 6:9). Obedience and discipline are not to be dismissed as elitist virtues but as marks of maturity and wisdom (Hebrews 12:11; Proverbs 12:1; John 14:23). When we ignore those distinctions, when we give everyone the same outcome regardless of participation or effort, we cultivate confusion and ultimately injustice (Proverbs 17:15; Romans 2:6; Luke 19:17).
That’s why both points, while perhaps initially sounding as though they are at odds, are really part of the same conversation. We’re called to raise children who are generous without self-interest and responsible without entitlement. That’s no small task in today’s world. When I look around and see the popularity of celebrating self over sacrifice, and I see online celebrities being applauded, even though they’ve accomplished nothing, I worry that the next generation is learning to give little and expect much.
I know it seems like heavy lifting. Nevertheless, it’s worth the effort to push back on this, if only because the world our children have (in a sense) already inherited desperately needs help. But not the kind of help this culture is willing to provide. That kind of help is no help at all. Instead, it needs help from hearts aligned with Christ and anchored in genuine truth.
I take vitamins. I have for years. Whether or not they’re helpful, I don’t know. I think they are. Either way, I take them because of habit, along with an unspoken hope to stave off decline. Hope and habit, I suppose, outweigh my skepticism.
Each morning, I rattle and shake the pills from my dispenser like dice in a gambler’s palm, casting my lot with D3, E, and others I hope will maintain my joints and back. There’s a strange comfort in the ritual—a brief moment every morning of feeling like I’ve done something to tip the scales in my favor. After all, I’m getting older, and nowadays, I’m less concerned about being what I once was as an athlete and more interested in picking up my grandson, Preston, when he reaches out to me.
Admittedly, I sometimes wonder if it’s all just a polite nod to the illusion of betterment. Maybe. But in a world that already feels incredibly out of balance, the smallest rituals can be the most stabilizing. And for me, that’s reason enough to continue.
A few weeks ago, Jennifer and I were remembering when we first met. After that brief conversation, I found myself drifting into earlier memories, years before Jennifer. Back then, I was a determined guy who didn’t like to lose. I’m still that way today, but nowhere near the level of my youth. Looking back at my late teens and early twenties, I see now that much of what I claimed to know was really just a thick confidence borrowed from youthfulness. Life seems to thin out over time—not just in muscle mass or bone density, but in what I actually know. There’s truth in the saying: the more you know, the more you realize just how much you don’t know. I was so sure about certain things that I ended up saying or doing things I probably wouldn’t say or do today. In truth, I didn’t fully understand the situation, but I acted anyway, believing I did.
Thankfully, most things worked out. God certainly used my youthful zeal for my betterment. That said, I lean less on determination these days and more on steadiness. Like my vitamin regimen, I’ve exchanged the need for proof with the simple desire to keep showing up every day.
Determination has given way to commitment.
You’d be surprised how much happier a person can be when he’s less interested in the next big accomplishment and more committed to the long game of where he is right now. When it comes to life in the Church—life as a pastor—that’s a better posture anyway. A pastor’s life isn’t defined by conquest beyond his congregation’s borders. Sometimes that’s necessary. But most of the time, it’s about continuity—holding to faithfulness and preserving a congregation’s Christian identity. Much of what we do is simply hanging in there and not giving up. It’s preaching and teaching today, trusting that it will take root and grow tomorrow.
At the heart of it, I suppose what I’m really thinking about and pointing toward this morning is faithfulness. Saint Paul wrote, “It is required of stewards that they be found faithful” (1 Corinthians 4:2). Paul already knows how a developed knowledge of God’s Word and sound doctrine is essential. But here, he implies that no small part of the task itself is faithful stewardship with what He’s given and where He’s situated you to use what He’s given.
No small part of the task is showing up.
Showing up has taught me some things. For one, I’ve learned that the truly sacred things in life are the ordinary, everyday things. I’ve also learned that when they’re gone, they’re missed more than any titles or trophies ever achieved along the way. The most meaningful moments in my life rarely arrive with fanfare. They come quietly—and they take many forms. The most recent was a child in our school who asked me a theological question that stopped me in my tracks. I hadn’t thought about the topic that way before, and with the child’s help, I could see the world a little differently. Truthfully, the same thing happens more often than not in most casual conversations with young and old here at Our Savior. But the point is that such moments don’t happen through force—they happen through repetition, patience, and the long, slow process of showing up.
So yes, I show up to take my vitamins. But I also show up each week with an eNews message. I show up in the pulpit with a sermon. I show up prepared for Bible study or religion class. I show up when I’m called to someone’s hospital room at two o’clock in the morning. I show up when my children need me. (They’ll tell you I show up even when they don’t.) I show up for meetings. I show up to hear confessions that break my heart. I show up when a couple’s marriage is struggling. I show up to pray every morning for the congregation God has called me to serve.
I show up for myself, too. For one, writing is my thing. It’s therapeutic. But I also show up in other ways: taking a minute to stretch on the closet floor in the morning, gulping down a handful of vitamins, doing a few pullups or planks when I get a chance, walking on the treadmill—not because I’m chasing youth, but because I’m caring for what remains.
That’s what life looks like for me now. It’s certainly not complacency. But it is less about accomplishment and more about steadiness. And just so you know, I think there’s a quiet kind of victory in staying steady and persistent—to be available to hold Preston when he wants to be held, to be present for those quietly arriving moments.
After I’m gone, for whoever chooses to remember me, I don’t want the strength of my life measured by accomplishment. I want it measured by faithfulness. That’s the standard I’m aiming for—not brilliance, not acclaim, not even success as the world defines it. Just faithfulness to my Lord and to the people among whom He’s placed me. Day in and day out, it was just as habitual to do what needed to be done among them as it was to take my vitamins. It’s really as simple—and as profound—as that.
It didn’t take long for me to discover what I wanted to write about this morning. The image I’ve shared here (with the strikethrough I added, affirming my disgust) was all the inspiration I needed.
Now, before I say what’s on my mind, just know that if you purchased the item advertised, I’m not condemning you. Advertising is designed to rope us into doing things we might not normally do. However, I suppose if you succumbed to this particular advertisement, then I am concerned. With very little wiggle room for alternate interpretation, the ad implies something deeply theological, and it isn’t good.
In short, the advertisement’s premise is “How to get closer to Christ.” Next, it gives the following three steps for accomplishing this:
Take a tiny slate. Etch the Holy Bible on it. Wear it on jewelry.
So, plainly, a way to draw nearer to the Savior of the world—to actually be closer to Him—is to miniaturize the entirety of His written Word to a nano-size document unreadable by any human being, and then hang the document around your neck as a trinket. Therefore, by wearing the necklace, you are closer to Christ, and He is closer to you.
What’s the implied theology here? Well, before I go any further, let me first deal with what I expect will be a knee-jerk concern from readers wondering how this might be different from wearing a cross or crucifix as jewelry.
For starters, the Christian Church has long employed visible symbols—crosses, crucifixes, stained glass, icons. Lots of critics like to take aim at these things, suggesting the Church employs them as magical objects. I suppose some do. That’s unfortunate. However, genuine confessional Christianity doesn’t do this—and never did.
A crucifix, for example, places before our eyes the very heart of our faith: Christ crucified for sinners. It certainly doesn’t suggest that Jesus is somehow trapped in its wood or metal, or that the closer you are to it physically, the closer you are to Him. Instead, it visually echoes what can only be sourced from God’s Word: “We preach Christ crucified” (1 Corinthians 1:23). Even better, it demonstrates a completely different trajectory of approach, which is that “while we were still sinners, Christ died for us” (Romans 5:8). This is say that while our sinful nature would have nothing to do with God, He reached to us, giving Himself in the most comprehensive way. With these things in mind, a crucifix is a devotional aid that directs the senses to faith’s genuine object, Christ, and all that His person and work entail.
The advertised pendant, however, claims to contain the Bible, yet it’s completely undecipherable. You can’t see a chapter, a verse, not even a letter. It has no visual function, no teaching capacity, no communicative power. At best, it gestures vaguely at the idea of God’s Word. But only the wearer knows that—sort of. Not even they can read it. A crucifix, by contrast, is visible. A child can look at it and ask, “Who is that?” The one wearing it now has an opportunity to share the message behind the theological cue, which is the powerful Gospel message that saves (Romans 1:16).
The trinket in question? It invites no such conversation. It says nothing and teaches nothing. More to the point, it falls flat because of why it’s being sold—which is not complicated. The company wants you to believe that by buying and wearing this necklace, you will be closer to Jesus. That’s not the same as stained glass in a church. That’s not the same as a portrait of Christ in your home. That’s not even close to the purpose of a cross or a crucifix.
The consequences of believing and acting on this advertisement aren’t small. At a minimum, the company is selling talismans—the idea that proximity to God’s Word, rather than receiving it, is sufficient for faith. That’s not Christianity. Genuine Christianity knows how closeness with God is achieved. Ultimately, He comes to us in Christ, who is the Word made flesh (John 1:14). Indeed, He comes, not micro-etched on a pendant in talismanic fashion, but through the verbal and visible means of His Word He established; where His Word is read, proclaimed, preached, and taught; in Baptism, where water and Word unite to bring forgiveness and new life; the Lord’s Supper, where bread and wine are His body and blood, given for you.
Conversely, this pendant nonsense is little more than a devotional gimmick being sold in the marketplace of false teaching. It’s the kind of shallow spirituality that resulted in Jesus turning over tables (Matthew 21:12-13) and rebuking church leaders (Matthew 23:25-27).
I sometimes wonder how things like this gain traction. I suppose it’s because the ad uses Christian-like language and images, which makes it sound harmless, maybe even holy. But the message is upside down. Unfortunately, that’s entirely possible in a culture and world brimming with churches plagued by Christian illiteracy. This ad didn’t appear in a vacuum. It thrives in places where spiritual depth is replaced by shallow sentimentality. That someone thought this ad would work (and probably has metrics saying it does) is a sad commentary on what people think Christianity is. It also testifies to a generation raised on inspirational memes instead of catechesis. It signals a Christian faith that’s been gutted—hollowed out by unchecked religiosity peddling subjective emotion over objective doctrine.
Again, if you bought the pendant because you thought that by doing so you’d be closer to Jesus, I’m sorry. I’m not sorry if my words have offended you. I’m sorry that you didn’t know any better. I’m sorry that somewhere along the line, someone convinced you—or failed to love you enough—to correct the faulty notion that closeness to Christ could be achieved through anything other than the means He Himself instituted. I feel terrible that marketing has become so indistinguishable from ministry in our culture that it’s hard to tell the difference between a product pitch and a proclamation of truth, resulting in people spending their money on something that will not get them where they want to go.
But even as I’m sad about these things, I’m also hopeful. Because now you know that Jesus is not found in a pendant, no matter how cleverly it’s designed. He’s found where He promised to locate Himself: His verbal and visible Word, the Means of Grace. These means aren’t slick. If anything, they’re so mundane they’re unmarketable. Still, they are eternally powerful. And they’re yours, not by purchasing power, but because the God you could never with all your mortal intellect and strength draw near to loved you enough to draw near to you.
I should let you in on a little secret. It’s one that I shared with the adult Bible study group here at Our Savior last week. Essentially, it’s a formula of sorts that plays itself out in congregations fairly regularly. Here’s how it usually goes.
A troubling situation arises, and the pastor must address it—usually by speaking directly with the person at the center of the issue. He approaches the conversation with a spirit of reconciliation, aiming to restore peace. But no matter how gentle the pastor’s approach, the individual takes offense, receiving the pastor as a cruel accuser. Days pass (typically about a week, because anything sooner would be suspicious), and the pastor gets a message. This time, the grievance is reversed: the person has discovered an unrelated reason to be angry at the pastor for something he said or did. The pastor must shift his posture, now seeking to reconcile a situation in which he has somehow become the offender. But this is merely a bait and switch. The new complaint isn’t the real issue; it’s a convenient excuse. In truth, the individual needs a reason to avoid the original circumstance and leave the fellowship. What better than that the pastor did something terrible to offend him? Certainly, he can no longer stay.
That’s really all there is to the formula. It does sometimes have slight variations. But in the end, it’s typically cut and dry. The pastor confronts. The person gets mad. The person conjures a reason to be offended by the pastor, thereby having a justifiable reason to leave. Nothing more, nothing less.
Again, I shared the formula with the Bible study attendees. I don’t remember what prompted it. Whatever it was, it stirred the urge to instill awareness. Awareness is a crucial step toward navigating trouble. In this context, J.R.R. Tolkien once said, “No one likes to be told they are wrong, especially when they are.” The hidden calculus that’s often at work after the “telling” is good to know. It certainly explains some genuinely baffling behaviors.
I also shared with the group that when the formula is being employed, the pastor usually knows it. He may not let on that he does, but trust me, he does. Any pastor worth his weight has experience with projectionism. In other words, he knows when someone is attempting to transfer guilt. It’s an old trick, really—one that began all the way back at the beginning. The first examples that come to mind are Adam and Eve. Rather than confessing honestly, Adam blamed Eve. In fact, he actually blamed God. “The woman YOU put here…” (Genesis 3:12). I wonder if Eve saw the look on God’s divine face after Adam spoke, and chose instead to blame only the serpent. Either way, neither wanted to stand in the spotlight of what they’d done. Now look where we are.
Another example might be King Saul and his relationship with David. After David defeated Goliath and started growing in popularity, Saul got pretty jealous. David hadn’t done anything wrong. In fact, he did almost everything right. He was loyal, obedient, and respectful. Still, Saul grew increasingly hostile, attempting to kill David several times. But why the attitude? It was due to Saul’s own guilt stemming from his disobedience to God (1 Samuel 15). It began to fester. But instead of repenting—instead of facing his own failings—Saul found reasons to be mad at David. He projected. David became the threat, the enemy, the one worthy of his anger.
It’s the same today. When someone has caused offense, and then the one called in the stead and by the command of Christ to sort it out steps in to restore peace, an all-too-common reflex is to find a way to displace the guilt rather than be absolved of it. The formula is designed to affix the guilt to the one who had the audacity to bring the sin to light in the first place. In the Church, that’s usually the pastor.
But in reality, the goal of the confrontation wasn’t cruelty or punishment. It was reconciliation. It was peace. That gets lost when the simpler equation changes from honest reflection that knows God’s mercy to a protectionist formula that cannot fathom oneself as a genuine offender. Still, that’s often what happens. The pastor’s effort to steer the offender toward something better becomes a weapon to justify division. In truth, it really just becomes a way to simmer in unreconciled sin, eventually seeing its effects spread. In other words, it becomes a seemingly valid reason to church-shop, and while doing so, to spread the venom to anyone back home asking where you’ve been. It’s also a reason to inform each of the new church’s pastors (likely asking where you’re from and why you’re visiting) just how uncaring the pastor is at your former church.
Just be careful with this. Or perhaps better, keep the following four things in mind.
First, experienced pastors know there are two sides to every story. Second, experienced pastors likely know the formula because they’ve been in your former pastor’s shoes more times than they can count. Third, an experienced pastor will hear you bemoan your former pastor’s faults and know well enough to watch his back around you. Fourth, back home, the truth remains. And no matter where the disgruntled church member goes, the behavior and wounds remain. The former congregation may not know why the person left. They may only hear that the pastor hurt someone’s feelings or said something offensive. But the pastor knows. He remembers the original offense, the confrontation, the moment the formula began to unfold. And while he may never speak of it publicly, it becomes another scar on his heart—one more story in the quiet suffering of a shepherd who tried to do what was right.
As my incredibly wise wife, Jennifer, so famously said, having suffered helplessly through these situations on more than one occasion just because she’s married to me, “Friends are friends until they aren’t.” It’s a simple truth that carries incredible weight. It knows of friendships so easily thrown away for ridiculously trivial reasons. It knows the tragedy of those who tried to help and yet were left behind.
I realize this is some heavy stuff. Still, it’s essential to know. And besides, no one ever accused me of avoiding the harder things. I do what I can to express what some won’t. That said, there’s more to know beyond the dreadful formula’s variables. And so, allow me to blast you with a super-dose of hopefulness lifted from God’s Word.
What I’ve described happens beyond the Church’s immediate walls. It’s likely something familiar to you. I’m definitely seeing it happen more and more among families. With that, remember even in this—especially in this—the Lord does not abandon His faithful people (Deuteronomy 31:6; Hebrews 13:5). He knows their hearts (1 Samuel 16:7; Jeremiah 17:10). He sees what is hidden (Hebrews 4:13; Psalm 139:1-4). He attends to their wounds with gentleness, binding them with His own mercy (Psalm 147:3; Isaiah 42:3; Lamentations 3:22-23). He reminds the weary Christian that faithfulness is never fruitless, even when it feels unseen or dismissed (1 Corinthians 15:58; Galatians 6:9; Matthew 6:4). He brings peace in turbulence (John 14:27; Isaiah 26:3), clarity during confusion (1 Corinthians 14:33; James 1:5), and strength when the burden presses hardest (Isaiah 40:29–31; 2 Corinthians 12:9–10).
Most importantly, for pastors and parishioners alike, God reminds us that the Church is not ours to orchestrate (Matthew 16:18; Acts 20:28). It belongs to Him, and not even the most cunning formulas can undo the work He is doing through those He has called (Romans 8:28–30; Philippians 1:6; Matthew 16:18). “My grace is sufficient for you,” He says, “for My power is made perfect in weakness” (2 Corinthians 12:9). And so, the faithful press on—scarred, yes, but never without hope (Romans 5:3–5; Lamentations 3:21–24), never without the peace which surpasses all understanding (Philippians 4:7).
Make no mistake. I’m a man of many flaws and inabilities. I know this. Truly, there are things I do regularly that I wish I didn’t, and there are things I wish I could do more or better. This is one reason why I appreciate New Year’s resolutions. Every year, I want to do better.
Looking back to the season before Easter for a quick second, Lent’s tendency toward self-examination provided an annual platform for measuring this reality, too, but for far better reasons than a transitioning calendar might stoke. For starters, Lent feeds into us the substance of Ash Wednesday’s appointed Epistle Reading. It’s been a few weeks since we heard it. Still, with apostolic eloquence, Saint Peter encourages his readers to “make every effort to supplement your faith with virtue, and virtue with knowledge, and knowledge with self-control, and self-control with steadfastness, and steadfastness with godliness….” (2 Peter 1:5-6). In other words, actively pursue becoming a good tree that produces good fruit (Matthew 12:33). Peter goes on to suggest that if these qualities increase, an awareness occurs that can see Christ and the surrounding world in the proper perspective (vv. 8-10).
Saint Paul is no slouch here, either. He gives abundant encouragement to fight the flesh for the sake of faithfulness. In Galatians 5:16-17, he describes the ongoing battle between the flesh and the Spirit in the believer’s life. In Romans 8:13, he urges believers to resist their sinful nature through the power of the Holy Spirit. In 1 Corinthians 9:27 and Colossians 3:5, he comes right out in full force, highlighting self-discipline and mandating that Christians actively “put to death” sinful tendencies.
I’m guessing that any sincere Christian wants the perspective Peter described. I sure do. Also, like Paul, I want to put my sinful tendencies in a grave. To do this, an honest examination is required. When one does so, it’s pretty incredible what can turn up. Captured by Lent’s annual gaze, I always find something to fix. For example, here’s something I learned. It’s maybe not that big of a deal. Still, it has the potential to negatively impact my personal relationships.
To be candid, I struggle to remember names. I always have. I can recall conversations almost word-for-word. I can recite entire speeches. I can quote from various poets. I can remember historical events and their significant contextual details that led to other events. I can remember dates and statistics. I can tell you what I learned from a book, documentary, or presentation. In other words, for the most part, I can retain content. Conversely, however, it might take me a minute or two to remember the author of a quotation. Sometimes, I can’t recall a movie character’s name, even after watching the film multiple times. This has long been a frustration of mine. Honestly, it really had me on edge before my doctoral defense last year. To defend a thesis, you not only need to know the content, but you need to have a ready grasp of your field’s primary authors and researchers. I was more than ready with this information during my defense. Still, I promised myself I’d look into it and try to fix this personal deficiency. It certainly can be an exasperating kink in my life.
Lent provided a focused time for this type of relational betterment.
It turns out there is a cognitive phenomenon for this very frustration known as “anomic aphasia” (or “nominal aphasia”). While it typically refers to difficulty recalling specific words in general, for some people, it’s more acutely relative to names. When this is true, it’s sometimes called “proper name anomia” or “nominal dysphasia.” Essentially, it is as I described. A person can remember events, conversations, and details about a situation, but struggles to recall the names of the people involved. Physiologically, this is because names are stored and retrieved differently in the brain than contextual details. Strangely, the brain files and processes proper names more arbitrarily, making them harder to recall. On the other hand, because the various stories and content of life come together to form our existence’s fuller narrative, the content is more closely associated with meaning and is, therefore, filed in a way that’s more readily available.
Perhaps a simplified example would be if a person asks a friend for directions, that friend is going to tell the person which roads to take. He isn’t going to tell him the name of the person who built the road. It’s likely the name of the person isn’t essential for getting from point A to point B.
I don’t want to bore you with this stuff. Instead, I want to return to something I wrote before: “Any sincere Christian wants the perspective Peter described.” This means observing frailty through the Gospel lens. From there, I’m not only trying to push back against and correct my shortcomings, but I want to see Jesus throughout the process.
In this instance, there’s already a glorious contrast becoming visible.
In a broad sense, while I’m plagued by frailties, God has none. In a narrow sense, I can rest assured that God never forgets my name. He never struggles to recall who I am. And by no means is the narrative of my life—the crumbling roads I constructed from my deeds—of most importance to Him. The Gospel is the narrative that matters to God. That’s the story of most importance. Through faith in Christ, the Lord’s narrative becomes my life’s narrative.
Interestingly, Isaiah 43:1 reads, “Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine.” A little further along, Isaiah 49:16 tells us, “Behold, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands.” One of the ways I can start overcoming my forgetfulness with names is to start writing them down soon after learning them. God claims us by name. To remember us, He engraves us in His hand. Engraving is a far different form of recollection than simple writing. It cuts into the material. Engraving a hand would be painfully unforgettable. And yet, for anyone with Peter’s perspective—a view attuned to Christ—a verse like Isaiah 49:16 is awfully reminiscent of the Lord’s crucifixion. He knew our names, even as He was carved up and pierced on the cross.
One more thought comes to mind.
Just as remarkable as what God remembers relative to my name is what He forgets. Hebrews 8:12 assures me, “For I will be merciful toward their iniquities, and I will remember their sins no more.” God, who is omniscient, forgets His believers’ dreadfulness. He does not recall what can potentially condemn us; instead, His perfect perspective is that of the Gospel. He sees us through the righteousness of His Son, and the result is that our sins are accounted as far as the East is from the West (Psalm 103:12). This is the stunning reality of God’s grace. When we are forgiven, our sins are not filed away in some dark corner of God’s mind, waiting to be dredged up again. They are gone. Forgotten. Forever erased.
I suppose, in the end, human memory may be frail and selective. I may forget names. I may struggle to recall details I wish I could summon instantly. But the God of all creation does not forget His own, and in His mercy, He refuses to remember the sins that once defined us. In that, I find both comfort and the courage to keep striving toward the perspective Peter described—to see Christ and the world rightly, trusting in the One who calls me by name and clothes me in His righteousness.
Cruciform Stuff 