I’ll be honest with you. I’m not feeling all that inspired this morning as I plink away at the keyboard to write my weekly eNews. Of course there are plenty of things happening, so there should be something worth observing and then sharing for the benefit of others.
I’m definitely an observer. I’m always watching. Well, that sounded a little creepy, didn’t it? Perhaps a better way to say it is that I’m always sorting. I’m always taking in as much of what’s going on around me as I can, and as I process it, I’m sorting it. I’m putting it into categories of thought.
But I’m not the only one who does this. You do it, too. We all do. In my case, after everything has been processed, the written word is its regular release valve.
But this morning, I’m sort of disinterested in opening the valve. And yet, here we are. I’m typing anyway. You’re reading. Now what?
I’ve established this regular duty that has blossomed into an expectation. That’s what. A good number have come to expect something from me by this eNewsletter every week all year long, and so now it is my responsibility to persevere—to filter my disinterest away and get the job done.
Maybe that’s where this free-thinking ramble is leading—to the topic of perseverance.
I don’t know about you, but I experience those times in my life where my resolve seems somewhat flimsy, my courage is minimal, and my strength feels as though it’s waning. Sometimes things are silent and dark, and I’ll catch myself mumbling beneath a breath, “I can’t go on.”
Everyone has those moments.
As I type this, what immediately comes to mind is a discussion we had in the Adult Bible study here at Our Savior a couple of weeks ago. We talked about how as human beings, when it comes to a right understanding of our Sin and what actually justifies us before God, we can find ourselves teetering at the edge of two categories of personality: Judas and Peter.
Both of these disciples found themselves steeped in the thickest mires of atrocious betrayal. Judas sold the Lord to His enemies. Peter denied association with Him, even calling down divine curses upon himself in order to mask his lies. Face to face with Jesus in both circumstances, who can survive such an act of deliberate dreadfulness against the one true God?
Judas gave up and is no more. But Peter persevered and was restored to the brethren.
Faith in the all-availing sacrifice of Christ. Faith in the One whose love is greater than our betrayals. That’s what.
I don’t always know where I am in any given moment on the timeline. The darkness swirls. The headwinds are strong. I’ll say I can’t go on. But by the power of the Holy Spirit through faith in Christ, I’ll know I can. I’ll know I must—and not because my relationship with Him requires that I earn my way back into His graces, but because He loves me. That love changes things completely. I must go on.
I mentioned in the sermon two weeks ago that I never usually go in the “what this means to me personally” direction while preaching, but I did anyway that day. Pondering the “Good Shepherd” text from John 10, I mentioned that from everything we’d heard from all of the readings combined (Psalm 23; Ezekiel 34:11-16; 1 Peter 2:21-25; John 10:11-16), the most meaningful part for me as an individual was the real, down in the trenches context in which the Word of God was leading. Side by side, the texts communicated that Jesus is truly the only One who can look upon me in my dreadful, filthy, ungrateful, and wandering state and still love me so incomparably that He would tuck me into His arm while He fights off the circling wolf packs of Sin, Death, and the Devil. Knowing that these monsters have been defanged through the person and work of Jesus Christ, my resolve becomes sturdier. My courage begins to overtake my fears. My strength returns. I can persevere.
I learn and relearn a valuable lesson each time I find myself despairing for the strength to take another step. I learn that for the Christian, perseverance doesn’t emerge from within any one of us. It comes from the outside. It’s given to us and then worked within us by the Holy Spirit through the Gospel. With that, perseverance becomes synonymous with faith. Christians persevere—we press forward even when pressing forward seems foolish—because our eyes are on Christ. He has our trust.
“I can’t go on,” I’ll sometimes say.
“Yes, you can,” the powerful Gospel for faith always replies. “Look. There’s Jesus. He’s already broken through the enemy’s fiercest strongholds. Do you see His cross? And His empty tomb? He’s made a way through. The ramparts are crumbling. The opposing forces, while they remain fiercely vicious, they are in disarray and are weakening. Get back in behind Him and follow. He more than has you in His care.”
As a congregation, there’s a lot in store for Our Savior Lutheran Church in Hartland, Michigan over the next few months. Visits from prominent guest speakers, graduations, and so many other unique opportunities will land in our midst. And yet, two of the most important dates to which we’ll give deliberate attention will be Mother’s Day and Father’s Day. National holidays, yes. Still, as a church, we’ll embrace them as days for honoring the office of “parent,” which stems naturally from God’s divinely established institution of marriage (Genesis 2:18-25).
We’ll celebrate these days not by swapping out the appointed readings for the day or by forcing the topics of “mother” or “father” into the sermon, but rather by letting the parents among us choose the distribution hymns during the Lord’s Supper. We’ll keep to a stabilizing liturgy that continues to set our eyes on Christ and His person and work for our forgiveness. The Word of God will be given. The Gospel will be preached. And in the midst of this, the congregation will give a more-than-appropriate nod of reverence by way of the Church’s rich hymnody to the Lord’s gracious care for His world through the societal-stabilizing gift of the family. (Visit https://www.lutheransforlife.org/article/gods-design-of-family/ to read more on what I mean that the family is a societal-stabilizing gift of God.)
I don’t know about you, but when I became a parent, there’s one very important thing that I learned almost immediately. I learned that no matter how I might be tempted to consider myself an expert in any given field, I will never be tempted to think of myself as anything more than an amateur as a father. Yes, Benjamin Spock tried to stir confidence in all of us in his infamous book Baby and Child Care when he wrote, “You know more than you think you do.” Still, there are those moments with my own children—conversations, situations, circumstances—in which I’m at a loss for words or certainty. I just don’t know what to do.
In one sense, these moments are to my benefit. They keep me level. They set before me that I’m never above the One who established the office of parent. They are moments for me to know that there’s only one Father with all the answers for every situation. I am merely a steward of the little ones He’s put into my care. He remains their true Father, and so I am duty-bound to rely on Him for what’s necessary for raising them.
This reminds me of something else.
As a pastor, I’m guessing that I attend more funerals than most folks. It’s part of the job. Over the years, I’ve noticed it’s not all that uncommon for families to put things into the casket to be buried with their loved one—special things, trinkets and such of lifelong importance. When I see these things in the casket—things that journeyed alongside them through their lives—I am reminded of something very parental in nature.
Hovering above the casket takes me to those moments when I was hovering above my little ones lying in the bassinet. It’s a momentary reminder that even as our little ones fit into a crib, the things we give, the songs we sing, the practices we uphold all along the way of their lives have enormous potential for remaining with them all the way through to the day when they will be fitted to a casket.
The job of parenting isn’t an easy one. The devil, the world, and the Sinful flesh sees quite well to making the task a challenging one. I think it was Bette Davis who said that you’re not officially a parent until you’ve been hated by your child. Those, as many of you already know, are true words. And yet we go forward. We make our kids brush their teeth. We argue with them about turning off the video games and going outside to play. We demand that they be home before midnight. We duke it out over their messy rooms, and we tell them a thousand times not to throw wet towels on the bathroom floor after a shower, as well as to flush the toilet and turn off the light before they leave.
There are plenty of times we find ourselves grappling with them just to get them to the Lord’s house for worship. And then the combat continues as we wrestle to keep them immersed in the liturgy, hymnody, and life of what really is the fellowship of their truest family—the holy Christian church. It’s exhausting. In fact, it can sometimes seem far too overwhelming to be worth the effort, especially during the teenage years when the child believes there are much better things to be doing than sitting in the pews at church.
But Christian parents fight on. And why?
Crib to casket.
In families, the space in between those two points is divinely appointed to mothers and fathers, and as believers, we take these life-long roles as stewards very seriously. Sure, we’ll always be those fathers who give the boyfriends of our college-aged daughters a poker face adorned with stern eyes. We’ll remain those mothers who pester our middle-aged sons not to forget to send a thank-you to aunt so-and-so for the birthday gift. But most importantly, we’ll be those parents who are forever concerned for the spiritual wellbeing of our children. We’ll never be able to shake the urge to be both nearsighted and farsighted. Nearsighted in that our eyes are fixed clearly upon the baptismal font where they were washed clean in the blood of Christ and claimed as His own; and farsighted as we look beyond that gracious act to their falling asleep in the Lord and their blessed Christian funeral.
I pray regularly for the stamina necessary for being a Christian parent in this day and age. Admittedly, in comparison to America’s history, Christian parents are facing unprecedented challenges to raising Godly children. Knowing this, prayer is a big deal. But even more importantly, regular worship is essential. In fact, it is the lifeblood for a Christian family. If parents and their children are not connected to Christ and the gifts He gives in holy worship, they are being starved of not only what saves, but what preserves from the crib to the casket.
My prayer for you is always the same—that you’ll never give up in this regard, that you’ll muscle through every obstruction to being with Christ in worship, that you’ll love your kids enough to use the time you have now to shepherd them into the presence of the One who loves them more than any of us ever could.
The dividends of such an effort are immeasurable. You’ll know them in the fullest sense in heaven. It’s there that you’ll look side to side and see your family. And in that eternal moment, I guarantee you’ll bear an equally eternal smile, one to which the frowns of struggle in this life will just never compare.
The prefix “un” is a powerful device of the English language. Add it to any concept, and it is reversed.
Things once believed with conviction are found unbelievable. Sturdy ideological fabric is unraveled. Something sure is found unreliable.
This is the “un” of the film “Unplanned,” and I dare say that no matter the starting point for the viewer—whether pro-life or pro-choice—at the end of the film, neither will be found unaffected.
To start, over the last few years, I’ve given presentations to various Right to Life groups, and as part of the presentation, I’ve sometimes added that I believe that abortion won’t begin to subside until people are made to look at it—to actually look at it—like the citizens of Germany following World War II. No sooner than they were marched through the camps and shown the piles of bodies did they finally begin to learn the gravity of the evil in their midst and eventually own their Sin.
“Unplanned” isn’t quite the same thing, although it is a marching through the death camp of sorts. It certainly is far more than just a peek behind the curtain. And this is good, because for many in America, the topic of Abortion is more like a lizard’s tail than the actual lizard. They’ve grabbed at it for so long thinking they’ve captured it, but in reality, it has slipped away leaving behind only a fragment of itself. The casual pro-lifer thinks abortion is bad, but isn’t all that concerned with working to make it completely illegal. The casual pro-choicer just wants it to be “safe and rare.” I suppose in a sense, the film reminds people on both sides of the issue that none can be too sure of the ideology they have in hand until coming face to face with the actual lizard strutting its full color, until stepping through the gateway of the death camp. When this happens, when the moviegoer sees abortion sunning itself in full array, plans to hold onto what we think is true of abortion suddenly become un-planned. They are swiftly and mercilessly undone, unraveled, and marked as unbelievable.
It’s hard for anyone—anyone truly human, that is—to witness the tiniest among us struggling to avoid an invading monster, a beast that reaches up and into the womb to so violently tear her limb from limb and ultimately pull her through a much smaller suction tube toward a waste receptacle collecting the bubbling, gory chunks of visceral red. Seeing this, the complacent pro-lifer will better understand the value of exchanging attendance at a soccer game for the opportunity to actively participate on the front lines to overthrow the clinics performing these Auschwitz-like events. Beholding this, the obstinate pro-choicer might just be found choking on the lie betrayed by the grim ultrasound imagery of a sentient life fiercely engaging in self-preservation. God willing they might just see that abortion isn’t the virtue-signaling solution to inconvenience it has been made out to be, that it isn’t a medical procedure performed on a clump of cells, that it isn’t a fundamental right of a woman.
It’s homicide—cold, calculated slaughter.
“Unplanned” takes our preconceived notions—our ideological plans—and un-plans them.
Now just a bit of critical commentary, which should in no way dissuade you from seeing the film. See it. Take others with you. It is worth your dollars and time.
First, I’ll admit the acting isn’t the best—except for Ashley Bratcher, who plays Abby Johnson, the woman who lived the story you’re seeing on the screen. No matter how awkward some of the scripted scenes were, she invested herself fully in the drama required to carry each one. She is perhaps challenged for best performance by one of the smallest, briefest roles in the film. Anisa Nyell Johnson, whose character is only mentioned in the credits as “Rhonda’s Mom,” is on screen for maybe less than two or three minutes, but in that short period of time, she gives a stirring performance. In fact, I must confess that the only time I came close to tears during the film is when Johnson’s character pleaded with tearful screams through the fence to her daughter Rhonda not to go through with the abortion. Her voice, her tears, her description of the joy that comes from children—namely to think on the joy that has already been given to the whole family by way of the beautiful five-year-old daughter holding Rhonda’s hand in that moment as she walked into the clinic. That scene communicated better than so many of the others the very real helplessness some may be feeling at the fence.
Brooks Ryan, who plays Abby’s husband Doug, is terrible. Kaiser Johnson, who plays the lawyer, Jeff, is even worse. I’m glad his part was small. But again, between these two, I’d say the dreadful acting had more to do with scenes that were poorly scripted—which is pretty typical of Pure Flix films. It’s one reason why I don’t watch their movies. They’re almost always too awkward in their handling of sacred things, and the theology is often just as bad.
With that, I’ll just come right out and say that at times, the spirituality presented by the film was bothersome, and this is true in a couple of ways.
First of all, I’m one who thinks that the creed-less pop-spirituality offered by the arena-type churches with rock bands, screens, and no crosses on the walls (which was the brief portrayal of Christian worship in the film) is dangerous to the pro-life cause. This type of worship is shallow, and its perpetuators are seen as flaky rather than committed. All of it together is fertilizer for the roots of why the world around us doesn’t take Christianity very seriously. We’re not seen as the ageless and unbroken church that we are—one equipped with an unearthly courage that has withstood the fires of persecution and death, one that speaks its own language with powerful reverence and timeless rite and ceremony, one that exists as a culture completely distinct from all others. Rather, such thin Christianity is seen as trying to emulate the world’s ways in order to fit in. With this, why would we expect anyone outside of the church to stand up and take notice when we’re on the move or have something to say about a world-altering subject such as abortion, especially since we’ve already shown that we’re more interested in following the world’s lead?
But that is, of course, a discussion for another time.
Second, if you’re going to communicate the message of redemption, then just do it. The Gospel is the power of God unto salvation. Don’t tiptoe around it, otherwise, you run the risk of appearing half-invested in what you are trying to communicate. Just be honest. That’s what the viewer is expecting, anyway. I know the filmmakers said they didn’t want to make a “preachy” film. Still, from beginning to end, the Christian perspective is more than made known through the portrayal of prayer, the repeated discussions of God, the worship scene, the Bible quotations, the theme of humility toward enemies, the mantra of hope, and the like. All of this sets the stage for what could have been a gripping and climactic moment of Gospel when Abby finally arrives at the realization of the truest depth of what she’s done.
Doug wakes up in the middle of the night to find her gone. He discovers her crumpled on the floor in the living room near the couch. She’s weeping bitterly. Her Christian husband comes to comfort her. She defines the contours of her sadness with unveiled clarity: As the director of the clinic, she’s the one responsible for the killing of over 22,000 human beings. How can she find her way through this? How could someone like her—someone nearly Hitler-esque—ever be reconciled to God?
“All you have to do is ask for forgiveness,” Doug replies, robotically.
“But how can God even begin to forgive someone like me?” are the essentials of her paralyzing and dreadfully overwhelming sadness.
“Well, because He’s God,” Doug replies, like a shallow dolt, essentially revealing God as the carefree Grampa in his rocking chair on the front porch in the sky. He doesn’t care what you’ve done. He just smiles and waves it off.
No. He does care. Sin is formidable. Death, too. And His care for us against these things cost Him a lot. For one, Sin has a price—a massively dreadful price. From the sinister actions leading to the deathly gas chambers in Germany to the thoughtless, but unkind, comment we made to our spouse at dinner, Sin has a wage and it is eternal Death—separation from God for all time. The wage for Sin will be paid out one way or another by someone. The heavenly Father sent Christ. Christ was that someone.
Here was the chance, even if only for a second, to point to the sacrifice of Christ on the cross for every Sin, even the Sin of murdering 22,000 people. Here was the chance to communicate to everyone in the theater the expanse of God’s love in Christ, the chance to meet each and every person watching the film, all of whom are most certainly wrestling with some form of guilt from this or that Sin—many staying far from Christian churches because they believe their Sins are far too great to be forgiven, maybe in this instance, squirming through the film because they’ve had an abortion. Here was the most potent of opportunities to proclaim God’s truest love for all displayed through the person and work of His Son, Jesus Christ.
But they blew it because they didn’t want to be too preachy.
Still, even with this dropping of the ball, the film is a monumental achievement. It manages to tell a distressing story and it does so with a brutal and convincing scrupulousness that meets the single most bloodthirsty issue of our day.
I should add to its credit that within the first five minutes of the film, you’ll learn the distinction between those who shout “Baby killer!” through the fence at a young and confused girl and those who are seeking to be faithful to Christ and serve in the trenches in love. Equally, and while I almost don’t want to admit it, the movie works to humanize the people working in the clinic. They are people with families who really do think that they’re helping women. In that sense, “Unplanned” is a movie made for people so that they understand other people.
But most importantly, the movie works to convince the majority that they never really had the lizard, only its tail.
I highly recommend the film, and again, I encourage you to see it. You’ll be changed. It’ll be a hard metamorphosis to experience, but it’ll be worth it. You’ll be given an insider’s look into what’s happening in abortion clinics across the country. What you’ll see, you won’t be able to unsee. It’ll be seared into your mind. For many, I hope the images are all that was needed to turn thoughts into actions and actions into results—the ultimate result being a collective awakening and a final ridding of the abomination that is abortion from this country.
We’ve all been on the receiving end of excuses. We’ve also been ones to employ them.
It was Shakespeare who said in his passionate way that when we make excuses for our faults, the very act itself “doth make the fault the worse…” (King John, IV, ii).
He’s right, you know. It’s a very deep hole we begin to dig when we betray to others the calculations that comprise our darkly justifications for our truest selves and our behaviors. That’s what we do when we make excuses. We reveal the real tenacity for covering our tracks and holding to our Sin.
Since we’re Christians and God promises to forgive our faltering, why not just be honest and admit to it?
Because the Sin-nature is strong. We war against honesty and continue with our excuse-making because the Sin-nature knows a little something about confession that it doesn’t want to admit. The Sin-nature knows that honest confession is completely incompatible toward gaining what we want when we want it. Honesty doesn’t fit into the divine equation of trust in God as opposed to self. Honesty is an exercise in letting go of the badness and clinging to the good. Excuses are the ways we find for keeping at least one finger on the bad.
I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but the season of Lent doesn’t tolerate excuses. Every Sunday in Lent sees excuse-making bowled over. It leaves no room for reasoning a way through or legitimizing our sinful doings. It looks us squarely in the eyes and says unflinchingly, “You can’t fool me. I know a schemer when I see one.”
Throughout the season, the introit and Psalms both have elements of this. The collects contain it, too. The readings more than tell us this. The hymns put all of it to music. And God willing, the preaching and teaching of the Pastor will steer straight into it with you, as well. He will unflinchingly remind you that your family’s absence from worship and study is hurting and not helping. He will warn that your loveless stewardship of the Lord’s gifts is destined only for cataclysm. He’ll try to dissuade you from the excuses you are making, urging you not to try to justify Sin, but to bind yourself to truth, because in the end, there is but one Arbiter of earth and sky—Jesus Christ—and He already knows your secret ambitions. His Word has already met with and judged every excuse mankind could ever think to devise.
But that’s not the whole message that Lent and its servants have to give. Lent also serves up the realization that honest confession is far better because it beholds the consoling and empowering smile of absolution.
The Gospel of God’s absolving love through the person and work of Jesus Christ restores, recreates, and empowers.
Pearl S. Buck said something about how every mistake has a midway point for remedying the situation, for turning things around and fixing them. The Gospel goes further and says that apart from outright rejection of Christ or passing the moment of death, there’s no point at all on the mortal timeline when a believer has gone beyond the sphere of God’s grace. This is the Good News that Christ is there with His Gospel at every twist and turn along the way, giving what the shameful heart needs to gird up and take the accusations of the Law on two legs.
Admitting to Sin’s ugly residence in our hearts is bravery not weakness.
I haven’t been a pastor too long, just over eleven years now. But even in that short period of time, I can truly say that when it comes to excuses for this or that Sin, the wellspring of surprising novelty has run pretty dry. I’ve gotten to the point where I’ve heard them all, and for the most part, all are emblematic meanderings that circle stereotypical causes. For the one who claims to have fallen out of love with his wife, I wait patiently for the mistress to eventually come to light. For the one who can rarely make it to worship, I am saddened by his or her Sunday morning exploits broadcast on Facebook.
There are few excuses I hear that hold up or are even the least bit interesting anymore.
I don’t know if that should scare people away from talking to me, or if it should encourage them. I hope it’s the latter. I hope people will sit with me and know that I’m going to do my best as a servant of Christ to give honesty in order to retrieve honesty. Honesty in these situations leads to a realization of need. Need has its hands out in ready anticipation for what Christ promises to give, which is forgiveness, the assurance of His love, and the stamina for facing off with those things that drag us down into arenas where we think we need to make excuses.
My prayer for you is that this holy season will help you to see the One who gave His life as your ransom, that you won’t feel the need to make excuses for your Sin but rather you’d know and experience the freedom of access to His immeasurable grace. Take that grace. It’s yours. You don’t need to justify your Sins in order to convince Him that you are worthy. Confess them. Be honest. You’ve failed and you are in desperate need. Admit and then recognize that no matter where you are, no matter how far astray you’ve gone, the cross of Jesus Christ stands as the midway point for remedying your mistakes. Look there. He will receive you, and He will turn it all around.
Well, I did it again. I got a little teary during the midweek Lenten preaching last week.
Trust me, I do my level best each and every time I get into the pulpit to keep my emotion in check, or at least in appropriate support of whatever is being preached. But sometimes it truly hits home that even though I’m the one speaking, I’m still on the receiving end of what the Holy Spirit is doing through the preaching. Of course I know this before I go into the pulpit. But again, sometimes what I’m saying is piercing enough to my own soul that it gets me right where I’m standing. That happened during the sermon.
Over the course of our midweek Lenten services, we’re pondering the seven last words of Jesus on the cross. The text appointed for this past Wednesday, which I read at the beginning of the sermon, was the first of the seven, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do” (Luke 23:34).
Jesus forgiving His enemies while they torture and kill Him is an extraordinarily moving image, but in all honesty, I was feeling the hand of emotion on my shoulder before the sermon even started. It came while I was reading to you the first section of the Lord’s Passion drawn from the four Gospels. The particular gathering of texts in that first portion paints the portrait of the events of Maundy Thursday, and as we were carried along by it, at its midpoint we hear the words, “Jesus knew that His hour was come to depart from the world and go to the Father. Having loved His own who are in the world, He loved them to the end.”
He loved them to the end.
This, too, is a heartrending phrase. How can it not be? Jesus knows He’s about to die, and as He does, we are to know that He will love us in and through to the very end. He will display and accomplish the truest expanse of love in the midst of the darkest night ever known to the cosmos. The depth of this statement is unfathomable, and already being aware of what I planned to preach, it added another dimension of cutting emotion as I read it.
Now the preaching.
Before getting to Jesus’ first words on the cross, I spent a good deal of time describing the contours of Good Friday. I had to. Before any of us can attempt to grasp the weight of the Lord’s words, before we can come to the realization that our seats in the pews before the Lord’s altar aren’t cheap, we have to at least try to understand the measure of the event itself, asking ourselves, “What’s really going on here?”
Crucifixions were dreadful, but also fairly common during the time period, which is probably why the Gospel writers don’t really share the details too fully. But still, they were as terrible as terrible can be, and so, what does it mean then, that God—Jesus Christ—gave Himself over to enduring an unjust trial marked by incredible brutality, a pre-sentence flogging that would malfigure any human who experienced it, a crown of thorns knocked into place on His head with a staff, tortuous mocking and slapping and spitting, and then, finally, being nailed to cross beams with railroad spike-sized nails?
And then came the moment when the awareness that Jesus loved us to the end met with what the Holy Spirit gave us through the preaching.
Contextually, when you think about who it was that Jesus was pleading for by those first words, when you realize that He’s begging the Father to forgive everyone perpetrating the unholy massacre, there is the moment of pristine Gospel that beams through and reminds that none of us are beyond the borders of the Lord’s first words from the cross.
No matter who you are or what you have done, the forgiveness for which He pleads is the same forgiveness He is winning for all—even for the worst of the worst—even for you and me. No one’s sins are left unpaid by this sacrifice.
We all fit into this little prayer of Jesus that’s slurring from His exhausted lips on our behalf.
Indeed, He loved all of us to the end.
That hit me hard. And it took an extra bit of control to hold back what could have easily become a weeping mess. The combination of these words highlighted the grand nature of faith in Jesus’ sacrifice as the wonderful blessing that it is. The price for our Sin has been paid. It wasn’t cheap. It was incredibly costly. But Jesus paid it. Faith in Him receives the merits of what He has accomplished.
I know all of this. But every now and then, I feel it, too. And sometimes when I’m preaching, I hope so badly that the people listening in the pews are hearing it as I’m hearing it, that they’re seeing what I’m seeing, that they’re being moved to experience the same comfort that I’m experiencing. It’s a strange mixture of penitent joy that brings me to the edge of my abilities to control my own enthusiasm.
So, I guess what I’m saying is that such a thing happened this past Wednesday.
Anyway, I pray you’ll read what I’ve written here and you’ll understand why I got a little choked up. Also, if you aren’t already, I hope you’ll consider attending midweek services during Lent. There’s so much more to come with the last six phrases of our Lord in the midst of loving us to the end.
For those who have my cell phone number, they’ve probably noticed that I’m not one for texting. I do my best to do it, but in the end, it’s not a way of communication that I appreciate.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not annoyed by it. I just don’t appreciate it like so many others do.
One reason that I don’t like it is because it takes me far too long to craft a text message. I’m a rigid perfectionist when it comes to writing stuff. In fact, my own family finds good reason to tease me over the whole texting thing. They poke fun at me because when I do it, I use complete sentences, being sure to take the time to punctuate everything fully and correctly. That takes a lot of work when you’re only using your thumbs and switching between character screens.
Another reason I’m not much of a texter is that it’s inconveniently convenient, giving people the false security of instant responses to questions that could probably wait for another time. I suppose I should add to this that sometimes I don’t even understand what people are so hurriedly communicating to me. I know it sounds ridiculous, but for as savvy as I may appear in social media circles, I literally just learned ten days ago what “smh” and “lmk” meant. Before that, I could’ve cared less to know what they meant. I would see these in a text or an online post and just move along as an admitted outsider in the SMS language community. I never cared to learn these lazy phrases. As a result, I suppose that many appropriate replies went unsent over the years because I didn’t realize someone was telling me to let him or her know. I’m pretty sure that when people typed that to me, I responded with something like, “Are you okay?” because as far as I knew, it meant “Landed on My Keys!” and of course we should all, especially the pastor, show concern for someone who suffers such an accident, right?
Well, whatever. I guess you could say that I’m a guy who believes that words matter, that the language structures they rest in matter, that the time spent in contemplative care of the words matters. There’s already enough communicative confusion in this world, and texting seems counterintuitive to that. It has me asking myself, “Would a little more time and precision in our efforts to communicate really be all that bad?”
Think on the use of the comma. A misplaced comma has huge ramifications. Take for example the following cover of “Tails” magazine.
Without the proper placement of commas, it sure seems like Rachel Ray discovers her innermost creativity while preparing to sauté both her family and her pets for consumption. The next thought would then be: “This is one incredibly creative woman, and so how many families and pets has she 86’d and eaten over the years?”
Again, care in these things matters. Texting exchanges care for efficiency, and I’m not so sure that’s the best trade off. I’d much rather have a phone conversation than a text or instant messenger conversation. I find that a phone conversation—or even better, a face to face conversation—has a much better chance of ending well, especially in the contentious situations in which we sometimes find ourselves in the virtual world.
What’s funny is that folks will send me a text message saying that they didn’t want to call because they know how busy I am, not realizing that sending me a text with the expectation of a reply is a lot harder on my regular pace than a phone call because it takes me so long to type something.
And by the way, I’m never too busy for a phone call from anyone. Never. Except maybe a phone call from a politician, or someone trying to sell me the latest video series from Joel Osteen. I suppose I can let those particular reach-outs land in voicemail.
I suppose I’m sharing all of this because it sparked some pastoral thoughts, and it’s something that any clergyman most likely notices during Lent. This is the time that preachers are crafting some of the heaviest sermons they’ll preach all year.
Pastors are handlers of language, and not just any language, but God’s language—God’s Word. The Word kills and makes alive. Pastors deal in the Word. We do this while we’re teaching. We do this while preaching. We do this to lead a gathering of Christians. We do this in order to hold the line against the enemies of the church assembling at her gates. Ultimately, we do all of this with care because the Word of God is the means by which God reveals His efforts for our salvation through Christ, and it is the sole source for faith, life, and practice. Knowing all of this, pastors are not to approach the Word of God as casual and careless visitors. They are to have great fear and love for God’s Word. They are to take time with it as they seek to serve Him in faithfulness and humility. God’s Word is more than just simple text messaging. It is the precise means of God’s divine revelation to man. If we mess it up—that is, if we mix up the lines of its communication—we jeopardize eternity for real human beings.
Without going further, I think you get the idea how slacking off in the handling and communication of God’s Word isn’t something we ever want to discover in our midst. But add to this that as individual Christians, we don’t want to be those who think it’s possible to interact with God’s Word in the barest of passings rather than taking the time to be immersed in it. We want to hear it, love it, study it, be in it, and share it, too. Of course, we shouldn’t ever expect to have such a relationship with it if we only want an association that’s efficient. I could understand such an expectation if God gave us His Word via three-letter text messaging terms. But He didn’t. He gave us a voluminously rich Bible full of wonderfully deep and eternal-life-giving sentences crafted and delivered from His own heart of love.
It’s Lent. Might I suggest for your Lenten fast (if you’re indeed fasting) that instead of giving up coffee, sweets, or whatever, that you try giving up skipping Bible study at your church with your pastor? You might be surprised at how enjoyable you’ll find it to be, not to mention, fulfilling.
No pressure to the folks who are members of my congregation.