I’ve spent parts of the last four summers in the desert of northern Mexico, working with students from Wisconsin Lutheran High School as they travel to a town called Altar to do mission work with Mission to the Children, a para-synodical organization based in Tucson, AZ.
There are a lot of interesting things down there, but one thing you can’t miss are the shuttle busses that run between Altar and a smaller village called Sasabe. They’re everywhere, beat-up vans and vintage school busses, waiting on street corners and in parking lots around Altar, collecting people. When they’re full they make the run, driving like madmen on a treacherous dirt road up to Sasabe on the border. Then they come back. Day after day, trip after trip.
The first time I was in Mexico wanted that job so bad: Altar-Sasabe shuttle bus driver. What a great way to earn some extra pesos over the summer, practice my Spanish, have some awesome conversations with some very interesting people, and probably have some really cool stories to tell in the fall. Last summer, too, I just fell in love with the driving, and decided that if I couldn’t buy a Jeep and drive to Guatemala that I definitely wanted to give taxi-driving a shot. Altar-Sasabe. Sasabe-Altar. Rice, beans, and tortillas. The good, simple life.
Then, this summer, driving down that long long road for the third time, I came to a horrifying realization, a paradigm-shifting moment that almost made me pull over right there in the desert and cry. There was always something weird about those shuttles, those overcrowded vans whizzing by at 50+ mph on roads that weren’t very safe even at half that speed. But finally, after three years of glorifying that life, of idealizing something that is really pretty far from ideal, I realized what was really really wrong with this picture. The vans headed north, from Altar to Sasabe, are always filled to capacity. Young guys, mostly, but an occasional older man, wearing jeans, boots, and a hat, some with button-up cowboy shirts and some a little dingier. The northbound shuttle is always full, taking those bumps on springs that are about to give and trying to pound out one more run on a set of bald tires. The kids are always amazed by how many people can fit in a van.
But here’s the thing: the southbound shuttle is always empty. Nobody ever makes the run from Sasabe to Altar. Just the driver, maybe one or two people, and maybe someone he brought along to keep him company and collect the fares. Nobody ever goes south. The vans make those runs in record time, riding high on the road and flying over the bumps.
It’s not like dozens of people a day, hundreds a week, are moving to Sasabe. Sasabe is something of a ghost town, at least in comparison to Altar. It’s more like an Old West town, springing up next to a gold mine before the tracks get laid and the iron horse brings wives and ministers and sheriffs and law and order. Except that there’s no gold in Sasabe. All those young men, all that potential, an entire generation of Mexico’s future aren’t hopping the next shuttle to get a job at the new factory.
They’re trying to cross the border. They’re putting their hopes and dreams, their families and their futures, their very lives on the line in a desperate effort at survival. Their most valuable possession is a jug full of water. They pray to whatever God is listening for the luck of a dark moon, a straight path, and a job on the other side that doesn’t ask too many questions. The only thing in their life that has any meaning is whether or not their legs have the strength to make it three days across the desert, so they can get an awful job for meager wages in an expensive foreign country where people don’t speak their language, understand their culture, or value their existence, so they can scrape together enough money to send something, anything, home to their family so they don’t have to watch their children die of malnutrition. “With God as my witness,” their silent eyes say with more determination than Scarlett O’Hara could ever dream of, “Let me go hungry so my children don’t have to.”
All of which realization dropped on my head like a ton of bricks as we got passed by about the fifteenth empty Sasabe-Altar bus on the first day of the trip. All those guys in all those vans. Of the twenty-plus men in the northbound van we were just meeting, in a week’s time most of them would probably be back where they started from, deported, even poorer than they had been a week ago (if that were possible). A few, maybe, would be dead, perhaps because they misread the map marking the water stations, perhaps because the water station had been discovered by the Border Patrol and closed down, or perhaps because the God they prayed to had simply run out of luck to give that night. One or two might have even made it, finding that job with their cousin’s wife’s friend in Tucson, sending back money and love and hope for dozens of others to get on tomorrow’s Altar-Sasabe shuttle and try to make the trip.
But instead of pulling over and weeping in despair, after a minute’s reflection I tightened my grip on the wheel and kicked it up another 5mph. We were doing the right thing. We were driving the right direction. The 1400 lbs. of donations in the back of my van were going to make life a little easier for someone in some village, maybe give them enough hope that they wouldn’t have to make the run, at least not this month. Let them stay home with their kids. Help them help themselves, so that life in Mexico is possible for them. The 12 kids in the van behind me were going to teach those people’s children about Jesus, who would give them Hope enough to know that their ultimate home wasn’t Altar, or Sonora, or Mexico, or even the USA, but heaven. The things we were bringing were needed, needed in a way that people like we, Americans, can’t even understand the word need. So I reined in my imagination and stopped wondering what it would be like to drive the Altar-Sasabe shuttle. I realized that today, I was driving the right van.
EW+2
Well, Espresso Week has come and gone, and with it my faulty assumption that man cannot live on espresso alone. I did indeed live through an entire week without coffee from my French Press, and in fact I would venture to say I prospered by the experience.
I’m now into my second day back into my old habits, but tellingly the Pavoni has not yet been removed from the kitchen counter (much to the chagrin of my wife). In fact, as I sit and type this I am enjoying an afternoon pick-me-up cappuccino that nicely compliments (rather than competes with) my morning pot of “regular” joe.
Faced with an extended, involuntary trip to an electrified desert island with a regular supply of fresh coffee beans, I’d still choose the Bodum as my one means of regular caffeination, but I’ve learned to appreciate the effort and process of home-crafted espresso drinks as well.
So, like so many fine things in this world, it is not a question of “either/or,” but of “both/and.” Now I just need a UN resolution to justify my annexation of 3 additional square feet of counter space.
I’m now into my second day back into my old habits, but tellingly the Pavoni has not yet been removed from the kitchen counter (much to the chagrin of my wife). In fact, as I sit and type this I am enjoying an afternoon pick-me-up cappuccino that nicely compliments (rather than competes with) my morning pot of “regular” joe.
Faced with an extended, involuntary trip to an electrified desert island with a regular supply of fresh coffee beans, I’d still choose the Bodum as my one means of regular caffeination, but I’ve learned to appreciate the effort and process of home-crafted espresso drinks as well.
So, like so many fine things in this world, it is not a question of “either/or,” but of “both/and.” Now I just need a UN resolution to justify my annexation of 3 additional square feet of counter space.
Espresso Week, Day 5
My shots (all 5 of them) were nothing short of amazing this morning, if I do say so myself.
Still, I think I'm going to come back to what I wrote in the post that started this whole sillyness - it's a quantity-over-quality issue. 32 ounces of French Press goodness over 1.25 ounces (x5) of espresso heaven.
There are a few things in life in which a little bit of "absolute perfection" might be traded for a superabundance of "pretty darn good." I'm thinking coffee might be one of them.
Others, anyone?
Still, I think I'm going to come back to what I wrote in the post that started this whole sillyness - it's a quantity-over-quality issue. 32 ounces of French Press goodness over 1.25 ounces (x5) of espresso heaven.
There are a few things in life in which a little bit of "absolute perfection" might be traded for a superabundance of "pretty darn good." I'm thinking coffee might be one of them.
Others, anyone?
Espresso Week, Day 3
Well, at the very least, I am becoming a much more deliberate coffee drinker. Not “deliberate” in the sense of “not accidental,” but rather in the sense of “intentional; undertaken with care and forethought.” It’s pretty easy to press out a liter of wonderful coffee from the French Press and suck it down without noticing. But the work I have to put in to getting a quality ounce or two from La Pavoni makes me stop to admire/appreciate the finished product a bit more.
Now, if only this lesson rubs off on the rest of my life. I could use a little more deliberation, and a little less random, aimless, chaotic wandering. Ever “wake up” at the end of a day and realize you did everything automatically? That’s what I’m talking about. Or rather, that’s what I’m talking about not doing. Whatever.
Coffee-in-hand: Classic Italian cappuccino
P.S. ― Everyone who cares about coffee should go here and here.
Now, if only this lesson rubs off on the rest of my life. I could use a little more deliberation, and a little less random, aimless, chaotic wandering. Ever “wake up” at the end of a day and realize you did everything automatically? That’s what I’m talking about. Or rather, that’s what I’m talking about not doing. Whatever.
Coffee-in-hand: Classic Italian cappuccino
P.S. ― Everyone who cares about coffee should go here and here.
Espresso Week, Day 1
Well, I pulled 3 shots this morning after I rolled out of bed. I drank 2 straight (the first was better than the second), and I made a nice frothy cappuccino out of the third, which I drank on the porch with Sean.
It wasn’t nearly enough caffeine. The up side is that I didn’t have to pee nearly as much as I usually do.
I’m off to make more (espresso, that is).
It wasn’t nearly enough caffeine. The up side is that I didn’t have to pee nearly as much as I usually do.
I’m off to make more (espresso, that is).
Espresso Week, Day 0
Well, everything is ready.
I roasted two batches of Puro Scuro this afternoon. The Pavoni is out, polished, and freshly cleaned. The Bodum is put away for the week. I've got the espresso grind dialed in on my Solis Maestro Plus.
All I have to do now is go to sleep, so I can wake up and start pulling shots.
It's going to be a good week.
I roasted two batches of Puro Scuro this afternoon. The Pavoni is out, polished, and freshly cleaned. The Bodum is put away for the week. I've got the espresso grind dialed in on my Solis Maestro Plus.
All I have to do now is go to sleep, so I can wake up and start pulling shots.
It's going to be a good week.
French Press vs. Espresso
Solarblogger has asked me the same question twice now, in comments made to posts. I decided it was finally time to answer, and that the answer deserved a post of its own rather than an unceremonious burial as a reply to a comment about an old post. It also gives me something to write about ― as you can see, my summer material has been rather thin.
Anyway, the question was twofold: 1) How do you make good coffee in a French Press/press pot? 2) Why do I prefer press pot coffee to espresso?
To part one, mostly out of laziness (more on that later) but also to give a link to the man who got me all started, see Mark Prince’s sweet tutorial on coffeegeek.com. His lengthy, precise, and accurate description of the scientific art of preparing wonderful press-pot coffee (complete with beautiful photos) is an edifying joy to study and practice. For me to try to duplicate or summarize his instructions would be just silly.
To part two, well, here we go…
The first reason I prefer press-pot coffee to espresso is a quantity-over-quality issue. I drink a liter of press-pot coffee every morning, partly out of comforting habit and partly out of caffeine necessity. I don’t know what the caffeine ratio of pressed coffee vs. espresso is, but I imagine that it would take quite a few shots of espresso to achieve my minimum daily dosage requirements. Making shot after shot in my Pavoni would chain me to the kitchen for the majority of my coffee-drinking time. There’s something about languidly sipping a hearty mug of joe while reading email or sitting on my back porch that just can’t be equaled by tossing back a few shots of espresso while standing at my kitchen counter. It feels like the difference between a long, relaxing home-cooked meal vs. a quick bite wolfed down over the sink on the way out the door. I guess I think I prefer a nice pot of coffee ― if I drink espresso, it’s over too quickly.
And as to quality ― yes, I make great press-pot coffee (imho, if I do say so myself). But espresso is just one step higher on the necessity-for-analness continuum than even press-pot coffee. It’s a step I haven’t been able to consistently take, yet. I can get away with a press-pot made from slightly substandard beans (even ― gasp ― pre-ground beans) from time to time. I don’t have to be quite the cleaning nazi with the press pot that I do with the espresso machine (but don’t get me wrong ― a clean press pot in a good thing). Maybe it’s just my hyper-refined palate, but if I mess up a shot of espresso even a little bit…yikes. Milk-based drinks are a bit more forgiving, yes, but even the traditional cappuccino that I have been known to drink now and then requires a darn good shot of espresso behind it, or its just not worth drinking.
But the more I write the previous two paragraphs, the more I can sum up my preference for press-pot coffee to espresso in one simple word: laziness. I’m simply too lazy to go to all the trouble to grind, tamp, pull, froth, mix, drink, clean and repeat five or six times to get the same coffee goodness that one simple grind-wait-press-drink gets me in the ol’ Bodum. I’m simply too lazy to roast up fancy espresso-blended coffee three or four times a week, when a once-a-week session with my trusty single-origin standbys will do. And I’m too lazy to change my morning ritual just because I have a really spiffy machine that sits in my kitchen cabinet and only gets broken out when I have company to impress. Sad, I know, but true.
However, in spite of recently turning 32, I wish to prove that I am not yet a dog that is too old to be taught new tricks. Therefore, I am throwing down a gauntlet for myself. All next week, 24-30 July, I will drink only espresso (or the occasional espresso-based drink). The press-pot will be relegated to the back shelf, and the Pavoni promoted to kitchen-countertop status. I’ll be as fussy as I need to be to produce the finest espresso in all the land.
And I will enjoy myself thoroughly.
I’ll let you know how this turns out.
Anyway, the question was twofold: 1) How do you make good coffee in a French Press/press pot? 2) Why do I prefer press pot coffee to espresso?
To part one, mostly out of laziness (more on that later) but also to give a link to the man who got me all started, see Mark Prince’s sweet tutorial on coffeegeek.com. His lengthy, precise, and accurate description of the scientific art of preparing wonderful press-pot coffee (complete with beautiful photos) is an edifying joy to study and practice. For me to try to duplicate or summarize his instructions would be just silly.
To part two, well, here we go…
The first reason I prefer press-pot coffee to espresso is a quantity-over-quality issue. I drink a liter of press-pot coffee every morning, partly out of comforting habit and partly out of caffeine necessity. I don’t know what the caffeine ratio of pressed coffee vs. espresso is, but I imagine that it would take quite a few shots of espresso to achieve my minimum daily dosage requirements. Making shot after shot in my Pavoni would chain me to the kitchen for the majority of my coffee-drinking time. There’s something about languidly sipping a hearty mug of joe while reading email or sitting on my back porch that just can’t be equaled by tossing back a few shots of espresso while standing at my kitchen counter. It feels like the difference between a long, relaxing home-cooked meal vs. a quick bite wolfed down over the sink on the way out the door. I guess I think I prefer a nice pot of coffee ― if I drink espresso, it’s over too quickly.
And as to quality ― yes, I make great press-pot coffee (imho, if I do say so myself). But espresso is just one step higher on the necessity-for-analness continuum than even press-pot coffee. It’s a step I haven’t been able to consistently take, yet. I can get away with a press-pot made from slightly substandard beans (even ― gasp ― pre-ground beans) from time to time. I don’t have to be quite the cleaning nazi with the press pot that I do with the espresso machine (but don’t get me wrong ― a clean press pot in a good thing). Maybe it’s just my hyper-refined palate, but if I mess up a shot of espresso even a little bit…yikes. Milk-based drinks are a bit more forgiving, yes, but even the traditional cappuccino that I have been known to drink now and then requires a darn good shot of espresso behind it, or its just not worth drinking.
But the more I write the previous two paragraphs, the more I can sum up my preference for press-pot coffee to espresso in one simple word: laziness. I’m simply too lazy to go to all the trouble to grind, tamp, pull, froth, mix, drink, clean and repeat five or six times to get the same coffee goodness that one simple grind-wait-press-drink gets me in the ol’ Bodum. I’m simply too lazy to roast up fancy espresso-blended coffee three or four times a week, when a once-a-week session with my trusty single-origin standbys will do. And I’m too lazy to change my morning ritual just because I have a really spiffy machine that sits in my kitchen cabinet and only gets broken out when I have company to impress. Sad, I know, but true.
However, in spite of recently turning 32, I wish to prove that I am not yet a dog that is too old to be taught new tricks. Therefore, I am throwing down a gauntlet for myself. All next week, 24-30 July, I will drink only espresso (or the occasional espresso-based drink). The press-pot will be relegated to the back shelf, and the Pavoni promoted to kitchen-countertop status. I’ll be as fussy as I need to be to produce the finest espresso in all the land.
And I will enjoy myself thoroughly.
I’ll let you know how this turns out.
Fellowship, and a Lukewarm Bucket of Spit
I write the following not as a justification or explanation of myself (as if that were possible), but as an earnest solicitation of opinions, counsel, and commentary from those who have such to give on this rather delicate topic.
On a separate note, I apologize without explanation or excuse for my excessive laziness in posting this summer. Thanks for still reading!
~c.p.
“Sometimes we have trouble applying the Gospel to our lives not because we don’t understand the Gospel, but because we don’t understand our lives.”
How true! Not to say that there aren’t tricky passages in the Bible, or that any person with a second-grade reading level can become a top-notch theologian, or that everyone who reads the Bible will get the same message out of it (more on that later). And certainly not to say that I’m a top-notch theologian or that I have every passage and doctrine in the Bible worked out. Nevertheless, the clarity of Scripture is a certainly a doctrine that gives us much comfort as we wrestle with difficult passages, struggle to unravel complex subordinate clauses and look carefully at various shades of meaning for unfamiliar technical Greek vocables. Despite the ambiguity inherent in some passages of Scripture, we can always rest assured that the unus simplex sensus of the message is sounded forth loud and clear in other passages, bringing the whole counsel of God together in that glorious revelation we call the Analogy of Faith.
If only our life were the same. If only we had a promise of God that everything that happened in our lives would make sense, or that every situation in which we found ourselves would come with a well-defined set of Scriptural instructions to follow, or that every question we asked or were asked would have an unambiguous answer “straight from God’s brain to our mouth.”
One example: God’s word is abundantly clear on the matter of perseverance vs. preservation of the saints. The Bible contains promise after promise that those whom God has called (and He wants all to be saved!) will never be snatched away from him, that Satan has no ultimate power over those who have faith in Christ, and that our eternal security rests in the objective facts of Jesus’ perfect life, atoning death, and victorious resurrection. God’s word is likewise abundantly clear on the matter of falling away from the faith. The Bible contains warning after warning that those who despise preaching and the Word are in danger of weakening in their faith, that those who neglect the Sacraments are starving themselves to death spiritually, and that those who regularly allow themselves to fall into temptation will end up being led by the Tempter into faith-destroying sin and unbelief.
The tricky part of this doctrine is not actually the doctrine, but its application. To whom do you apply the sweet comforts of the Gospel? To whom do you prescribe the harsh warnings of the Law? To the soul in distress, who is weak in his faith and wondering if the promises of God apply to him, you apply the Gospel, pointing the struggling person to Christ and what He has done in our place. To the proud, arrogant, or carnally-secure soul, you preach the Law in all its fury, reminding that person of the very real danger of falling away from faith, not because of a lack of faithfulness on God’s part, but through our own willful sin. Warnings or promises? Threats or comforts?
The problem is magnified exponentially when you’re dealing with yourself. When do I need the warnings? When do I need the promises? The Bible verse that brought me so much comfort last week might be the “excuse” I need this week to click on that naughty web link. The warning that curbed my sinful appetites yesterday might cause me today to try to put too much emphasis on myself and my own “good” deeds and forget that Christ is both the Author and Finisher of my salvation. Warnings and promises. The doctrines are clear; God’s word is unambiguous on both counts. It’s not hard to understand the Word on this point. What’s hard is understanding our lives enough to apply the Word correctly. What’s hard is understanding my life.
Nowhere is this distinction more difficult to draw (for me at least) than in the doctrine that Lutherans call “fellowship.” The Bible unambiguously promises that the Last Days will bring people who teach false doctrine, wolves in sheep’s clothing who mix the truth of God’s Word with the lies of men and who corrupt people by giving them what their itching ears what to hear. The Bible is likewise clear when it tells us to avoid such false teachers and their lies, and also calls upon us to give clear testimony to the truth. Understanding the Gospel (taken in the broad sense as the entire message of Scripture) on this point is not the problem.
Understanding my life, however, is not so easy. Like the perseverance/preservation distinction made above, the application of a specific doctrine depends as much on my situation as on the doctrine itself. Is the situation in which I find myself one where the Lord calls me to separate from those who are teaching false doctrine? Or is my duty to remain in the situation in which I find myself and give a clear testimony to the truth in the face of opposition? The history of Lutheranism in America is full of such vexing situations, and my own life (like your own, I’d wager) is similarly thorny at times. Which message should I preach? Sometimes the clearest message I can send is an appropriate Bible verse, doctrinal explanation, or a clear witness to the truth. Sometimes the clearest sermon I can deliver is to simply walk away.
Jesus asked in his High-Priestly prayer that believers would be made “one,” just as Jesus and the Father are One. There truly is “One, Holy, Catholic, and Apostolic Church,” against which the gates of hell will not prevail. We “believe in” it using the same words we use when we say we “believe in” the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.
Sadly, due to sin and sinful men, the earthly church has fractured into thousands of different denominations, each smaller and pickier than the last. Even more sadly, those denominations have in the past few decades started to shed their pickiness (and therefore their distinctiveness) and ban together, trying desperately to find a shred of common ground, no matter how small or generic, on which to stand together. It’s like a thousand glass bottles were smashed onto a concrete floor and the scattered shards tried to fit themselves together; green joins blue, and the two of them find a yellow, they take in a few stray slivers of brown and a jagged bit of clear, and pretty soon they fancy themselves a stained-glass window. The problem is that the result is neither useful like the bottles were, nor is it particularly pretty as a stained glass window, because the only light that manages to come through is a sickly shade of off-grey.
Today, there are groups teaching false doctrine, groups teaching pure doctrine, and groups teaching no doctrine (which is really the falsest doctrine of all). A person might be Methodist, Pentecostal, “non-denominational,” or even Lutheran, and may or may not believe the same things as others with the same denominational appellation and may actually be closer theologically to those who consider themselves members of “differently-branded” churches. What happened to “One” Church? A better question yet is, “what should a believer do about it?”
Should an earnest Christian with a zeal for the truth continue to separate himself further and further from those who do not believe the truth as he understands it, in order to protect the doctrinal heritage that he has been given? Jesus’ Parable of the Talents suggests that this might not be the correct attitude to have. “Sir, we know that you are a harsh master,” complains the lazy servant who takes his talent and buries it, and the Master reprimands the servant for not putting what he has been given to work, earning interest. Similarly, I believe the call to us is not to jealously hoard the sacred trust passed on to us, but to “invest” it, share it with others, plant it so that it might bear much good fruit. We Lutherans have arguably the best car on the road of American Protestantism. Let’s not stand beside the racetrack sipping coffee and saying, “Yup, we could beat them, them, and them.” Let’s take our theology out for a spin and see what it can do.
But should an earnest Christian with a zeal for the truth dive headfirst into the midst of those false teachers and try to win them all, by hook or by crook, back to the pure Biblical theology of the Reformation? The Apostle Paul’s words to us in Romans chapter 16 suggest that that is not the correct attitude to have. We are to “mark and avoid” those who teach false doctrines persistently, and to separate from them in order to give clear testimony to the truth and to avoid having our message and faith corrupted by their errors. Our car won’t long stay the best on the road if we continually give it the bland pabulum of generic “evangelicalism” and park it on the street in the winter. Let’s treat our theology with the honor and jealousy that it deserves.
Where is the balance? How can/should I decide which Scriptural injunction applies to me? The balance can only be struck when I understand my life enough to know what side of the line I fall on.
Am I in danger of losing my distinctive “Lutheranness” in the tasteless lukewarm bucket of spit that mainline Protestantism has become? Am I in danger of being mistaken for part of that wanna-be stained-glass window that the ecumenical movement is trying to foist upon America and the world? Am I in danger of letting someone think that our theological differences are just about “silly stuff” and encouraging them to ignore the Biblical Jesus in search of a relativistic and subjective “personal relationship” with the Jesus of their self-help fantasies? Am I in danger of allowing someone to misunderstand Lutheranism as one of those “we all believe the same thing” theologies that end up being “least common denominator Christianity,” rather than true “mere Christianity?” If so, then I need to heed the warnings of Romans 16, et. al., and give a clear testimony to the truth by separating myself from error.
Or am I in danger of being so focused on abstract doctrinal purity that I forget that Christ called us to serve real, live, non-theoretical people in this life? Am I in danger of a having pharisaical mindset that says the WELS has it right and everyone else can (and will) go to hell? Am I in danger of becoming too proud of my doctrinal books and catechisms, my Concordia Self-Study Bible and the degree on the wall of my pastor’s study to imagine that there are things to learn and be shown (even theologically!) outside of our little circle? Am I spiritually or intellectually lazy? Unconcerned about the fate of others? So afraid of falling away that I dare not expose myself to even the slightest bit of theology without the 2929 imprimatur? So insecure about my critical-thinking skills that I think I won’t be able to distinguish truth from error? If so, then I need to pray for guidance and strength, keep close to the Word daily, and dig up my talent and put my money where my mouth is.
One of the major reasons for the “strict” fellowship principles to which the WELS adheres is to avoid giving the impression of agreeing with an error, or saying that doctrinal differences are not really that important. When I am put into a position where I am working side-by-side with other Christians as Christians, I need to be careful that our joint efforts are not seen as a joint declaration of faith. This is simple honesty: we don’t actually believe the same things about everything, and it’s dishonest to let people assume that we do. But it’s also more than that: it’s love. If I truly believe that what my church body believes, teaches, and confesses is true (and I do!), then by definition some of what other Christians’ church bodies believe, teach, and confess is false. And by any definition, false teaching is sin. In love, then, I seek to speak the truth about what the Bible says, and not allow misunderstandings and misinterpretations to weaken or endanger the faith of others. But again, I am confronted with choices: should I simply not work together with other Christians as Christians, or should I do so with the careful deliberation outlined above?
Confession time. I teach at a non-denominational Christian school (gasp!). I started teaching there knowing that I would be in a position every day of working side-by-side with people who believed differently than I do about very important theological issues. But the reason I finally signed the contract is that it was made clear to me that those differences would be respected, that complete conformity was not expected, and that no assumptions were made about agreement in doctrinal issues. No one sees me in faculty devotions and assumes I believe everything the leader believes. No one sees me standing in the back of chapel and assumes that we all believe the same thing because we’re all in the same room together. I do my best to avoid that false impression, and I daresay that some of my colleagues are already getting tired of hearing about how Lutherans are different.
Yes, it’s quite possible that I’m violating a “fellowship principle” or two by teaching where I do. I bow my head and say a prayer with a fellow Christian whose beliefs I do not completely share. I listen to a word of instruction from a person whose theological grounding is a bit shaky. I work together with people who believe that faith in Christ is enough to unify people for a common purpose. But I also direct a troubled soul to the cross of Christ and His empty tomb, instead of their own decision and piety. I give a clear testimony to the efficacy of the Sacraments to a student who asks why Lutherans baptize babies, which turns into a full-blown discussion on justification by faith alone. I have chance after chance to give an answer to people who ask me, “are Lutherans the same as Christians?” and then tell them why.
Am I correctly applying the Gospel to my life? Honestly, I’m not sure. Maybe I misunderstand the Gospel in this situation. Maybe I also misunderstand the situation itself. After a year, and as I start thinking about next year, I’m beginning to think I’m doing the right thing. Perhaps I’m wrong. We leave it to God, as we do all things.
Coffee-in-hand: Starbucks House Blend (hey, it was a birthday present…)
On a separate note, I apologize without explanation or excuse for my excessive laziness in posting this summer. Thanks for still reading!
~c.p.
“Sometimes we have trouble applying the Gospel to our lives not because we don’t understand the Gospel, but because we don’t understand our lives.”
How true! Not to say that there aren’t tricky passages in the Bible, or that any person with a second-grade reading level can become a top-notch theologian, or that everyone who reads the Bible will get the same message out of it (more on that later). And certainly not to say that I’m a top-notch theologian or that I have every passage and doctrine in the Bible worked out. Nevertheless, the clarity of Scripture is a certainly a doctrine that gives us much comfort as we wrestle with difficult passages, struggle to unravel complex subordinate clauses and look carefully at various shades of meaning for unfamiliar technical Greek vocables. Despite the ambiguity inherent in some passages of Scripture, we can always rest assured that the unus simplex sensus of the message is sounded forth loud and clear in other passages, bringing the whole counsel of God together in that glorious revelation we call the Analogy of Faith.
If only our life were the same. If only we had a promise of God that everything that happened in our lives would make sense, or that every situation in which we found ourselves would come with a well-defined set of Scriptural instructions to follow, or that every question we asked or were asked would have an unambiguous answer “straight from God’s brain to our mouth.”
One example: God’s word is abundantly clear on the matter of perseverance vs. preservation of the saints. The Bible contains promise after promise that those whom God has called (and He wants all to be saved!) will never be snatched away from him, that Satan has no ultimate power over those who have faith in Christ, and that our eternal security rests in the objective facts of Jesus’ perfect life, atoning death, and victorious resurrection. God’s word is likewise abundantly clear on the matter of falling away from the faith. The Bible contains warning after warning that those who despise preaching and the Word are in danger of weakening in their faith, that those who neglect the Sacraments are starving themselves to death spiritually, and that those who regularly allow themselves to fall into temptation will end up being led by the Tempter into faith-destroying sin and unbelief.
The tricky part of this doctrine is not actually the doctrine, but its application. To whom do you apply the sweet comforts of the Gospel? To whom do you prescribe the harsh warnings of the Law? To the soul in distress, who is weak in his faith and wondering if the promises of God apply to him, you apply the Gospel, pointing the struggling person to Christ and what He has done in our place. To the proud, arrogant, or carnally-secure soul, you preach the Law in all its fury, reminding that person of the very real danger of falling away from faith, not because of a lack of faithfulness on God’s part, but through our own willful sin. Warnings or promises? Threats or comforts?
The problem is magnified exponentially when you’re dealing with yourself. When do I need the warnings? When do I need the promises? The Bible verse that brought me so much comfort last week might be the “excuse” I need this week to click on that naughty web link. The warning that curbed my sinful appetites yesterday might cause me today to try to put too much emphasis on myself and my own “good” deeds and forget that Christ is both the Author and Finisher of my salvation. Warnings and promises. The doctrines are clear; God’s word is unambiguous on both counts. It’s not hard to understand the Word on this point. What’s hard is understanding our lives enough to apply the Word correctly. What’s hard is understanding my life.
Nowhere is this distinction more difficult to draw (for me at least) than in the doctrine that Lutherans call “fellowship.” The Bible unambiguously promises that the Last Days will bring people who teach false doctrine, wolves in sheep’s clothing who mix the truth of God’s Word with the lies of men and who corrupt people by giving them what their itching ears what to hear. The Bible is likewise clear when it tells us to avoid such false teachers and their lies, and also calls upon us to give clear testimony to the truth. Understanding the Gospel (taken in the broad sense as the entire message of Scripture) on this point is not the problem.
Understanding my life, however, is not so easy. Like the perseverance/preservation distinction made above, the application of a specific doctrine depends as much on my situation as on the doctrine itself. Is the situation in which I find myself one where the Lord calls me to separate from those who are teaching false doctrine? Or is my duty to remain in the situation in which I find myself and give a clear testimony to the truth in the face of opposition? The history of Lutheranism in America is full of such vexing situations, and my own life (like your own, I’d wager) is similarly thorny at times. Which message should I preach? Sometimes the clearest message I can send is an appropriate Bible verse, doctrinal explanation, or a clear witness to the truth. Sometimes the clearest sermon I can deliver is to simply walk away.
Jesus asked in his High-Priestly prayer that believers would be made “one,” just as Jesus and the Father are One. There truly is “One, Holy, Catholic, and Apostolic Church,” against which the gates of hell will not prevail. We “believe in” it using the same words we use when we say we “believe in” the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.
Sadly, due to sin and sinful men, the earthly church has fractured into thousands of different denominations, each smaller and pickier than the last. Even more sadly, those denominations have in the past few decades started to shed their pickiness (and therefore their distinctiveness) and ban together, trying desperately to find a shred of common ground, no matter how small or generic, on which to stand together. It’s like a thousand glass bottles were smashed onto a concrete floor and the scattered shards tried to fit themselves together; green joins blue, and the two of them find a yellow, they take in a few stray slivers of brown and a jagged bit of clear, and pretty soon they fancy themselves a stained-glass window. The problem is that the result is neither useful like the bottles were, nor is it particularly pretty as a stained glass window, because the only light that manages to come through is a sickly shade of off-grey.
Today, there are groups teaching false doctrine, groups teaching pure doctrine, and groups teaching no doctrine (which is really the falsest doctrine of all). A person might be Methodist, Pentecostal, “non-denominational,” or even Lutheran, and may or may not believe the same things as others with the same denominational appellation and may actually be closer theologically to those who consider themselves members of “differently-branded” churches. What happened to “One” Church? A better question yet is, “what should a believer do about it?”
Should an earnest Christian with a zeal for the truth continue to separate himself further and further from those who do not believe the truth as he understands it, in order to protect the doctrinal heritage that he has been given? Jesus’ Parable of the Talents suggests that this might not be the correct attitude to have. “Sir, we know that you are a harsh master,” complains the lazy servant who takes his talent and buries it, and the Master reprimands the servant for not putting what he has been given to work, earning interest. Similarly, I believe the call to us is not to jealously hoard the sacred trust passed on to us, but to “invest” it, share it with others, plant it so that it might bear much good fruit. We Lutherans have arguably the best car on the road of American Protestantism. Let’s not stand beside the racetrack sipping coffee and saying, “Yup, we could beat them, them, and them.” Let’s take our theology out for a spin and see what it can do.
But should an earnest Christian with a zeal for the truth dive headfirst into the midst of those false teachers and try to win them all, by hook or by crook, back to the pure Biblical theology of the Reformation? The Apostle Paul’s words to us in Romans chapter 16 suggest that that is not the correct attitude to have. We are to “mark and avoid” those who teach false doctrines persistently, and to separate from them in order to give clear testimony to the truth and to avoid having our message and faith corrupted by their errors. Our car won’t long stay the best on the road if we continually give it the bland pabulum of generic “evangelicalism” and park it on the street in the winter. Let’s treat our theology with the honor and jealousy that it deserves.
Where is the balance? How can/should I decide which Scriptural injunction applies to me? The balance can only be struck when I understand my life enough to know what side of the line I fall on.
Am I in danger of losing my distinctive “Lutheranness” in the tasteless lukewarm bucket of spit that mainline Protestantism has become? Am I in danger of being mistaken for part of that wanna-be stained-glass window that the ecumenical movement is trying to foist upon America and the world? Am I in danger of letting someone think that our theological differences are just about “silly stuff” and encouraging them to ignore the Biblical Jesus in search of a relativistic and subjective “personal relationship” with the Jesus of their self-help fantasies? Am I in danger of allowing someone to misunderstand Lutheranism as one of those “we all believe the same thing” theologies that end up being “least common denominator Christianity,” rather than true “mere Christianity?” If so, then I need to heed the warnings of Romans 16, et. al., and give a clear testimony to the truth by separating myself from error.
Or am I in danger of being so focused on abstract doctrinal purity that I forget that Christ called us to serve real, live, non-theoretical people in this life? Am I in danger of a having pharisaical mindset that says the WELS has it right and everyone else can (and will) go to hell? Am I in danger of becoming too proud of my doctrinal books and catechisms, my Concordia Self-Study Bible and the degree on the wall of my pastor’s study to imagine that there are things to learn and be shown (even theologically!) outside of our little circle? Am I spiritually or intellectually lazy? Unconcerned about the fate of others? So afraid of falling away that I dare not expose myself to even the slightest bit of theology without the 2929 imprimatur? So insecure about my critical-thinking skills that I think I won’t be able to distinguish truth from error? If so, then I need to pray for guidance and strength, keep close to the Word daily, and dig up my talent and put my money where my mouth is.
One of the major reasons for the “strict” fellowship principles to which the WELS adheres is to avoid giving the impression of agreeing with an error, or saying that doctrinal differences are not really that important. When I am put into a position where I am working side-by-side with other Christians as Christians, I need to be careful that our joint efforts are not seen as a joint declaration of faith. This is simple honesty: we don’t actually believe the same things about everything, and it’s dishonest to let people assume that we do. But it’s also more than that: it’s love. If I truly believe that what my church body believes, teaches, and confesses is true (and I do!), then by definition some of what other Christians’ church bodies believe, teach, and confess is false. And by any definition, false teaching is sin. In love, then, I seek to speak the truth about what the Bible says, and not allow misunderstandings and misinterpretations to weaken or endanger the faith of others. But again, I am confronted with choices: should I simply not work together with other Christians as Christians, or should I do so with the careful deliberation outlined above?
Confession time. I teach at a non-denominational Christian school (gasp!). I started teaching there knowing that I would be in a position every day of working side-by-side with people who believed differently than I do about very important theological issues. But the reason I finally signed the contract is that it was made clear to me that those differences would be respected, that complete conformity was not expected, and that no assumptions were made about agreement in doctrinal issues. No one sees me in faculty devotions and assumes I believe everything the leader believes. No one sees me standing in the back of chapel and assumes that we all believe the same thing because we’re all in the same room together. I do my best to avoid that false impression, and I daresay that some of my colleagues are already getting tired of hearing about how Lutherans are different.
Yes, it’s quite possible that I’m violating a “fellowship principle” or two by teaching where I do. I bow my head and say a prayer with a fellow Christian whose beliefs I do not completely share. I listen to a word of instruction from a person whose theological grounding is a bit shaky. I work together with people who believe that faith in Christ is enough to unify people for a common purpose. But I also direct a troubled soul to the cross of Christ and His empty tomb, instead of their own decision and piety. I give a clear testimony to the efficacy of the Sacraments to a student who asks why Lutherans baptize babies, which turns into a full-blown discussion on justification by faith alone. I have chance after chance to give an answer to people who ask me, “are Lutherans the same as Christians?” and then tell them why.
Am I correctly applying the Gospel to my life? Honestly, I’m not sure. Maybe I misunderstand the Gospel in this situation. Maybe I also misunderstand the situation itself. After a year, and as I start thinking about next year, I’m beginning to think I’m doing the right thing. Perhaps I’m wrong. We leave it to God, as we do all things.
Coffee-in-hand: Starbucks House Blend (hey, it was a birthday present…)
Hooray!
So, upon arriving back from Mexico, I was honored to discover that I had received a Golden Aardvark for this post about cultural behavior norms. Oh the sleepless nights of lying awake, wondering if I would ever be counted worthy for such a prestigious honor…
Not Wrong, Just Different
I think I taught somebody something today. It’s sad that that’s a sentence worth writing; after all, I am a teacher. But on most days, I’d be really surprised to learn that I had taught someone something that they remember and use appropriately ― even more so if it has anything to do with the subjects I teach. But what makes the fact that I taught something today even more amazing is that school’s out for the summer. I’m not even officially “on duty.”
Here’s what happened: My mom took my son and I out to a buffet restaurant. We were shown to one of those little areas that’s supposed to look like a dining room ― you know, divided off from the restaurant so it doesn’t look like you’re eating in an airplane hanger. Anyway, besides us there were three other occupied tables: a small table with a young-ish couple, another with two older ladies, and a huge table (must have been at least a fifteen-top) full of a happy, raucous, and quite boisterous Mexican family speaking Spanish. The kids were singing and picking on each other, the adults were enjoying each other’s company, and the abuela was just soaking it all in. Occasionally a grown-up would say something to one of the kids, but the others would just chortle at them and the games would continue.
I was enjoying listening to them, trying to learn some new words, and appreciating the energy and life they brought to the room… but I’m sure you can imagine at this point how the two older ladies were feeling and acting. I caught them rolling their eyes at each other at every imagined peccadillo of the niños, clucking their tongues at the overly permissive parents who would allow such behavior, and generally bemoaning their sorry luck at being placed in the same dining area as the noisy foreigners.
Then the Mexicans left. With besos and abrazos they headed out en masse, talking about how they’d see each other on Sunday for lunch. A dad told his daughter she wasn’t allowed to bring her bowl of helado with her, so she quickly spooned the rest into her mouth as she scurried after her brother. (I did not envy her the headache she was about to have.) Cousins got in parting jibes with each other, and someone diligently helped abuela out to the car. And then everything was very quiet.
I heard the waitress say to the old ladies (after she pocketed the generous tip the Mexicans had left, btw), “sure is nice and quiet in here now.” To which one of the ladies responded, “It’s about time.” More disparaging head nods followed, and the waitress left.
A few minutes later, she came back to find me gently scolding my son for making spit noises at the table. She told me sweetly, “Oh, don’t worry. He’s so much better behaved than some children. I can just imagine the kind of discipline that goes on in that house.”
I couldn’t help myself. I said, with the same tone of voice I use to correct my know-it-all seventh graders when they don’t actually know it all, something like, “No, you really can’t imagine the kind of discipline those kids get. Those parents just have different standards of what’s acceptable behavior, that’s all.”
She looked at me with skepticism and disdain, as if I were a “bad” parent about to start letting my kid run naked through her section. But she didn’t say anything, so I continued. “I’ve spent a lot of time in Spanish-speaking countries, and you’d be surprised how culturally different we are. What we see as loud and rude and making a scene, they see as being sincerely friendly and enjoying each other’s company whole-heartedly. And what we see as polite, well-mannered and with proper respect for others’ privacy, they see as rude and cold and stand-offish. Who’s right? Who’s wrong? Maybe it’s just a matter of perspective.”
I heard one of the old ladies hmmph, but I think the waitress was starting to get it. I saw the young couple start to pay attention too. The waitress made some sort of comment, along the lines of, “I never thought about it like that before.” The dining room was even quieter than before as she left to keep doing her job. The old ladies in the corner continued their job, too, and started whispering to each other as if I wouldn’t notice.
Well, the waitress must have kept thinking about it like that, because ten minutes or so later she came back. “Were you in the service?” she asked me. “How did you get to travel so much?”
I told her I was a Spanish teacher. She gave me the same look that a person who has just said a swear word gives a clergyman they didn’t realize was standing right in front of them, like I was going to rip her apart right there on the spot. Instead, I gave her one of my many “multi-cultural misunderstanding” anecdotes.
“I was raised to eat everything on my plate,” I told her, and she nodded to say that she had too. “But I visited a country once where cleaning your plate is considered rude. Cleaning your plate implies that you haven’t been given enough to fill you up, and your hostess, feeling inadequate and very embarrassed, will promptly fill your plate again even if you’re completely stuffed. So you’re supposed to leave a little bit, as if to say, ‘that was amazing, but I can’t eat another bite.’ Then your hostess feels like she’s given you enough to eat and you haven’t insulted her.”
“I understand,” she said, and then she repeated the magic words that every teacher wants to hear, even if they come from a middle-aged waitress in an all-you-can-eat buffet restaurant instead of the kids you get paid to educate: “I never thought about it like that before.” We ended up chatting for a few more minutes, but the thing I will try to remember from that conversation is the glimmer of hope for the future of our country that I saw when that waitress realized that her previous customers hadn’t been wrong, just different.
[The ironic footnote to this touching story of multicultural-diversity-awareness-training is that Sean ended up pitching a huge fit because he hadn’t eaten enough of his food to get to have dessert. I had to drag him out of the restaurant kicking and screaming and crying and fighting. So the old ladies got to see what a poorly-behaved white kid looked like as he learned the cultural importance of eating everything on his plate.]
Here’s what happened: My mom took my son and I out to a buffet restaurant. We were shown to one of those little areas that’s supposed to look like a dining room ― you know, divided off from the restaurant so it doesn’t look like you’re eating in an airplane hanger. Anyway, besides us there were three other occupied tables: a small table with a young-ish couple, another with two older ladies, and a huge table (must have been at least a fifteen-top) full of a happy, raucous, and quite boisterous Mexican family speaking Spanish. The kids were singing and picking on each other, the adults were enjoying each other’s company, and the abuela was just soaking it all in. Occasionally a grown-up would say something to one of the kids, but the others would just chortle at them and the games would continue.
I was enjoying listening to them, trying to learn some new words, and appreciating the energy and life they brought to the room… but I’m sure you can imagine at this point how the two older ladies were feeling and acting. I caught them rolling their eyes at each other at every imagined peccadillo of the niños, clucking their tongues at the overly permissive parents who would allow such behavior, and generally bemoaning their sorry luck at being placed in the same dining area as the noisy foreigners.
Then the Mexicans left. With besos and abrazos they headed out en masse, talking about how they’d see each other on Sunday for lunch. A dad told his daughter she wasn’t allowed to bring her bowl of helado with her, so she quickly spooned the rest into her mouth as she scurried after her brother. (I did not envy her the headache she was about to have.) Cousins got in parting jibes with each other, and someone diligently helped abuela out to the car. And then everything was very quiet.
I heard the waitress say to the old ladies (after she pocketed the generous tip the Mexicans had left, btw), “sure is nice and quiet in here now.” To which one of the ladies responded, “It’s about time.” More disparaging head nods followed, and the waitress left.
A few minutes later, she came back to find me gently scolding my son for making spit noises at the table. She told me sweetly, “Oh, don’t worry. He’s so much better behaved than some children. I can just imagine the kind of discipline that goes on in that house.”
I couldn’t help myself. I said, with the same tone of voice I use to correct my know-it-all seventh graders when they don’t actually know it all, something like, “No, you really can’t imagine the kind of discipline those kids get. Those parents just have different standards of what’s acceptable behavior, that’s all.”
She looked at me with skepticism and disdain, as if I were a “bad” parent about to start letting my kid run naked through her section. But she didn’t say anything, so I continued. “I’ve spent a lot of time in Spanish-speaking countries, and you’d be surprised how culturally different we are. What we see as loud and rude and making a scene, they see as being sincerely friendly and enjoying each other’s company whole-heartedly. And what we see as polite, well-mannered and with proper respect for others’ privacy, they see as rude and cold and stand-offish. Who’s right? Who’s wrong? Maybe it’s just a matter of perspective.”
I heard one of the old ladies hmmph, but I think the waitress was starting to get it. I saw the young couple start to pay attention too. The waitress made some sort of comment, along the lines of, “I never thought about it like that before.” The dining room was even quieter than before as she left to keep doing her job. The old ladies in the corner continued their job, too, and started whispering to each other as if I wouldn’t notice.
Well, the waitress must have kept thinking about it like that, because ten minutes or so later she came back. “Were you in the service?” she asked me. “How did you get to travel so much?”
I told her I was a Spanish teacher. She gave me the same look that a person who has just said a swear word gives a clergyman they didn’t realize was standing right in front of them, like I was going to rip her apart right there on the spot. Instead, I gave her one of my many “multi-cultural misunderstanding” anecdotes.
“I was raised to eat everything on my plate,” I told her, and she nodded to say that she had too. “But I visited a country once where cleaning your plate is considered rude. Cleaning your plate implies that you haven’t been given enough to fill you up, and your hostess, feeling inadequate and very embarrassed, will promptly fill your plate again even if you’re completely stuffed. So you’re supposed to leave a little bit, as if to say, ‘that was amazing, but I can’t eat another bite.’ Then your hostess feels like she’s given you enough to eat and you haven’t insulted her.”
“I understand,” she said, and then she repeated the magic words that every teacher wants to hear, even if they come from a middle-aged waitress in an all-you-can-eat buffet restaurant instead of the kids you get paid to educate: “I never thought about it like that before.” We ended up chatting for a few more minutes, but the thing I will try to remember from that conversation is the glimmer of hope for the future of our country that I saw when that waitress realized that her previous customers hadn’t been wrong, just different.
[The ironic footnote to this touching story of multicultural-diversity-awareness-training is that Sean ended up pitching a huge fit because he hadn’t eaten enough of his food to get to have dessert. I had to drag him out of the restaurant kicking and screaming and crying and fighting. So the old ladies got to see what a poorly-behaved white kid looked like as he learned the cultural importance of eating everything on his plate.]
A Headless Creation?
The following is a devotion based on Psalm 8.
Take a look outside tonight, and as soon as it gets dark you will understand Psalm 8. The night sky, the moon and the stars (and the quasars and black holes and galaxies and all the stuff we can’t see) all declare the praises of God. All of those things show God’s glory and power as Creator of the universe.
Listen in on a children’s Sunday school class some Sunday morning, and you will understand Psalm 8. The praise of God rolls off of the lips of children and infants, and out of the mouths of their teachers, as they learn about what Jesus has done and how to praise him. The mouths of his creatures declare God’s glory and love as Savior of the universe.
Psalm 8 is a song of praise to our Creator-God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ. Psalm 8 reminds us of God’s glorious creation, that even modern science is barely beginning to understand. Psalm 8 reminds us that the praises of children are a joy to God. Psalm 8 reminds us that as huge and vast as the universe is, God still showed his greatest love and his most awesome creative power in making human beings in his image and likeness. Psalm 8 also reminds us that man is the crown of God’s creation. God gave Adam dominion over all the animals, birds, and fish. God put everything in creation under man’s feet. Man is the head and the crown of God’s creation.
And if that were all there was, you could quit reading right now, content in your “First Article” knowledge of God, the Father almighty, maker of heaven and earth.
But there’s more. Think about what happens in your life on a daily basis, and Psalm 8 doesn’t quite make as much sense as it did at first. Turn on the nightly news (or check the latest updates on your RSS feeds) and you’ll find some things that seem to contradict Psalm 8. Take a look:
The enemies of God aren’t yet silenced. Day after day atheists and followers of false religions stand up and proudly disparage the name of God. They slander God and persecute his people. And all the praises of all the children have yet to silence the foe and the avenger.
Mankind seems to be losing its battle for dominion of creation. Animals kill people. People kill each other, twisting chemicals and atoms into ever more powerful weapons of destruction. Our God-created bodies are constantly threatened by viruses and bacteria. Nature itself seems to be in rebellion against us, as tsunami and earthquakes, hurricanes and droughts kill thousands of people each year.
Even God’s providential care of the human race might be called into question. Why does he allow these things to happen? Faced with the almost insurmountable threats of disease and famine, war and pestilence, as we daily struggle with the assaults of Satan and our fellow men, we wonder if we are so insignificant that God doesn’t care for us anymore.
So what now? Is the Psalmist right to praise God, or isn’t he?
Mankind is the crown of God’s creation, the head over all things. But what happens to creation when the head is cut off?
Well, that’s exactly what has happened. Read Genesis chapter 3, the story of the fall into sin, and Psalm 8 will begin to make sense again. When Adam sinned and fell away from God, he lost the perfect image and likeness of God in which he had been made. Sin caused a separation between man and God. Because of that sin, Adam and all of his descendants had to die. What’s more, the entire universe, God’s perfect creation itself was cursed. The head was cut off (or rather, cut itself off) and now the corpse thrashes around on the ground waiting for death. Every day, we see the horrible effects of that first sin. Every day, we add our own sins to the wretched heap of pollution poisoning the world.
And then, Jesus came. The Logos, the Second Person of the Trinity, the Son of God begotten of the Father from all eternity, became man. Incarnate, the God-Man. He didn’t just become a man so that he could die. He became a man so that he could fight man’s fight for him, so that he could conquer the forces of evil to which Adam fell prey and which have enslaved mankind ever since. He became man to be the crown of God’s creation, to restore fallen humanity to the place it occupied before the Fall. Jesus Christ became the new Adam, the new Head of all creation, the new Head of the renewed human nature which is His body. Using the word of an ancient Church Father, Christ “recapitulates” mankind ― literally, “re-heads” us ― by doing for us what we through our sin had stopped doing.
Psalm 8 only really makes sense when we see that Christ is at the center of it. Christ was “made a little lower than the heavenly beings” at his incarnation, his state of humiliation when he declined to make full use of his divine power. At his resurrection, he was “crowned with glory and honor,” in his state of exultation, where he lives and rules at the right hand of God the Father, fully God but still fully man. He is the Head of all creation; “everything [is] under his feet.” In the great resurrection chapter, Corinthians 15, St. Paul reminds us that “everything” includes even death.
Adam’s sin brought death to all people. Our sin brings death to us. But now Christ’s victory brings life to all people. Adam lost dominion over creation, but Christ, the Son of God and Son of Man, is right now ascended in heaven ruling over all things for the benefit of his people. He is the head, crowned with glory and honor, and we are the body, sharing in his blessings now and for all eternity.
O Lord, our Lord, how majestic is your name in all the earth! Amen.
Take a look outside tonight, and as soon as it gets dark you will understand Psalm 8. The night sky, the moon and the stars (and the quasars and black holes and galaxies and all the stuff we can’t see) all declare the praises of God. All of those things show God’s glory and power as Creator of the universe.
Listen in on a children’s Sunday school class some Sunday morning, and you will understand Psalm 8. The praise of God rolls off of the lips of children and infants, and out of the mouths of their teachers, as they learn about what Jesus has done and how to praise him. The mouths of his creatures declare God’s glory and love as Savior of the universe.
Psalm 8 is a song of praise to our Creator-God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ. Psalm 8 reminds us of God’s glorious creation, that even modern science is barely beginning to understand. Psalm 8 reminds us that the praises of children are a joy to God. Psalm 8 reminds us that as huge and vast as the universe is, God still showed his greatest love and his most awesome creative power in making human beings in his image and likeness. Psalm 8 also reminds us that man is the crown of God’s creation. God gave Adam dominion over all the animals, birds, and fish. God put everything in creation under man’s feet. Man is the head and the crown of God’s creation.
And if that were all there was, you could quit reading right now, content in your “First Article” knowledge of God, the Father almighty, maker of heaven and earth.
But there’s more. Think about what happens in your life on a daily basis, and Psalm 8 doesn’t quite make as much sense as it did at first. Turn on the nightly news (or check the latest updates on your RSS feeds) and you’ll find some things that seem to contradict Psalm 8. Take a look:
The enemies of God aren’t yet silenced. Day after day atheists and followers of false religions stand up and proudly disparage the name of God. They slander God and persecute his people. And all the praises of all the children have yet to silence the foe and the avenger.
Mankind seems to be losing its battle for dominion of creation. Animals kill people. People kill each other, twisting chemicals and atoms into ever more powerful weapons of destruction. Our God-created bodies are constantly threatened by viruses and bacteria. Nature itself seems to be in rebellion against us, as tsunami and earthquakes, hurricanes and droughts kill thousands of people each year.
Even God’s providential care of the human race might be called into question. Why does he allow these things to happen? Faced with the almost insurmountable threats of disease and famine, war and pestilence, as we daily struggle with the assaults of Satan and our fellow men, we wonder if we are so insignificant that God doesn’t care for us anymore.
So what now? Is the Psalmist right to praise God, or isn’t he?
Mankind is the crown of God’s creation, the head over all things. But what happens to creation when the head is cut off?
Well, that’s exactly what has happened. Read Genesis chapter 3, the story of the fall into sin, and Psalm 8 will begin to make sense again. When Adam sinned and fell away from God, he lost the perfect image and likeness of God in which he had been made. Sin caused a separation between man and God. Because of that sin, Adam and all of his descendants had to die. What’s more, the entire universe, God’s perfect creation itself was cursed. The head was cut off (or rather, cut itself off) and now the corpse thrashes around on the ground waiting for death. Every day, we see the horrible effects of that first sin. Every day, we add our own sins to the wretched heap of pollution poisoning the world.
And then, Jesus came. The Logos, the Second Person of the Trinity, the Son of God begotten of the Father from all eternity, became man. Incarnate, the God-Man. He didn’t just become a man so that he could die. He became a man so that he could fight man’s fight for him, so that he could conquer the forces of evil to which Adam fell prey and which have enslaved mankind ever since. He became man to be the crown of God’s creation, to restore fallen humanity to the place it occupied before the Fall. Jesus Christ became the new Adam, the new Head of all creation, the new Head of the renewed human nature which is His body. Using the word of an ancient Church Father, Christ “recapitulates” mankind ― literally, “re-heads” us ― by doing for us what we through our sin had stopped doing.
Psalm 8 only really makes sense when we see that Christ is at the center of it. Christ was “made a little lower than the heavenly beings” at his incarnation, his state of humiliation when he declined to make full use of his divine power. At his resurrection, he was “crowned with glory and honor,” in his state of exultation, where he lives and rules at the right hand of God the Father, fully God but still fully man. He is the Head of all creation; “everything [is] under his feet.” In the great resurrection chapter, Corinthians 15, St. Paul reminds us that “everything” includes even death.
Adam’s sin brought death to all people. Our sin brings death to us. But now Christ’s victory brings life to all people. Adam lost dominion over creation, but Christ, the Son of God and Son of Man, is right now ascended in heaven ruling over all things for the benefit of his people. He is the head, crowned with glory and honor, and we are the body, sharing in his blessings now and for all eternity.
O Lord, our Lord, how majestic is your name in all the earth! Amen.
Why Denny Hitzeman Hates American Idol
Since all I seem to have time to write lately is devotions for Wednesday Vespers and final exams for my students, I guess I’ll have to content myself with linking you to this really cool post from my good friend Denny.
After exams, and Mexico, and VBS, I should be back to my usual long-winded self.
Coffee-in-hand: Uganda Bugishu
After exams, and Mexico, and VBS, I should be back to my usual long-winded self.
Coffee-in-hand: Uganda Bugishu
Four
I don't usually like blogs that post family news and stuff, but this picture was irresistable. It's my son on his fourth birthday serving as ring bearer in my brother's wedding.
Sorry/Enjoy!
Forget the Border...
Read this article.
I think I’ve been saying this for a long long time. I'll have more to say on this topic later.
I think I’ve been saying this for a long long time. I'll have more to say on this topic later.
Praying and Staying Together
(a devotion based on Acts 4:23-33)
“The family that prays together stays together.” Have you ever heard that saying? Do you think it’s true? I do. I mean, there are statistics and surveys and studies that show how church-going, Christian couples are happier and have lower divorce rates, better-behaved kids, and all that jazz. The family that prays together stays together ― it’s true. But why is it true? It’s not true because of some vague psychological closeness that may (or may not) last in this world, because “shared religious experience” is so important to human relations. It’s true because of a real, objective, spiritual closeness that we have with our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. When we are all close to Jesus, then we, almost by default, are also close to each other in love and faith.
The apostles in Jerusalem had a problem. They were being persecuted by the chief priests, the elders ― the very people who were supposed to be God’s witnesses and ministers on this earth. Peter and John had just spent a night in jail and received a “stern talking-to” from the Sanhedrin, the Jewish high-court, and now they were back with the other believers. They had a problem, so they prayed. They prayed to the God who raised Jesus from the dead, and he listened to them and granted their request, almost word-for-word.
Why was their prayer answered? It wasn’t answered because of the good deeds and piety of the apostles. It wasn’t answered because it was such a pretty prayer. It was because their prayer was in accord with God’s will, which is what we mean when we conclude our prayers with “in Jesus’ name.”
It’s not so much that we pray, it’s to whom we pray. It’s not how we pray, it’s the God who hears our prayer. And it’s not our faith ― it’s the object of that faith, the powerful Word of God that testifies to Jesus’ life, death, and resurrection. He answers our prayers in his own time and in his own fashion, according to his perfect holy will. We trust God’s character and his promises.
And so we pray together as a family of believers. And because we pray together, under the blanket of protection and forgiveness that God provides for us in Christ, we will stay together ― now, perhaps, but even more importantly in eternity. We will stay together under Christ our Good Shepherd, who promised in Sunday’s Gospel reading that he will find the other sheep, who are not of his sheep-pen, and bring them into the fold where there will be one flock, one Shepherd.
The Church is God’s family. We are the bride of Christ, his family. In an even closer metaphor, we are the body of Christ and he is our head. Is it any surprise that those early Christians were “one in heart and mind?”
Well, to be blunt, it should be. When I look inside myself, I see that I am far from being “one in heart and mind” with anybody, much less everybody. When I look around, I see fraction and faction, divisions and divisiveness. We are all believers ― why aren’t we one in heart and mind? The answer, of course, is sin ― our sins against one another, against our brothers and sisters. Our sinful selfishness and pride. That oh-so-American virtue of self-sufficiency (as if anyone could actually make it on their own). Our dubious quest for ‘privacy.’ We look around and see the results of sin and its destructive effects in our lives and in our hearts.
But look to the cross and the empty tomb. The glorious fact is that we are one in heart and mind, not just with each other, not just with those who are “walking together” with us in the WELS, but with every Christian who has ever lived. One in heart and mind with Peter and John, with these Christians in Acts. One in heart and mind with Jesus himself, as Paul reminds us in 1 Corinthians 2, “we have the mind of Christ.”
Our text tells us that the believers were “filled with the Holy Spirit.” And so are we. We were filled, individually and personally, with the Holy Spirit at our baptism. We are filled collectively with the Holy Spirit as we gather together around Word and Sacrament, which is how the Spirit promises to work and where Jesus Christ promises to be.
The Christians in Jerusalem were one in heart and mind. They were so united that they shared everything, and didn’t consider anything to be their own. That doesn’t mean that socialism is the answer for the world’s problems, or that it is the only God-pleasing economic system for Christians to live by. What it means is what it says ― the disciples shared everything they had out of love. Especially look at what the very next verse says ― the most important thing they had in common: the testimony of the resurrection, which they shared boldly. That is certainly a treasure worth sharing.
The apostles prayed together, to Jesus Christ their Lord and Savior and the Lord and Savior of the Church. And they stayed together ― under God’s protection and blessing, one in heart and mind, sharing what they had, boldly proclaiming Christ and his resurrection in the face of people who opposed that teaching.
We, too, who pray together in the holy house of God will stay together as well. Not necessarily here on earth. Certainly not because of the fine words of our prayers, the beautiful music of the piano, or the ancient songs of the Church which we join. Definitely not because of our sincere hearts, our upright and blameless lives, or our whole-hearted walking together here in this sinful world.
No. We have the Holy Spirit’s testimony of the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead. The testimony that our sins are forgiven and that eternal life is ours from God as a gift by grace alone. We receive that gift in the faith God creates and strengthens in our hearts, and we cling to the Word of God with its gracious promises of eternal life for the certainly of our salvation. That’s where our sure and certain hope is founded, that we, the family of God, who pray together will stay together.
“With great power, continue to testify to the resurrection of the Lord Jesus, and may much grace be upon you all.” Amen.
“The family that prays together stays together.” Have you ever heard that saying? Do you think it’s true? I do. I mean, there are statistics and surveys and studies that show how church-going, Christian couples are happier and have lower divorce rates, better-behaved kids, and all that jazz. The family that prays together stays together ― it’s true. But why is it true? It’s not true because of some vague psychological closeness that may (or may not) last in this world, because “shared religious experience” is so important to human relations. It’s true because of a real, objective, spiritual closeness that we have with our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. When we are all close to Jesus, then we, almost by default, are also close to each other in love and faith.
The apostles in Jerusalem had a problem. They were being persecuted by the chief priests, the elders ― the very people who were supposed to be God’s witnesses and ministers on this earth. Peter and John had just spent a night in jail and received a “stern talking-to” from the Sanhedrin, the Jewish high-court, and now they were back with the other believers. They had a problem, so they prayed. They prayed to the God who raised Jesus from the dead, and he listened to them and granted their request, almost word-for-word.
Why was their prayer answered? It wasn’t answered because of the good deeds and piety of the apostles. It wasn’t answered because it was such a pretty prayer. It was because their prayer was in accord with God’s will, which is what we mean when we conclude our prayers with “in Jesus’ name.”
It’s not so much that we pray, it’s to whom we pray. It’s not how we pray, it’s the God who hears our prayer. And it’s not our faith ― it’s the object of that faith, the powerful Word of God that testifies to Jesus’ life, death, and resurrection. He answers our prayers in his own time and in his own fashion, according to his perfect holy will. We trust God’s character and his promises.
And so we pray together as a family of believers. And because we pray together, under the blanket of protection and forgiveness that God provides for us in Christ, we will stay together ― now, perhaps, but even more importantly in eternity. We will stay together under Christ our Good Shepherd, who promised in Sunday’s Gospel reading that he will find the other sheep, who are not of his sheep-pen, and bring them into the fold where there will be one flock, one Shepherd.
The Church is God’s family. We are the bride of Christ, his family. In an even closer metaphor, we are the body of Christ and he is our head. Is it any surprise that those early Christians were “one in heart and mind?”
Well, to be blunt, it should be. When I look inside myself, I see that I am far from being “one in heart and mind” with anybody, much less everybody. When I look around, I see fraction and faction, divisions and divisiveness. We are all believers ― why aren’t we one in heart and mind? The answer, of course, is sin ― our sins against one another, against our brothers and sisters. Our sinful selfishness and pride. That oh-so-American virtue of self-sufficiency (as if anyone could actually make it on their own). Our dubious quest for ‘privacy.’ We look around and see the results of sin and its destructive effects in our lives and in our hearts.
But look to the cross and the empty tomb. The glorious fact is that we are one in heart and mind, not just with each other, not just with those who are “walking together” with us in the WELS, but with every Christian who has ever lived. One in heart and mind with Peter and John, with these Christians in Acts. One in heart and mind with Jesus himself, as Paul reminds us in 1 Corinthians 2, “we have the mind of Christ.”
Our text tells us that the believers were “filled with the Holy Spirit.” And so are we. We were filled, individually and personally, with the Holy Spirit at our baptism. We are filled collectively with the Holy Spirit as we gather together around Word and Sacrament, which is how the Spirit promises to work and where Jesus Christ promises to be.
The Christians in Jerusalem were one in heart and mind. They were so united that they shared everything, and didn’t consider anything to be their own. That doesn’t mean that socialism is the answer for the world’s problems, or that it is the only God-pleasing economic system for Christians to live by. What it means is what it says ― the disciples shared everything they had out of love. Especially look at what the very next verse says ― the most important thing they had in common: the testimony of the resurrection, which they shared boldly. That is certainly a treasure worth sharing.
The apostles prayed together, to Jesus Christ their Lord and Savior and the Lord and Savior of the Church. And they stayed together ― under God’s protection and blessing, one in heart and mind, sharing what they had, boldly proclaiming Christ and his resurrection in the face of people who opposed that teaching.
We, too, who pray together in the holy house of God will stay together as well. Not necessarily here on earth. Certainly not because of the fine words of our prayers, the beautiful music of the piano, or the ancient songs of the Church which we join. Definitely not because of our sincere hearts, our upright and blameless lives, or our whole-hearted walking together here in this sinful world.
No. We have the Holy Spirit’s testimony of the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead. The testimony that our sins are forgiven and that eternal life is ours from God as a gift by grace alone. We receive that gift in the faith God creates and strengthens in our hearts, and we cling to the Word of God with its gracious promises of eternal life for the certainly of our salvation. That’s where our sure and certain hope is founded, that we, the family of God, who pray together will stay together.
“With great power, continue to testify to the resurrection of the Lord Jesus, and may much grace be upon you all.” Amen.
Carnivale!
Well, even though they misspelled my name, I’m proud to say I made it into Lutheran Carnival of Blogs XXIII. Enjoy!
PS ― did you know that “carnival” is from the Latin words “Carne” and “Vale,” which means, when put together, “Farewell to meat.” As in, Mardi Gras, Fat Tuesday, Martes Gordo, Meatfare, preparation for Lenten fasting? Neato.
PS ― did you know that “carnival” is from the Latin words “Carne” and “Vale,” which means, when put together, “Farewell to meat.” As in, Mardi Gras, Fat Tuesday, Martes Gordo, Meatfare, preparation for Lenten fasting? Neato.
Silver Dollars
My father-in-law is a man of many stories. One of his most memorable was told to me as we drove together through the desert near Roswell, New Mexico. He had been stationed at Walker AFB just outside Roswell back in the 1950s. Walker AFB was the biggest SAC base in the country, was home of the famous atomic-bomb-dropping 509th, and later became home to a squadron of ICBMs during the Cuban Missile Crisis.
It turns out that the people of Roswell weren’t getting along very well with the Air Force people back in Harry’s day. You military people probably know the story ― the military guys were a drain on the economy, disturbers of the peace, bad for the town. The base commissary and exchange was unfair competition for local merchants. Young, irresponsible airmen disrupted the normality of life, corrupted the girls, ran out honest folk, etc. I guess at one point people even marched in the streets protesting the Air Force presence in their town.
One week, the base commander at Walker (in the 50s, as I gather, base commanders were basically God) decided to show the town a thing or two. So he paid all of his airmen their entire paycheck in silver dollars, encouraging them to spend their money as usual.
At the end of the week, the base commander personally went from shop to shop up and down the main street of town, asking shopkeepers how many silver dollars they had in their tills. Of course, you can guess what he found. The airmen at Walker, like most airmen at most airbases, spent lots of their money in town. Some of it was at the bars and liquor stores, yes. But also the grocery stores, hardware store, dry cleaners…just about everywhere the other residents of Roswell spent their money. Far from being a drain on the economy of Roswell, the Air Force base was an almost indispensable part of it.
Is what is going on today across the country a macrocosm of this little event? (Read one of the many stories here.) I personally hope that it is; TCS columnist Lee Harris has a slightly more pessimistic view here. I hope and pray that this attention-grabbing stunt, which has been treated with some disdain even by those in the Hispanic community, is only that: a stunt. The Walker base commander made his point with little or no disruption, and I think that the immigrants’ point can be made effectively with a one day show-of-force as well.
Yes, there is an “immigration problem” in this country. No, kicking out all the illegals isn’t the answer, and neither is legalizing all of them. Yes, the problem needs solutions. No, the solutions aren’t as easy as a fifteen foot wall and machine gun nests and mass deportations.
Not to over-simplify, but at the root of all of this are two related issues. First, there are several parts of the world in which making a sustainable living is simply impossible. There are places on this planet where the inhabitants are faced with the choice to move or starve. It’s not always the case that people are climbing fences and swimming rivers to get to the US, it’s that sometimes people are floating across the ocean in boats and stowing away in railroad cars to get away from their home, because they can’t live in their homes anymore. And that’s sad.
The second, related, problem is that for too long the US has made it too easy to get here and work here illegally. People, like pressurized water in an espresso machine, take the path of least resistance. Lax enforcement of untenable laws has done the job of enabling millions of people to live and work here at great social and economic cost to the legal residents of this country.
And not to over-simplify, but to me the problem has a threefold solution. First, on an individual level, human decency and Christian charity compels us to help the poor, the weak, the fatherless, and the widow. I think that must extend to the poor in other countries, especially considering Jesus’ injunction to love our neighbors as ourselves. If their homes are more livable, many of them won’t have to make the hard choice to come here.
Secondly, on a national level, the problem of illegal entry can’t be controlled at the border. I think it needs to be controlled at the place of employment. Higher fines and stricter enforcement of existing employment laws must be part of the answer ― if the demand for illegal labor goes down, the supply must inevitably decline as well.
Hand-in-hand with that must be a “guest worker” program that actually works. It needs to be simple enough to be easier than the illegal alternative. It should probably use some sort of fee or special income tax to pay for itself. Basically, the program needs to be structured in such a way that anyone who wants to (who’s not a felon, drug dealer, or a terrorist) can enter this country decently and in order to work, pay taxes, send his money home, and not die of dehydration on his way through the desert.
It seems like some people are taking an unwisely “liberal” view of this problem, the same view people take on Iran, Social Security, and so many other world problems: if we ignore it, maybe it’ll go away (or at least not bother us). Just give them all amnesty and forget about it. Some are taking a heard-heartedly “conservative” view, a view that didn’t work for the US before either of the world wars and a view that won’t work today: throw up the wall, man the barricades, look to ourselves and let the rest of the world go to hell. As usual, somewhere in the middle is the answer, and answer that takes seriously our duty as both responsible citizens of this country, responsible members of a global economy, and forgiven sinners in a God-redeemed human race. Pray that this country find that answer, soon.
I don’t have all the answers. I might not even have any of the answers. But I’ll be surprised if, at the end of this controversial day, I don’t have a silver dollar or two in my cash register.
It turns out that the people of Roswell weren’t getting along very well with the Air Force people back in Harry’s day. You military people probably know the story ― the military guys were a drain on the economy, disturbers of the peace, bad for the town. The base commissary and exchange was unfair competition for local merchants. Young, irresponsible airmen disrupted the normality of life, corrupted the girls, ran out honest folk, etc. I guess at one point people even marched in the streets protesting the Air Force presence in their town.
One week, the base commander at Walker (in the 50s, as I gather, base commanders were basically God) decided to show the town a thing or two. So he paid all of his airmen their entire paycheck in silver dollars, encouraging them to spend their money as usual.
At the end of the week, the base commander personally went from shop to shop up and down the main street of town, asking shopkeepers how many silver dollars they had in their tills. Of course, you can guess what he found. The airmen at Walker, like most airmen at most airbases, spent lots of their money in town. Some of it was at the bars and liquor stores, yes. But also the grocery stores, hardware store, dry cleaners…just about everywhere the other residents of Roswell spent their money. Far from being a drain on the economy of Roswell, the Air Force base was an almost indispensable part of it.
Is what is going on today across the country a macrocosm of this little event? (Read one of the many stories here.) I personally hope that it is; TCS columnist Lee Harris has a slightly more pessimistic view here. I hope and pray that this attention-grabbing stunt, which has been treated with some disdain even by those in the Hispanic community, is only that: a stunt. The Walker base commander made his point with little or no disruption, and I think that the immigrants’ point can be made effectively with a one day show-of-force as well.
Yes, there is an “immigration problem” in this country. No, kicking out all the illegals isn’t the answer, and neither is legalizing all of them. Yes, the problem needs solutions. No, the solutions aren’t as easy as a fifteen foot wall and machine gun nests and mass deportations.
Not to over-simplify, but at the root of all of this are two related issues. First, there are several parts of the world in which making a sustainable living is simply impossible. There are places on this planet where the inhabitants are faced with the choice to move or starve. It’s not always the case that people are climbing fences and swimming rivers to get to the US, it’s that sometimes people are floating across the ocean in boats and stowing away in railroad cars to get away from their home, because they can’t live in their homes anymore. And that’s sad.
The second, related, problem is that for too long the US has made it too easy to get here and work here illegally. People, like pressurized water in an espresso machine, take the path of least resistance. Lax enforcement of untenable laws has done the job of enabling millions of people to live and work here at great social and economic cost to the legal residents of this country.
And not to over-simplify, but to me the problem has a threefold solution. First, on an individual level, human decency and Christian charity compels us to help the poor, the weak, the fatherless, and the widow. I think that must extend to the poor in other countries, especially considering Jesus’ injunction to love our neighbors as ourselves. If their homes are more livable, many of them won’t have to make the hard choice to come here.
Secondly, on a national level, the problem of illegal entry can’t be controlled at the border. I think it needs to be controlled at the place of employment. Higher fines and stricter enforcement of existing employment laws must be part of the answer ― if the demand for illegal labor goes down, the supply must inevitably decline as well.
Hand-in-hand with that must be a “guest worker” program that actually works. It needs to be simple enough to be easier than the illegal alternative. It should probably use some sort of fee or special income tax to pay for itself. Basically, the program needs to be structured in such a way that anyone who wants to (who’s not a felon, drug dealer, or a terrorist) can enter this country decently and in order to work, pay taxes, send his money home, and not die of dehydration on his way through the desert.
It seems like some people are taking an unwisely “liberal” view of this problem, the same view people take on Iran, Social Security, and so many other world problems: if we ignore it, maybe it’ll go away (or at least not bother us). Just give them all amnesty and forget about it. Some are taking a heard-heartedly “conservative” view, a view that didn’t work for the US before either of the world wars and a view that won’t work today: throw up the wall, man the barricades, look to ourselves and let the rest of the world go to hell. As usual, somewhere in the middle is the answer, and answer that takes seriously our duty as both responsible citizens of this country, responsible members of a global economy, and forgiven sinners in a God-redeemed human race. Pray that this country find that answer, soon.
I don’t have all the answers. I might not even have any of the answers. But I’ll be surprised if, at the end of this controversial day, I don’t have a silver dollar or two in my cash register.
The Reunion
I was at the airport the other day to pick up my grandma. Like most people, I love watching people at airports.
That night, there was a really pretty girl waiting at the end of the concourse. She was beautiful in an understated and undramatic way. She wore her clothes with a comfortable easy grace, and her hair was done in that style that looks like she didn’t do anything to it, but probably really involved lots of time ― a studied informality.
She was hanging around with us where people come out from their flight, but unlike the rest of us she wasn’t staring expectantly down the concourse. In fact, she seemed so distracted, so disinterested, that I began to wonder if she was waiting for someone or killing time before she went through security.
Then her cell phone rang.
To say that someone’s face “lights up” is something of a tired metaphor, but in this case it seems to apply. Her face lit up as she had her brief conversation, and after she hung up her entire attention was focused down the hallway of offloading passengers. She seemed to be willing the face she was looking for to come into view.
And then she saw him.
He was a tall, gangly, funny-looking guy who, except for those characteristics, looked nothing like me. He wore tired, casual clothes and carried a big hiking backpack with a lot of miles on it. I’m pretty sure he had a Nalgene bottle hanging off somewhere. He also had a flower wrapped in cellophane in his hand, which he held out to her with a funny little smile as she dashed into his arms.
They kissed each other, not in that desperate-passionate-get-a-room sort of way, but in the I’m-so-happy-to-see-you-I-want-to-be-as-close-as-I-can-to-you sort of way. They were still smiling as they let go. She tried to take his bag, but all he wanted was another hug. Her flower kept getting in the way, but they didn’t care.
He was at least 6’6” and she couldn’t have been taller than 5’4”. But somehow they fit together.
He didn’t have any checked luggage, so they walked out of the airport hand-in-hand, still hugging each other.
I imagined his impatience as he sat, diligently following the airport rules not to use his cell phone until the door had opened. I imagined his walk up the concourse, wondering where she would be waiting for him.
I saw her joy when she got the call, and saw her impatience as she waited for him to come into view.
I’m not really sure why I felt compelled to write this, but that moment seemed like something that deserved to be remembered.
Coffee-in-hand: None. But I was leaning against the Boston Stoker kiosk as I watched the scene unfold.
That night, there was a really pretty girl waiting at the end of the concourse. She was beautiful in an understated and undramatic way. She wore her clothes with a comfortable easy grace, and her hair was done in that style that looks like she didn’t do anything to it, but probably really involved lots of time ― a studied informality.
She was hanging around with us where people come out from their flight, but unlike the rest of us she wasn’t staring expectantly down the concourse. In fact, she seemed so distracted, so disinterested, that I began to wonder if she was waiting for someone or killing time before she went through security.
Then her cell phone rang.
To say that someone’s face “lights up” is something of a tired metaphor, but in this case it seems to apply. Her face lit up as she had her brief conversation, and after she hung up her entire attention was focused down the hallway of offloading passengers. She seemed to be willing the face she was looking for to come into view.
And then she saw him.
He was a tall, gangly, funny-looking guy who, except for those characteristics, looked nothing like me. He wore tired, casual clothes and carried a big hiking backpack with a lot of miles on it. I’m pretty sure he had a Nalgene bottle hanging off somewhere. He also had a flower wrapped in cellophane in his hand, which he held out to her with a funny little smile as she dashed into his arms.
They kissed each other, not in that desperate-passionate-get-a-room sort of way, but in the I’m-so-happy-to-see-you-I-want-to-be-as-close-as-I-can-to-you sort of way. They were still smiling as they let go. She tried to take his bag, but all he wanted was another hug. Her flower kept getting in the way, but they didn’t care.
He was at least 6’6” and she couldn’t have been taller than 5’4”. But somehow they fit together.
He didn’t have any checked luggage, so they walked out of the airport hand-in-hand, still hugging each other.
I imagined his impatience as he sat, diligently following the airport rules not to use his cell phone until the door had opened. I imagined his walk up the concourse, wondering where she would be waiting for him.
I saw her joy when she got the call, and saw her impatience as she waited for him to come into view.
I’m not really sure why I felt compelled to write this, but that moment seemed like something that deserved to be remembered.
Coffee-in-hand: None. But I was leaning against the Boston Stoker kiosk as I watched the scene unfold.
“The Century War”
Over the weekend, my friend Denny (read his blog here) sent me this story from the website of author Dan Simmons. I don’t think it’s saying too much to say that you have to read this story. On its face, it’s a tight, well-written short story, the kind of stuff that (if other things about it weren’t true) would give it a place in short story collections and creative writing textbooks for years to come.
At the very least, almost the entire story is a conversation that takes place over a couple of glasses of single-malt scotch. That, in itself, makes the story worth reading, imho.
[Spoiler Warning: the rest of this post assumes that the you have read and enjoyed (or at least been challenged by) the story at hand, and will therefore discuss and disclose plot elements without regard for your “right to be surprised” or your “right to have an opinion even though you don’t know what the hell is going on.” So read the story already. Then come back.]
Perhaps now you see why I’m not so sure this story, as technically good as it is, will ever find a place among “regular” short stories in an anthology. There are at least two reasons for that, one good and one horribly and inexplicably awful: either he’s wrong (that’s the good one) and Mr. Simmons’ story will fade quietly into history along with Y2K, “the world will end on dd/mm/yyyy”, and so many other almost-but-not-quite catastrophes. Or else he’s right (this is the bad one) and people will read his story a decade from now with that uncomfortable feeling you get at the end of Tom Clancy’s Debt of Honor (that’s the one where the guy flies a passenger plane into the Capitol Building during a State of the Union address). A third possibility exists, of course: that in ten years no one will read it because no one will be allowed to. But maybe I’m getting ahead of myself.
The main theme of this piece is: we have no idea what we’re up against. A “Category Error” he calls it; a mistake of epic proportions so catastrophic that we’re doomed to failure from the start. We’re so far off base we don’t even understand what game we’re playing. We’ve mis-defined (perhaps under-defined) the problem so badly that we have no hope of ever solving it. It’s like watching a flooded river rise closer and closer to our house and being worried that our sump pump won’t be able to keep the basement dry. Like being buried alive a thousand feet underground in the pitch-black bowels of the earth and feeling upset because the debris from the cave-in scratched our reading glasses.
Are we really guilty of such a miscalculation? Of such gross underestimation of the world around us? I’ll leave that for you to decide.
Another theme then follows from the first. If we really are guilty of this Category Error and are therefore ignorant of the correct solution to our problem, then what is the answer? The answer, in the words of the Time Traveler, is that we aren’t “ruthless enough.” We are “too timid… too fearful… too decent… to match the ruthlessness of [our] enemies.” In his essay “Fear of Confrontation,” TCS Daily columnist Arnold Kling writes, “Unfortunately, large segments of American society no longer have the ability to confront real evil. People lack the confidence and moral clarity to stand up to intimidation.” We are playing hopscotch and arguing about whether Jimmy stepped on the line. Meanwhile, a 900lb gorilla smashes his way across the playground, scattering the broken bodies of our playmates behind him on his way to tear out our throats. What we need to do is invest in a big enough gun to drop the gorilla in one shot, splatter his brains all over the monkey bars (pun intended) before he does the same to us. And if the big loud gun hurts Jimmy’s ears, so be it ― he was cheating anyway.
Is that sort of ruthlessness really necessary? Do we really have to be so… so brutal? Again, I’ll leave that for you to decide.
A third theme, and then I will end my analysis with an open question. At one point the narrator complains that “the world is a complex place. Morality is a complex thing.” And while he’s right, to an extent, in a matter as clear-cut as the problem in the story, “the world, as it turns out, is not nearly so complex a place as [our] liberal and gentle minds sought to make it.” The narrator (and us, by extension) hides behind an artificial and self-made complexity, falsely blowing things way out of proportion in order to excuse our inaction. A homeless man on an exit ramp asks for a dollar. We drive past. How do we know what he’ll spend that dollar on? Is he really homeless? He should get a job; giving him money only enables his cycle of dependence… The guy needs a dollar. Turns out that’s not as complex as we make it out to be.
Is the world really this black-and-white? Do we just need to educate, to bring those peoples still locked in their constricting, archaic worldviews up-to-speed, catch them up on the moral development of the last century or so? Or is it we who need the education, a sharp slash to cut away the shades of gray to see things again as they really are? Is it time to reduce the complexity and ignore the rhetoric? A question, again, for you to decide.
And finally, at the end, why does the narrator get mad at the Time Traveler? Yes, he’s telling him bad news about his grandchildren. Yes, he’s painting a bleak picture of the next 15-20 years. But why does he get angry enough to draw a gun on the man who interrupted his New Year’s Eve to tell him these things?
And how do we feel at the end? Fearful? Bored? Incredulous? Scandalized? Angry that no one told us these things already? Lazy enough to roll over, flip on the new episode of CSI, and hope it all goes away?
Is there hope for us? I pray there is. I pray that Dan Simmons’ story does its job, sounds its clarion call, and then fades into history as another near-miss. Near the end of the story, the Time Traveler quotes a Greek philosopher who says that all human behavior is guided by three motives: fear, self-interest, and honor. It’s high time, in my opinion, that we start giving due consideration to all three. I pray that God will grant us a healthy and realistic fear, a godly sense of self-interest (for ourselves and those over whom he has given us charge), and a virtuous sense of pious Christian honor. For Jesus’ sake. Amen.
[Still wondering what the heck I’m babbling about? Amazed I could write this entire post without once actually naming the subject in question? Go back and read the story! Here’s the link again, you lazy slacker.]
Drink-in-hand: Yellow Tail Merlot (all the single malt is at Denny’s)
At the very least, almost the entire story is a conversation that takes place over a couple of glasses of single-malt scotch. That, in itself, makes the story worth reading, imho.
[Spoiler Warning: the rest of this post assumes that the you have read and enjoyed (or at least been challenged by) the story at hand, and will therefore discuss and disclose plot elements without regard for your “right to be surprised” or your “right to have an opinion even though you don’t know what the hell is going on.” So read the story already. Then come back.]
Perhaps now you see why I’m not so sure this story, as technically good as it is, will ever find a place among “regular” short stories in an anthology. There are at least two reasons for that, one good and one horribly and inexplicably awful: either he’s wrong (that’s the good one) and Mr. Simmons’ story will fade quietly into history along with Y2K, “the world will end on dd/mm/yyyy”, and so many other almost-but-not-quite catastrophes. Or else he’s right (this is the bad one) and people will read his story a decade from now with that uncomfortable feeling you get at the end of Tom Clancy’s Debt of Honor (that’s the one where the guy flies a passenger plane into the Capitol Building during a State of the Union address). A third possibility exists, of course: that in ten years no one will read it because no one will be allowed to. But maybe I’m getting ahead of myself.
The main theme of this piece is: we have no idea what we’re up against. A “Category Error” he calls it; a mistake of epic proportions so catastrophic that we’re doomed to failure from the start. We’re so far off base we don’t even understand what game we’re playing. We’ve mis-defined (perhaps under-defined) the problem so badly that we have no hope of ever solving it. It’s like watching a flooded river rise closer and closer to our house and being worried that our sump pump won’t be able to keep the basement dry. Like being buried alive a thousand feet underground in the pitch-black bowels of the earth and feeling upset because the debris from the cave-in scratched our reading glasses.
Are we really guilty of such a miscalculation? Of such gross underestimation of the world around us? I’ll leave that for you to decide.
Another theme then follows from the first. If we really are guilty of this Category Error and are therefore ignorant of the correct solution to our problem, then what is the answer? The answer, in the words of the Time Traveler, is that we aren’t “ruthless enough.” We are “too timid… too fearful… too decent… to match the ruthlessness of [our] enemies.” In his essay “Fear of Confrontation,” TCS Daily columnist Arnold Kling writes, “Unfortunately, large segments of American society no longer have the ability to confront real evil. People lack the confidence and moral clarity to stand up to intimidation.” We are playing hopscotch and arguing about whether Jimmy stepped on the line. Meanwhile, a 900lb gorilla smashes his way across the playground, scattering the broken bodies of our playmates behind him on his way to tear out our throats. What we need to do is invest in a big enough gun to drop the gorilla in one shot, splatter his brains all over the monkey bars (pun intended) before he does the same to us. And if the big loud gun hurts Jimmy’s ears, so be it ― he was cheating anyway.
Is that sort of ruthlessness really necessary? Do we really have to be so… so brutal? Again, I’ll leave that for you to decide.
A third theme, and then I will end my analysis with an open question. At one point the narrator complains that “the world is a complex place. Morality is a complex thing.” And while he’s right, to an extent, in a matter as clear-cut as the problem in the story, “the world, as it turns out, is not nearly so complex a place as [our] liberal and gentle minds sought to make it.” The narrator (and us, by extension) hides behind an artificial and self-made complexity, falsely blowing things way out of proportion in order to excuse our inaction. A homeless man on an exit ramp asks for a dollar. We drive past. How do we know what he’ll spend that dollar on? Is he really homeless? He should get a job; giving him money only enables his cycle of dependence… The guy needs a dollar. Turns out that’s not as complex as we make it out to be.
Is the world really this black-and-white? Do we just need to educate, to bring those peoples still locked in their constricting, archaic worldviews up-to-speed, catch them up on the moral development of the last century or so? Or is it we who need the education, a sharp slash to cut away the shades of gray to see things again as they really are? Is it time to reduce the complexity and ignore the rhetoric? A question, again, for you to decide.
And finally, at the end, why does the narrator get mad at the Time Traveler? Yes, he’s telling him bad news about his grandchildren. Yes, he’s painting a bleak picture of the next 15-20 years. But why does he get angry enough to draw a gun on the man who interrupted his New Year’s Eve to tell him these things?
And how do we feel at the end? Fearful? Bored? Incredulous? Scandalized? Angry that no one told us these things already? Lazy enough to roll over, flip on the new episode of CSI, and hope it all goes away?
Is there hope for us? I pray there is. I pray that Dan Simmons’ story does its job, sounds its clarion call, and then fades into history as another near-miss. Near the end of the story, the Time Traveler quotes a Greek philosopher who says that all human behavior is guided by three motives: fear, self-interest, and honor. It’s high time, in my opinion, that we start giving due consideration to all three. I pray that God will grant us a healthy and realistic fear, a godly sense of self-interest (for ourselves and those over whom he has given us charge), and a virtuous sense of pious Christian honor. For Jesus’ sake. Amen.
[Still wondering what the heck I’m babbling about? Amazed I could write this entire post without once actually naming the subject in question? Go back and read the story! Here’s the link again, you lazy slacker.]
Drink-in-hand: Yellow Tail Merlot (all the single malt is at Denny’s)
Dying to Live
I’ve been reading again. Not that I’m not always reading something, it’s just that a book has grabbed my attention in a surprising way. I’m reading Dying to Live: the Power of Forgiveness by Harold L. Senkbeil.
I’m trying to decide if I like the title or not. Well, I like the title, but I’m not sure it fits. It’s a bit about dying, a lot about living. It’s got a ton of stuff on forgiveness (God’s forgiveness of us, rather than our of others). And of course, all that’s really powerful. So the words all fit. But I’m still not sure…
Above all, it’s a great big three-cheers for Word and Sacrament. Rarely has a book so thoroughly explored what it means to be a baptized child of God. Pastor Senkbeil drives home Holy Communion, too, and Absolution (the preached Word) gets its due, but the phrase “drenched in the waters of baptism” certainly describes this wonderful exposition on truly sanctified living focused on and by the truths of Holy Baptism.
Recommended for all the Lutherans who stumble across this post, all those who want to know more about Lutheranism, and all those who wish they were Lutheran but don’t know where to start.
An interesting bit of synchronicity ― the guest pastor on Wednesday night was preaching about the “hiddenness” of God’s important things: you know, stumbling blocks and folly and all. Anyway, he mentioned how the passers-by on Good Friday wouldn’t have noticed anything special going on. Maybe a little more crowded, but still, you’ve seen one crucifixion, you’ve pretty much seen them all. Something he said made me sit up and listen extra closely, and when I got home I checked the chapter I had just finished reading. Sure enough, he had either quoted Senkbeil or channeled him unknowingly.
Here’s the quote:
“They had seen it all before. There was a sordid routine to every execution under Roman rule: first the stripping, then the flogging, finally the nailing. In the end every crucifixion looked much the same.”
It was the word “sordid” that caught my attention. How many of us use that in daily discourse?
Here’s how Senkbeil finishes the section, and where the pastor’s sermon basically ended up, too. May we keep this in the forefront of our minds as we enter this most Holy of weeks.
“The jeering mob thought they had the last laugh: ‘He saved others,’ they shouted, ‘but he can’t save himself.’ But he didn’t come to save himself. He came to save us. This was his determined purpose: to give his life for the life of the world. ‘For the joy set before him,’ the Apostle reminds us, ‘he endured the cross, scorning its shame’ (Hebrews 12). Gladly he laid down his life. Willingly he bore our sin. Joyfully he embraced our shame. And that is the heart of the matter.”
Coffee-in-hand: Kenya AA (hot as a pistol)
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