God “hates the sin but loves the sinner.” Agree or disagree?
Well, God surely hates sin. No question about the attitude of a holy God towards sin.
God also surely loves sinners. After all, “God demonstrates his own love for us in this: that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us,” and “God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son…”
So we agree with the two statements, while at the same time we feel we need to add a third statement: “God hates the sin and hates the sinner and loves the sinner.”
Does God hate sinners, as opposed to just hating sin? On the basis of the clear words of Scripture, the answer has to be yes.
Consider these passages:
· Psalm 5:5, “The boastful shall not stand before Thine eyes; Thou dost hate all who do iniquity.”
· Psalm 11:5, “The Lord tests the righteous and the wicked, and the one who loves violence His soul hates.”
· Leviticus 20:23, “Moreover, you shall not follow the customs of the nation which I shall drive out before you, for they did all these things, and therefore I have abhorred them.”
· Isaiah 63:10, “Yet they rebelled and grieved his Holy Spirit. So he turned and became their enemy and he himself fought against them.”
· Jeremiah 12:7-8, “I will forsake my house, abandon my inheritance; I will give the one I love into the hands of her enemies. My inheritance has become to me like a lion in the forest. She roars at me; therefore I hate her.”
· Proverbs 6:16-19, “There are six things which the Lord hates, yes, seven which are an abomination to Him: Haughty eyes, a lying tongue, and hands that shed innocent blood, a heart that devises wicked plans, feet that run rapidly to evil, a false witness who utters lies, and one who spreads strife among brothers.”
· Hosea 9:15, “All their evil is at Gilgal; indeed, I came to hate them there! Because of the wickedness of their deeds I will drive them out of My house! I will love them no more; all their princes are rebels.”
Sin is a terrible thing. It separates a person from God. God hates sin. But there’s more to it than that. Sin cannot be separated or dealt with apart from the sinner. We are moral beings ― what we do affects who we are. The passages above make no distinction between the sin and the sinner; God hates them both. It seems like some pretty tight philosophical hair-splitting to try to separate what we do from who we are.
God doesn’t send sin to hell, He sends sinners to hell. God didn’t punish the sins of the world on the cross. He punished Jesus. Look to God’s Word and read how serious He is about sin. Look at the cross of Christ and see how serious He is about sin.
At the same time, however, countless passages in the Bible teach us that God dearly loves the world of sinners, and every individual sinner too. He has provided full and free, unconditional and seriously-offered pardon and salvation for each sinner and for all sinners. The promises of God in the Gospel are for everyone at any time.
God loves sinners enough to send his only Son for them. He shows his love for sinners in that Christ died for us while we were still sinners. That is his word of Gospel for all of us sinners, which is never to be treated lightly or dismissed but only trusted in Spirit-wrought faith.
The reconciliation of God’s Law and Gospel, God’s hatred of sinners and His love for them, may be found in only one place: at the foot of the cross of Christ. Jesus Christ bore the divine hatred for a world of sinners and Jesus Christ perfectly displayed the divine love for all sinners. See in the cross the justice and mercy of God.
How can this be? How can such two contradictory feelings exist in the heart of God at one and the same time? I have no idea. But I rejoice that God’s Law calls me to repentance and faith when I begin to think of myself more highly than I ought, and I rejoice that God’s Gospel in Christ graciously promises me complete forgiveness when I begin to despair of my own sinfulness.
How can this be? How can such two contradictory feelings exist in the heart of God at one and the same time? I have no idea. But I read in God’s Word that it is so, and I take God at His Word.
“Lord, I do believe; help me overcome my unbelief!” (Mark 9:24)
Comments?
(thanks to Deb for asking the question, and several random websites for their guidance in answering it.)
Black Coffee
Last Sunday, for reasons that don’t need to be talked about on a public forum like this, I really needed a cup of coffee. So I pulled off of the highway and into a McDonalds, which, as you know, sells something mostly resembling the beverage we call “coffee.”
After an excessively long wait in line due to several larger families ordering huge amounts of pre-soccer breakfast items, I got to the counter and ordered my large coffee.
“Would you like that black?” the order-taker asked.
“Yes,” I replied.
She printed out my receipt and pointed me to the spot where people languish while waiting for their orders to be filled. I noticed my receipt had BLACK COFFEE emblazoned on it in large, friendly letters.
Several minutes later ― a wait made longer by the fact that I really needed this particular cup of coffee ― another teenage PBTC looked at my receipt and began to fill my order. She looked stressed and harried, like someone who really didn’t know her way around her work area yet, and like most teenagers took no great pains to verbally and non-verbally express how stressed and harried she was.
She looked over at the coffee station. Two full pots of decaf (orange handle) were sitting on the burners. There was also one almost-empty pot of regular (black handle), the coffee still sloshing a bit from just being set down by another PBTC. My girl looked again, disgustedly, at my clearly-marked receipt and asked me:
“Does it have to be black coffee?”
“Yes,” I replied.
She sighed loudly, reached for the almost-empty black-handled pot, and started to pour.
“Do you need cream and sugar?” she asked. (You’ll recall that McDonalds has recently started offering “gourmet” coffee, which to them means that they’ll add the cream and/or sugar for you at no extra charge ― another thing to stress and harry the PBTCs.)
“No.” I said. Then, because I really really needed the coffee, not-so-patiently explained: “That’s what ‘black’ means: no cream, no sugar.”
She rolled her eyes and fixed me with a glare I suppose she intended to be withering. Then she set my coffee on the counter and turned away.
As I walked away trying to figure out how to open the seamless plastic lid, I heard her yell to her co-workers, “I need more black coffee.”
Well, I thought, that makes two of us.
…
Post Script:
About 50 miles down the road it suddenly hit me: to this poor, benighted teenage PBTC, “black” coffee is coffee that comes from the pot with the black handle, and has nothing to do with cream and/or sugar.
Caveat emptor: If you are ever traveling in the area of Allenton, Wisconsin and find yourself in need of decaffeinated coffee, make sure to order “orange” coffee, so as not to confuse the locals.
After an excessively long wait in line due to several larger families ordering huge amounts of pre-soccer breakfast items, I got to the counter and ordered my large coffee.
“Would you like that black?” the order-taker asked.
“Yes,” I replied.
She printed out my receipt and pointed me to the spot where people languish while waiting for their orders to be filled. I noticed my receipt had BLACK COFFEE emblazoned on it in large, friendly letters.
Several minutes later ― a wait made longer by the fact that I really needed this particular cup of coffee ― another teenage PBTC looked at my receipt and began to fill my order. She looked stressed and harried, like someone who really didn’t know her way around her work area yet, and like most teenagers took no great pains to verbally and non-verbally express how stressed and harried she was.
She looked over at the coffee station. Two full pots of decaf (orange handle) were sitting on the burners. There was also one almost-empty pot of regular (black handle), the coffee still sloshing a bit from just being set down by another PBTC. My girl looked again, disgustedly, at my clearly-marked receipt and asked me:
“Does it have to be black coffee?”
“Yes,” I replied.
She sighed loudly, reached for the almost-empty black-handled pot, and started to pour.
“Do you need cream and sugar?” she asked. (You’ll recall that McDonalds has recently started offering “gourmet” coffee, which to them means that they’ll add the cream and/or sugar for you at no extra charge ― another thing to stress and harry the PBTCs.)
“No.” I said. Then, because I really really needed the coffee, not-so-patiently explained: “That’s what ‘black’ means: no cream, no sugar.”
She rolled her eyes and fixed me with a glare I suppose she intended to be withering. Then she set my coffee on the counter and turned away.
As I walked away trying to figure out how to open the seamless plastic lid, I heard her yell to her co-workers, “I need more black coffee.”
Well, I thought, that makes two of us.
…
Post Script:
About 50 miles down the road it suddenly hit me: to this poor, benighted teenage PBTC, “black” coffee is coffee that comes from the pot with the black handle, and has nothing to do with cream and/or sugar.
Caveat emptor: If you are ever traveling in the area of Allenton, Wisconsin and find yourself in need of decaffeinated coffee, make sure to order “orange” coffee, so as not to confuse the locals.
Huh?
Just for the record, I’d like to say that throwing hand grenades at churches to express your outrage at being referred to as violent is rather self-defeating.
Shameless Self-Promotion
Check out Lutheran Carnival XXX.
(In case you're worried, those are Roman numerals, not a reference to porn.)
(In case you're worried, those are Roman numerals, not a reference to porn.)
Six Feet Under
I went scuba diving today. It was pretty cool. The experience I had was just an “intro to scuba” kind of thing, a chance to “get my feet wet” (pun intended) in the sport. We dove in a specially-designed swimming pool at the local dive center and stayed in the six-foot section, so it hardly counts as scuba “diving.” More like “swimming around underwater breathing through a tube.”
All of which got me thinking, as I sat on the bottom of the pool with my inner-ear pressure equalized and my breath coming in Darth Vader-like rasping breaths: I think Maslow was on to something. Food and water comes before a nice car, and a dry place to sleep comes before the motivation to pursue a doctorate, and the freedom not to get blown up in your sleep comes before the freedom to crusade for environmental causes. Ever had a toothache? That stupid tooth consumes your entire life ― you can’t even think clearly enough to watch American Idol, and we all know how much brain power that takes. It’s the same thing with air, only worse. Enclosed in that scuba mask, stiff rubber valve clenched tightly in my teeth, my own heartbeat pounding in my ears, I became incredibly aware of how important air is. It’s a stupid thing to say, of course, as anyone who’s ever been choked can tell you (been there, done that too), but your mind gets a chance to wander a bit six feet under water.
And hey. I bet Abraham Maslow never went scuba diving, so maybe I’m the first one to add “air” to his silly little hierarchy.
At any rate, scuba diving was a blast. The first five breaths or so were kind of panicky, and the sense of neediness towards my breathing regulator never really went away, but it was an incredible experience. The mind-paralyzing obsession with air eventually diminishes enough for you to realize how glutted with sensation and sensory input we are here on the surface. There’s no such thing as background noise underwater. No visual distractions (it helped I couldn’t wear my glasses). We couldn’t even move fast ― the “underwater Frisbee” was comical, a slow-motion parody of normal human locomotion.
Underwater, everything matters.
Especially air.
Try it.
All of which got me thinking, as I sat on the bottom of the pool with my inner-ear pressure equalized and my breath coming in Darth Vader-like rasping breaths: I think Maslow was on to something. Food and water comes before a nice car, and a dry place to sleep comes before the motivation to pursue a doctorate, and the freedom not to get blown up in your sleep comes before the freedom to crusade for environmental causes. Ever had a toothache? That stupid tooth consumes your entire life ― you can’t even think clearly enough to watch American Idol, and we all know how much brain power that takes. It’s the same thing with air, only worse. Enclosed in that scuba mask, stiff rubber valve clenched tightly in my teeth, my own heartbeat pounding in my ears, I became incredibly aware of how important air is. It’s a stupid thing to say, of course, as anyone who’s ever been choked can tell you (been there, done that too), but your mind gets a chance to wander a bit six feet under water.
And hey. I bet Abraham Maslow never went scuba diving, so maybe I’m the first one to add “air” to his silly little hierarchy.
At any rate, scuba diving was a blast. The first five breaths or so were kind of panicky, and the sense of neediness towards my breathing regulator never really went away, but it was an incredible experience. The mind-paralyzing obsession with air eventually diminishes enough for you to realize how glutted with sensation and sensory input we are here on the surface. There’s no such thing as background noise underwater. No visual distractions (it helped I couldn’t wear my glasses). We couldn’t even move fast ― the “underwater Frisbee” was comical, a slow-motion parody of normal human locomotion.
Underwater, everything matters.
Especially air.
Try it.
Innovations
I woke up this morning, used a bathroom with indoor plumbing, heated water in a kettle with no visible fire at the touch of a button, brewed fairly-traded coffee grown by an ecologically-sensitive Latin American farmer, read an email message that someone on the other side of the planet sent me during the night, checked some up-to-the-minute news headlines from around the world, ate food from a box, drove myself to church in a conveyance with no visible means of propulsion, listened to pre-recorded music from a device no larger than a human hand, arrived at a church building that was cool and comfortable despite 85-degree humid summer temperatures, and participated in a liturgical Christian worship service that did not include Holy Communion.
Of all the modern “innovations” of which I have availed myself today, which would be the most surprising to the average, run-of-the-mill, fourth-century Christian?
That was rhetorical, by the way.
(Before I get drummed out of the WELS on some sort of heresy charge, see Rev. J. Micheel’s essay The Church Offers Holy Communion pp. 13-29.)
As it has often been observed, the proper question isn’t whether Athanasius (or Chrysostom, or Luther, or Jesus, or whoever) would have belonged to my church, but whether or not I belong to theirs.
Of all the modern “innovations” of which I have availed myself today, which would be the most surprising to the average, run-of-the-mill, fourth-century Christian?
That was rhetorical, by the way.
(Before I get drummed out of the WELS on some sort of heresy charge, see Rev. J. Micheel’s essay The Church Offers Holy Communion pp. 13-29.)
As it has often been observed, the proper question isn’t whether Athanasius (or Chrysostom, or Luther, or Jesus, or whoever) would have belonged to my church, but whether or not I belong to theirs.
The Right Van
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.
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.
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