Tag Archives: life

what do I stand for?

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It has been too long. February and March came and went and here I sit, a third of the way through April and I haven’t taken the time to post. Ah well, such is life I guess. My internship keeps me busy, and I am loving every minute of it. The people who I am lucky enough to serve are nothing short of wonderful. Lent was a handful, but it is now ended and I am hoping in the coming months to get back to some kind of rhythm, both here and at the office.

As I lie here, knowing that my alarm will go off in a few short hours, I cannot seem to get a song out of my head, “Some Nights” by Fun. I’m not saying that it is the best song in the world, but it is catchy, and since the Blackhawks developed a scoreboard video using it, well, it gets a place in my playlist. What I appreciate about the song is the question it thrusts to the forefront, a haunting question, what do I stand for? It isn’t an easy question to answer. I know that once I do answer it someone will inevitably be pissed off by it. But that is the easy part, because I know that no matter what someone always will be upset. The hard part of that question, is answering it for, or rather to, myself.

I had thoughts recently of migrating from wordpress over to another format, though I don’t think that will actually happen anytime soon if ever. While I was planning on it, the place I was attempting to migrate to did not give me the option of simply importing all my posts, I had to copy and paste them one by one. Well, as mind numbing as that may be, it gave me a chance to look over some of my earlier writing. If you have the time to look at it, don’t. In saying this I do not believe I am being overly critical. Rather, I am being honest. As I read the words penned in a different frame of mind I am struck by how much I was speaking from a place of hurt. Pain and anger dripped from every single syllable. I stopped that process at about the fourth one, I couldn’t take it anymore.

It was a humbling experience. I was reminded of the fact that those who teach will be judged more harshly, and to be sure that judgment is warranted. It is hard for me to wrap my mind around some of the things that came out of my mouth. And yet, I know at the time I stood strongly behind it. I am certain that I would have fiercely defended my position, and more than that, would have been convinced of my correctness and written off opposition as ignorant. That is, after all, always my problem. Whether people see it in me or not, I know I am an arrogant cuss. I try to fight it, but for one reason or another it always, inevitably, comes out, and although I am not proud of that fact, I know it is true. Others may not see it, because I do well to hide it, or wait to express it until I am alone with my thoughts, but trust me, I know I am an arrogant cuss.

And so here I sit, unable to sleep, knowing I was wrong to write what I wrote in the past, certain that at the time I thought I was right, assured of my own arrogance which can be blinding, and waiting for the day I go back and read this one and feel the exact same way. But rather than be afraid of that, I am trying to embrace it. Because while it is true I am not the person I was 3 years ago, 2 years ago, heck, 2 weeks ago, I don’t necessarily think that’s a bad thing. I know I have changed, I’ve cooled off my hot head somewhat, put those theological hand grenades back in my pocket rather than throwing them on the table, and came to grips with some truths about my presuppositions and beliefs. And rather than dwell on the fact that I may have lost some of my edge, some of what made me who I was, I feel like I have gained some perspective. I feel like maybe for the first time in a long time I have a pretty good idea of who I actually am and what I actually stand for.

In the end, I think that is what matters right now, that I know where I stand. For so long I felt pulled in different directions, I felt the need to justify my place and my beliefs and today I feel comfortable, secure even, in where I have landed. I am a Lutheran, a moderately conservative one at that, and while those words may or may not seem loaded to you, they are not the easiest ones for me to type out. Because that label was so loaded with pain and anger, I did all that I could to avoid it. But I can’t avoid it anymore. I can’t pretend that I am still that guy I was three years ago. I won’t apologize for coming to terms with what was once my enemy.  And who knows, maybe one day I will wake up and take this post back, recant it all because I came to some new realization.

But it’s ok. I dont need to know now if that will be the case later on because right now, in this moment, I can take comfort in the fact that my identity, security, and meaning do not stem from my fickle temperament and feelings. They rest solely and securely in the reality that in my baptism as an infant I was given an identity. I was given a faith in God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. I was sealed, adopted, promised of my place for eternity, not because I thought it was a good idea at the time, but because God did what God does best. And that is the hope I can take with me. That is the hope that ensures that no matter what else I may become, I was first and will forever be, a baptized child of God. No matter what assails me, this is my identity, this is what I stand for. Or perhaps better put, this is what stands for me.

gift giving and heretic hitting…

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Today seems like as good of a day as any to begin again. It has been almost two months since I last posted and quite a bit has happened. Classes finished rapidly, ending with the best gpa I have had at CSL, and my wife and I were whisked away to the east coast to begin our internship year known as a vicarage. Needless to say life has been busy but, to be honest, it has been nothing short of wonderful. Not only are we close to my wife’s family but the congregation of which we have become a part is more than a blessing. From day one we were welcomed with open arms and although it hasn’t quite been three weeks it feels like home.

While today is just another day at the office trying to plan out the next few days, get some reading done, and hopefully work on some sermonizing, it is also a day that has caused me to stop and think. Growing up, this time of year wasn’t always the easiest. We never had much money and the holidays always have a way, at least in my life, of bringing out the worst in situations. Christmases, like most other holidays, always came in twos, one with mom, and one with dad. But no matter the financial situation, our parents always did their best to give us whatever we wanted. It may not have been the most glamorous labels or the best stuff but every year we had presents under the tree and something to brag about when school resumed. Not everyone is as fortunate as we were.

This year my wife and I, thanks to our vicarage congregation, had the opportunity to buy presents for a child who otherwise would not have the chance to have them. And as we looked at the list, and our bank account, we thought about prioritizing based on what we could afford. It may not have been the smartest decision, but that priority list went out the window. I know there were years when my mom couldn’t afford what we got, yet somehow we had stuff to unwrap and brighten our day. This year, as I thought about my history and the similarity that must exist between my past and that little girl’s present, I knew we couldn’t stop with what we could or couldn’t afford.

After all, isn’t the Christmas season about giving? Just look at the man who really brings Christmas joy, jolly old St. Nick.  He has built a reputation on the giving of gifts to the good little children. Only, the gift I remember him for, and the gift that arguably made him most famous, was the one he gave to Arius. It was during the Council of Nicea in 325 that Arius was attempting to defend his notion of the person of Christ, namely that Jesus was only a man and not God. Upon hearing Arius wax heresy eloquently Nicholas, a bishop in attendance, stood up and slapped Arius in the face. Jolly Old St. Nick, gift giver and heretic hitter.

Apart from being a story that makes me smirk, and one that scares me should I meet St. Nick in the resurrection, it causes me to think about the importance of how we talk about Christ and his incarnation, especially during Advent and Christmas because the way we talk about things influences how we act. It is too easy, and perhaps too dangerous, simply to speak about the coming of Christ in a romantic, lovey dovey, feel-good, sappy family channel, halmark card kind of way. As much as the incarnation is evidence of the love of the father for his creatures, it is also an affront.

Adolf Koeberle, a German theologian from the early half of the twentieth century, speaks of the incarnation in a way that shatters the common story. “The miracle of His presence is the pledge that God has taken pity on the world” (Koeberle, The Quest for Holiness, Wipf and Stock, 53.) Pity? Not love and joy but pity? For whatever else it may be, the incarnation is God’s way of telling humanity that we cannot climb a ladder to heaven. It doesn’t matter what we feel, experience, think, or do, nothing can get us up. He comes down. He comes to us.

In the same way, the cross too is an affront to us. “God has disclosed His judgment on the world in the Cross of Jesus so as to crush us utterly and completely by the judgment it reveals. Here He shows the world what it would never have fully realized by itself, the end of its own wisdom and willfulness and the judgment of God on both” (Koeberle, The Quest for Holiness, Wipf and Stock, 46).

Indeed this time of year is a season for giving, but the reality is there is nothing we can give to God. Nothing we can do to make him happy, or like us better, or get closer to him because he has already done that for us. He came to us. He continues to come to us in Baptism and Holy Communion, in the words of the absolution and in the preaching of and reading of His word. If nothing else this time of year should remind us of this fact. The incarnation, the beautiful baby Jesus and heart warming nativity scene isn’t simply a pledge of love, it is pity enfleshed, pity and judgment that will lead to a cross. Pity and judgment that reminds us of what we cannot do.

But in that moment, when we realize what the incarnation and the cross mean for us as a people we are freed from the falsity of life. Freed from the need to check off boxes on a list of things we have to do to be good Christians. Freed to love people for no other reason than that they are people. Because the other way that God continues to come to us, to care for us, is through us. In the mother that cares for the child, in the son who has to work two jobs to help his family stay afloat, in the random stranger that buys the Christmas presents for those who cannot afford it.

Life under the cross isn’t about making God happy, it is about being his hands and feet to those who need it. What is between me and God has already been decided; 2000 years ago and half a world away. But what is between me and my neighbor, well that changes every day. The situations that arise, ones that remind me of my past, ones that challenge my present, and ones that shape my future are the places in which God has placed me to care for my fellow creatures. In Lutheran terms the third use of the law is less about making me acceptable to God and more about teaching me what it means to care for my neighbor, in that way it guides me.  Obedience to it doesn’t effect my place with God, but it does affect my place with my neighbor.

This season is one of giving. One where God gave to us because we cannot give to him. One where God gave to us so we could give to the world.

more than enough: toward A theology of hope

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The following is a submission for our student publication at Concordia Seminary. I’d love to hear your feedback so that I can improve as a writer and theologian.

 

More Than Enough: Toward a Theology of Hope
By M. E. Borrasso

 

On the heels of the first presidential debate of this election season, pundits of professional and amateur persuasion are quick to offer up their collective opinions. Candidate A did this well while candidate B did this poorly and candidates C, D, E, and F, the ones we all forget even exist, are just that, forgettable. He promises this, she promises that, and each and every one of them offers up their own ideas or perspectives concerning the best way to move forward. Regardless of political affiliation, the tie that binds politics is one optimistically known as hope. While there are undoubtedly other factors that contribute to the political process, e.g., financial interests, the rhetoric of the day on both sides of the aisle is one of hope. For a better next four years than the last, for a vibrant economy and a stronger national identity, these are the hopes of politics.

Yet, despite the current hype of the coming days, hope has a way of manifesting itself in all arenas of life, not simply the political one. Take, for example, the planting of flowers in depressed areas around St. Louis. Both at the recent theological symposium and in subsequent classes I have been reminded of the peculiarity and profundity of planting flowers. A seemingly useless gesture amidst downtrodden and dilapidated domiciles proves to be a confession of hope, encouraging the change to come. The planting of these flowers reminds us of the need to have an answer that uplifts those who are downcast and heals those who are broken. If only that were possible. A hopeful answer to the why of suffering eludes even the most astute theologian. Sure we can point to helpful places, but, more often than not, when faced with suffering we find ourselves asking the Lightfootian question, “Does anyone know where the love of God goes when the waves turns the minutes to hours?”

More than a fair question, Lightfoot’s question strikes at the depth of human suffering. I would venture to guess that suffering is something we have all experienced. It may take different forms, but for each of us there is something that shakes our confidence and tests us in ways we did not know we could be tested. For some, suffering is financial. Given the strains of seminary life this is most assuredly a real, and even frightening, concern. How will I pay for classes or books? How will I pay for gas, food, rent, and everything else that comes down the pipe? Will I be able to pay back the loans I take out to pay for all that stuff? For others, suffering is personal. The multifaceted nature of seminary life causes us to ask the uncomfortable questions. Am I smart enough? Am I good enough? Will I live up to the perceptions of my place in the church? All of these questions, and ones which we only ask in the seclusion of our heads shake the foundations that brought each of us here. For me, suffering is all encompassing, it involves myself, my family, and my friends. As I walk through my time at seminary, struggling with finances and personal security, it seems that my family and friends are presented with tougher and tougher situations that break, beat, and belie my confidence in the glory of creation and the sweetness of life.

What road is left to take when I find myself face to face with Lightfoot’s question? Where can I turn when the waves of my suffering turn my minutes to hours? What flowers can I plant? To what future can I look? The answer is almost painfully obvious, especially given our context at the seminary, to the cross of course. But this response can fly off my lips with a pithy quality that embitters my soul to that reality. I may not want to admit it, but the “right” answer is the one that causes me to question things all the more. If the answer is so simple, why don’t I feel better knowing it? My question betrays my problem, it is all about me. And in telling myself to look to the cross I make for myself another law which I cannot keep. Rather than mitigate my suffering it magnifies it because once again I failed to go first where I know I can find the answer.

Perhaps, though, where is the wrong question to be asking. Wrong because it attempts to locate hope in a place as an abstract place rather than in a concrete person who embodies that quality. Who is the hope? Well that is most assuredly Jesus Christ. But still, who is a question that only has effect after we establish what hope is. The what of hope causes us to stop and think, when we need hope to get through this life, what exactly do we need? Is it an idea? A feeling? Or is it something which forms and embraces us. Is it something we fix, or something that fixes us? Something we can reach out and grab, or something that reaches down and grabs us? Something that I look to, or something that looks to me? Only understanding hope in such a fashion appropriates the reality that Christ reached down and grabbed us at the cross. The who and where of hope are important because of the what. Or, put another way, in coming to us in the cross Christ taught us what hope does. Hope conforms our suffering to that of Christ’s. It reminds us that when the waves turn the minutes to hours, God is with us. It is hope that causes us to embrace the glory of creation and the sweetness of life alongside the bitter side dish of suffering. It may not feel like much some times, like flowers in a street or promises on the campaign trail, but it is more than enough. For in suffering, in the cross of Christ, God makes himself known.

paradoxical justice

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These past few weeks have flown by. It feels like just yesterday I was getting ready to go through orientation and here I sit, weeks later, knee deep in classes and midway through the 23rd Symposium. The “Theological Symposium” put on by Concordia Seminary is an event that happens every year, at least for the last 23, where people come together to think about and discuss a prudent topic. This year the theme is, “Doing Justice: The Church’s Faith In Action.”

A timely topic no doubt, but, perhaps inevitably, the conversation has vacillated between the poles of guarding against turning the Gospel into something purely social and the importance of recognizing the felt needs of our neighbors, the ones next door and the ones across the pond. The presenters have done a masterful job wading through the murky waters and have helped sketch the landscape we encounter daily. In an invaluable way they has reminded us, at least have reminded me, that, as one presenter Kathryn Galchutt, said, “Both justice and mercy begin at home, they just do not stay there.”  ‎But, as what tends to happen when we begin talking about something, the conversation has taken on a decided tone; one that, in my opinion, limits our understanding of justice.

Let me first say that I do not think this was intentional, nor do I think it is necessarily problematic, I am merely conveying what I have experienced this first day. The tone, for lack of a better word, has to do with justice being understood as meeting a felt need. Conversations, important and necessary conversations, have been held concerning how we help those who need to eat, who need a job, a home, and more help than perhaps any single person can provide. Additionally, we have been reminded of our complacency and complicit role in systemic evil.  All of this important, but in the end, all of it limits the scope of justice to a single idea,  aid. A need exists for whatever reason, justice invokes the necessary methodology through which that need is met, and that reason is eradicated.

Several times throughout the day I have been reminded of Gustaf Wingren and his notion that, “God does not need our works but our neighbor does.” As a church body we have admittedly had a history of being quietistic, for good or bad, when it comes to issues of justice. The obvious examples of the times we have become vocal need not be mentioned. Suffice it to say, we know how to take a stand sometimes we just prefer not to, unless, of course, the Gospel is at stake. This too is extremely important. We do not want to cheapen, imbrue, or lose that which has been gifted to us. We protect it at all costs and sometimes that leads us down roads most, inside and outside our circles, just do not understand. But Wingren, and indeed this entire symposium, calls us to remember that there are physical and spiritual needs that must be met. While the church’s unique responsibility is unburdening the conscience, it is not her only responsibility.

But thinking of justice, I wonder if, as I alluded to earlier, we are defining it too narrowly. We are, for better or worse, tying up justice with materialistic concerns which are of vital importance.Whether it is the inexhaustible work of LWR to aid and develop or the work of congregations who care for illegal immigrants or those who have nothing, we are working with a concept of justice that inadvertently glosses over emotions. Certainly our discussions on dignity and human worth have hinted at this but they too have ended with or moved toward the idea that we should actually meet the physical need of a person. But what about the injustice that exists within families? The son who feels like a second class citizen. The wife who doesn’t recognize the person she married. The bread winner who works to provide yet feels invisible. These too, as Bernhard Seter would say, fall under the category of, “I may not be able to define justice or injustice, but I know it when I see it.”

And we Lutherans have always had a way of dealing with these or any other theological tensions, we simply label them a paradox and continue one with life. Our theological presuppositions are rife with paradox, saint and sinner, now and not yet, etc. Even today I am reminded that there is again this tension between unburdening the conscience and filling the stomach. But I wonder if we run to that fire escape a little too often. It is easier to chalk it up to paradox than risk everything by facing the fire head on. Our theology is something we can hide behind all too easily and in doing so, betray the principle that allows us the freedom to live and think as Lutherans, because paradox isn’t an excuse, its a weapon.

We live in a world that isn’t fair. Being born in America is more of a privilege than we will ever know. Getting an education is a privilege all to often understood as a burden. As one presenter put it, “Being born in America is like winning the lottery of life.” Yet we still murder, rape, and exploit our neighbors. We still look to our own interests. We still turn way the beggar and toward that which we don’t need but can afford. And despite this reality, we live. We care for one another. We volunteer to tutor, we create programs that teach people how to care for themselves and their families, physically and spiritually. We look the beggar in the eye and give him the dignity befitting a human being. And the only way that can make sense is through a word like paradox. It is a both/and, it always will be.

That is of course until all is made new. While Christ’s death and resurrection have secured the future of all creation, the benefits are waiting in escrow. And until that day when we together with all creatures are made new we live a life with the recognition that life is up and down all at the same time. Rather than letting the realization that, to play on Christ’s words,  we will always have the poor, destitute, and hurting whether it be physical, mental, or spiritual with us always paralyze us into quietism, we can enter into life unafraid with an unswerving confidence in the future. Because while today thousands will die, one day Christ will return and put all things in order. While we live with evil and good today, tomorrow will know only joy. While we live with, and will always live with injustice this side of Christ’s return, on the other side there is nothing but justice. The justice of pardon brought forth by His blood. The justice that levels the playing field, restoring all things to their proper place. The justice of the cross and empty tomb. The justice that can only come when He comes again.

a fresh start?

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As the calendar page is about to turn once again, a new chapter in my life is beginning. Over two months have passed since I last tried to get this blog a sense of regularity, and who knows, maybe one day it will find that. But rather than apologize and give weak excuses for my lack of activity I am just going to push forward.

A new address, a new school, and a new quarter is about to begin. Yet, despite its newness, this is a continuation of something that I began four years ago. The rest of my week is going to be filled with two days of orientation and an opening service all leading up to next week when classes resume. Only, this isn’t my first orientation or opening service or even my first quarter here. In the fall of 2008 I began work toward my M.Div. at Concordia Seminary in St. Louis. I had no idea what would happen over the next two years, but at the end of my second year I left. Two more years pass, and my journey here resumes.

It is tempting to want a fresh start, to put all of the past hurt and anger behind me as if it didn’t happen. But to do so would be to ignore everything I have experienced throughout the past four years. So rather than want a fresh start, I want to pick up here I left off with an informed mindset, ready to continue having spent time on the other side of the street. I don’t know what my future will hold here but I do know, for maybe the first time, that I belong here, and that makes all the difference.

If I were to be honest about my last trip down seminary way I was unsure of my place. I could barely stomach calling myself a seminarian much less a Lutheran one. I wasn’t comfortable in my identity nor my place in the institution. So rather than look for the best in those around me, I found it much easier, and much more entertaining, to find the worst. It became commonplace for me and my close group of friends to sit outside the chapel or in an archway, have a drink, and scoff. We took pride in it. Classes and the lunch table were places we found our material, and at night it became our own little version of stand up comedy. It was as cathartic as it was corrupting. I don’t regret those times because they gave rise to now cherished memories and lasting friendships. I do, however, need to be honest about them because this time around, the scoffers club is no more.

I wish it were that easy to say my attitude is completely different. To  be sure I do not hold the grudges anymore no do I look for the worst, in fact, I have a sense of belonging there I didn’t have before. But that doesn’t mean the nicety of the campus is what I expect. My experiences cause me to fear what might be coming down the pipe. Apprehension may be a better world but the idea is the same. I know what this was like the first time around and I am leery that it is waiting for me just around the corner. I am happy to say that as of now, I haven’t come face to face with the problems of my past. My experiences in my returning to the seminary are decidedly different than those of my initial venture. I am continually met with warmth and care and I hope this community continues on that track.

But what if it doesn’t? What if three weeks in it morphs into the beast of my past experience? Should I run? Do I fight? How do I move on if it turns out this is just a facade? Frankly, I don’t know and I hope never have to. But in reality not every day will be the warm and comforting sort. As is normal in life, stress will mount, things will be said, opinions expressed and feelings hurt. That is simply the nature of humanity. We care more about ourselves than the person next to us. Sure we all have our moments of piety, care, and concern but by and large my opinion is always more important than yours simply because it mine. My life is more important than yours because I am the one living it. Don’t mistake what I am saying, I don’t mean that I am actually more important, only that as I walk through life I live as though that were true. All humanity does. And it is precisely this reason that makes me happy I don’t have a fresh start, not here on campus or in my everyday life.

Fresh starts are funny things. With the past removed we finally have the chance to do things right. But the fact is, we will never do things right. We may choose a better option, but perfection is impossible. I’ve heard it put many times that the Gospel, that the forgiveness of sins is like a do-over, like a fresh start, but I don’t like that phraseology. It implies that by being forgive I can actually move forward and do things right this time, and if I don’t, I get another chance. Truth be told, I don’t want the chance to do things right. That is too much pressure. That is too much stress. If God is giving me a chance to be perfect I better not blow it. Because with every chance to be perfect, with every fresh start, is the crushing reality of imperfection and failure.

So, how then do I live my life? If I know that with every fresh start is the reality of failure life seems pretty pointless because I’ll never get it right. But here is the difference, and the reason why I think that phraseology does no good, forgiveness is not a do-over, it is a promise. It is a promise that no matter how many times you do or don’t make the right decision you are forgiven. It is a promise that no matter who we help, ourselves or our neighbors, at the cross we were all worth it. It is a promise that no matter where we do or do not belong, in God’s eyes we are always His children. And here comes the reality that reshapes our identity. Because my life isn’t about living right or wrong, it is about living, period. It is about having the freedom to care for others because I know I am cared for. It is about recognizing my place in the world and living in that place gladly. It is about the fact that the good and bad I do don’t matter to God, they matter to my neighbor.

Gustaf Wingren once wrote, “God does not need your good works, but your neighbor does.” And here I think we find the middle ground for that problematic notion that faith without works is dead. Because in faith we are freed from the bonds of life that push us to be better for ourselves. Free from the bonds of having to prove our worth to God and our place in society. Free to love and serve in the places we find ourselves with the work that is before our hands. This is why a fresh start is a bad idea, because I will never get it right, and the beauty of it is, I don’t have to. I don’t need a do-over, I have a promise. A promise that lasts longer than my ability to do things right. A promise that allows me to live and love despite hurt and pain, fear and sorrow, struggle and corruption. A promise given to me in the waters of my baptism where God claimed me as his own. A promise spoken in absolution and preached in a sermon. A promise I taste in bread and wine. A promise that frees the conscience and unburdens the soul. A promise that, as the Word of the Lord, endures forever.

part 1: the church is a whore…

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THE CHURCH IS A WHORE, BUT SHE IS MY MOTHER

The above phrase, regardless of who actually said it, encapsulates a reality too easily dismissed as a plausible representation of the relationship between the individual and the church. In an age when the latest trends espouse an escape from the church and organized religion for the sake of following Jesus, such an idea seems more than preposterous. After all, the church is the one that causes wars, ignores the poor, and cares only for the sake of its survival. While people of both society and the church recognize the latter’s shortcomings, those inadequacies serve as justification for the wholesale rejection of the church rather than a continued embrace of it. This is why a phrase like the one above is so difficult to swallow; it is as if the call of today is, “The church is a whore, so let’s have no part in her.”

That sentiment is one with which I can empathize. Having grown up within the fold of a conservative, confessional, liturgical church body, the church has simultaneously been the place of my greatest joy and worst frustrations. In the summer of 2010, after spending two years studying at my church body’s seminary, I quit. I was exhausted and frustrated, angry and cynical, and I wanted nothing to do with the church that I perceived turned me into a shell of my former self. Walking away was difficult because of my connection to the church body. In almost every way, The Lutheran Church—Missouri Synod is the only home I have ever known. Yet despite my deep connections to the LCMS, wholesale rejection of her was exactly what I thought the right course of action was given the hypocrisy I had experienced at the seminary level. As fate would have it, however, the home to which I never thought I could return is precisely the place of my future.

The question must be asked, why? What is it that has caused me not to reject completely the church I know to be a whore? This is often a difficult question to answer because of the personal convictions required to take such a step. Although it is possible for me to hold beliefs in accord with the LCMS, and yet not be a part of her, to do so would be inauthentic. Recognizing that as a Christian I hold to the Lutheran perspective, moreover a Missouri Synod perspective, here I stand, I can do no other. It was from her womb I was born in the waters of baptism. It was in her house, hearing words from her mouth that I took my first steps in the faith. It was at her table I joined my entire family, past, present, and future in the family meal. And it is her faith I know to be my own. Not taking my place within my family would be denying that which I know to be true, regardless of disagreements or reservations that continue to exist. This is why the controversial phrase that society will have trouble understanding encapsulates my reality. The church is a whore, but she is my mother.

The faith that has been passed on to me carries with it the responsibility of being faithful as those before me had once been. Sainted church historian Jaroslav Pelikan once quipped, “Tradition is the living faith of the dead, traditionalism is the dead faith of the living. And, I suppose I should add, it is traditionalism that gives tradition such a bad name” (Pelikan, Vindication of Tradition). Being faithful is not a matter of repeating what once was said for the sake of its survival, it is embodying the faith of the past in the present for the sake of the future. The question then presents itself; what is the faith of the past? “This, however, is the catholic faith: that we worship one God in trinity and the Trinity in unity, neither confusing the persons nor dividing the substance.” This phrase from the Athanasian Creed serves to define that which is orthodox and catholic concerning the confession of the church. In reality, this is how creeds function. “Such repetitiveness is, of course, no accident. It is intended to condemn those who “rashly seek novelties and expositions of another faith,” and above all to document—even actually to celebrate—the continuity of these creeds and confessions of faith not only with the other orthodox creeds and confessions that have preceded them but above all with what is cherished as the authentic apostolic tradition” (Pelikan, Credo). Creeds, and confessions of faith, are not simply static documents or sayings to be repeated so as to become an end in and of themselves. Rather, they serve to establish and define the border within the which the church lives.

Faith does not belong to the individual. Across the centuries faith has been passed down, gifted from one generation to another through the work of the Spirit. This point cannot be overstated; no Christian comes to faith apart from the Church that came before. The Spirit, through the marks of the Church, works to call, gather, and enlighten; without the Church, no one would believe. To the American ear, who would prefer to do things in the way of Frank Sinatra , a statement such as that one is bitter. Faith is often understood, in practice if not in theory, as intellectual ascent. “I accepted Jesus Christ,” becomes the phrase by which a person espouses their personal belief, as if belief could exist apart from the community that came before. But that phraseology and ideology are, at best, individualistic, and at worst, ignore the generations upon generations who were gifted belief through the work of the Spirit. It is a shared belief, a shared faith. In the Athanasian formulation, the catholic faith is “worship [of] one God in trinity and the Trinity in unity.” This is precisely why creeds are important, because they form and inform the individual and the community at the same time, fostering recognition of shared belief across the ages.

Because faith does not belong to the individual, neither can a statement of faith. While it is true that one must own the confession they profess, regardless of the creedal formulation, it cannot exist in contradistinction to the creeds and confessions that have come before. In this vein stands this statement of faith. Creedal and confessional formulations are designed to form and inform the boundaries of orthodoxy and catholicity while recognizing the shared faith across generations, those that have passed and those that will come. This is the golden thread, the theological motif, and that which binds together the voice of a Lutheran with the voice of the church. Hermann Sasse encapsulates this idea when he writes,

“Jesus Christ is Lord.” This is the original confession of the church. With it the Christian faith once entered world history. To understand the sense of this confession ever more deeply is the great, yes, basically the only task of all Christian theology. To repeat this confession, to speak it in ever new forms, to translate it into the language of all times and peoples, to protect it against misunderstandings and reinterpretations, and to understand its meaning for all areas of life–that is the task of all confession building within Christendom. No later confession of the church can and wants to be anything else than a renewal of the original confession to Jesus as Christ and Lord. This is true of the Apostles’ Creed, the Nicene Creed, the confessional writings of the Reformation, and any confession in which the Christendom of the future may want to speak its faith. As this confession stood at the beginning of the church’s history, so it will stand at the end. Then will be fulfilled that great world of the apostle: “At the name of Jesus every knee shall bow, in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father” (Phil. 2:10f).

remember the millstone

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Thankfully finals week is coming to a close. Only a few things left to check off the list and I will gladly welcome my weeklong break before my last quarter begins. I don’t have much left, but it’s enough to keep me busy and enough to make next week look glorious. Ok, maybe glorious is a stretch, it’s enough to make next week look comfortable. Time for to take a break from the books and just enjoy life, the weather this week in Chicago is making that very easy to do.  Today was near 70 if not more, but rather than don the shorts, t-shirt, and flip-flops that I hold so dear, I was dressed head to toe, clerical collar and all. Why? Because today was graduation picture day, yet another step along the path that leads me to June.

I really am looking forward to getting back to St. Louis, and in some ways I can’t believe those words are coming out of my mouth. So much has gone on in my past and while there are still some feelings I need to deal with, I feel excited for what lies ahead. But more than just coming home to the denomination of my roots, I feel like I have been gifted something, not just a respect and admiration for those roots, which I know I could not have had if I never spent time away, but a confession. Truth be told I have always struggled with the idea of confession, not in the sense of confessing one’s sins to God or a brother or sister, but in the sense of proclamation.

Perhaps the best part of it is that my confession, as much as it is my own, it isn’t. It belongs to those in the faith that have gone before me, those in whose footsteps I walk. People like James Voelz, Tony Cook, Herman Sasse, CFW Walther, and Martin Luther, fathers and professors in the faith. But not just those who teach me what it means to have this confession, its the confession of J. Louis Oetting, James Ilten, Dave Adams, Tom Noll, Dan Wegrzyn and everyone else who served the church where I grew up by being pastors worthy of the calling. Yet it is not only theirs, it belongs to each and every person who understands or embraces the lonely way. But beyond even this confession stands another, the confession of Christ, the one the entire Church universal shares with one voice.

That voice though, it can be the most frustrating thing in the world. Sometimes that voice of the Church, or at least the voice of a preacher or parishioner, can be the difference between life and death. As I am often want to do, I find myself trolling youtube for videos that I might find interesting or frustrating. My wife gets frustrated by it because she knows in the end I’ll just get frustrated. But still I watch them, and sometimes they make me want to scream, other times they make me want to laugh, and still others, they make me want to cry.

Take for example one I saw just before I started writing this. A man using youtube to claim that Satan is a God and Yahweh is Heavenly Father and Jesus is not a real name. The kicker is that he openly professes his assembly is the only one which has this truth and no other Christian entity throughout the world understands what he does. That is enough for a red flag to go off in my mind, but for others, that may make the most sense in the world.

Theres this other guy, Pastor Steven Anderson, you can find clips of him everywhere on youtube. He is fond of screaming from the top of his lungs that Jesus wore pants. That women shouldn’t wear pants. That God knows there are differences between men and women, and thats why he calls men they that piss against the wall. That certain people are the devil or evil incarnate. And if you don’t like what he says, well, you can get the hell out of his church, or so he claims. I don’t bring this up simply to poke fun at it, though from where I sit that is very easy to do. I mention him because he could be the only exposure some people have, and in this day and age the message he is spewing is doing more harm than good.

But the same can be said of me. I’m judgmental, cynical, and have a Ph.D. in Sarcasm. I don’t help out when I should. I’m lazy and care about myself more than others. In short, I can be a real prick sometimes and sometimes I just don’t care. And what is scary, is that I could be the only contact someone has with Christianity. While I have this really great confession that I get to claim as my own, I wonder if I will ever do it justice because I know how broken and corrupt I really am. This is the real problem, the brokenness of humanity. The corruption that turns our focus from the other who could be affected by what we are saying and doing to ourselves because we just know we have to be right and the whole world needs to hear it. While I do think there is a message the whole world needs, I don’t think it’s the one that is always coming out of my own mouth.

I used to fear wearing a cross to mark me as a Christian because I knew I was a horrible example of it. If people saw that cross and saw me at my worst they’d reject Christianity. However, if anything, that notion just shows me how much more highly I think of myself than I ought. The work of God doesn’t belong to me, it belongs to the Father who created all and sustains all life. It belongs to the Holy Spirit who enlivens the heart, brings faith to those who have none, and continually communicates God’s love and grace. And it belongs to Christ Jesus, who is the Word of God. Christ that Word of God who tented among us, suffered, was crucified, died, and was buried. Christ who on the third day rose again and is seated at the right hand of the Father, from where he will one day judge the living and the dead. Christ whose sacrifice brings forgiveness, life, and salvation, especially to me, a broken and corrupt person who in reality cares only about himself.

It is because the work of God belongs to God that I don’t fear wearing that cross anymore. While I recognize that I have a role to play, I won’t kid myself into thinking it is higher or lower than it really is. But with that recognition comes the realization of the responsibility I carry. Because, as afraid as I was about wearing a cross, I was even more scared about wearing a clerical collar. More than scared, I was ashamed of it. I know what atrocities have been committed by those who have worn them and I also know of the boundless love poured out by others who wear them. My fear is that I wont live up to the responsibility something like that carries and I’ll be one of the former rather than latter. But rather than be afraid of it, I know I need to embrace it. Not just because of the symbolism it provides to those who see me in one, but because of the reminder it gives me.

What reminder? The one Jesus gave to those who would cause any of those little ones to stumble into sin. The one about the millstone being put around their neck and being thrown into the bottom of the ocean as something that would be better for them. I know I need that reminder, and I think more people need to remember it because when someone opens their mouth about God and publicly proclaim something about Him, they better do so in full assurance that they aren’t misleading people. Too much pain and hurt has already been caused by people speaking or acting on behalf of God where it is doubtful God would have spoken or acted for Himself. I know this cant always be done, but that doesn’t mean we ignore the responsibility we carry as people of God.

In the end, the work of God will always belong to God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. But we too are instruments, as Peter calls us, we are the royal priesthood, the holy nation. And that comes at a price. Remember the millstone. But more importantly, remember the Christ. The one who never misled, the one who always gives of Himself, and the one whose life was given so that all might live. Not because of the example we did or didn’t set, but because of the Love of the Father for his creation, shown through the death and resurrection of His Son, and given to the world through the work of the Spirit.

words that heal

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Half of February has passed with much that has kept me busy. Too busy to blog? Maybe, but I decided to take a break for a few weeks so that I could reassess what it is I’m trying to do here and how well I think I’m doing it. Nearly a month has passed and I have to say I’m no closer to answering either of those questions than I was when I stopped. That being the case I decided that it was time to begin again.

So much has happened in the days that have passed between then and now. However, last night brought to a close a chapter in my life. As I have made aware I once attended a seminary in St. Louis. Concordia Seminary is one of the two run by the Lutheran Church-Missouri Synod and after spending two years there, I quit. I walked away dejected and hurt, angry and full of pain, a shell of what I was when I began back in 2008. Last night, I received a phone call informing me that my application for readmission to Concordia Seminary has been accepted and in the fall I will have the opportunity to go back. Yes, you read that right, I am going back to the place that broke me.

I suppose the question “why?” is flashing across your mind at this point. Why if it was so bad do you want to go back? Why bother? Why now? Why there? For those of you who may have been following this blog it might not be as much of a surprise as I have written somewhat concerning my journey thus far. While a full recounting of events would take too long, I feel as though I owe an explanation, albeit a brief one.

Having spent nearly two years at another seminary, one not affiliated with Lutheranism of any sort, I have  come to the realization that within the fold of Lutheranism is where I belong, or rather, within Lutheranism I find my perspective. And, while there are a plethora of Lutheran perspectives, it is the perspective held by the Missouri Synod that I recognize to be my own. Interning at an ELCA congregation has been wonderful, but it has also shown me that we do differ. This came to a head last week when I attended a conference designed to explain  the lenten lectionary readings so that pastors could better preach upon them.

Before I continue, I want to make it clear that I do have a deep respect for people within the ELCA regardless of how I critique the theology espoused by those within it. An example of the difference in perspective is in how we approach the historicity of the scriptures. During this conference one of the passages discussed was the flood, and while they rejected the historical reality of the event spoken of in Genesis four, they did find comfort in the promise of God not to do it again. What I find problematic is that the promise is not to do again something God admitted to doing. So, I ask you, what kind of promise is it when you promise not to do again something you never did in the first place? It would be like me promising never again to walk on the moon.

While this is only one example of how different we understand things, there are several I could pull from. This is not to say that I despise anyone who clings to a different approach, but, I am finally willing to admit that there are differences, and that these differences are significant. More and more I find that my perspective, the one I actually have as opposed to the one I am told to have, is in line with that of the Missouri Synod, so much so, that to deny my place within her would be to lie. For me, claiming to be a Lutheran, and more so, claiming to be a Missouri Synod Lutheran is more about being honest with myself and others as to where I stand than it is about condemning those who hold a different perspective.

While this is a great revelation for me and is helpful, it has compelled me to act. This is why I am going back, because I do want to be a pastor within the Missouri Synod, and I know I won’t have to compromise myself because it is the perspective I know I possess. This decision did not come lightly as there is so much baggage in my history with both being Lutheran and being a student at the sem in St. Louis. Only, together with my wife and many others, I have come to realize this is what I need. I need to be put in check and challenged. I need to be shaped and formed in the ways I resisted so long ago. Why? So that I can serve others better, because in the end, this is what it comes down to, not me but you.

It is easy, especially on a day like Valentines Day, to see the brokenness and hurting that runs rampant throughout the world. How many people are lonely and hurting this night and every other? How many people are being defined by their inadequacies and are paralyzed because of it? The answer to both is way too many. And while I recognize that I will never be able to stamp out the brokenness, I do know that I can still play a part, the part I know how to play.

Coming from a broken home I have been gifted with experiences that have shaped me and formed me to be sensitive to those who suffer, but unless I can enter into the brokenness of others, those experiences matter very little. In the end, what matters is not my brokenness, but the the brokenness of those around me. I know that my brokenness doesn’t define me. This is not about being arrogant and thinking that I have it all together, because I don’t. I struggle daily with my arrogance and condescending nature. I know of my deep brokenness and fears. But, these do not define me because my identity is found not in these things the world reminds me that I am, but in what Christ has claimed me to be, a beloved child of God.

It is that same Christ who has purchased and won me that has rescued the world from herself. It may sound corny or overdone, but the reality is, Christ is that which restores the brokenness. As the Church, we are to be the hands and feet of Christ, restoring the brokenness we see around us. Jamie Tworkowski once wrote, “We are only asked to love, to offer hope to the many hopeless. We don’t get to choose all the endings, but we are asked to play the rescuers. We won’t solve all mysteries and our hearts will certainly break in such a vulnerable life, but it is the best way. We were made to be lovers bold in broken places, pouring ourselves out again and again until we’re called home.” Being bold in broken places finds its fulfillment in both words and actions. Deeds that build up and words that heal. Words that bring Christ to bear on the life of one who is crying out. Words that connect Christ to this world. Words like these…

thy strong Word…

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It has been a nice break the last few weeks. I decided when Christmas rolled around to take a break from blogging for a while. I figured I’d pick it back up sometime after New Year’s and today is that day. Not only is it my return from a mini-sabbatical but it also marks the beginning of my Winter Quarter here at sem. Once again it seems the next 10 weeks are filled with a seemingly insurmountable reading list, more papers than I can write, and less time to give to other areas of my life. I suppose it’s not that big of a deal that my break is over. I mean, it’s been nice to have time off, but I have filled it with more useless and mind numbing activities than ones that might be of some benefit. Although, I suppose that is what break is best for, a release. A time to step back and recharge using whatever means we have or benefit from.

The quarter started off as usual as any other. Ill prepared I walked into class, banking on the fact that nothing of substance happens the first day anyway. And although I was right that nothing major happens as far as the syllabus is concerned, I was surprised at how much this first day of class seemed to provide things to ponder. Take for instance my Internship II class. People told stories all about how busy they were over the break and when it came to me all I had to say was that I actually had a break. Rather than despair over it, I rejoiced in it, because I have a feeling that I won’t get many more of those. It seemed like so many people had the Christmas/New Years worship services dominate their landscape at precisely the time people should be able to relax.

Though I guess relaxation isn’t the name of the game during holidays. Parties, cooking, shopping, and a myriad of other activities often dot the landscape of the holiday season more so than taking the time to do nothing. And it was that doing nothing I hoped would carry on through the first day of classes, only my brain had other plans. I don’t talk much in classes, but that doesn’t mean I’m not doing anything, at least in most classes. I tend to keep my comments to myself because I don’t want to speak up every time I have a thought, if I did, nobody else would get a chance to speak. Today it so happened I was able to avoid dropping my two cents in, only I wonder if I should have spoken up.

The topic of discussion centered around the idea that the father-in-law of Moses told him that he needed other people to help him do what he was doing. This in turn meant, apparently, that pastors or leaders in the church must do likewise because it is not up to them to carry the burden alone. I do agree that pastors and leaders need to create boundaries so that they are not overwhelmed or neglectful to themselves or their families but I don’t know if this is the place to go to defend that idea. I’m not Moses. I’m not in charge of a huge group of people wandering the desert. But this was not my issue, being at a seminary with Baptist roots I’m used to people using scripture anyway they want. My issue was that people seemed to use humility and piety as a smoke screen to abdicate responsibility.

This is perhaps a little too harsh but I was getting the feeling that the pendulum has swung too far the other direction. Where once the pastor was a respected and valued part of a community and was differed to in all matters, they now find themselves squarely on the other end of the stick. Either apologizing for something they didn’t do, pretending things didn’t happen or don’t matter, or clinging to the idea that people hate truth. In some ways they have brought this rejection of the office upon themselves, but I wonder if the way to fix it is to say pastors need to assert emphatically or altogether abdicate their authority.

I have often found myself struggling with the idea and necessity of the office of pastor. I don’t know if they would even exist in a perfect world. But I don’t get to deal with a perfect world, I live in a broken one, but not one void of hope. Part of my struggle rests upon the examples of those who call themselves pastor, not because they have done things well or poorly, but because everyone seems to have a different opinion of what a pastor does. This has reared its ugly head most visibly during the sermon. Not so much in delivery style, but in the content. Sermons can often fall into a few different categories, not the least bit concerned with delivery, but focused squarely upon the point being made, or the hidden curriculum being taught. They validate themselves, invalidate others, purport an understanding, expound upon a difficult passage, but they all tend to have one thing in common, they frustrate me.

Those of you who have sat near me during a worship service may have noticed that I take little notes. These notes, even though I would like to pretend are my way of trying to remember some key point of inspiration, are often sarcastic comments. Having studied theology for the better part of a decade I feel like there isn’t much for me during sermons in the way of communicating knowledge. This is an arrogant statement, but it is honest. I know it isn’t right. I know I need to be humble. I know there is so much so many preachers can teach me, but in a sermon, I don’t want to be taught. I want my reality to change. Life outside the walls of a church is often harsh. It’s as busy, loud, contradictory, and frustrating as any endeavor one could attempt. It has times of joy and sorrow, peace and war, love and hate. It is often quick to teach you something you don’t know or forgot. I wonder then, when the people of God come together isn’t  the last thing that should be happening is more of what the world passes off for life?

The last few years have been quite a journey for me, with each passing day I am realizing more and more that the traditions of my youth are now my own, not because they have to be, but because I believe them to be right and for the first time I am willing to go to the mat for them. One of these traditions is a strong focus on the Word of God. By this I don’t necessarily mean the Bible, although the Bible falls into this category. Instead I mean the Word of God, Christ. The Word that was in the beginning.  The Word that brought things into being. The Word that became flesh and dwelt among us. The Word that chose to bear the burden on the cross. The Word that suffered, died, was buried, and rose again. The Word that changed reality as we know and experience it.

But it is not enough to understand this Word. Because this Word is not a static idea, it is a person to be apprehended. The Word says what it does, and does what it says. The Word changes reality, here and now, just as it did in days long since passed. The Word proclaims a new reality, one defined not by our inability to do or not do, but instead reliant solely upon the veracity of the Word itself. A Word that leaves one faced not with understanding, but with belief.

This is why sermons and worship services tend to frustrate me, because they do not bring this Word to bear on my life. This Word that changes my reality. I have always struggled with the idea of being a pastor. But if being a pastor means I get to bring this Word to bear on the lives of people. If it means that I get to enter in to a situation with the ability to proclaim a new reality, based not upon myself but upon God himself. If it means that my life becomes not about my ability to understand or teach, but about the Word’s ability to change lives, then sign me up.

There is so much uncertainty in the world. Who am I going to be in ten years? What the next paycheck is going to cover? Where the next meal is coming from? When will we start a family? Why did this have to happen today? How will we make it through not just the next month, but the next 24 hours? In a world that seems more eager to dictate fear than certainty the Word steps in and silences the cacophony. It reminds me that I am his. It reminds me that my future is secured. It reminds me that life is not about myself. But it does more than just remind, it acts. It creates. It brings certainty. It changes my reality. In the words of the old hymn…

 

Thy strong Word did cleave the darkness;
At thy speaking it was done.
For created light we thank Thee
While thine ordered seasons run
Alleluia! Alleluia!
Praise to thee who light dost send!
Alleluia without end!

Lo, on those who dwelt in darkness,
Dark as night and deep as death,
Broke the light of thy salvation,
Breathed thine own life-giving breath.
Alleluia! Alleluia!
Praise to thee who light dost send!
Alleluia without end!

Thy strong Word bespeaks us righteous;
Bright with thine own holiness,
Glorious now, we press toward glory,
And our lives our hopes confess.
Alleluia! Alleluia!
Praise to thee who light dost send!
Alleluia without end!

From the cross thy wisdom shining
Breaketh forth in conqu’ring might;
From the cross forever beameth
All thy bright redeeming light.
Alleluia! Alleluia!
Praise to Thee who light dost send!
Alleluia without end!

Give us lips to sing thy glory,
Tongues thy mercy to proclaim,
Throats to shout the hope that fills us,
Mouths to speak thy holy name.
Alleluia! Alleluia!
May the light which thou dost send,
Fill our songs with alleluias,
Alleluias without end!

God the Father, light-creator,
To Thee laud and honor be.
To Thee, Light from Light begotten,
Praise be sung eternally.
Holy Spirit, light-revealer,
Glory, glory be to Thee.
Mortals, angels, now and ever
Praise the Holy Trinity!

Thy Strong Word
Text: Martin H. Franzmann

it begins…

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I have always enjoyed reading but recently I have been reading much more fiction than usual. It started with Harry Potter. I had begun reading those over the summer and petered out somewhere in the middle of the third book. With a renewed sense of vigor I tore through them just before thanksgiving and finished the series thereafter. Then on a whim I read the Hunger Games series. Currently I am finishing another series that I began after that, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo trilogy.

The books I have read have been thoroughly enjoyable, each for their own reason. In Harry Potter I have to say it was the story of Snape that intrigued me the most. To be able to love someone so much that you dedicate your life to protecting the child they had with another man speaks volumes as to what it means to love the unloveable. The Hunger Games reminded me that heroes never come out unscathed.  Those things from the past carry on through life. But it is the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo that has been the most surprising of the novels. I can’t quite put into words what it is, but those novels held my attention better than the others and in some ways they are the least relatable to my life.

In thinking about why that might be I came to the conclusion that it could be the interconnectivity of everything. These seemingly separate characters all come together to tell a story. A story about life in its most vitriolic expressions. I have never been one to gravitate to fiction writing, unless it was historical fiction, but in recent weeks this push to read fiction has caused me more and more to see the value in it. Telling a story is a difficult task. Working out the connections, bringing things from one point to another, creating the world in which the story takes place, and all the while keeping me interested in it is a task that only a few have really been able to make it look easy.

Concurrent with my reading of fiction has come my yearly dose of Christmas music, only I tend to keep it to one group, the Trans-Siberian Orchestra. No group tells a story like they do. If you ever have the time, visit their website and listen to their albums while reading the story that takes place between the songs. Something about their writing speaks not only to the Christmas spirit that seems to come and go every year, but also the hopes and dreams of humanity. Combine story telling with an eye for the season and those things which humanity hopes for and you have a cocktail for excellence, one which that group feasts upon.

While the most famous of their albums tells a fascinating story about an angel’s visit to earth, it is the album entitled, The Lost Christmas Eve, that has captured my attention in recent days. As often happens, one song among the many has really garnered a voice, forcing itself to be heard on repeat all day. What Child is This? is an appropriation of the hymn only the subject isn’t exactly Jesus Christ, rather, it is the son of the man the album’s story is telling. Having found the son he once abandoned this man is expressing what might become of his son and their relationship. It is a song of hope, a song that reminds people of the possibilities of the future.

The Christmas season somehow always gives way to this notion that all things can begin again. People approach the world differently, if only for a moment. And as Christmas passes New Years is eagerly anticipated as the coming year has yet to be written. Only as the calendar turns from one day to the next that hope fades and the harshness of reality rears its ugly head. Bills still need to be paid. Food still needs to be put on the table. Work needs to be done. Books read and papers written. One day rolls into the next and before you know it you are back in the Christmas seasons hoping somehow the next year will be different. Only inside you know it holds more of the same.

It is the cruel joke of life, false hope. Relying on some inherently flawed notion presents a worldview that, while it may taste good, makes you vomit in the end. We all do it. I can change x or z and my life will get better. If I read this or that I’ll have the right tools to work through life. But even when x and z change, life is still a struggle, only it might be a different struggle. The tools you gained are now no longer the ones you need. The cruel joke gets replayed over and over again yielding the same results.

This is not to say that life is devoid of hope or that one does not have the ability to change their situation in life, far from it. I am embracing this fact and pushing it further because as each obstacle is overcome, a new one presents itself. It won’t ever stop until our breath stops. What I am challenging is the notion that we expect it to. We think that this next one will be the last, that is the great joke, our yearning for it to be done. But why? Why are we so concerned with a life void of struggle? A life where we actually have the ability to measure up? Right now I don’t know if that is something that actually exists, at least this side of eternity.

In Lutheran circles there is a phrase, the law always accuses. It is a reminder that we will never have the ability to stand up based on our merit because the law of God is a continual reminder of our failures. So then, what are we to do in the face of such a notion? Sin boldly. But trust in God’s grace even more boldly. This oft quoted passage from Luther are truly words to live by because they remind us that while the law always accuses, God’s grace outdistances the law in every way. It puts the law in its place.

It is fitting to be reminded of this at Christmas time. That first Christmas saw God enfleshed in a child. It was a beginning, a beginning of the end of the power of sin, death, and the devil. A beginning that has since fostered other beginnings. For in Christ humanity begins again, no longer defined by her inability to follow the law, but by the Word of God spoken at the cross. It begins again at the manger. It begins again at the cross. It begins again at the resurrection. It begins again in Baptism and Holy Communion. It begins again in the realization that no matter what you have done, you are not defined by it. It begins again when you are reminded that God has declared you righteous on account of Christ. It begins again when we realize that no special combination of actions guarantees an easy life. And that beginning gives way to another, a life lived not for oneself but for the other. At Christmastime it is easier to think of the other, but in the New Year celebration this is often forgotten. And when it is, we must begin again. Because in our beginning we have the chance to care for others not because we have to, but because we can. Because we don’t have to worry about who takes care of us. Because we have been given the chance to begin again.