Jesus may love you, but we sure don’t…


I’m sorry. I was eavesdropping on a conversation at Starbucks.

Two men were talking behind my back, one much louder than the other. As Loud Man trespassed my sonic space box, I heard him say, “I lit him up!”

Tell me you wouldn’t be intrigued.

He continued. Loudly. Boasting about all the times that he had fought the imbeciles in the public school system. And won.

The principal wasn’t doing enough to curb the spree of lunch box theft. The softball coach didn’t give his kid enough playing time. And the teacher who had embarrassed his kid by asking him a question he couldn’t answer – well, he taught his kid more in 5 minutes that evening than the teacher had been able to do all semester and forced a public apology from the teacher besides!

“And these are the ‘professionals!’” he exclaimed. “Who’s paying for all this? The taxpayers! We deserve better! I could do better!”

Then he told his friend – along with all but the deafest of Starbucks’s customers – how he “lit” those incompetents up! I can only imagine the scenes…

Of course, I don’t judge this man because 1) that’s not my job, 2) I didn’t hear the whole conversation, and 3) he calmed down enough for me to tune him out.

But then a new subject arose…

All of a sudden I heard Loud Man confessing the Christian faith! (I would call it “evangelizing,” but…well, you’ll see.)

I heard him talk about spiritual warfare and pontificate about the symbolism of the Revelation. Then he brought C. S. Lewis’s trilemma to bear on his friend, to whom he said, “I don’t know where your faith is, but…” From there, he constructed a purely reasonable defense of Christianity that you’d have to be a fool to disagree with.

I mean that.

He made the Gospel sound like a mathematical formula on the level of 2+2, contemptuously scorning anyone too stupid to believe it. As with his public school skirmishes, he was absolutely right beyond question, and all others were buffoons.


Here was a man who had just bragged about his monstrous behavior, now talking about the simplicity of believing in Jesus Christ as Lord and Savior. I couldn’t help but conclude that here was a man who had the Bible on the brain but not in the heart.

So I left Starbucks that day thinking hard. Not about Loud Man, but about my own words spoken with his voice. I’ve been him.

Dear God, please let me never repeat that phase of my life.

But then I got on social media, and there he was again. Not him specifically, but his kin. Raging Republican Reverends. Men (and women) who confess the Gospel of Christ professionally but then use their personal accounts to denounce Democrats, Socialists, Muslims, and LGBT activists (among others).

Not discuss, or even debate.

Denounce. Denigrate. Despise. Decry.

And I wonder: just whom do we expect we will win to Christ?

If I were to judge by the temperature of opprobrium, these must be the “lostest” of the lost. So why do we seem more eager to “curse the darkness” than to enter it bearing the Light of the world?

I feel certain that if I were a Democrat, I would never darken the door of a church that considered me a “stupid, godless liberal.” If I were a Socialist, I wouldn’t spend much time with people who considered me part of an evil global conspiracy. If I were a Muslim, I wouldn’t want to hear about the love of Jesus from someone content to let my children starve in the squalor of a refugee camp. If I belonged to any part of the LGBT acronym, I know I would oppose any group that lumped me together with child molesters.

What’s our mission anyway?

These aren’t neutral subjects, and Christians should work to think biblically about them. But we should never let our opinions stand in front of the Great Commission and the Great Commandments. Unfortunately, I think sometimes we confuse the Constitution for Scripture and Columbia for the Kingdom of Christ.

Then we become the Loud Man.

And all the world hears is: “Jesus may love you, but we sure don’t.”

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I’m a Christian bigot. What are you?

This is the post in which I confess a kind of prejudice. A Christian prejudice. And I’m guilty.

I first noticed it when walking my dog past the house of a man and woman who belong to a prominent cult. In my mind I had written them off – lost causes, hopelessly deluded, enemies of Christ. You get the picture.

Pretty ugly. Possibly true. But I wouldn’t know because I haven’t asked.

IMG_2348This came home to me a few nights ago, when my wife and I attended a local production of Alfred Uhry’s The Last Night of Ballyhoo. Set in 1939 Atlanta, Uhry presents an upper-class German-Jewish family more concerned with the premiere of Gone with the Wind than with the plight of Polish Jews fleeing before the onslaught of Hitler’s blitzkrieg. The family has so acculturated itself to its Christian neighborhood that it decorates a Christmas Tree each year, but it struggles to accept a Jewish young man of Russian descent, who speaks Yiddish and celebrates Passover. From their privileged enclave in the anti-Semitic South, they practice their own brand of bigotry against “the other kind” of Jew.

And now I’m thinking about “the other kind” of Christian. The kind I’m glad I’m not. The kind I don’t want non-Christians to think I am.

What is a Christian, anyway?

I realize that some of my more enlightened friends ignore the idea of a Christian taxonomy – of different “kinds” of Christian. They see the plurality of denominations – and religions – as yet one more incentive to discard faith for reason.

But if I may use the very reasonable “law of non-contradiction” for a moment, I should defend at least some of our tribalism.

We either believe in a personal deity or not – which excludes most of the eastern religions.

We either believe that God became man in the person of Jesus Christ or that he didn’t – which excludes all but one of the Abrahamic faiths, as well as the more cultic “Christian” innovations.

We either believe that Jesus earned our personal salvation through his life, death, and resurrection or that we must somehow contribute our own good deeds to get it – which excludes the legalistic and ritualistic branches of the Church.

This defines “Christian.” (It also means that all religions don’t teach “basically the same thing,” as some claim.)

But how many different kinds of Christian are there? More than I know.

Which kind am I? The right kind, of course.

What about the other kinds of Christian? Or not?

Which must mean that everyone else is wrong.

And who knows? Maybe they are. Maybe 2000 years of dissonant Christian history has finally resolved into my own understanding of the faith. I’ll build a cabin in the mountains and await the pilgrims.

Or maybe we’re all mostly right and a little bit wrong. Maybe, believing the same Gospel, we’ve misunderstood something else – like church buildings or Communion or the way God communicates with us or what it means to be a conservative.

I’m talking about genuine Christians as defined above, but even if I weren’t, where does that leave everyone else?

Am I free to love the church and ignore the rest? Aren’t my cultic neighbors created in the image of God and loved by Jesus? Have I escaped their error by my own ingenuity, or have I been saved by the sheer mercy and grace of God? And is God’s grace so limited I cannot afford to share it with them?

As for the global body of true believers, if Jesus loves those on the outside, how much more should I love those on the inside?

Should I dismiss them because their church is too high or too low? Shall I disown them like my crazy uncle who wears foil hats and boils all his tap water (I don’t really have one of these)? Can I disrespect them because their “error” is more conspicuous to the world than mine is?

Do I want man’s approval so badly I will shun God’s family because of a few unsociable quirks?

Has the kingdom of Christ so captured the culture that we may now dispute our territorial claims? Or do we have more pressing concerns?

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Can we please show a little more emotion?


Didn’t this guy sit next to me in church last week?

How I wish Christian worship were more emotional!

Maybe I should wish that Christians showed more emotion when they worshiped. Or maybe, if we prefer authenticity, I should wish that Christians experienced more emotion when they worshiped.

I wish this. Sincerely.

I say that because “emotional” can often substitute itself for “vapid,” “worthless,” and even “heretical” – according to the loudest of the self-appointed Christian worship judges.

But I think God wants emotional worship!

Feeling the Psalms

Consider Psalm 100 for a moment. The first two verses seems to make things clear:

“Make a joyful noise to the Lord, all the earth / Serve the Lord with gladness / Come before his presence with singing.”

In the parallelism of Hebrew poetry, these three phrases emphasize how we should approach God. Singing, gladness, and a joyful noise together describe a worshipper’s emotion.

By the way, we know that this is public worship because “come before his presence” would have referred the reader to the Temple in Jerusalem, where he or she would gather together with others. If that weren’t enough, verse 4 calls us to “enter his gates with thanksgiving and his courts with praise.” Once again, “gates” and “courts” refer to a big public place where saints would meet to worship God. Christians may read these words and look forward to heavenly worship, but that is not how the Psalmist would have intended his words. No, the worship of Psalm 100 is public.

I only mention this because some of us prefer to keep our emotions private, when the Bible clearly describes emotional worship in public terms!

But let’s return to the emotional content itself: joy, gladness, thanksgiving, and praise.

And not only the happy emotions.

Many other Psalms refer to tears – tears of the sufferer seeking relief, and tears of the sinner seeking repentance. While we might regard these tears as private confessions, their place in the Psalms reminds us that they too formed part of the congregation’s public worship. For instance, Psalm 130, which pilgrims would sing on their way to the Temple, begins with these words: “Out of the depths, I cry to you, O Lord!”

Faking the Songs

These diverse emotions stand in sharp contrast to the worship of many Christians, who blush at tears of joy and squirm at tears of pain.

Not that we should manufacture tears! Worship critics rightly condemn emotionalism, which uses music and poetry to create emotion. Worshippers then equate their feelings with worship – if they felt deeply, they must have worshipped well. And this happens regardless of content, the reason for the emotion, or even an understanding of God’s truth.

Psalm 100 helps us here too. Both verses 3 and 5 give us solid truth: a reason for the joyful noise, content for singing, grounds for gratitude:

“The LORD is God / He made us / We are his people / The LORD is good / His steadfast love endures forever…”

Unfortunately, Christian worship can fail here too. The worship industry magnates seem to fear that much of God’s truth won’t sell. Instead, ignoring the Gospel that produces God-glorifying emotions by running truth through the brain into the heart and out of the mouth, they create an emotionally-charged environment with reverb, synthesized strings, and breathy vocals.

So what do I wish for?

I wish for worship that is truly Christian because it expresses the doctrines of God’s grace. I wish for Christians to understand the Gospel well enough that it affects them. I wish for those affections to be so sincere that they cannot be hidden. I wish for Christians to worship as if God’s love really were amazing, yet without drawing attention to themselves. I wish for neither spectacles nor Spartans.

I simply wish to serve the Lord with gladness.

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Football Is Better than Jesus

9720489858_0f1b3dc032_zThis might be the ultimate Jesus juke, but please indulge me for a moment.

In the wake of Super Bowl L – er, 50 – I had to reflect on all the jukes I read between August and February. You know, all those comments that start with, “If people would get as excited about Jesus as they do about football…” Or, “If people would look forward to church as much as they do the big game…”

OK, I used to say the same things. Then I moved to Seattle.

We had an exciting season, to be sure. But I can’t forget the wild card game, when Minnesota’s kicker flubbed the game-winning field goal. My living room? Pandemonium. And then – guilt. I was yelling louder about a football 1500 miles away than I ever had in church.

I must be the worst hypocrite in the world. And not much of a Christian.

But I quickly realized why I felt so different in that shocking moment than I’d ever felt about Jesus. And upon further reflection I realized why we get so excited about football:

Football is better than Jesus…

…At keeping us in suspense.

Let’s face it: Jesus is predictable. He just wins. (I know Alabama fans want to stick Nick Saban in here somewhere, but Jolly Old St Nick has lost a game or two.)

Even when Jesus died, he won. True, his disciples had no idea what was going to happen; they thought the game was over. Then he arose! I’m pretty sure even Minnesota’s kicker would’ve been stunned by that. But to be fair, Jesus spent the next few days telling them they shouldn’t have been surprised – if for no other reason than that he told them he was going to rise again!

See? No suspense with Jesus.

I don’t mean that following Jesus is boring. No, there’s lots of suspense when we don’t know how little parts of our life will turn out. But we always know how the story ends – for our good and his glory. We know that he comes back on a white horse, defeats all his and our enemies, and ushers all of his children into his everlasting Kingdom. Whatever happens between now and then is mere prelude.

No football game can claim this much. And so we watch it in suspense, groaning in defeat and yelling in triumph. (Though plenty of Christians show similar emotions when God resolves the suspense in their own lives.)

But we watch football for more than its dramatic tension. We watch because football is better than Jesus…

At displaying human prowess and ingenuity.

The Super Bowl embodies the pinnacle of human achievement like nothing else short of the global military-industrial complex. It’s like a cross between Bobby Fischer and a UFC fight. In suits of armor. On Broadway.

Our greatest athletes perform here. Not the most well-rounded athletes, but this is where you find our greatest examples of size, speed, strength, and agility.

You also find a lot of very smart people. From the quarterback to the coaches to the office managers, strategy and tactics whirl and evolve with every play.

Our creatives thrive here too. Whether or not we like the halftime show, everyone looks forward to advertisements and their ability to make us laugh, cry, and think.

And spend money. The amount of cash flowing through the NFL staggers the imagination. Moguls, marketers, and merchants of all kinds vie for football’s spotlight.

But Jesus?

Though human himself, Jesus is all about everything mankind can’t do. As the God-man, he stoops to consider our best. Physically, he defeats death. Mentally, our philosophers are his fools. Creatively, well, he created us. And money? He paves his driveway with our treasure.

If you want to see the best mankind can do, don’t look to Jesus. Look to football because football is better than Jesus…

At creating brief distractions.

Seriously, what was the score of Super Bowl XLVI?

Name all the teams in the AFC South. Or, if you prefer, the SEC East.

Who was the starting quarterback for the Carolina Panthers in 1998?

There are people who know these things. But even they must admit that three days after the big game – whatever game that might be – they’re thinking about the next one. That’s because football gives us an exciting three hours each weekend in the fall and then fades into irrelevance, leaving virtually no mark on our lives besides the money we spent and the calories we consumed.

We memorize football trivia, follow the weekly drama, and speculate about the future. But none of it presumes to change who we are. We are neither the better nor the worse for watching football. We are occupied. And only for a moment.

Jesus doesn’t just hold our attention; he demands allegiance. He doesn’t entertain us; he wants to transform us. And there’s no off-season; he pursues a constant relationship. Football offers us recreation, but Jesus aims to recreate us.

All of which means that football is very good at delivering cheap thrills, like the first hill on a roller coaster or a jump scare in a horror movie or the sugar rush that comes from eating a bag of cotton candy. No one will deny that we enjoy these sorts of things, but no one can honestly claim that Jesus is offering anything of the kind. Is it any wonder that our reactions should be different?

It may be nice for worshippers to display a fuller range of emotion, and perhaps a football game can take too much priority in our weekly schedules. But I won’t complain about someone screaming like a banshee at the TV on a Sunday afternoon when he’s spent the morning encountering the living God in the company of the redeemed. They’re two totally different things.

As for grown men wearing other men’s names on their backs, I’m just as confused as anyone else.

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The Myth of “the Average Church”

15728674573_6a448140a7_m“Ewww. This is nasty! Try some!”

We all have that one friend, don’t we? And if we also have a smidge of morbid curiosity, we’ve joined them in one too many misadventures.

It’s kind of funny when we’re visiting an ethnic restaurant or trying a new vegan protein shake.

But it’s confusing when we treat the Church like a barf-flavored Jelly Belly. Like when Christians use their outside voices to talk about how awful the Body of Christ is, while supposedly inviting people to follow Him anyway.

Especially the preachers, the men who almost delight in telling us how degenerate “the average church” really is. (Seriously, do they ever say these things about their own churches?)

What kind of witness do we give the world when we trumpet the failings of other Christians?

For those who traffic in such comments, I have some more questions:

How can you say this?

How can you make any accurate statement about “the average church?”

If you wanted to survey 45,000 people and make any conclusion with a 3% margin of error and a 95% degree of confidence, you would have to speak to over 1,000 of them. That’s how statistics works.

Now, there are around 45,000 Southern Baptist churches in the USA alone, not to mention over 250,000 other Protestant congregations. Any comment about the average Protestant church must have sampled over 1,000 of them, and not just the SBC congregations either.

What preacher could do that? In 9 years of pastoring a single church, I may have visited 5 other churches on a normal Sunday when I wasn’t also the guest preacher. There’s no way I could talk about “the average church” from personal experience. And I doubt our itinerant preachers can get close, unless they’ve visited a different church every week for 20 years (some have – though many congregations would have changed significantly over that time).

Granted, many denominations keep accurate records and can speak statistically of their “average church,” but it’s almost always in terms of attendance or finances.

How can anyone speak of “the average church” in terms of worship, personal devotion, or Holy Spirit power?

Of course, I realize that “the average church” is just a figure of speech. So, I ask…

Why would you say this?

Who profits when we say that “the average church” is awful? Certainly not the average church. Or the people we’re talking to, who are absolutely convinced we’re talking about someone else.

Maybe it’s us?

Maybe we’re saying, “The average church stinks, but mine is special.”

Or, “The average church is dying because they don’t have a preacher like me.”

Or maybe we just want to claim special knowledge. You know, like a scoop. Whether we need to sell a book, secure a speaking gig, spike our blog traffic, or squeeze a few more people into our conference, there’s money in maligning the church!

And that’s unfair.

There are good Christians who want nothing more than God’s glory in the church’s success. They’ve visited some churches and heard about others, and they are discouraged. When they paint a bleak picture of the church, they want to motivate change. They want revival!

So, I ask…

Why would you say it like this?

Have you ever motivated someone by telling them how bad they are?

Have you ever motivated someone by telling them how bad everyone else is? (I’m sure I’ve never heard an “average church” slam and thought it applied to me.)

Yes, we should identify sin and call for repentance – generally, individually, and (rarely) congregationally.

We find all of these in Scripture. But we don’t find vague complaints about the spiritual sickness of the “average” believer. Unregenerate nations, yes. But churches?

Here’s what we find: the average church is the Temple of the Holy Spirit, the Body of Christ, and the family of God. More, it has been purchased by Jesus’ blood, is being conformed to his image, and will one day bask in his glory.

Even in the Old Testament, God frequently viewed rebellious Israel in light of Christ’s redemptive work.

Maybe that’s what’s missing.

Maybe we’ve forgotten to view the church in light of the Gospel.

Yes, we’ve got problems. The church is an Ugly Duckling. But instead of blushing at our own appearance or joining the barnyard’s ridicule, why not remember who God says we are and rejoice at what he says we’ll become?

That seems like a better witness to the world.

And a more powerful encouragement for those who need to change.

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For the love of all that’s holy, guys…

…preach the Bible!3746053148_9ca6180c6f_m

Is it that hard?

(Warning: rant ahead)

I speak as one of you. I speak as one who listens to you. I speak as one with family who have to listen to you.

When God lets you speak to his people on his behalf, why would you do anything else but give them what he has spoken? Why wouldn’t you open the Scriptures and give them his Word?

I don’t mean simply reading it out loud, though some of us could do a little bit more of that. (You’ll hear more Scripture in a Catholic mass than in the average evangelical worship service.) I mean opening it, giving its meaning, building a bridge between its world and ours, and then inviting people to receive its truth.

OK, a little background:

I pastored a church for nine years before moving to the Pacific Northwest to help start a new one. That makes me the worst audience – the preacher without a pulpit. But it also gives me a unique perspective because I’ve done what you’re doing, and I know what I’m hearing.

I also know that there’s a committee searching for my replacement, just as there are many other churches searching for many other replacements.

And the pool isn’t deep.

For the moment, let’s leave out all the would-be pastors who don’t feel called to pastor churches outside of their comfort zone (or their wife’s). There are plenty of those.

There are plenty who have found a nice little side job to supplement their retirement income. Preachers who read a verse, share a fuzzy thought, and close with a story from the Reader’s Digest. (There are younger guys who do this full-time too.)

There are plenty of preachers who know a cool song, have a cool backdrop, wear cool clothes, hang out with all the cool kids, and find Bible verses to match their cool sermon. (If you want to be cool, there are plenty of Christian designers to help you coordinate your ensemble.)

There are plenty of preachers who know what they want to say before they ever consult the Scriptures.

But men who preach the Bible?

Where are they?

No, I don’t think I’m irreplaceable. I’m not irreplaceable, and I’m not making an unreasonable request. It shouldn’t be that hard to find a conservative evangelical – to find a Baptist! – who trusts God enough to preach His Word and not his own.

And no, I’m not talking about the guys who preach mostly about how much they preach the Bible. Their churches may applaud their biblicalness, but they’re only using the Bible to biblify their tribal heritage.

Where are the preachers who do more than crack jokes, tell stories, scratch itches, and regurgitate gurus?

For one Sunday, I dare you to cancel the show. Lose the graphics. Give the band a rest. Drop the branding. Withhold the punchline. Resist the self-serving story.

Instead grab the Book. Open it. Read it. Preach it as if that’s all we need.

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Meditation on a Christmas Massacre


Massacre of the Innocents and Flight to Egypt – Sainte Chapelle, Paris

The problem with writing about a mass shooting in the USA is that before you can say anything worthwhile, there will be another one.

Are we surprised?

Do we feel it anymore?

We haven’t been able to blush for a long time. Have we now lost the ability to mourn?

There’s no time for grief. Reporters have to count bodies. Cameras have to capture souls. And our politicians have to tweet.

Yes, there’s work to do. We have to name the problem and give our answer. Or simply defend ourselves from someone else’s.

And there are plenty of those.

Restrict guns. Restrict a religion. Reform immigration. Recycle.

But whatever the rhetoric, everyone has a simple solution. Or so they think.

Oliver Wendall Holmes once extolled the value of a simple answer, when he said, “For the simplicity on this side of complexity, I wouldn’t give you a fig. But for the simplicity on the other side of complexity, for that I would give you anything I have.”

A Different Kind of Simple

Today we would say that he saw the difference between simple and simplistic. The simplistic answer is a hungry college student with a microwave and a box of Kraft Mac’N’Cheese who says she can cook.

The simple answer, however, is a trained chef who understands food and can make a better pancake breakfast with a hot plate than the college student could in a commercial kitchen. Holmes cared nothing for the one-sided opinion, but he pined for the single verdict that accounted for all the evidence.

When we say we can fix a culture of death by writing laws or carrying guns, we are being simplistic. There are too many variables. Some killers are Muslim, some are white Southern males. Some are mentally disturbed, some are quite sane. Some have a political agenda, some religious, some personal. A lot live in Colorado, but some don’t.

The only thing they have in common is that they’re evil people with guns.

As for the guns… Good luck with that. Certainly mass shootings are easier and deadlier with readily available, high-capacity firearms. Certainly millions of Americans would rather keep their guns and take their chances.

Guns aren’t the problem – whether you want them confiscated or carried. That’s simplistic.

The problem is simple.

The problem is evil. When we consider all the people, all the guns, all the laws, we find evil at the bottom. Despite diverse races and religions, no matter the age or era, we find men and women bent on destroying one another.

Some will call that simplistic because it’s a problem without a solution. Something we can’t fix because it’s part of us. Something that doesn’t lead to a committee, a bill, a plan, an initiative, a referendum, or even a speech. But an insurmountable problem is still a problem! Do we really think that we can fix everything?

Which brings us to God.

Is God Fixing It?

Recently, one periodical ran a headline calling for action with the words, “God isn’t fixing this!” The editors implied that people avoid helpful action by offering prayers. And some do. Some politicians pose for evangelicals, and some evangelicals have never considered working to change anything. Sometimes we talk about prayer just to make other people feel better.

But that only means we abuse prayer (not necessarily prayer as it is, but the word itself). It says nothing about God, though we may still ask, “Is God fixing this?”

Is he?

Cable Says No

The media suggests he’s not. Or won’t. Or can’t.

But the same media 2000 years ago might have only reported an unusual wandering star. Cable anchors would complain about a tyrannical government forcing the relocation of peasants to enroll in a government accountability program. Conspiracy sites might claim that a delegation of Iranian ambassadors met secretly with the king. Reporters would interview representatives from the “Jewish Lives Matter” movement and their unlikely coalition with the pro-life advocates for the rights of the just-born. Facebook would debate the wisdom of arming citizens. Headlines would blaze with Herod’s brutal order to murder all boys younger than 2.

No one would have noticed a teenage girl giving birth in a room crowded with barnyard animals, nor would any have believed her claim that she was still a virgin. No one cared that the small family applied for refugee status in Egypt a few days afterwards. Political succession overshadowed any notice of their return a few years later. And their child grew up much as any other in a disreputable town, save for his uncommon devotion to God.

The first Christmas was unremarkable.

Christmas Says Yes

But in a complex world ruined by simple evil, God became man, and Jesus was born to save his people from their sins. Many wondered why God wasn’t “fixing” it, but in their very midst – Immanuel, God with us – he was.

He didn’t come to challenge Herod or Caesar but Evil itself. After confronting it at every level of society, in an act that merited only a few inches in the local papers, he chained himself to it and died. Within three days, the government was paying people to say he didn’t rise again.

From Christmas to Easter, God was defanging the serpent. Ever since then, he’s been drawing the venom out of every person who submits to the procedure. He defeated Evil and offers total restoration to every human heart that will receive his grace. One day, the process will be complete: Evil – and those who prefer it – will be banished for eternity, while the children of God will enter the glory of true holiness.

For now, America doesn’t have a problem with guns, it has a problem with evil. Maybe guns are the last things we want in the hands of evil people. Maybe evil people are the last people we want governing our nation and making its laws. Maybe evil people can’t understand that the power driving a Muslim to kill is the same power that drives an executive to rob his shareholders, a candidate to sacrifice his integrity for an election, an evangelist to sleep with dozens of adoring disciples, or a doctor to destroy a life while safely nestled in the womb.

It’s simple. It’s Evil.

And the answer is simple too. His name is Jesus, and he came to fix it.

Christmas is just the beginning.

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