I saw a news article today that reports R.E.M.'s 1987 hit, "It's the End of the World As We Know It" is back on the charts in the new era of the Covid 19 pandemic. For many people, it might as well be the end of the world as their retirement accounts evaporate and they can't buy groceries due to food shortages. Who ever thought that the most precious commodities in a crisis would be toilet paper and hand sanitizer?
The viral outbreak isn't the only major problem facing us now. Utah just experienced a 5.7 magnitude earthquake. East Africa and South Asia are facing a horrifying locust plague that sounds like something straight out of the prophet Amos or John's Apocalypse (also known as the Book of Revelation). With all of these travails, one of my parishioners asked me the other day if perhaps it is the end of the world as we know it.
In Luke 21, one of the synoptic versions of Jesus' so-called "mini-apocalypse," he describes various portends of the end of the world: "There will be great earthquakes, and in various places famines and pestilences. And there will be terrors and great signs from heaven" (Luke 21:11). Jesus' description of the End sounds like something right out of this week's headlines. Elsewhere in the chapter he mentions wars, persecutions, and wonders in the heavens (sky) as further indications. Maybe we are the last generation on earth.
Yet nearly every generation in the history of the world has feared it was the last. I am certain that just over 100 years ago during World War I and the outbreak of the Spanish Flu, many Christians thought the end was near. After the WWII and the Holocaust came the dawn of a terrible Nuclear Era with weapons of mass destruction almost unimaginable. I remember hearing my parents talk about so-called "duck and cover" drills in grade school. From Paul's letters to the Thessalonians, we realize that even in the 1st century many Christians worried about eschatology, the theological word for matters related to the Last Days.
But predicting the end of the world isn't as easy as reading the newspaper (or an Internet blog) in one hand and the Bible in another and figuring out a date. In fact, Jesus told his disciples, "Concerning that day and hour no one knows, not even the angels of heaven, nor the Son, but the Father only" (Matt. 24:36). If not even Jesus knows when he's coming back, how can we be so certain of our own predictions?
But here's the Good News: even in the midst of Jesus' dire signs of the times, he offers comfort and hope to the baptized people of God. "Now when these things begin to take place, straighten up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near" (Luke 21:28). Jesus tells us not to be afraid of the Last Days, but rather to be encouraged because our redemption draws near. Our Redeemer draws near. For those who believe and trust in Jesus Christ, the one who died for their sins and rose again to give them eternal life, there is nothing to fear. For us, the Last Day is not the ultimate end, but rather the beginning of a new creation--a new heaven and a new earth. As Jesus says in Revelation 21:5, "Behold, I make all things new."
So is this the end of the world as we know it? I don't know. But I will not be shaken, even if it is. Because our redemption is drawing near. "Therefore we will not fear though the earth gives way, though the mountains be moved into the heart of the sea, 3 though its waters roar and foam, though the mountains tremble at its swelling" (Psalm 46:2-3).
Thursday, March 19, 2020
Sunday, February 23, 2020
The Church Man
I was amused to learn yesterday that a little boy whose family recently began attending my church refers to me as "the church man" when he is at home. This made me chuckle. He hasn't been at church enough either to know or remember the word "pastor" or what that means. And I am the man at church who speaks about God, Jesus, and the Bible. I'm also a man at church who actually knows his name and speaks to him (too many adults besides parents and teachers don't talk to children unless they are telling them what to do.)
Many a pastor has had the experience of a youngster getting confused and calling him "God." Theology is God talk (literally: theos + logos). And pastors appear quite impressive in their vestments, striking an image uncannily like our stereotypical idea of God as an old man wearing long, flowing robes.
Several years ago at my installation service at Epiphany, my nephew and godson Matthew was overwhelmed by the pomp and circumstance, asking his mother, "Mommy, is Uncle Chris God?" To which my sister-in-law Patty replied, "No, he's not God. Sometimes he just thinks he is."
Titles and forms of address for clergy are quite impressive: Reverend (preacher), Your Holiness (pope), Your Eminence (cardinal), and others. Sometimes pastors, who often hold a Master of Divinity degree from a seminary (as if divinity were something mortals could master!), are the most highly educated members of their congregations. So when people put you on a pedestal, it can be difficult not to become puffed up with pride.
But Jesus says this is not the way it is supposed to be in the Christian community. Jesus decried the scribes and Pharisees for enjoying the title of "rabbi" (Aramaic for "teacher") in Matthew 23:7. He told his disciples, "But you are not to be called rabbi, for you have one teacher, and you are all brothers. 9 And call no man your father on earth, for you have one Father, who is in heaven. 10 Neither be called instructors, for you have one instructor, the Christ. 11 The greatest among you shall be your servant. 12 Whoever exalts himself will be humbled, and whoever humbles himself will be exalted" (Matt. 27:8-12, ESV).
Jesus tells his disciples not to be addressed as rabbi, teacher, father, etc., by other believers. (No wonder that Luther did not like referring to the pope as "the Holy Father"). Our one Father is God the in heaven. Our one Teacher is our master, Jesus. We should not become so hung up on titles. He who has the most letters after his name is not necessarily the most important.
Early in my ministry, it used to bother me when church members presumed to call me by my first name, "Chris," instead of "Pastor Chris" or "Pastor Matthis." I wrongly interpreted this as a sign of disrespect for me as a person, or even my "office" of pastor. Yet after serving in ministry for nearly thirteen years, I realize quite the opposite is true. People who call me by my first name usually do so because they love me and regard me as a friend, a true brother in Christ. For them, the word "pastor" does not say too much, but rather not enough.
What matters in my relationship with members of the congregation ("my people," as pastors often say) is not what they call me, but what they receive from me: God's Word and Sacraments, the Gospel, the words of Holy Absolution, the mutual consolation of the brethren, and intercessory prayer. The Lord will judge my ministry by only one thing: did I give the people Jesus? What matters most is not that the sheep call the pastor "Shepherd" (the meaning of the Latin word pastor), but that, in a small way, they see the Good Shepherd Jesus in the ministry of their local shepherd, who is an under-shepherd of Jesus. As my friend, Michael Eckelkamp, often says: "Church members have two questions about a new pastor: (1) Will he love me? And (2) Will he let me love him?"
One of my seminary professors, Dr. Joel Biermann, once told us that every pastor should be known as Absolution Man--the forgiveness guy. So maybe "the Church man" is a better job title than pastor. I work at the church building. I am a member of Christ's Body, the Church. And I perform many of my ministry functions at the church, for the Church, and on behalf of the Church. If Church Man is good enough for a little boy, then Church Man is good enough for me.
Many a pastor has had the experience of a youngster getting confused and calling him "God." Theology is God talk (literally: theos + logos). And pastors appear quite impressive in their vestments, striking an image uncannily like our stereotypical idea of God as an old man wearing long, flowing robes.
Several years ago at my installation service at Epiphany, my nephew and godson Matthew was overwhelmed by the pomp and circumstance, asking his mother, "Mommy, is Uncle Chris God?" To which my sister-in-law Patty replied, "No, he's not God. Sometimes he just thinks he is."
Titles and forms of address for clergy are quite impressive: Reverend (preacher), Your Holiness (pope), Your Eminence (cardinal), and others. Sometimes pastors, who often hold a Master of Divinity degree from a seminary (as if divinity were something mortals could master!), are the most highly educated members of their congregations. So when people put you on a pedestal, it can be difficult not to become puffed up with pride.
But Jesus says this is not the way it is supposed to be in the Christian community. Jesus decried the scribes and Pharisees for enjoying the title of "rabbi" (Aramaic for "teacher") in Matthew 23:7. He told his disciples, "But you are not to be called rabbi, for you have one teacher, and you are all brothers. 9 And call no man your father on earth, for you have one Father, who is in heaven. 10 Neither be called instructors, for you have one instructor, the Christ. 11 The greatest among you shall be your servant. 12 Whoever exalts himself will be humbled, and whoever humbles himself will be exalted" (Matt. 27:8-12, ESV).
Jesus tells his disciples not to be addressed as rabbi, teacher, father, etc., by other believers. (No wonder that Luther did not like referring to the pope as "the Holy Father"). Our one Father is God the in heaven. Our one Teacher is our master, Jesus. We should not become so hung up on titles. He who has the most letters after his name is not necessarily the most important.
Early in my ministry, it used to bother me when church members presumed to call me by my first name, "Chris," instead of "Pastor Chris" or "Pastor Matthis." I wrongly interpreted this as a sign of disrespect for me as a person, or even my "office" of pastor. Yet after serving in ministry for nearly thirteen years, I realize quite the opposite is true. People who call me by my first name usually do so because they love me and regard me as a friend, a true brother in Christ. For them, the word "pastor" does not say too much, but rather not enough.
What matters in my relationship with members of the congregation ("my people," as pastors often say) is not what they call me, but what they receive from me: God's Word and Sacraments, the Gospel, the words of Holy Absolution, the mutual consolation of the brethren, and intercessory prayer. The Lord will judge my ministry by only one thing: did I give the people Jesus? What matters most is not that the sheep call the pastor "Shepherd" (the meaning of the Latin word pastor), but that, in a small way, they see the Good Shepherd Jesus in the ministry of their local shepherd, who is an under-shepherd of Jesus. As my friend, Michael Eckelkamp, often says: "Church members have two questions about a new pastor: (1) Will he love me? And (2) Will he let me love him?"
One of my seminary professors, Dr. Joel Biermann, once told us that every pastor should be known as Absolution Man--the forgiveness guy. So maybe "the Church man" is a better job title than pastor. I work at the church building. I am a member of Christ's Body, the Church. And I perform many of my ministry functions at the church, for the Church, and on behalf of the Church. If Church Man is good enough for a little boy, then Church Man is good enough for me.
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