A few weeks back I was asked to lead devotions for Lutheran Church–Canada’s Board of Directors meeting here in Winnipeg. Here is, more or less, what I spoke about that morning.

Reading: 1 Peter 1:3-9

In this letter from Peter, we see the paradox which so often accompanies the people of God: our faith is filled with joy; but it is also filled with suffering. We rejoice in the salvation won for us by Christ; but at the same time we suffer griefs and trials.

We rejoice in the salvation won for us by Christ; but at the same time we suffer griefs and trials.

In this book, Peter is writing words of encouragement to the faithful in Asia Minor. We learn in this letter that the Christians there were in some state of suffering.

At the point at which he’s writing, it doesn’t seem that outright persecution is the problem. That will come, but for now it may be that they are merely facing increased societal disapproval for being Christian. They are becoming Pariahs. Scapegoats. Outcasts. For this reason, Peter encourages the faithful not to be discouraged when they are insulted for being Christians. Instead, they ought to do their best to make peace with their neighbours. They ought to live such good lives that no one can accuse them of wrongdoing. They ought to be good citizens, obeying their rulers and authorities.

All good advice. But within a few decades, this social disapproval of Christians would transform into outright persecution. The Romans would begin executing the faithful for the simple “crime” of bearing the name “Christian.” During that time, this area of Asia Minor would come under the authority of a new governor: Pliny the Younger. What’s particularly interesting about Pliny is that he wrote a letter to Emperor Trajan describing the prosecution of Christian, and his letter survives to this day. In it, Pliny describes how he treats Christians when they are brought to trial: he gives them three opportunities to recant their faith. If they refuse all three times, he sentences them to death.

It is in this context of growing persecution of the Church in Asia Minor that Peter writes his letter. And it is Easter hope in the midst of this suffering that he offers.

“Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ,” he writes. “In his great mercy, he has given us new birth into a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead.” Right from the beginning of the letter, we are reminded that our hope as Christians is not found in our earthly comfort, but rather in the sacrifice of Christ. We don’t have a “living hope” because we have good jobs, or because we’re healthy, or because we are well-liked in this world. We are often the opposite of these things: we are poor, we are sick, we are despised.

But our hope looks up to God. We can have a “living hope” because Christ has been raised from the dead. His suffering makes us able to bear our own suffering. It’s a hope not in earthly things but a hope, Peter writes, of “an inheritance that can never perish, spoil or fade”—an inheritance “kept in heaven” for us. When things look difficult in this world, we look to the One who has overcome the world. We look to Christ. And though our earthly situations may be grim, we see in Christ God’s eternal goodness to us. And we can bless the Lord for that, “though now for a little while we suffer grief in all kinds of trials.”

The medieval theologian Bede writes well of this passage: “It is right for us to bless God,” he says, “because, although on the strength of our own merits we deserve nothing but death, he has regenerated us by his mercy to a new life. He has done this by the resurrection of his Son who loved us so much that he gave himself up to death for our sake. When that death was overcome by his resurrection, he offered it to us… to give us hope of rising again ourselves. For he died in order that we should no longer be afraid of death, and he rose again so that we might have a hope of rising again through him.”

He died in order that we should no longer be afraid of death.

“He died in order that we should no longer afraid of death.” And if we need not fear death, neither need we fear trials in this world. The situations Peter is addressing in this book are ones we in Canada are beginning to understand a little. In the past, Christianity and Christians were respected in our society. Today, we are reminded only too often that our faith is not welcome in the public sphere. We begin to face, as Peter’s audience in Asia Minor faced, “insults” for being Christian. We are accused of intolerance for confessing the Word of God—for proclaiming the reality of sin and the need for a Saviour. Prominent politicians label such beliefs “unCanadian.” More and more people are convinced faith should be restricted to the home and not be brought out in public.

And we face other trials too, as a church. Our membership numbers have dropped; we have less and less resources to do the work we are called to do. But in all of these things, we have Peter’s words of comfort: “These trials have come so that your faith… may be proved genuine, and may result in praise, glory and honor when Jesus Christ is revealed.” Joy is coming. In the meantime, Peter tells us, we are “shielded by God’s power” “through faith” “until the coming of the salvation that is ready to be revealed in the last time.”

Do we in Canada suffer to the same extent today that the early Church did? No, and God-willing, we won’t anytime soon. But when we face difficulties as Christians—be they griefs in our personal lives, concerns over the future of our churches, or increased resistance to Christianity in wider society—when we face these trials, we must look back to the light of Easter and look forward to the return of Christ.

At present, we live between the two moments: Easter happened two thousand years ago; Christ’s return is still to come. But while we wait, while we live between Easter and the coming Kingdom, we do so with a living hope. “Though we have not seen him, we love him; and even though we do not see him now, we believe in him and are filled with an inexpressible and glorious joy. For now, right now in these present days, we are receiving the goal of our faith: the salvation of our souls.

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I was lucky enough to visit the Dead Sea when I traveled to the Holy Land in March. It’s a popular destination for two reasons: one, it’s the lowest place on earth at 424 meters below sea level. And two, it’s one of the saltiest bodies of water in the world—so salty, in fact, that (other than some bacteria) nothing can live in the Dead Sea.

Chances are you can think of biblical stories that feature the Red Sea and the Sea of Galilee. But what about the Dead Sea?

Ezekiel once had a vision concerning the Dead Sea. At the time, the Israelites were in exile, the Temple was destroyed, and things looked bleak. But God promised Ezekiel that He would build a new and glorious Temple. From its doors would issue forth a river, a river which would flow down to the Dead Sea and make it pure. “When the water flows into the sea,” Ezekiel writes, “the water will become fresh” (47:8 ESV).  Zechariah made a similar prophecy, speaking of the day “living water” would flow out to this sea from Jerusalem (14:8).

These prophecies predict the new covenant in Christ: He tells us He gives “living waters” to those who thirst (John 4:7). This is a water which takes the spiritually dead and brings them to life—the sort of thing we see in baptism. For baptism too is water which brings the dead to life. “Do you not know that all of us who have been baptized into Christ were baptized into his death?” Paul asks. “We were therefore buried with him by baptism into death, in order that, just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, we too might walk in newness of life” (Romans 6:3-4). This water finds what is dead and makes it alive!

That’s a selection from my column for the March/April issue of The Canadian Lutheran. Read the full article here: “A sea of life, a river of death.” The same issue has my long-feature story on visiting the Holy Land, so watch here for a link to it in the near future.

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A couple of my articles have recently been reprinted in other publications. My National Post article “Disagree with Christians? That’s fine, but do not silence them” recently appeared as a guest editorial in the pages of Mennonite Brethren Herald as “A response to intolerance against Christians” (see it online here). My First Things post “Twitter users force big media to cover abortion doctor’s trial” recently appeared in the commentary section of The Winnipeg Free Press as “Media forced by pro-lifers to cover story” (see it online here).

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You may have heard about the murder trial of Kermit Gosnell recently, the abortion provider charged with the murder of one patient and seven babies. If so, it’s probably thanks to a social media campaign last week which exposed mainstream media’s silence on the subject. I examine the details in a how Twitter—yes, Twitter—brought the subject to the forefront, effectively shaming the news media into covering the story. It’s in my post “Twitter Users Force Big Media to Cover Abortion Doctor’s Trial.”

After weeks of growing frustration, pro-lifers took to Twitter en masse Friday to express disbelief and outrage over media silence on the multiple-murder trial of American abortion provider Kermit Gosnell. And the media, at least some of it, seems to be listening.

I describe the immediate reaction by the media, and some publications’ admission of negligence in reporting the case (and their promise to do better). But as I note at the end:

It seems, then, that the Tweetfest has succeeded in its goal of making the mainstream media end its blackout of the Gosnell trial. Powers’ original column and the subsequent Twitter campaign which followed it might seem like a story in itself: “Social media little-guys make big news listen,” and all that. But the real story here is that it took a Twitter campaign at all; major news outlets should have been covering this trial from the get-go.

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I wrote a post for First Things this past Thursday discussing the curious case of the German church:

Two days ago, the Catholic Herald posted a story about Pope Francis meeting with Rev. Dr. Nikolaus Schneider. The article is entitled “Lutheran pastor meets Pope Francis in Rome,” and the text of the article also refers to Dr. Schneider as a Lutheran pastor. There’s just one problem, as the friend who brought this story to my attention noted: Dr. Schneider isn’t Lutheran.

I go on to discuss a little of the historical development of the Evangelical Church in Germany, noting that it’s a federation of three denominational strains: Lutheran, Reformed, and United. That mix of theologies is important to remember when discussing news of the church in Germany. Case in point: just because Dr. Schneider is head of the Evangelical Church in Germany doesn’t make him Lutheran; he belongs to one of the other denominational groups.

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In case you missed it: I discuss Gene Edward Veith and the doctrine of vocation in an article for First Thoughts last week entitled “Doomed to Philosophize.”

The Doctor confronts the old god in “The Rings of Akhaten.”

In case you haven’t heard, this year marks the fiftieth anniversary of Doctor Who. As a fan, I’ve wanted to pay homage to the show for some time, planning to write a post discussing the good Doctor and religion. Now seems as good a time as any, given that the most recent episode “The Rings of Akhaten” is a story in which the Doctor comes face to face with a “god.”

It’s a common enough theme in science fiction: the self-proclaimed deity who is unmasked as a pretender (think Star Trek: The Undiscovered Country—“What does God need with a starship?”). Still, the Doctor’s confrontations with religious beings are a little different than those in other science fiction series. He is, after all, a semi-divine figure himself. All space and time is at his disposal. He can go anywhere and anywhen. He’s more Q than Picard, if you will.

The Doctor’s confrontations with religious beings is different than in other science fiction. He is, after all, a semi-divine figure himself.

So when the Doctor comes up against a “god,” we know he’ll be able to expose it as a fraud. And it always is another a fraud. It might be a powerful being; it might be ancient. It might, as in the most recent episode, have existed for millennia, feeding on the offerings and worship of its followers. But whatever else it is, it is not truly divine. It is as much a part of the universe as anything else. It can always be explained. It can always be understood.

Except, perhaps, in one two-part story from the Tenth Doctor’s era. In this story, the Doctor again comes across someone professing godhood: he meets a being which claims to be the Beast, the devil himself. But the Doctor has faced many false gods in his day; they are all pretenders. “If you are the Beast,” he mocks, “then answer me this: Which one, hmm? Because the universe has been busy since you’ve been gone. There’s more religions than there are planets in the sky. There’s the Arkaphets, Christianity, Pash-Pash, New Judaism, San Claar, Church of the Tin Vagabond. Which devil are you?”

Only this time the devil is real. “Which devil are you?” the Doctor asks. “All of them,” the Beast replies. He is not lying.

Here the Doctor is confronted with something greater—and more terrifying—than he can imagine. Not merely because it is an unknown but instead because it is by its nature unknowable. When the Doctor asks the Beast when he came to be chained in the Pit, the latter answers, “Before time.” This answer makes no sense to the Doctor; he cannot conceive of a “before time.”

“What does ‘before time’ mean?” he asks.

“Before time and light and space and matter. Before the cataclysm. Before this universe was created.”

“You can’t have come from before the universe,” the Doctor responds incredulously. “That’s impossible.”

To which the Beast replies, “Is that your religion?”

The Doctor can only respond, “It’s a belief.”

The Beast scoffs, “You know nothing. All of you, so small.”

Here the Doctor, nigh on a deity himself, is confronted by something beyond him. Unknowable. Unthinkable. Impossible. He cannot conceive of existence before time and matter. His reason is too small; it cannot bend so far. He cannot comprehend it. He cannot measure it and test it. “If that thing had said it was from beyond the universe, I’d have believed it. But before? Impossible.”

So too did God question Job: “Where were you when I laid the earth’s foundation? Tell me, if you understand. Who marked off its dimensions? Surely you know! Who stretched a measuring line across it? On what were its footings set, or who laid its cornerstone?” (Job 38:4-6). The questions are, for Job, impossible to answer; they are beyond his understanding: “Surely I spoke of things I did not understand, things too wonderful for me to know” (Job 42:3). But Job’s inability to answer God’s questions about creation—and the Doctor’s inability to comprehend existence “before time”—does not change the fact of their existence.

So then: the Doctor finds himself opposed by a power he cannot even comprehend. He has no more ideas. He has no more options. Even the TARDIS—and, consequently, the only chance of escape—has been lost. All hope is at an end. The situation is utterly and completely beyond him.

The situation is utterly and completely beyond him. How fitting then, that the solution must also come from beyond him.

How fitting then, that the solution must also come from beyond him. It has, in fact, been prepared in advance by those who first imprisoned the devil. The Beast had been imprisoned “before time,” he tells us, when “the Disciples of the Light rose up against me and chained me in the pit for all eternity.”

The Doctor meets the Devil in “The Satan Pit.”

It is impossible to miss the reference to Scripture here. “And there was war in heaven. Michael and his angels fought against the dragon, and the dragon and his angels fought back. But he was not strong enough, and they lost their place in heaven. The great dragon was hurled down—that ancient serpent called the devil, or Satan, who leads the whole world astray” (Revelation 12:7-9). And again: “The angels who did not keep their positions of authority but abandoned their own home—these he has kept in darkness, bound with everlasting chains for judgment on the great Day” (Jude 6).

As in the biblical text, the devil was defeated and chained in the darkness (in the television series, the devil is quite literally chained on an “impossible planet” fixed in space in the shadow of a black hole). But the Disciples of the Light seem to have foreseen both the Beast’s attempt to escape and the Doctor’s presence at the event. When all hope is lost, the Doctor finds the Disciples of Light have prepared a solution for him ahead of time—quite literally before time existed.

Having fallen into the Pit, the Doctor awakens to find he was “expected.” “I was given a safe landing and air,” he says to the Beast, asking why. Slowly it dawns on him: provision for his safe descent was not the devil’s doing; it was the work of the Disciples of Light. “That’s it!” he exclaims. “You didn’t give me air, your jailers did! They set this up. They need me alive, because if you’re escaping then I need to stop you!” The Doctor discovers what the Disciples of Light intend him to do, and he does it—knowing full well it will mean his own death.

Except it doesn’t. In a deus ex machina worthy of the name, the Doctor’s previously lost TARDIS is discovered to have also fallen into the Pit. In fact, it’s landed right where it needs to be, almost as if by plan. And perhaps it was by plan. That’s what’s so fascinating about this particular Doctor Who story: it leaves room for the possibility of something more—something beyond mortal comprehension, beyond even the super-human Doctor’s understanding. The Doctor lays down his life to defeat the devil, only to find his life restored to him in the end.

God out of the machine indeed.

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The two-part story under discussion here is “The Impossible Planet” and “The Satan Pit.”

Cross-posted at A Christian Thing.