migrations, sanctifications, and tribal identities

Tethered | September

You’re reading Tethered Letters, a monthly long-form letter on creative faith and faithful creativity. I also write poetry and I’ve put some in a book. Everything I write is AI-free. Thanks for reading.

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Hello loved ones,

Our recent days have been bittersweet, filled with the ends of good seasons and the trepidation that follows the change.

This past year we’ve had the unique privilege of watching a relationship between two people we dearly love develop from blind first date (thanks to Linnea), to engagement, to marriage. Just last weekend we celebrated with them, and now they’re off into the wonderful wilds of married life. It’s hard not to be ludicrously happy for them, and it’s hard not to be a little sad now that we won’t see them as often.

Simultaneously, it feels as though autumn came all at once, with our line of trees dumping leaves unceremoniously over our lawn, accompanied by downpours and heavy fog. Our annual Hobbit Day dawned with rain, which paused long enough for us to pull out, chop down, and otherwise mangle every last standing plant in our garden. The seven meals were delightful, as always, and so was our celebration of Kai’s birthday. One of his gifts was a switchblade-style comb, and if that doesn’t speak 11 years old to you I don’t know what will.

Meanwhile, Linnea and I treated ourselves to what amounts to individual pairs of fluorescent suspenders, which we intend to wear on our early morning walks down our country road, as the days begin in greater darkness. Coupled with this, the most shocking seasonal change: we’re now drinking decaf. It might not be that shocking, I suppose, considering we just want to drink coffee in the evenings and I found some worthy decaf recently. But it’s another symbol (like our glowing suspenders) that we’re aging. Days were that I could drink full-caff coffee up until 8pm at night and still fall asleep. No more.

In a few short weeks we will be off on our annual fall camping trip, once again to Turkey Run. The wine caps are yet to come up, the garlic yet to be planted, the garden yet to be mulched for winter. Our oldest is now a teenager. Our youngest will turn six at the end of the month. We’re reading Fellowship of the Ring again, wandering through all of its glorious autumnal restlessness. The migrations of birds are occupying my thoughts. Migrations of all sorts, I suppose.

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I’ve been thinking about how we grow as Christians a lot lately. We’re working our way through Dane Ortlund’s Deeper in a men’s group I lead at church, talking about how our growth is not an addition of rules or disciplines or virtues, but going deeper into the reality of Christ and the reality of who we are in Him. It’s been a steady theme of almost every conversation lately. Romans on the mind, particularly 7 and 8.

Many of my preconceptions and continuing conceptions of sanctification throughout my life have not included this idea at all, or only in some small measure that still laid the burden firmly on me, myself, and I to do the growing. I first encountered the doctrine of union with Christ — the thing that made all the other salvation things possible — in my senior year of Bible college. And when I first really got it, I began to see all the echoes back through all the Bible studies and classes and books and especially C. S. Lewis, always C. S. Lewis.

But to say that I am in Christ and to live like that is a different matter. Twenty years of living as though it was up to me take their toll. Finding my identity in Christ meant shedding a lot of accrued identities, mostly the ones that were related to things I was good at like playing the piano or being a nice guy. God bless the folks who stuck with me through all the shedding.

But always, through it all, I’ve collected the shreds of those identities and tried to fashion clothing out of them. The way, perhaps, Adam and Eve cobbled together some leaves to hide their shame, before God spilled blood to cover them with something more durable. My filthy identity rags don’t do much to cover up my sin, namely, thinking that I am god enough to control my life, define what’s right, and go whichever way I please. And it’s funny how I so easily started blaming God when things didn’t go well, as if it was his fault I had gone my own way and was eating the wormy fruit strewn along that path.

But this year, for whatever reason, the repeating refrain has been: “You are not your own. You were bought with a price. Come to Me. My yoke is easy and My burden is light. You will find rest for your soul.” And the more I really take hold of what He says about me: accepted, loved, friend, son, secure, redeemed, forgiven, saint... the more strength I find to face the temptations and challenges of the day.

Of course, this involves death. It involves dying to my notions of my own strength, my own willpower, my own ability to perceive the truth and determine what’s right. It involves rejecting the lies of independence and increasing agency over my life, and using the limited agency I do have, by God’s grace, to cling to the truth He outlines in His Word. Walking by faith doesn’t guarantee me a nice life, but it does guarantee me eternal life. All that Christ has is mine. Think about that. All that Christ has, He who is Lord of the universe, Master of time and eternity, Giver of all good gifts. All glory be to Him.

It was in this context, then, and through this lens, that I encountered the assassination of Charlie Kirk.

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In the last few weeks, the phrase “I am Charlie Kirk” has been tossed around in my circles, and if not that explicit phrase, that sentiment. This can be used several ways. The first, obscenely, is to claim that because I’m a conservative-leaning white man, a bunch of leftists might try to kill me too. Few of us walking America today have anywhere near the platform or influence to make ourselves such targets, and it is dangerously irresponsible to blame the actions of one person on a whole swath of people who happen to share one or two vague similarities. This use is more aligned with fear, pride, and self-pity than anything true.

Another way to think about this phrase is right and good: to consider just how many things we all share with Charlie — and I mean all of us. In what ways are we Charlie? If we were to sit down for coffee with him, what characteristics would we share? Here’s a few I thought of.

1. I am a human in need of a Savior, just like Charlie.

2. I hold values and beliefs that define how I think and move through the world.

3. I want to convince others of those beliefs, because I think the world would be better for everyone if we agreed on them.

4. I’m not perfect by any means.

5. Someday — I don’t know when or how — I will also die.

Personally, I have a few further similarities worth reflecting on: I’m a 30-something Christian dad who loves his wife and kids and can’t fathom how he could ever earn them (despite that being Charlie’s favorite word, apparently, I believe he would say the same of Erika and the kids). I’m positive about homeschooling and conservative at my core, if more leery of Christian nationalistic tendencies than Charlie was. I try to be a Christian husband, father, family member, friend, neighbor. And I sometimes run my mouth off more than I should and say things I wish I hadn’t.

With a modicum of charity based on the little I know of Charlie, I also believe this is a similarity: I want to be a witness to the best and brightest truth I know, that Jesus is Lord of all nations, not just this one, and that this has never changed and never will. That Jesus died for everyone’s sins, and offers to everyone eternal, abundant life in Him through His blood. That the real enemy is not my MAGA or woke lib neighbor, but the principalities and powers of the spiritual realm and our own sick hearts. That even those enemies are crushed under Christ’s feet, already defeated, and that freedom from their influence is available to all who call on the name of the Lord. That these truths change everything about how we view the world, our nation, and ourselves. That they transform us.

But see, I could also so very easily come to the idea, “I am Charlie Kirk,” in a third unfortunate way: as a statement of identity. I could root my being in his political tribe and all it stands for, and take his assassination as a chance to prove I’m on the “right side” and to destroy my enemies. And allow me to flip the tables for a second: another group of people immediately sorted their identities into the anti-phrase, “I am not Charlie Kirk.” Both tribes commenced to yell at one another about their virtues.¹

But what must the one who is rooted in Christ do? What does someone living within Him, for Him, and because of Him have to say to a world consumed by self-identification and tribal allegiances?

Here’s what I think we say: You are not your own. You were bought with a price. He says: “Come unto Me. My yoke is easy, and My burden is light. You will find rest for your soul.” All that you use to cover your pain and sin and shame, all your trumpeted virtue and piety, your power plays and spectacles, your liturgies and disciplines, your intricately-woven ideologies and curated social media posts — all of it is filthy rags before a holy God. Give it up and come to Him. All that Christ has can be yours. The Truth will set you free.

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So many things can be true at once.

I can uphold the truth that Charlie Kirk preached the Gospel at almost every opportunity he had — AND that he said cruel and indefensible things sometimes, things that weren’t aligned with Christ-like behavior. I can uphold the truth that he was assassinated for his beliefs, including his Christian ones — AND that he is more of a martyr for free speech than he is for Christ.

I can watch scenes from the memorial service for Charlie with gladness that the Gospel was preached AND feel sick to my stomach at how the Gospel and Charlie’s death were capitalized on for political gain and grandstanding. I can marvel at Erika saying she forgives her husband’s killer AND worry that her grief might be manipulated for other ends.

We all are so quick to insist on the little shards of truth that we hold. We ought to tread more humbly, more carefully. We ought to rein in our tongues. We ought to let the grief and anger and confusion flow through and out of us into the hands of our Savior, into the ears of true friends, instead of onto the internet and under the eyes of strangers.

Feeling stretched in so many directions, as if I can’t hold all of the truth in me, is a normal human reaction to an event like this. Our propensity to try to gather all of the truth up somehow, or to be sure we land on the righteous side of history, or to confront someone who didn’t happen to say that one important thing we really wanted to hear — all of this might be more of a response formed by the diabolical machines of our age than by the Word of God, that most difficult and beautiful testimony to the Whole Truth.

The Whole Truth will always confound and convict us, regardless of where we stand to view it. It will always be higher than our tiny minds can grasp, wider than our perspectives and prejudices can contain, deeper than our human hearts can plumb. We aren’t able to hold it all. That’s why we turn our eyes to God, who already holds all things. He is Truth, and Jesus His Son reveals Truth. If we turn to Him, He reveals Himself to us. If we seek to know Him, He says the Truth will set us free. So, we seek Him first, His Kingdom and His righteousness. And all these things, all that He has, will be added unto us.

So it is in this spirit that we pray: may God upholds Charlie’s family in their time of need, Tyler’s family as they seek to make sense of this, and our nation in the fallout of this event. May His righteous and gracious will for all of us be done, through His people and for His glory alone.

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The “get up and move” feeling I get in autumn is akin to the feeling I get in early spring, when things are waking and greening up after the long midwestern winter. In spring the migrations are about ushering life back into cold and dead spaces, green back into brown, old into new. But in the fall, we are entering darker and colder days instead of leaving them. So why does it feel fresh?

Perhaps because the only way new life can have the space to come in again is through something dying — an old name, an old way, an old season. It would be nice to chase the warmth of summer down south, to migrate away from our spaces in pursuit of keeping the heat turned up. But we’ve come to love the winter, the bare bones of it, the greeting we give to the brittle cold and plunge into darkness. It feels like an old friend now. I know that the sleep our acreage and its citizens need, the breakdown of snow on snow on snow into the packed clay soil, is actually doing a good work I cannot see. But I believe in it now. I believe that work is happening.

The same in my soul. The continual giving over of those things which are not of Him in me is a sacrifice, but it’s also not. Because as each shred of self-will falls away, Christ fills the space it held. Lies are replaced by truth, sin by holiness, flesh by Spirit, tribes by true family, waste by abundance, bondage by freedom. Christ is all, and in all.

“If then you have been raised with Christ, seek the things that are above, where Christ is, seated at the right hand of God. Set your minds on things that are above, not on things that are on earth. For you have died, and your life is hidden with Christ in God. When Christ who is your life appears, then you also will appear with him in glory.

Put to death therefore what is earthly in you: sexual immorality, impurity, passion, evil desire, and covetousness, which is idolatry. On account of these the wrath of God is coming. In these you too once walked, when you were living in them. But now you must put them all away: anger, wrath, malice, slander, and obscene talk from your mouth. Do not lie to one another, seeing that you have put off the old self with its practices and have put on the new self, which is being renewed in knowledge after the image of its creator. Here there is not Greek and Jew, circumcised and uncircumcised, barbarian, Scythian, slave, free; but Christ is all, and in all.

Put on then, as God’s chosen ones, holy and beloved, compassionate hearts, kindness, humility, meekness, and patience, bearing with one another and, if one has a complaint against another, forgiving each other; as the Lord has forgiven you, so you also must forgive. And above all these put on love, which binds everything together in perfect harmony. And let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts, to which indeed you were called in one body. And be thankful. Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly, teaching and admonishing one another in all wisdom, singing psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, with thankfulness in your hearts to God. And whatever you do, in word or deed, do everything in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through him.” (Colossians 3:1-17)

September Favorites

• Takes I’ve recently appreciated:

  • Mike Cosper on the harrumphing nature of social media. (“… lots of folks know that when it’s time to harrumph, you harrumph, and by doing so, you maintain your place in your tribe for another day. And doing so reflexively also spares you from having to think.”)

  • Samuel James on why experiences shouldn’t ultimately determine our beliefs. (“The church’s integrity bears witness to the truth of its message, but it does not determine it.”)

  • Kaeley Triller Harms on the revealing nature of how Christian pundits address women (“The question isn’t, “What label do you wear?” but, “How does your theology play out in practice?”)

  • Andy Squyres on, well, everything. (“I do not want my life to be guided by voices other than those trusted fathers and mothers who know me.”)

  • David Zahl with eight theses for surviving the internet. (“Which is to say, if your pastor doesn’t talk about the forgiveness of sins this week, maybe it’s time to find… them a present.”)

  • Griffin Gooch on why cynicism is so last year. (“People wanted Jesus at parties. People don’t want cynics at parties; and cynics don’t want to be at parties; cynics have the least amount of fun, especially at parties.”)

  • This conversation on With the Perrys, with Justin Giboney. (“You can’t really have a constructive conversation with somebody if you don’t know the good they’re trying to get at.”)

• So many great new albums lately!

  • Sho Baraka’s new Midnight of a Good Culture is high-end stuff.

  • Twenty One Pilots’ Breach album closes out the Dema saga in style.

  • Jackie Hill Perry’s Blameless hits so hard.

  • Colony House’s new album 77 (Pt. 1) rocks and I can’t wait for the second half.

  • FOX PALMER ZACH’s lo-fi worship hits the spot.

• Over the Garden Wall. ‘Tis the season, and if you haven’t jumped on the Greg-and-Wirt Wagon, you don’t know what you’re missing.

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1. He also told this parable to some who trusted in themselves that they were righteous, and treated others with contempt: “Two men went up into the temple to pray, one a Pharisee and the other a tax collector. The Pharisee, standing by himself, prayed thus: ‘God, I thank you that I am not like other men, extortioners, unjust, adulterers, or even like this tax collector. I fast twice a week; I give tithes of all that I get.’ But the tax collector, standing far off, would not even lift up his eyes to heaven, but beat his breast, saying, ‘God, be merciful to me, a sinner!’ I tell you, this man went down to his house justified, rather than the other. For everyone who exalts himself will be humbled, but the one who humbles himself will be exalted.” (Luke 18:9-14)