We have seen that God has a very good reason to allow pain and suffering in the world—its possibility was the only way he could create us with true freedom and all that goes with it. But what about hurricanes, earthquakes, and diseases? Can God not limit these and still preserve human freedom? He can, but it seem there may be other morally sufficient reasons for him to permit these evils. I’ll offer an argument to this conclusion in the next few posts.
In addition to a healthy theology of grief (last week), a healthy theology of death is also essential to being able to say “goodbye” well when the time comes. Having a “theology of death” may seem odd, morbid, and even wrong. Ours is such a life-affirming and life-focused culture that we rarely think of death. Therefore, it is not surprising that most of us don’t have a theology of death, much less a well-developed one. But this is exactly what we need in order to be able to say goodbye well.
As I shared last week, in January I said “goodbye” to my father, as he passed “from the land of the dying to the land of the living.” Since then I’ve reflected on four principles that can help us say “goodbye” well. I hope you find these principles helpful as you join me in transitioning from the season of saying “hello” to the season of saying “goodbye.”
My father passed away on January 16. This monumental event has again reminded me that at some point in life we all move from the season of saying “hello” to the season of saying “goodbye.”
Before determining the morality of abortion, we must first reflect deeply on what a human person is, and when a human person begins. Last week I discussed the first issue. Secondly, when does human life begin? There are two ways to answer this question. They both come to the same conclusion, yet by different routes. Each has pros and cons, and we should use them in different contexts. Understanding this is essential in developing both our personal and our social ethic concerning this issue.
On a recent flight the person next to me asked, “Why do you believe God is a person?” Bob was an accomplished CEO and a very thoughtful person who had converted to Tibetan Buddhism. Over the next two hours I shared that I believe God is a person for five reasons, which I am summarizing in this series. The fourth reason I shared with Bob is the evidence that Jesus is God in flesh. Since Jesus is God, and Jesus is a person, God is a person. I offered a number of arguments to believe Jesus is God.
Jesus was born as a tiny, helpless baby boy. We say it but often don’t believe it. There are at least three reasons we must never forget that Jesus was fully human—that he “moved into the neighborhood” as The Message translates John 1:14. This blog will consider the first of these three reasons.
Happy Thanksgiving! During this season as we stop to reflect on our many blessings, I am posting the last in a three-week series of reflections on finding my birth mother after nearly 55 years. This discovery has also helped me understand more of what my adoption meant to both my mothers and the many blessings I received as a result. The biblical passages about adoption have come alive to me in new ways, causing me to be even more thankful for what it meant for God to adopt me, and the many blessings I have received from Him as a result.
“Hello, is this Stan? My name is Jean. I think I’m your mother.”
These are the amazing words I heard when I answered the phone on September 7, 2017. After nearly 55 years I was reunited with my birth mother. I blogged last week about two of the three truths I’ve understood more deeply since getting to know her these past few months. But this has also caused me to reflect on the love and courage of the woman I have and always will call “Mother”—the woman who adopted me.
My brother-in-law, sister-in-law, nephew and his friend were on their way to the Life is Beautiful concert in Las Vegas, Nevada on October 1, 2017 when Stephen Paddock began shooting. Had they not been delayed while on their way by just a few minutes, they would have been in the line of fire. Though I am thankful they were running late, I continue to grieve over the 58 who were not so fortunate. In my grief, I ask the same question everyone else is asking: Why? The answer may be right in front of us, but it is not one we want to acknowledge.