The fundamental confession of the Christian is this: Jesus is Lord.
Three simple words define everything. For if Jesus is Lord, he is Lord all the way up and and all the way down. “All authority in heaven and earth has been given to me” (Matthew 28:18).
Jesus is Lord over every gluten-free vegan eatery in Brooklyn and every decidedly non-vegan grease pit looking up at the Mason-Dixon line. He is Lord over every corn field in Iowa and every mosque in London and every slum in southeast Asia. He is Lord over every self-appointed caliphate in the Middle East and every self-appointed apostle on TBN. He is Lord over every human who bears his image, which is to say, he is Lord over every human. He is Lord over every far-away galaxy NASA ever glimpsed with telescope lenses and every dust mote silently floating by your face this very moment. In fact, if God stopped speaking, both the galaxy and the dust mote would cease to exist.
Jesus is the Word of God and he holds all things together.
There is not one square inch, the Kuyperians remind us, over which Christ does not cry, Mine!
This is what we Christians confess to be true. As in really true, corresponding to reality and everything. Which brings us to another point: We believe in reality, an ultimate reality, a fixed reality, an absolute Truth: the Triune God. And God the Father has given all authority to God the Son—Jesus Christ—who will reign until he has put all his enemies under his feet, the last enemy being death itself (1 Corinthians 15:25-26).
Jesus is Lord.
This is the world that actually exists: The world where Jesus is Lord and he is reigning until all his enemies are trampled under foot. I know competing visions of reality are out there. Rival stories are being told. The prevailing secularism, for example, spins a narrative for sure, though I can’t say I find it that compelling of a story: “We came from nothing and are going nowhere!” No one would watch that movie, which is why it would probably win an Oscar.
Rival stories are told. But Christians know them to be myths. Myths of the worst kind—untrue and uninspiring. For instance, when I hear Darwinists talking of billions of years of red-toothed death, culminating in human beings who write symphonies and kiss babies, I see dancing unicorns eating Moon Pies. When religious men tell me to do enough good that will maybe, possibly outweigh my bad in the end, I see Icarus gliding toward the sun.
Untrue, uninspiring, tragic myths.
Only one story truly exists. All the rest will fade away with the smoke rising from Gehenna.
Jesus is Lord and we must all come to grips with it. We will all fall in line. Knees will bow. Tongues will confess.