A Prodigal Father's Love for His Prodigal Children - Luke 15: 11-32

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and from our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Amen. The text is the Gospel reading from Luke 15.

We call it “The Parable of the Prodigal Son.” Most of us know it by heart: the father’s younger son wants his share of the inheritance.

Inheritance: let that word sink in for a second. To get inheritance, the owner – in this case, the father - must die. “Dad, you’re worth more to me dead than alive,” is what the son implies. Presumably, the father follows the tradition of the time and divides the inheritance into thirds, one more portion than sons, with the older son getting a double portion, 2/3 of the inheritance, and the younger son getting a third. You notice, that leaves the father nothing. Its as if he’s dead.

Do you know what “prodigal” means? Prodigal means to waste money on extravagant, outrageous - and presumably unsustainable - living. In our own time, there is no shortage of examples of prodigals from among Hollywood-has-beens, professional athletes, and politicians, all whose wealth and happiness, like Lubbock Texas, was left in their rearview mirror. The younger son, like those famous faces you’ve heard about, lets money run like water through his open fingers. Then, when the money runs out so do his friends. Faced with death by starvation, he’s quickly reduced to pig ranching, and then further reduced to wrestling them for scraps from the feed trough. No self-respecting Jewish boy would ever consider such a thing – it’s worse than dying. It made him unclean, putting him outside the community of faith, unworthy of entering the Lord’s House, separating himself from the presence of God.

How desperate does a person have to be to stoop so low, to be so humbled, to excommunicate himself from the people of God and from God Himself? He reduced to being as-dead, physically, mentally, spiritually? I hope that isn’t lost on you. Remember, he wanted his father dead so he could get the money. Now, with the money gone, he’s as-if-dead himself. In another strange twist, this as-if-dead boy comes up with a resurrection plan of sorts, a possible way to come back to life, by returning to the father’s house to become not a son but a servant. “At least,” he thinks, “I’ll have food to eat, a roof over my head, and can give up this porcine hell of a life.”

Weak from hunger and cloaked in shame, I wonder how long the boy took walking home. It probably took some time, after all he is as-if-dead. “Dad, I know I wanted you dead, but – hehehe – funny thing happened to me while I was sowing my wild oats and now I’m the one who’s almost dead.” He played the scenario over in his mind, the words he would say, how he would say them. But, I wonder what he expected – after all, dead men aren’t exactly the best self-advocates. He certainly looked and smelled the part already. What could, what should he expect? Perhaps the father would have pity on such a thing as him. It wasn’t like he was asking for his old room back and the keys to last year’s Mustang.

Imagine his surprise when his father comes running down the laneway to him. His father! The old man, himself, with his robes up past his knees, beard flying in the wind, his breath coming in gasps, tears streaming down his cheeks, calling his name over and over. His father! Such behavior wasn’t very gentlemanly – certainly not for a noble and landed aristocrat. He should be up on the verandah, scowling and snarling at this thing – not a man, just a thing – that dared invade his property. The father should be suspicious of this trespasser, this intruder, who once wished him to just die and get it over already. This father – his father, his own “I wish you were dead but very alive” father – rushes out to meet, greet, and welcome the boy home.

The boy! Not a thing, not an intruder, not an invader but a boy – his boy! His son! His once-alive, then as-if-dead, and now alive son is home! He’s a mess, a disaster, a shell of his former self. But he’s here! Maybe not well, but he is alive.

Do you know there is another definition of prodigal? We usually think of it like I defined it earlier: to squander money. But, in a broader sense, prodigal means having or giving something on a lavish scale. We call this the parable of the prodigal son, but I suggest this is better titled the parable of the prodigal father because he demonstrate his love in the most prodigal, lavish of ways. His compassion will not listen to the boy’s negotiations for a job. Jobs are for servants. Besides, the almost-dead can’t negotiate anything – he has nothing to negotiate with, not even his life. This is his boy, his son, his flesh-and-blood. Half-dragging, half-pulling, dancing, bouncing around his son like a puppy, the father exudes joy, laughter being heard down the lane and at the house. “Bring my signet ring!” he orders. “Give my son a bath and then give him my good robe – the one Momma gave me for my birthday last year that I just couldn’t bear to wear, get it out of the closet and give it to him!”  To the cooks he orders, “Fire up the pits and kill the fatted calf! Save the burnt ends for this, my son, who is alive and among us again!”

That’s the story we know so well. Let the scene fade out in your mind and think critically for a second. How could a father be so prodigal in his love and compassion toward a son that wished him to be dead and lot alive? In the Jewish world, the greatest thing a father could give a son was a blessing, a verbal gift of the father’s love and name to be bestowed to the son. The greatest insult a son could give to his father was denying the blessing, to live outside of his father’s name and blessing. This son, the prodigal son, didn’t want any of that; he just wanted the money. How could a father, how could a dad, overcome that hate-drenched desire of youth? How could the father not only love the prodigal, but to shower prodigal love upon the boy who rejected his father and wanted him dead?

Remember, this is a parable. The purpose of a parable is to use an earthly story to give us insight into the Kingdom and the Father’s love toward His people. It’s a Divine version of “The Rest of the Story,” if you will. So, who is Jesus telling this parable to? Start with the audience: Jesus is speaking with tax collectors and sinners when Pharisees and scribes observe Jesus’ storytime companions. You can hear the sarcasm dripping from their words. “This man receives sinners and eats with them.”  Some kind of rabbi, this Jesus, stooping so low as to associate with riffraff like this. Those are the people, tax collectors and sinners and Pharisees and scribes, to whom the parable is told.

That, then, gives us insight into the parable’s characters. The father, of course, is the Heavenly Father with His outrageous, compassionate, prodigal love. He offers grace, mercy and compassion to those who relent and turn to Him.  His love is spread in the most prodigal of all fashions – even over those who treat Him as if He were dead – and is almost overwhelming to those who are likewise dead in their trespasses and sins, and who repent, relent and return to Him. In fact, His prodigal love is so great that He is willing to sacrifice His own perfect Son who perfectly follows and obeys the Father’s commands. The Father’s love is able to be given because there is a sacrifice, not of a fatted calf, but the Lamb of God.  

Who is the prodigal son? In the story, the prodigal son is the one who squandered the father’s love, but then realized his plight and came back, as-if-dead. Granted: in the parable, it was not a perfect repentance; he wasn’t trusting the father’s love and compassion, nor was he seeking to be welcomed home. But, at least the son went where he knew mercy and life could be found. Who is the prodigal? The tax collectors and sinners sitting around Jesus. Perhaps some were believing, already, that He was Messiah; perhaps some saw Him as the fulfillment of what was missing in their lives. But, at least they recognized that He could offer hope, compassion and mercy to them, the ones that society cast out as unlovable and undesirable. Jesus wants them, the tax collectors and sinners, to see themselves whom the Father welcomes and that Jesus, there among them, welcomes them on the Father’s behalf.

There is one other character remaining: the older son. With the party swirling around him, he stands in the shadows, scowling, refusing to celebrate. He, then, represents the Pharisees and scribes, the very antithesis of the Father’s prodigal love. If anything, he is prodigally abounding in resentment, anger, and disdain for both the father and the brother. While he should be bouncing, dancing, celebrating with the father and the whole household, rejoicing that the as-dead brother is now as alive as can be and back in the home, instead he is jealous of the love, attention, and even the meal. In fact, by separating himself from the household’s celebration, it’s as if he is as guilty of rejecting the father’s love as his brother when he left home. He’s so busy looking at how good he’s been that he misses how guilty he has become and what he’s guilty of. Rather than confessing his sin, he digs in and doubles down. The son’s question of “Where’s mine?” is the pharisaic equivalent to “Hey, Jesus, look at us! We’re getting it all right; we’re doing it all perfectly but you’re ignoring us. What’s with sitting with people like them and snubbing us?” Sadly, the Pharisees totally miss the point of who Jesus is, what He is doing, their place both in the Kingdom and in the parable, and their own need for a Savior.

You notice the question is left unanswered in the parable. What do you think happens? Is there a sudden change of heart by the older brother when he looks across the party and sees his as-dead-but-now-alive brother dancing while gnawing on a beef rib? Do his feet start tapping when he hears the band drop a banger like the Cupid shuffle? Does he clap his father on the back, repenting of his stubbornness, his begrudging labors, and his own failure to show love to the father and pray for the father’s mercy for himself? What does the brother do?

You know the rest of the story. The older brother slinks deeper into the shadows and plots murder. Not in the story, of course. Remember: the older brother represents the pharisees and scribes. They begin to plot how to get rid of the one who tells such stories of prodigal love, of mercy and compassion for tax collectors, sinners, and undesirable people who dare to trust in Jesus as Messiah. The Son must die – for the sins of the world. He dies for those who have rejected the Father’s prodigal love. He dies for those who run away and surrender to the temptations of sin and satan and their own flesh, squandering it all in prodigal living. The Son stripped of His dignity, His honor. When Pilate records that this Man is the Son of God, the Pharisees want it recanted, that He only claimed to be the Son of God. He dies the most horrific death the world will ever know. Not just physically, but dying separated from the Father and His prodigal love.

When Jesus rises on the third day, the world knows the fullness of what prodigal love is: that God was, in Christ, reconciling the world to Himself. Having made His own Son sin, through Christ’s death, He makes us His own sons and daughters. It’s nothing we do. Like the prodigal son in the parable, we were spiritually blind, dead, and enemies of God. We have nothing to bargain with, nothing to negotiate with. Jesus died for the spirititually dead, and Jesus rises to give life. Through Christ, the Father no longer remembers the prodigal’s sins. He no longer hears the prodigal’s curses, sees the hands held out in greed, or remembers the prodigal’s back that was turned against him. What the Father hears is Jesus’ prayer, “Father, forgive.” What the Father sees is the Son’s nail-pierced hands and whip-scarred back. And, then the Father simply calls you “Beloved.”

So, where are you in the story? You’re at the table. You, a former prodigal, are welcomed to the family. You were lost and found. You have already died and risen with Christ. That’s what prodigal love and grace does. Amen.

Why Ask Why: On Perishing, Repentance, and a Dying Tree - Luke 13: 1-9

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and from our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Amen.

If Jesus was here to retell this morning's Gospel lesson, perhaps it would have gone like this: 

There were some present who told him about the man who ran his vehicle into a crowded street, filled with people in town for the big football game, killing and injuring dozens of passers-by. Do you think they were worse sinners than all the others in town, partying, celebrating, and (ahem) planning to skip church the next day? No, I tell you, but unless you repent, you will likewise perish. Or those people going to work or the store when, suddenly, they plunged into the waters below because a cargo ship crashed into the bridge they were crossing? Were those folks worse sinners than all the others around Baltimore? Or, what about the folks driving around the loop in Victoria when and airplane crashed on top of their car? Were they worse sinners than anyone else in town, or in the county, or those sitting in the pews today? No, I tell you, but unless you likewise repent, you will all likewise perish.

When we hear such stories as these, whether the event happens a thousand years ago, a thousand miles away, or right across the street, we often have one of two immediate reactions. The first is relief: “There but for the grace of God go I.” But often it is followed by the second, “Why did it happen to them?”

That second question gets creative with its answers – especially when people dare to foolishly speak for God when He gives no revealed answer in His Word. Remember when TV preachers made headlines for attributing Katrina to God’s wrath against New Orleans and its long history of social and racial inequality? Or, when the gunman went on a shooting spree in Las Vegas, moralistic people said, “Well, it’s called sin city for a reason, you know,” implying that this was God’s way of setting people straight. When flooding hit Houston again last year, it was determined that, obviously, God was settling the score with the evil and greedy oil and petrochemical industry. The recent fires through LA were proclaimed as His way of humbling the social elite.

Those are modern takes on the ancient Jewish idea of “you get what you deserve.” If such a tragedy befalls you, it was thought, that it stands as evidence that you or someone in your immediate family had sinned against God or man, or both, and you were getting your just desserts. What comes around, goes around, you know.

Other times, the question is answered less from judgement in the negative, that they did something wrong, but from the opposite assumption of innocence. “It’s not fair!” the cry goes up. “They didn’t do anything wrong!” They were just partying with friends; they were just going to work, school, or back home; they were there for a weekend get-away. They didn’t deserve those terrible things to happen to them.

Whether presuming guilt and judgement – they must have done something wrong and are getting what they deserve – or presuming innocence and goodness – they are just blameless victims – we presume the role of God, determining right or wrong, guilt or innocence, based on our perspective, our ideas, our opinions.

Be careful, Jesus warns. Do not presume either guilt or innocence because of what happened and whom it happened to. In fact, He says, we must interpret such events, not with ourselves as the interpreter, but instead as if these things were happening to us as well, as if we were the ones in the sad headlines. If you dare to interpret from the position of God, then do it honestly with regard to His view of sin.  I re-told the Gospel reading as the introduction to get your attention and place the warning into our world today. Suddenly, Jesus’ warning, “Unless you repent, you will all likewise perish,” takes on a whole new meaning.

There are two powerful words, there: repent and perish. Let’s consider perish first. In our modern usage, perish is a polite way to say “died tragically.” It gets used in press releases and news reports: four people perished in the massive vehicle pileup on I-40 in the Panhandle last week; three people perished when the structure collapsed. Jesus is using it as a rawboned description of death. But He isn’t just speaking of the heart beat that stops and the brain that ceases processing. Specifically, Jesus is referring to the tragedy of the eternal banishment to hell that sinners deserve. “The wages of sin is death,” Paul famously wrote. He means the sad fact of complete, eternal, physical and spiritual death. In other words, separation from God and His love and compassion. Unless you repent, Jesus means you will all experience what death really means as you suffer where their worm does not die and the fire is not quenched.

The other word is “repent.” Repent doesn’t mean that we walk around like Eeyore, sad, with hang-dog looks on our faces, moping around as if everything is wrong and nothing is good. Repentance confesses our place as sinners before God. Repentance acknowledges that our condition tragically deserves to perish. Repentance says, as Luther writes, that we indeed daily sin much in thought, word and deed. We confess that while we may not have sinned against the celebrants in New Orleans Vegas, we have sinned by making assumptions. We confess, not that we caused the bridge to collapse or the plane crash, but that we sin against our fellow travelers by becoming impatient or by a moment of recklessness on the road, risking their lives as well as those in our own car. We confess, not that we caused the fires or floods or storms, but we acknowledge our part in this fallen world in abusing creation. And, repentance acknowledges as well that we deserve to perish tragically – physically, spiritually, eternally – for each of these sins, and so many more.

*I wonder if that’s not what Jesus is actually wanting them to repent of – a foolish notion that somehow, this side of heaven, we can reject death and see it as something that only happens to bad guys – specifically, guys we determine who are bad and worthy of dying (or unworthy of living, whichever the case may be). Perhaps that’s part of Jesus’ point: be prepared because everyone will one day die. He’s not being macabre – He’s speaking the truth of the havoc satan and sin has brought to creation. But that is the purpose for which Jesus came: that He, too, would die – for you and with you so that you no longer have to keep death at arm’s length. You have nothing to lose but the fear and horror of death. 

To help us grasp this idea, which is outside of our daily thinking, Jesus tells this brief parable about the fig tree that isn’t producing fruit. Briefly, an owner finds a fig tree that isn’t producing fruit. It’s just using up soil and space, so he tells his servant to cut it down. But the vinedresser instead argues for the tree, offering to give it special care, turning the ground and fertilizing with manure, so that it might have the opportunity to produce fruit one more time. If it fails in a year’s time, then it can be cut down.

Don’t be tempted to see yourself as the vinedressing hero who potentially saves the tree. Parables generally aren’t about you as the main character. They’re about the kingdom. They are about Jesus. Well, I said the parable isn’t about you – but you are in it. See yourself as the tree; see the vinedresser as Jesus; see the landowner as God who is displeased with the spiritual fruit that you and I produce – or, more accurately, with the complete absence of spiritual fruit. Where is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, gentleness, faithfulness, self-control? The landowner rules: although living, it’s as if we’re dead – there’s no fruit, that is no evidence, of faith; is there any faith, any life at all?

Enter the vinedresser. Enter Jesus. He pleads for the landowner’s mercy for the fruitless tree. Jesus intercedes to the Father on our behalf. “Let it be, Lord, for one more year.” Let it be – it’s interesting: Jesus uses the same phrase from the cross. There, under His own judgement of death, we hear Jesus pray, “Father, forgive.”

That’s the wonder of the foolishness of the cross. Jesus becomes sin for us. The foul, stinking manure of mankind’s sin is dumped upon Him and He carries it in Himself. His body is marked by nails; a spear digs deep into His side. He sends resurrection into our roots. He doesn’t come to see if we think ourselves good and worthy: He comes to turn over our idea of good and the conventions by which we pretend to be good. He doesn’t come to see if we’re sorry: He knows our repentance is often fickle and just as much hot air. He doesn’t count our doing of anything. He comes only to forgive, fully, freely. No one is too far gone, no one is too spiritually dead for His resurrection restoration. We were dead, remember, and brought nothing to the conversation. The vinedresser restores life, without qualification, as one enormous gift.

When we hear this section of Luke 13, it always begins with the question, “Why?” Jesus turns us to see the “who” instead. Who we are – dead and dying. Who He is – saving and restoring, having Himself died and rose for us. With that as our focus, we are able to live in these grey and latter days without having to be fearful for marauding Roman governors and strangely falling towers, or hidden viruses, or even a crazed, maniacal dictator who seems to hold the future of the world underneath his hot, sweaty hands. Luther was once asked, what would you do if you knew tomorrow as the end of the world. He thought for a minute and said that he would go plant an apple tree, that way just in case the world didn’t end, some day, someone could enjoy the fruit of his labor. Live each day with the joy and certainty that Christ has taken our place, died our death, and redeems us to bear fruit in His name. And then, go plant a tree.

 

 * I am indebted to Robert Farrar Capon's book, Kingdom, Grace, Judgement: Paradox, Outrage, and Vindication in the Parables of Jesus (c. 2002, Wm. B. Eerdmans Co.) for this Gospel understanding of the parable. Much of what follows from this point is based on chapter 9 of the book.

Imitating Paul - Philippians 3: 17-4:1

“Brothers, join in imitating me…” Paul wants us to imitate him.

I don’t know. That seems a little difficult, doesn’t it? Difficult on all sorts of levels. I don't care what he says in First Corinthians, Paul was a pretty good preacher. Better than you're getting this morning, I'll bet. He preached and spoke for hours, even late into the night, and people listened intently. Well, except for sleepy Eutychus but that’s another story for another time. Paul’s writing is certainly superior. He wrote letter upon letter that were passed from congregation to congregation, the Holy Spirit seeing fit to preserve these still for you and I to read this morning. Me? I struggle for a 2-page sermon. How about you? Do you want to imitate this apostle? I don’t know. I’m not really into shipwrecks. Or imprisonment, or beatings, or stonings, and I stay away from threats of all kinds, and so forth.

Of course, it wasn't Paul's call either. It was God's Call that he read into those kinds of difficulties. And it's not our call either.

Imitation is really a very important part of human life. I taught you this a few weeks ago: imitation is the mother of learning (imitatio est mater estudiorum, if you prefer Latin). Children learn to walk, talk, read, mow the lawn, bake cookies, change the oil, paint fingernails, spike the ball, sweep the tag, do geometry, and countless other things by watching and imitating their moms and dads, grannies and grampies, coaches and teachers. Adults learn to use smart phones by imitating grandkids and YouTube videos. All sorts of bad habits are learned by imitating Uncle Earl. It’s also said imitation is the most sincere form of flattery. We are delighted when others imitate us.

This is not only true of Moms and Dads, but also of our Divine Parent also wants us to imitate Him and our Big Brothers and Sisters in the faith. It’s too bad we don’t treat them the way society fawns over so-called “social influencers.” Models of the faith are really significant parts of God's gift to us, part of the Holy Spirit's way of cultivating faith in us and the mind of Christ. Paul has a lot to say in his letters about following after the mind of Christ, and especially here in Philippians.

Paul wants us to be co-imitators. He doesn’t want us to go it alone. Imitate together with him. You never want to try imitating alone. We imitate as part of the Congregation of God's people. Remember – God saw it wasn’t good for Adam to be alone, so He made a help-meet for him. He knows it’s not good for Christians to be alone, so He gathers us together into the congregation, into the Church, as the body of Christ. And, as the body of Christ, He wants us to be supporting of one another, and for the spiritually mature to be modeling the Christian life for one another in the congregation of His people. And that, being co-imitators, is particularly important, especially when we run into imprisonment or shipwreck, or being beaten, or stoned, or merely laughed at, and teased, and told to be quiet and not talk “religion,” and the like for the sake of Jesus and the faith. We don’t live alone, we don’t imitate alone.

Part of Paul’s example that he puts before us in this text involves imitating crying, more specifically learning to cry the right way. Now, I know that doesn’t sound very manly; it doesn’t sound very socially acceptable. Who teaches others to cry? Do we teach our sons and daughters to cry? I don’t think so – we usually tell them to not cry. In the words of writer Stephen Bochco, we don’t want to appear soft, lest someone mistake us for food and try to eat us. But, speaking for myself, there are things that move me to tears. Watching the continued battle-scenes out of Ukraine – I can only do that in small doses before tears form. The scenes from the forest and wildfires, and then as people return to what is left of their homes and businesses, that is heartbreaking. I do not have the words to describe the feeling I have when I am with parents who lose a child, or with a child who loses a parent – I don’t think I would survive as a hospital chaplain, especially not a children’s hospital. I’ve shed more than one tear while watching someone I love who hurst so bad and being helpless to do anything about it. Those aren’t unique to me; you have those moments and others like them. These are all true feelings and deep emptions, but none of those are what Paul means when he wants us to learn to cry.

Paul wants us to imitate his tears, to cry, because of and, surprisingly, especially on behalf of the enemies of the Cross of Christ. By “enemy,” I don’t mean the person who ate your lunch out of the breakroom fridge, or who steals your paper from the driveway, or who laughed because your clothes don’t have the right brand label on them. By enemy, we mean those who stand against you because you are a Baptized child of God and dare to confess Him and speak of faith in Jesus as the only means of salvation. That is the enemy Paul refers to.

The “because of” makes sense. Our enemies often bring tears to our eyes, literally or figuratively, and this is particularly true of the enemies of the Church and of Jesus. Paul is apparently talking about tears, not shed in anger or indignation or disgust – though we may have those feelings too - but his tears, I think, were being shed in outright, real sorrow for the people whose God is their belly. That is from a man who doesn't really seem terribly likely to be going around shedding tears.

The enemies of the cross glory in their own shame. They conceive of reality in such a way that brings them down into the gutter, down into the pits of despair, where life is slowly sucked out of them. Don’t get down in the mud with them; instead, Paul says, our minds should be in the clouds, fixed on that heavenly citizenship, that heavenly society in which God cultivates us as He gives us rebirth in our baptisms, and as He renews that new life in us day in and day out, as the Holy Spirit brings us the Word of life.

And when we look at reality from God perspective, we see something unique. Our translation in verse 20 says “our citizenship” but I prefer the old King James way of saying this, “conversation.” Our conversation. Citizenship smacks of rights and boundaries. Conversation describes our way of thinking and talking about this reality and that it all comes from God. And the Holy Spirit leads us into looking at the world in such a way that we just don't understand how people can try to find their identity and security and meaning in the pleasures of this life and ignore all the signs that they're careening toward destruction. How can they miss their own conversation about the Good News of Jesus who saves? How can their eyes be shifted away from the cross? Their ears closed to Word that gives life? The spectacle of it is enough to make a grown Christian weep. Such tears flow from the eyes and the minds of people who have been freed by Christ's death and resurrection. Free to imitate our Lord. Free to imitate Paul. Free to weep for those who deny, decry, and disbelieve Jesus as Lord and Savior.

Everyone knows the shortest verse in the Bible is John 11:35, “Jesus wept.” You know, our Lord didn't cry only outside of Lazarus’ tomb. He cried over Jerusalem. In this morning’s Gospel reading, Jesus laments over the city, echoing Jeremiah centuries earlier, as the city that murders the prophets. He is not yet moved to tears – that comes later, as He prepares to enter the city for Holy Week. Then, Jesus weeps over the city. Those were real tears. The people who are about to crucify Him, He wept in sadness for them as He looked to the prospect of what was facing those people for whom He was dying but who, sadly, would remain enemies of the cross. They murdered the prophets; they stoned those sent to proclaim the Word of the Lord; they crucified the One sent to save.

I wonder – and I realize the danger of asking questions about Jesus that aren’t answered in Scripture – I wonder if He still weeps over Jerusalem. I suspect He does weep for Jerusalem…and Texas, and Cuero, and Goliad, and Victoria, and Mission Valley and our neighbors whom we greet and call by name, people whose god is their belly, and who have not time or interest in the One who weeps for them.

I say that because our society, our culture seems to specialize in inventing new ways to oppose the cross of Christ. It's almost as if it’s a way of life. Or, perhaps, we should say a way of death.  And our temptation is naturally to get defensive about this. Like Peter in the Garden of Gethsemane, we have to do something and we draw our verbal swords and pencils and electronic devices to rail against them and to be mad at them and all that sort of thing. I hear it, too: “Pastor, you need to preach a fire and brimstone sermon about what’s going on ‘out there’.” As if a sermon I preach to you will show them, ‘out there’ who will never hear what is said, that’ll show them who's boss.

But we don't need to. The Boss will. Jesus has shown us who is Lord, showing us who is subjecting all things to Himself. That's why: because we trust that He really is Lord. The Lord who has freed us in His death and resurrection. We trust also that He has freed us to weep over our enemies. Over His enemies. Over the enemies of the Church. And to pray with those tears that those tears will flow into baptismal water. That becomes perfect vengeance of the cross. The cross they once decried, they are then marked with the cross and baptized with tears Jesus once shed over them.

And then Jesus turns them into people just like us: disciples of the Lord, following at His cross, seeing reality, no longer from the gutter, but from the heavenly in-the-clouds perspective.  

God has planted your feet and mind firmly on the good earth that he has created. He has placed us here for all sorts of purposes, one of which is to cry for his enemies. And the conversation, the citizenship, that orients our entire life, that shapes every moment of our day, at least ideally, comes from the Lord himself.

So on this day, we repent again. We repent for crying for the wrong things, and not crying for the right things, and for not crying enough for the enemies of the cross of Jesus and who, I think, we can consider as our enemies, too. As we repent this day, we look to the Lord. We think about our heavenly passports, our godly identity papers. Then we stumble along in apostolic fashion, disagreeing, of course, with Paul on who the chief of sinners really is. But, agreeing with him fully that what we really need to know is Christ. And Him crucified…risen…ascended…reigning.

Funny thing about tears – they taste salty. This side of heaven, those tears we shed over the state of the enemies of the cross of Jesus will always be salty and somewhat bitter. Yet we, who by faith are already citizens of above, we are also already beginning to taste the tears of joy that come from being citizens of the King. With tears, both salty and sweet, we rejoice, we praise His name, and we pray for His enemies. Amen.

He's a Liar, He's a Liar! Satan's Pants are On Fire! - Luke 3: 1-13

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and from our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Amen.

I’ve heard people claim, over the years, that Jesus’ temptation wasn’t real. After all, He is God. James chapter 1 tells us that God not be tempted and He also will not tempt anyone else. It is part of His immutable and unchanging character. So, since Jesus is God, and God cannot be tempted, ergo, Jesus’ temptation was a sham, a fake, a phony demonstration of goodwill among humanity. But, remember, Jesus is also fully man. While in His divine nature, true, He can’t be tempted, in His human nature, Jesus was as vulnerable to temptation as you and me because He set aside the full use of His divinity. That is important, so important that the writer of Hebrews tells us that Jesus, who is our Great High Priest, is able to sympathize with our weaknesses, because, in every respect, has been tempted as we are, yet without sin. So, when you read this morning’s Gospel narrative of Jesus being tempted, it was both a necessary thing for Him to be tempted, and it was a true, genuine temptation.

After 40 days of not eating, Jesus was truly hungry. It wasn’t a pretend hunger. If you’ve ever been in a position where you’ve gone any length of time without eating, you know how it weakens both your body and your mind. You know the Snickers commercials on TV about making bad choices when “hangry”? There is a truth to that. So, when satan choses this as the opportunity to begin the temptations, not only is Jesus completely human, He is weak and (humanly speaking) vulnerable.

The ancient world often spoke of the person in three aspects – body, mind and spirit. Satan attacks us when and where we are most vulnerable, body, mind and spirit. He does that with Jesus – body, mind and spirit.

He temps Jesus’ in His body. With Jesus being hungry, the temptation is to turn rocks into bread. Imagination is powerful. Simply the suggestion would trigger the memory of fresh baked bread making the mouth water. So simple; such an easy to Jesus’ weakness and growling belly. Just a word, one word, and bread would appear and the belly would be satiated.

The second temptation tempts Jesus’ mind and the human desire for power and authority. If Jesus were to bow to satan, just for a moment, then Jesus would be given all power and authority over all that can be seen. The famous gameshow phrase was, “All this can be yours, if the price is right.”  For satan, the price of power was to simply worship him – a quick bow, a whispered, “yes,” and it would be OK.

The third temptation was against Jesus’ spirit. In the previous two temptations, Jesus’ riposte against satan was to turn to the Scriptures and trust His Father’s will and word. So, this time, it is as if satan says, “Ok, Jesus…prove it. Show me what you got. Jump off the temple pinnacle. You’ll be fine, won’t you? After all, the Bible – which you are fond of quoting – says Your Father will command angels to guard you, so you don’t even stub your toe.”

Imagine I placed in front of you a single small piece of your favorite sweet treat. If you can resist the temptation of eating that delicious, single, sweet morsal for fifteen minutes, you can have the entire extra-large serving. It’s an experiment in delayed gratification. A nibble now, or a whole serving in a short time. Which would you chose? Would you succumb to the short-term temptation or fight it for the greater reward? I don’t know what you would pick, but I can tell you that based on research, it’s not as easy as it first sounds. According to a series of studies first done in 1970, and then repeated several times since then, most gave in to the temptation, taking the quick and easy reward instead of resisting for the greater reward. Those who successfully resisted temptation did so by means of distraction – singing songs, playing finger games, even taking a nap – anything to resist the temptation besides sitting and staring at the forbidden bite and hearing its siren song.

I tell you this to help you understand what was going on behind the scenes in this temptation. It wasn’t just a temptation of body, mind and spirit. It was a temptation of trusting the Father’s plan of salvation. Jesus was practically still dripping with baptismal water and the Father’s words, “You are my beloved Son,” were still ringing in His ears when the Spirit led Him out into the wilderness. Already, Jesus knew His purpose. Even there in the wilderness, the Cross was already on the horizon. He was to be the once-for-all perfect sacrifice, the Lamb of God who would take away the sins of the world. He would be the culmination of all sacrifices. He would be holy, sinless, fully submitting to the Law and God’s Commands, doing what Adam and Eve and the entire nation of Israel would never do: obey. He would be the Second Adam; He would be Israel reduced to One. His holy and sinless blood would be shed as the propitiation, the appeasement, for the wrath of God against sinners. The wages of sin that is death would be paid in full by Jesus. “For God so loved the World,” begins and ends with “You are my beloved Son.”

But Satan wanted anything – anything – that would distract Jesus from accomplishing God’s plan to save the world and mankind. “If you are the son of God,” was a repeated theme. Do you really trust your Father? You’re going to have to suffer and die for these people? You love them and want to rescue and redeem them, and they are going to treat you like garbage and you will die the most horrific death that no one will begin to comprehend. If you think this temptation is tough now, Jesus, just wait until you’re on that cross. Think about yourself!  Let’s make things easy, now: make some bread; grab the power for yourself; show me what you got. It’s quick, it’s easy. No muss, no fuss, no suffering, no cross. Satan wants Jesus to look at the now: fill your belly now, rule the kingdoms now, show me who you really are now. All this can be yours, and you don’t have to go the way of the cross.

The way of the cross is never the easy way. There are no shortcuts to the cross, to redemption, to salvation.  That was part of mankind’s trouble since the beginning, Adam and Eve wanting a shortcut to be like God, to know good from evil; Israel wanting to satisfy the hunger now in the wilderness, to eat, drink and be merry, just like everyone else.

In each temptation, Jesus returns to the word of God. He doesn’t add to it, like Eve did in the Garden. He doesn’t subtract from it, like satan does in his mis-quotation of Psalm 91. It’s interesting: satan omits four small words: “In all your ways.” “He will command His angels concerning you, in order to guard you in all your ways.” There is only one way Jesus must go: the way of the cross. There, He will again be with out the Father’s protection. Instead, He will face the Father’s rath. The Son of God and the Son of Man, Jesus of Nazareth, will perfectly resist all temptations and endure until it is finished.

There are two things I want to mention, speaking of temptation. The first is that, as a Baptized child of God, you are called to resist satan’s temptations with all your strength of body, mind and spirit. Your New Adam does not want to sin. But, as Paul laments, our sinful old adam still remains, so the evil we don’t want to do, we do; the good we want to do, we don’t do. Sometimes, it’s in a moment of foolishness and weakness. This is that moment when you look in the mirror and say to yourself, “Why on earth did I do that?” and you have no answer. And, occasionally, the sinful man deliberately and knowingly submits to satan’s lies and lures and deliberately and knowingly sins against neighbor and God. Those sinful moments, whether done in weakness or in stubborn defiance, do not remove you from God’s grace. They can weaken faith, especially continued, unchecked deliberate sin – that is why the church takes seriously the call of repentance for those stuck and trapped in their sins. Thus, we continue to speak faithfully against the sins that conventional wisdom pretends to be “no big deal”: living together without marriage, homosexuality, lying, adultery, cheating by claiming other’s work to be your own, stealing time and resources from work, refusing to repent when Scripture calls sin, sin. But when there is repentance, sorrow for what was done plus faith that trusts the promise of God, the forgiveness won by Christ on the cross is as sure and certain for you as for any other sinner who repents.

But, don’t treat temptation lightly. It is true that being tempted isn’t a sin – after all, Jesus remained sinless while being tempted. Don’t fool yourself thinking you can be like Jesus and stand right up to “the line in the sand” and be just fine. The problem is that the line where temptation becomes sin is blurry, fuzzy, and often slippery. One minute, it’s mere temptation: “Surely, you shall not die.” The next minutes, the sand slips underfoot, “Eve saw it was good and pleasing for the eye,” and temptation gives in to surrender, “and she took and ate.” In your human flesh, you are unable to perfectly resist temptation. That is not an excuse for what you do, but it places you back under the cross. When you sin, and you will, you stand at the foot of the cross where Jesus died for you and for your sins. “Lord, have mercy,” is not just a phrase in the liturgy. It is the fervent prayer of God’s people who seek both His mercy – not getting what we deserve, death – and His grace – getting what we don’t deserve, His forgiveness.  And God, in His grace, forgives completely and fully for the sake of His Son who endured all temptation perfectly for you.

A final comment… Occasionally satan will throw this at you – the same lie he used against Jesus. “If you really are a child of God…” And he will use that to try to overwhelm and burden your conscience of being overwhelmed. He couples that with the unholy trinity of guilt: should have, would have, could have. A child of God wouldn’t have done such a thing. A child of God should not have done such a thing. A child of God could have resisted better. All implying you, by fact of your sins, are no longer a child of God.

We pray the Lord’s Prayer so often that it is tempting – see how I used the word – tempting to pray it on autopilot and not think about what we pray. In the Fifth Petition, we pray for the Father’s forgiveness for our sins, not looking at them, holding them against us, or denying our prayers on account of them. In those simple words, we acknowledge our sins and our unworthiness, and confess them to God. The next petition, the Sixth, is “And lead us not into temptation.” I used to think this meant what I might call gross sins – the kind of things satan threw against Jesus, the quick and easy answer to the “now,” like I’m hungry, so I’ll steal $20 from the till, or I want power, so I’ll do whatever I have to do to get it, or have the attitude that I’m better and more important than the next person in line, so someone better hurry up and take my order for a double decaf moca latte before I go bonkers. Yeah, there is that sense of temptation, but after these years of ministry, I think there’s more to temptation than just this. In the explanation, Luther tells us that “We pray in this petition that God would guard and keep us so that the devil, the world, and our sinful nature may not deceive us or mislead us into false belief, despair, and other great shame and vice…” Again, I thought false belief meant Islam or Creationism or some such bunk. No; I don’t think so. Satan wants to deceive us and mislead us into the false belief that Jesus doesn’t love me anymore. He wants the world’s whispers of shame to make us think we are unable to be loved. He wants our sinful nature, when our conscience gets broken and twisted, to think that my sins – those sins that make me unworthy to be a child of God – those sins have disqualified me from God’s grace. That leads to despair of body, mind and spirit – what can I do? A broken conscience, curved inwatd on itself, in curvatis se, fails to see Jesus; it only has the feeling that I am worthless, just detritus to be tossed aside like so much garbage of body, mind and spirit. When you pray these petitions together, you not only are praying for the forgiveness of sins, but that satan, the world, or even your own flesh in a moment of weakness does not disbelieve that very forgiveness is for you. “Deliver us from evil!” is the penitent’s cry that we are spared from such temptation, thinking God doesn’t care anymore.

The answer, then, is not to feed the broken conscience and stay curved inwards on one’s own sins and unworthiness. It’s having the conscience released from guilt and shame. This is the blessing of absolution. Instead of hearing your own voice saying “you’re not worthy,” in absolution, you hear the words of God, spoken through the called and ordained servant of the Word, proclaim to you that Jesus died for those very sins that are causing you grief, shame, and deceipt, and are misleading you to doubt God’s grace. There is no greater gift for the broken conscience than to privately confess those sins so that they can be released from you and your conscience – how you see yourself before God, and how God sees you – can be made right and you can again hear those blessed words, “You are my son; you are my daughter. With you I am well pleased.”

You can hear those words and promises of God because God not only cares, but He cared enough for His Spirit to send His Son into the wilderness, to be tempted for you, resisting perfectly, so He could keep the Law perfectly, so He would be the perfect Lamb of God to take away your sins. When you sin, you have a greater Savior. When you fail, you have the perfect Redeemer. When you fall, you have a holy Rescuerer. When the lies of satan become louder and stronger, you have the One who is not only the Way, the Truth and the Life, you have the One who, in His death and resurrection, proved satan to be a liar.

And, if you ever think satan has the last word about your sins, remember the cross where Jesus had the last word: It is finished. Amen.

Why I Hate and Love Ash Wednesday - A Pastor's Reflection

 

Today is Ash Wednesday. In many churches, the pastor will have ground up the dried palm leaves from the previous Palm Sunday, milling them into a fine powder. Then, with his thumb dipped into the grey schmutz, he will place a ashen cross onto the forehead of his parishioner with the solemn intonation, “Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” It’s an incredibly somber reminder of the curse placed upon Adam and Eve after their fateful fall. “By the sweat of your face you shall eat bread, till you return to the ground, for out of it you were taken; for you are dust and to dust you shall return,” (Genesis 3:19). It’s a bit of a linguistic pun for Adam’s name: Adam, the man, will return to adamah, the dirt and dust, from which God created him.  That brief sentence is a prelude to the sentence spoken at the graveside: “Ashes to ashes and dust to dust.”

Every year, I wrestle with Ash Wednesday. I wrestle with it because I am placing a physical, tangible, visible reminder of mortality upon the heads of the people whom I serve and the people I love. The irony is they don’t see it until they get home and look into the mirror. Then, and only then, do they see it. Since we have an evening service, it is highly unlikely that anyone else will see it, either, besides a spouse, child, or parent. I see it all service long. I see it, because I placed the mark of mortality on them and I see it all service long.

I usually start out ok on Ash Wednesday, not exactly on “autopilot,” but simply performing the rite – thumb into the ash, wipe on the forehead, speak ten words, and do it again. But somewhere around person number fifteen or twenty, the rite stops being a rite and it becomes a sacred moment. I never know exactly when this happens, or the person who will spark the shift, but it often begins with the eyes. They look into my eyes, and I look into theirs and in that moment, it stops being a rite for the congregation and it becomes words spoken to that person: you will die in your flesh one day, and your body will return to the dust from which it was originally made.

It’s funny how fast thoughts fly through the mind. The speed of sound is approximately 1200 feet per second. I wish there were a way to measure these thoughts. As I look into the persons eyes and smear the ash across the forehead, the realization hits me that it is conceivable I could be burying that person in the near future, repeating the words as I dump a couple handsfull of sand on to the casket, “Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust.”

And in those moments, I hate Ash Wednesday. It isn’t just a reminder to the individual receiving ashes of their mortality, it is a reminder that I am a serving among a dead congregation.

Years ago, I was in such a state of depression that I literally could not do the rite of ashes. As I tried to prepare the ashes in the afternoon for the evening service, I sobbed in the empty sanctuary. I soon realized that it would be impossible for me to complete the rite in the service. The weight of what I was feeling was just too great. To see death’s brand that I was placing on people, and having to repeat it dozens of times, it was too much. I began the service with what I thought was a reasonable explanation – we are Easter people, not people of death, so no ashes tonight – but, like an old cash register, it was “no sale." No one was buying what I was selling. A couple of people were really mad at me. For them, I had robbed them of this pious act and reminder. I didn’t know how to explain what I was feeling, where I was, what I would have to do one day to their kids, or their spouse, or their mother or grandfather, and in that place and time, it was just too much. To them, I offer a belated but heartfelt apology. "I just couldn't do it." 

In the liturgy for leading the casket from the hearse to the graveside, pastors will sometimes speak this sentence: “In the midst of life we are in death…” It comes from an ancient 14^th-century hymn which, in Latin, sounds much more impressive: Media vita in morte sumus. I think those words on Ash Wednesday as I am almost to the point of being overwhelmed by what I am doing, saying, and seeing. If parishioners look closely, they might see my eyes starting to well up, perhaps even a tear sliding down my cheeks.

I have often found it funny that we do this ash-marking with the sign of the cross. In Holy Baptism, I place the sign of the cross on the forehead and heart of the candidate, “in token that you have been redeemed by Christ the crucified.” Later, the passage from Romans 6 will also be read, connecting our baptism to both the death and resurrection of Jesus. In Baptism, we believe we both die and rise with Christ. Just as water washes clean dirty skin, Baptismal water – that is, water with the words of Jesus, “I baptize you in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit – washes away sins.

Yet, here we are, putting dirty ashes on that which has been washed clean in Baptism.

I’ve contemplated writing my own Ash Wednesday liturgy. Someday, some year, I’m going to stand at the back door as people enter and place the ashes on them immediately. I might even have a mirror there, so people can see for themselves what has been done to them. It would be a reminder for them that “the wages of sin is death.” From dust you are… Media vita in morte sumus. Then, in the service liturgy, instead of people coming forward to receive ashes (they will have been previously ashed, remember?) they will come forward where I will be standing the font, the vessel filled with water. As they stand in front of me, branded with the cross of death, I’ll take a clean cloth, dampen it in the font’s water, and wipe the ash from their forehead while proclaiming the words of absolution to them along with the proclamation of Jesus, “I am the resurrection and the life,” or perhaps, “Once you were dead in your trespasses and sins, but now you are alive to God in Christ Jesus our Lord.” Then, I’ll give them the ash-stained cloth as a tangible, visible reminder for themselves of what absolution means.

I’ll do that some day. Tonight... tonight, I’ll place the mark of ashes on the heads of those who gather. I’ll swallow hard while saying those horrible words, “Remember you are dust,” yearning for the moment 46 days mornings later when I will practically shout, “Christ is risen! He is risen indeed!” Then, and only then, I’ll add the wonderful “Alleluia” of Easter.

 The rest of that ancient hymn I mentioned before speaks to that hope. "In the midst of life, we are in death; from whom can we seek help?" Perhaps Psalm 121 is the best answer: 

I lift up my eyes to the hills. From where does my help come?
My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth.

He will not let your foot be moved; he who keeps you will not slumber.
Behold, he who keeps Israel will neither slumber nor sleep.

The Lord is your keeper; the Lord is your shade on your right hand.
The sun shall not strike you by day, nor the moon by night.

The Lord will keep you from all evil; he will keep your life.
The Lord will keep your going out and your coming in 
from this time forth and forevermore.

So, tonight, it’s ashes. And tears. And hope. And faith in the promise that, yes, we will return to ashes, but we will be raised in glory when He returns.

 

Prophets, Mountains, and Promises - Deuteronomy 34: 1-12

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and from our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Amen. The text is the Old Testament lesson from Deuteronomy 34.

As I read the Old Testament lesson for this morning, I found myself standing in Moses’ sandals for a moment. There he was, standing on the top of Mount Nebo, looking around and down into the Promised Land, the fulfillment of the promise that God made to Moses and the Children of Israel when they left Egypt forty years earlier. God promised that they would return to the land of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, the land their forefathers left so long ago while Joseph was still second over Egypt, the land they had wilderness wandered for, waiting to see. It was down there, at the base of the mountain, stretching out as far as Moses’ perfect vision could see it, so close he could practically taste the milk and honey. Yet, he would never set foot in it. That mountaintop view was as close as he would get to the Promised Land.

For the preceding forty years, Moses acted as prophet, interceding to God on behalf of the people and proclaiming “thus saith the Lord,” to the people as God’s spokesman. When God had threatened to destroy Israel because of their incessant grumbling and complaining and begin anew with Moses, it was Moses who reminded God that Israel was His people. If He were to destroy them after taking them that far, His name would be a laughingstock among the world. When Israel grumbled and complained about God and His care for them, it was Moses who called them to repentance and pleaded for God to have mercy. 

So why wouldn’t, why couldn’t this faithful prophet of God enter the Promised Land?

Although Moses stood as God’s prophet for the people of Israel, he was not a perfect prophet. He was at times a hot-tempered man. While Moses still dwelled in the house of Pharoah (remember how he was rescued as a boy by Pharoah’s wife?), he saw a slave master whipping an Israelite. In a fit of rage, he killed the master. When the murder was discovered by fellow Israelites, he fled for his life. Years later, in the Wilderness, the constant complaining and whining finally made him snap. They were thirty or so years out of Egypt and, again, they had run out of water. The Israelites assembled against Moses and Aaron, quarreling, blaming them for no water, grumbling Moses led them into the wilderness to die. Moses and Aaron again went to the Tabernacle and, pleading for the Lord’s mercy, cried out for water. The Lord, in His mercy, commanded Moses to speak to the rock at Meribah and water would come out. Even rocks obey when the Lord’s Word is proclaimed!

But Moses had enough. He gathered the obstinate people together and thundered, “You rebels! Shall we bring forth water for you out of this rock?” and, instead of proclaiming the Lord’s Words to the rock, Moses instead struck the rock with his staff, just as he did 30 years earlier after leaving Egypt.

Moses’ anger had gotten the better of him. His anger, his pride got in the way. He saw himself as the answer to the people’s complaints. Did you catch it? He had said, “Shall we bring forth water,” not “the Lord will bring forth water.” He confused the prophet of the Lord with the Lord; his anger with the Lord’s anger; his justice with the Lord’s mercy; his staff with the word of the Lord.

So, God declared to Moses, “Because you did not believe in Me, to uphold Me as holy in the eyes of the people of Israel, you shall not bring this assembly into the land that I have given them.”

Imagine being in Moses’ sandals at that moment: realizing the depth, the gravity of your sin, realizing that your anger, jealousy, and sinful ungodliness had just cost you the reward you had – literally – spent your last three plus decades working toward. And then, finding yourself standing on top of the mountain, looking down at the Land promised to Israel, knowing you will never set foot there yourself because you sinned against God. What do you do?

Have you ever made such a mistake, such an error of judgement, have you ever sinned so greatly against a brother or sister in Christ in such a way that you wondered if you would ever be in their good graces again? That you knew, you just knew, that there was no way out of the mess you got yourself into, no matter what you would do? That’s a hard place to be. In that hardness of space, it seems that mercy is unobtainable, that forgiveness is impossible, that love and compassion are such unattainable ideas that you are left hopeless, helpless, for the idea that the relationship could be restored? You come up with ideas, ways to try to show your remorse and regret, hoping to maybe break down the wall you built.

We sometimes mistakenly allow that same fear we have about sinning against our brothers and sisters to carry into our perception of the Father in heaven. If my brother or sister in Christ can’t forgive me for the singular offense of what I did to him or her, then, we falsely conclude, the same must true of God who knows all – all – my sins and against whom all – all – my sins ultimately fall, and He finally declares “enough.” In this view, when we stand before God, we only see our own sins. The forgiven becomes the unforgivable. The mercied one becomes the one not worth mercy. The loved one becomes the unlovable.

Satan loves to tell us this view is the only view. He drags us into the valley of the shadow of death where all we can see is our sins, our unworthiness, our failures. The shadows lengthen and, surrounded by the darkness, we feel trapped with nowhere to go in the valley.

SO, what do you do when you are in the Valley of the shadow of death because of your sins, knowing you can’t restore the relationship with God no matter how you might live the rest of your life, and no matter how well you have done before. Your sin, your great and grievous sins against God, are there and they will otherwise prevent you from ever leaving the Valley of the shadow. What do you do?

You repent of your foolish, sinful arrogant pride. And, you trust His promises.

Go back to Moses for a minute. About mid-point in Deuteronomy, God had promised that He would send Israel another Prophet, one even greater than Moses, and this Prophet will do that which Moses could never do. It would take a long time, millenia, for the Prophet to come. This Prophet would be a human, like Moses, raised up from among Israel. He would be the perfect intermediator between God and man. With both words of Law and Gospel, He would speak the truth of the Lord God. Where Moses mediated the promise of grace and truth, grace and truth would come through this Prophet. Moses offered sacrifices for the sins of the people. This Prophet would offer Himself as the sacrifice. Moses’ covenant would come to an end when this Prophet would fulfil the once-for-all sacrifice, satisfying the Father’s wrath against man’s sin, and this Covenant would be without end.

Moses trusted this promise of God. Just as he would not set foot in the Promised Land, he would not see this Prophet with his own eyes. But, Moses had the promise of God. Faith is the substance of things hoped for and the evidence of things not seen, and Moses had faith that God’s promise of a prophet, of THE Prophet, would come about, in God’s time, in God’s way.

The Valley of the shadow of death is a lonely road, filled with desperation and despair. So God, in His mercy and compassion, which is without end, reaches into the valley and puts this Prophet on the road. The Prophet enters the Valley for us. The Valley road rises to another mountain. It wasn’t much of a mountain, really. It was more of a hill, on the outskirts of the city walls. If you were Roman, you called it Cavalry. If you were a Jew, you called it Golgatha. Translated, it meant the Place of the Skull. The Prophet, the sinless Son of God, would die on that mountain, raised up those who mocked and laughed and scorned Him. Instead of striking with His staff, He spoke, praying His Father’s forgiveness for those who crucified Him, finally declaring the payment price to be complete. With a final word, “It is finished,” His blood served as the propitiation, the covering, over all our sins.

When Moses stood on Mount Horeb, permitted by God to see the Promised Land, it was because God, for the sake of the Prophet to come, had mercy on Moses who trusted that very promise. In spite of his sins that deserved his eternal death, Moses trusted God would rescue him into eternity. That hilltop moment was a gift of mercy, a demonstration of God’s grace for sinners. Although Moses would not enter the earthly promised land, and he would die in his body, the eternal promised land was already his, and his sins of idolatry, anger, and foolishness were already redeemed by the Prophet who had not yet come.

Today is Transfiguration Sunday. Between Horeb and Golgatha was another mountain: we simply refer to it as the Mount of Transfiguration. Jesus would be transfigured; His clothes and appearance shining brightly in holiness. Moses would make an appearance there, along with Elijah, and they would speak with Jesus. Luke says it was about Jesus’ departure; Matthew describes it as Jesus’ exodus. Either way, the conversation is one about the cross. Peter wanted Jesus to stay up on the mountain where it was safe and sacred. Jesus would not stay on that mountain. He would descend into the valley of the shadow below, and then ascend to the holy city where He would be crucified, the sinless One for the sin-stained ones. 

That is what you do. When you realize you have sinned against your neighbors, your brothers and sisters in Christ, against people you don’t even know, and against God Himself, you stand at the hillside cross and repent of your sins, trusting the promises and words of God, that Jesus both entered that valley and hung on the cross for us, rescuing us and redeeming us from satan’s clutches. In His death, He paid your price. In His life, He promises your own resurrection. And, in joyful thanksgiving, you renew your battle against the devil, the world, and our flesh, trusting the promises of God for you in Christ Jesus your Lord. Amen. 

The Life of Discipleship: Mercy In - Mercy Out! Luke 6: 28-36

In this morning’s Gospel lesson, Jesus speaks to His faithful and offers us a glimpse of both discipleship and how the Kingdom of God comes to earth in Christ Jesus.

They sound almost like proverbs, these pithy statements of Jesus. A disciple is hated and responds with love. A disciple is cursed and responds with blessing. A disciple is abused and responds with prayer. At first glance, it seems this is to be a sermon on forgiveness, refusing to hold a sin against those who have sinned against us. That would be the Old Testament lesson from Genesis. But, then the narrative shifts slightly: when encountering a beggar, a disciple gives. When having things stolen, a disciple does not seek repayment. That’s not exactly speaking of forgiveness. And again, the narrative goes deeper: “love your enemies and do good, and expect nothing in return.” What is Jesus doing?

Again and again, in real-life situation after situation, Jesus reveals one principle that rules over all. Mercy. "Be merciful even as your Father is merciful" (6:36).

What delights me about this list is that these are only moments. Moments of mercy. I had a conversation with a person the other Sunday and I was asked how do people perceive us as Missouri Synod Lutherans. I’ve heard it said that people sometimes accuse Lutherans of having faith that is too much head or too much heart and not enough hands. One of the harshest comments I have every heard is we are the “frozen chosen.” I felt slightly vindicated when I googled the phrase and saw it applied across denominational lines, not just to Lutherans.  People want to see skin on your theology, so to speak. By listing a series of situations in rapid succession, Jesus overwhelms us with how practical, how real, how tangible, how concrete, how utterly achievable life as a disciple of Jesus in the kingdom can be.

Here’s the beauty: we don't need special skills to be a Christian. Having received mercy, we offer mercy. It’s a gift given to all of God’s people of great and overflowing measure. There is an old saying in academia: repititio est mater estudiorum – repetition is the mother of learning. So, mercy is repeated from God to us. Having repeatedly been mercied, that is, been given mercy, we share mercy to others. Filled with mercy; overflowing with mercy. Mercy in, mercy out.

Sociologists tell us that Americans are becoming more and more polarized, not only politically but socially. You know that; it’s no surprise. What’s sadly interesting, though, is that these polarizations are impacting our lives, across the board – not just with ideas, and not just social media, but in where we work, play, and even shop. More than ever, we are living in places that mirror our own ideas, ideals, political beliefs, religious ideas, and educational or professional standards. The danger of that is we aren’t seeing others as flesh-and-blood people, but as things to either win to our side or defeat. And, when confronted with people or ideas we don’t like, conventional wisdom says overwhelm and overcome.

It's a sad commentary that even the Ad Council is now running commercials encouraging people to practice compassion. You know what one of the most well-received non-food or beverage Super Bowl commercials was? The “He gets us,” campaign.

Jesus says we don't need to surround ourselves with only certain kinds of people. When confronted with anger, disparagement, and rejection, we suffer without vengeance. When coming across those who are homeless, helpless, and hopeless, we love without distinction. We continue to live in the world, but we do so fully invested in our daily lives because we know that the kingdom of God is present here. Anytime and everywhere, moments of mercy can break out in our world.

Look no further than the cross of Jesus. The Innocent one prayed for forgiveness of those who murdered Him. The beguiled one spoke words of eternal power to the man who, only moments earlier, mocked Him for being powerless. The dying Son commended His own mother into the loving hands of St. John. The King of the Jews, thirsty for righteousness, denied himself even a sip of water to slake His thirst, suffering in our place to the end. The Son of God, who sacrificed Himself for all of the world, pleaded for the Father’s mercy, only to be met with the silence of separation that we deserved. The Lamb of God, with His dying breath, delivered mercy to a world of sinners with His cry, “It is finished.”

The beauty of this is that moments of mercy can be quite powerful. God can use a moment of mercy to change a person's life.

We are soon approaching the season of Lent and we will again hear the Passion of Jesus, His crucifixion and death. When Jesus died, St. Matthew records that a centurion stood at the foot of the cross and confessed, “Truly, this Man was the Son of God.” According to tradition, the centurion’s name was Longinus and his confession was soon put to the test as Jewish and Roman leaders worked in concert to spread rumors that Jesus’ body was stolen by the disciples, not resurrected. Not only did Longinus refuse to be part of the scheme, he openly and publicly spoke of Jesus’ bodily resurrection. Later baptized, Longinus went to Cappadocia where he became a powerful evangelist even in the face of persecution by Jews and prosecution by the Roman government as a traitor. When he was finally trapped, he prepared a meal for his captors-to-be. Following in the footsteps of His Savior, Longinus said, “I am the man whom you seek,” and surrendered himself. He was taken to Jerusalem and, tradition says, he was martyred not far from where he made his first confession.

In the hand of God, one small act of mercy can be the beginning of new life for the lost.

To those fully schooled in the ways of the world, this way of the kingdom seems wrong. Backwards, at best; unfair and unjust at the worst. Our conventional wisdom says you should defend yourself, claim your rights, guard your possessions, and repay evil with evil. Fight dirty. Do unto others before they do it unto you. And if they do it to you first, then get even plus one. But in the kingdom of God, moments of mercy are the “wrong” that makes things right.

Consider how Christ made us children of the kingdom. He came to us in our sinfulness and bought our lives with his innocent suffering and death. As Luther reminds us, "he has redeemed me . . . not with gold or silver but with his holy, precious blood and with his innocent suffering and death." The death of Jesus is the wrong that makes things right.

God the Father sent his Son into our world to be the spring of his bountiful mercy. By his death and resurrection, Jesus opens a fountain of mercy that has a never-ending stream flowing from His side, to the Font. Just as water can awaken life in soil that has been dry and dead for years, so too God brings life in the wilderness of our world through moments of mercy.

This is important because we live in a world that has lost sight of mercy. Our culture is changing – not always for the better. We are a cancel culture. If you’ve not heard this term, in a cancel culture, if a moment of sin or error is uncovered, then the one who committed that sin is canceled: declared irrelevant, unimportant, not worthy of time and effort. Like a stamp that is cancelled, a cancelled person is seen as worthless. A text message from twenty years ago containing a racial slur is enough to cancel someone’s career. A poorly chosen social media post cancels someone from the cheer squad. It doesn't matter that a teenage boy or a young woman can grow and change and even repent of earlier actions. Society’s answer to sin is cancelation. Not forgiveness. And certainly not restoration.

In a cancel culture, the supposed cure, cancellation, actually kills. Cancellation purifies by exclusion. It sanctifies by silencing. And soon our streets will be filled with people who don't matter. If all our dirty laundry were aired, who among us isn’t deserving of cancellation?

Into such a world, Jesus speaks these words to his people. He awakens in our lives an echo of his grace. Repentance, forgiveness, new life are foreign concepts in a culture obsessed with canceling. But in the kingdom of God, these are the ways of God's working. So, it is a blessing not only for us but for our world that Jesus comes and speaks these words today.

He reminds us that the kingdom we live in is a kingdom of grace, filled with moments of life-changing mercy breaking out in our world. Having received mercy, we share mercy with those who need it most.

In Jesus’ name. Amen.