Trusting the Master's Mercy: Thy Will Be Done - Luke 16:1-11 & The Lord's Prayer

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

Monday morning, I stood in the NICU – neonatal intensive care unit – at Christus Spohn South Hospital in Corpus, looking at the smallest baby I’ve ever seen. His name is MJ and at birth he weighed one pound, nine ounces. To put that into perspective, his body weight equals one and a half boxes of butter, or 135 quarters, or six smart phones. His body isn’t much longer than your hymnal and his head is the size of a baseball. His diapers are the size of a Kleenex tissue. Even now, a week later, he has a breathing tube, heart monitors, a pulse ox sensor, and a couple other unidentified wires attached to his little body.

That morning, while mother was recuperating and resting from the event that brought the little fella into the world, the father and I stood at the incubator and watched MJ in wonder and amazement at a baby, so tiny and so little. The nurse gave me a small dropper of distilled water and reaching into the warm, sterile environment that was his home, I baptized him in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. For the previous two weeks we had prayed that the Lord would keep him safe in the mother’s womb and that he would continue to grow in the safety of her belly. Last Sunday evening, the Lord saw fit that little MJ was born at 24 weeks, sixteen weeks premature – a very risky situation. I don’t remember the exact words, but Monday morning, I choked out a prayer that just as the Lord had rescued and redeemed the child’s life through water and Word, the Lord would also preserve MJ’s life through that plastic cocoon so that he might grow. I concluded, “Thy will be done. Amen.”

Then, Wednesday afternoon, an old college friend made comments on his social media page that led me, and other friends, to believe he was having an economic, emotional, and spiritual crisis. From 2000 miles away, I prayed for his wellbeing, “Thy will be done.” Thursday, I watched with the news of the flooding from Houston to Beaumont and I was checking in with friends, praying their homes, businesses, livestock and churches would be preserved. “Thy will be done.”

“Thy will be done.” On the one hand, those four words are very freeing. It surrenders everything to the perfect will of God. My prayers may be selfish, they may be slap-dash, they may be misguided. But, carried by the Holy Spirit through Christ, the will of God shall be done. What if God’s will isn’t what we want? Because, on the other hand, those four words are terribly frightening.

Those four words are at the heart of Christian prayer. They are both words filled with faith and power, and, if we are honest, words that at times are filled with fear and angst. It’s easy to say them in this holy house on a Sunday morning like today when all is well and right in the world. It’s easy to say them when surrounded by brothers and sisters in Christ who join voices together with you, raising our sacred petitions together. It’s a whole ‘nother thing to say them at the bedside of an infant who already is fighting the battle of his short lifetime just to survive, surrounded by beeping machines, sterile equipment and hushed voices of nurses.

So, that’s the very crux, isn’t it? How do we surrender ourselves to the Lord’s will is in that moment? Do we dare commend that infant, or our grandmother on her deathbed, or our homes as floodwaters rise, or our marriage when it seems to be on the rocks, or our own well-being -  whatever the prayer request might be – how do we surrender that to the Lord’s will knowing full well that might not be what we really are asking for? How is it possible that, filled with faith, we entrust that petition to the Lord while at the same time being OK if His will is opposed to our own?

As I held that little water-filled tube over MJ’s tiny head, I couldn’t help but think of Abraham and Isaac. What must Abraham have been thinking as his own hand was suspended over his bound son? On the one hand, Abraham is willing to relinquish his own, only-begotten son whom he loves more than anything else. Yet, at the same time, Abraham is trusting the promise of God that through this son his offspring will outnumber the stars of the sky. That promise cannot happen without his son, who was already a promise fulfilled; but, God has commanded Abraham take his own son’s life. This, but that. It’s an absurd belief, a paradox of faith, trusting that while God demanded Isaac’s life, God would not take Isaac’s life.

Abraham isn’t alone. You remember the story of Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego. They are arrested and condemned to death in the burning furnace for failing to pray to King Nebuchadnezzar’s gold statue. In their own, “Thy will be done” moment, they tell Nebuchadnezzar, “If we are thrown into the blazing furnace, the God we serve…will deliver us from your Majesty’s hand. But even if He does not, we want you to know, your majesty, that we will not serve your gods or worship the image of gold you have set up,” (Dan. 3:17-18). Even as they hold dear to the promises of God, they simultaneously surrender their claims on their own lives. This, but that.

Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego are not alone. For you have prayed that prayer as well – maybe not in those same moments, but in your own moments, you have prayed “Thy will be done.” You know the tension. Yet, you pray it.

How is this prayer possible?

Those words, “thy will be done,” do something remarkable. This word, this prayer of Jesus creates the very faith that is necessary to both make the request and trust God’s answer. It’s no longer a throwaway petition, sort of a reverse psychological “wink” at God, a hail Mary of prayerful proportions. We cannot presume God’s actions but, like the steward in this morning’s Gospel lesson, we presume God will look upon us and act toward us in grace and mercy. “Thy will be done” is a deliberate submission to the perfect, omnipotent and omniscient will of God, surrendering the burdens that are too heavy for our own shoulders to bear to the strong arms of Jesus.

Abraham was prepared to sacrifice his son. Jesus would be the perfect Sacrifice made by the Father on our behalf. Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego were prepared to face the fiery furnace. Jesus would face the fiery wrath of God, to be consumed in the crucible of the cross. Jesus knew this terrible death was in store for Him. He knew this was His purpose, to be the atoning sacrifice to rescue and redeem God’s own creation, but still, when confronted with His mortality, Jesus prayed, “If possible, take this cup from me, yet not my will but thy will be done.” In his hour of need, even as He makes His request to God, He submits to the Father’s will. Jesus will go to the cross. Jesus will die. Jesus will redeem. Jesus will save.

You’ve heard the term “prayer warrior,” before. I’m not a big fan of the term, to be honest; it makes it sound as if one is doing battle with God and by your prayers you overwhelm and subdue Him. I would like to suggest another term. I once read of Abraham described a “knight of faith” (Soren Kirkegaard, Fear and Trembling; page unknown). I much prefer that picture of a knight, protected with faith in the blessings and promises of God, as we face the challenges and uncertainties of life.

So, when we stand at the bedside and intercede for a preemie baby, or we pray for the storm to stop and floodwaters to abate, or we pray for our family in the midst of conflict, or we pray that our burdened hearts might find peace, we do so as knights of faith, trusting that God will hear and He will make things right. We trust the mercy of God who has already acted by sending His Son to restore that which was broken.

There is a great paradox here – that we cling to God’s promises with both hands, but at the same time those hands are open. It’s called the theology of the cross. It seems backwards, this cross-living, but it’s the way of the Lord. There’s life through death. Victory comes through defeat. And so, one holds fast by letting go. But it is His will, which is done among us and, sometimes, even in spite of us, that He distributes great blessings.

Horatio Spafford was a Chicago area businessman. His only son died at age 4.  A year later, his estate was destroyed by the Great Chicago Fire of 1872. In 1873, he sent his wife and daughters on a European vacation, but half-way across the Atlantic, the ship sank. Only his wife survived, sending a simple two-word telegram home to her husband: “Saved. Alone.” He went to Europe to be with his wife, and when he returned his insurance company refused to pay damages for the fire that destroyed his newly rebuilt law offices, citing “An act of God” as their reasoning. Broke, without work, and having buried all of his children within a three year timespan, he wrote a poem to help himself come to grips with all that happened. He understood life under the cross. Whether in joy or hardship, in times of strength or times of helplessness, the Lord is still the same Lord who died – more than that, who lives! – sins paid in full.

He lives, oh, the bliss of this glorious thought;
My sin, not in part, but the whole,
Is nailed to the cross, and I bear it no more.
Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, O my soul!
It is well with my soul, it is well, it is well with my soul.

And, Lord, haste the day when our faith will be sight,
The clouds be rolled back as a scroll,
The trump shall resound and the Lord shall descend;
Even so, it is well with my soul.
It is well with my soul, it is well, it is well with my soul. (LSB #763)

Searching for the Lost Ones of Jesus - Luke 15:1-11

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and from our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Amen. The text is the Gospel lesson, the parables of the lost.

These parables are easy to understand. Jesus seeks out and finds the lost ones. But what do they look like in today’s world?

Wayne was an elder of his church and had been for a long time. Melinda was a member of the church, but hadn’t been in church for a long time.[1] When the new pastor arrived, at the first elder’s meeting, they went through the membership list and gave a little information about each member, some more than others. When it came to Melinda, though, the men couldn’t say too much. Her kids had moved away and then her husband had passed about ten years earlier – or was it fifteen? – and that was probably the last time she had been in church. She lived over on that side of town, so no one really drove by that often, and when they did the yard was overgrown and the house needed paint. In fact, they weren’t even sure she still lived there. Then came the question: “What should we do about her, Pastor?”

The pastor was young and he was new, so he mumbled something that he hoped sounded pastoral about let’s pray about it and talk about it again next meeting, all the while hoping no one would mention Melinda again.

It wasn’t that he didn’t care for Melinda and the others members who, like Melinda, had drifted away from the church. It wasn’t that he doubted God’s love for her, or that she, at one time at least, had confessed Christ as her Lord and Savior. He knew full well the danger that the lost faced – that is the unstated danger in Jesus’ parable of the Lost Sheep. The devil loves to get Christians off by themselves, cull them from the herd so to speak, getting a sheep away from the watchful eye and care of the under-shepherd pastor, making it easier to further weaken their faith, making it easier for him to pick off Jesus’ little lamb and claim her as his own victim. The pastor knew all of this, that the lost one was in danger of not just being lost but being cut off from Jesus, losing faith and getting to a point where faith ceased to exist – not just lost from a congregation, but lost from Christ eternally. The pastor knew all of this.

The fact was that the pastor was scared. Yes, he was scared. He was scared to approach Melinda. To him, she was a stranger; to her, he would also be a stranger. No one else from church had been successful in convincing her to come back to the church; why should he expect anything different. For that matter, what was he supposed to say? He was in high school the last time she was in church, that’s a lot of water under the bridge. What if he was rejected by this woman? What if she told other people about his miserable attempt to visit with her?  If he didn’t succeed at winning her back, what would the elders think? What would the congregation think?

So, when Melinda’s name occasionally came up in a meeting, the pastor listened, nodded wisely, and said he planned to visit “one of these days.”

One afternoon, about a year later, there was a knock on the office door and then Wayne stuck his head in and asked if he could talk for a little bit. He sat down in an office chair and, after a little bit of nervous chit-chat, he finally said, “Pastor, I stopped to see Melinda today. Actually, I’ve been stopping by pretty regularly to try and see her. I would knock, and when no one would answer, I would slide a bulletin under her door and leave a recording of the service in her box. Today, when I knocked, she answered the door. She recognized me and invited me in. We talked about an hour, reminiscing and catching up. And she asked me to give you a message. She asked that you please come see her as soon as possible, to bring your communion kit, and that I come along. Tomorrow works for me, how about you?”

The next afternoon, Melinda met Wayne and the pastor at her door with a huge smile, and with a hug for each of the men, she welcomed them into her home. Wayne and Melinda sat on opposite ends of an old, plastic-covered sofa; the pastor sat in a rump-sprung rocking chair. The conversation was warm, gentle, friendly and casual.  Finally, Melinda looked at the pastor and with an intensity in her voice asked, “Pastor, may we have the Lord’s Supper together? It’s been oh, so long…” He prepared the Sacrament and the three began the liturgy together. They spoke the common confession together, “Oh, Almighty God, merciful Father, I a poor miserable sinner confess unto Thee…” When they finished, before the pastor could speak, she held up her hand. “I’m not done,” she said. “I confess that I have sinned against God and against my brothers and sisters in Christ by staying away. I confess my anger and frustration that no one came to see me when I was hurting. I confess my jealousy at all who gathered every Sunday without me. I am sorry, I am so sorry.” She began to weep. “Lord, have mercy on me a sinner.” The pastor stood, crossed the room, and knelt in front of her, and placed his hands on her head. Calling her by name, he spoke the words of absolution to her and repeated them as well for Wayne. Taking the bread and the cup, he blessed them and gave them to Wayne and Melinda, and then to himself. With a final benediction, the simple service was complete. A short time later, as Wayne and the pastor prepared to leave, she said she hoped the pastor would come again; the pastor promised he would be back.

They drove in silence for a little while, as if neither man wanted to break the holiness of the moment they had shared with Melinda. Finally, the pastor spoke, commending Wayne for his faithfulness as an elder, not giving up on the one who had been lost. But, the pastor had to ask, why did he keep trying so hard to reach out to Melinda when, it seemed, everyone else had written her off as lost? Wayne didn’t answer until they parked at the church. “Let me tell you about my son, Nathan,” he said. Nathan was baptized as a baby, went to Sunday school every week and was confirmed on his 14^th birthday. He was a good boy, a good son. Then, he got into drugs and alcohol, fast cars and faster women. By the time he was 20, he told his dad that he wanted nothing to do with his Dad’s “Jesus talk,” or his religion anymore. By the time he was 22, he told his dad he didn’t want to see him ever again. “That was 23 years ago,” Wayne said, “and I haven’t heard from him since. So, every night I pray that the Lord doesn’t give up on my son and that somewhere, somehow, He uses someone to search out and find my son so that maybe I’ll see him in the resurrection. If I pray that the Lord sends someone for my son, the least I can do is be that someone for somebody else.”

That afternoon, before I climbed out of Wayne’s truck, we prayed together. We rejoiced that the lost had been found and Melinda was being restored. And we prayed that Nathan might also be found, that he might repent, and that he and his father might also be restored.

Jesus is the Good Shepherd. He seeks out to rescue and redeem the lost, sinners who desperately realize how much they need a Savior because they can’t save themselves. Jesus left everything and everyone behind, to put Himself in harm’s way – in death’s way! – so that what was lost can be saved and returned to the fold. The rescue effort cost Him His life, but His perfect death and resurrection saves repentant sinners and it opens the way for celebration to take place when the entire body of Christ, in heaven and on earth, rejoices when a sinner returns. The Shepherd carries the broken, binds him or her up with His loving mercy, and carries the loved one back to the flock. There’s time out, no being ostracized for a while to think about what a bad sheep he or she has been. The sheep is welcomed back into full fellowship. What was lost is found.

The Lord uses many ways of seeking and finding, of restoring and welcoming. Sometimes, yes, through direct means. More often, He uses the church, the body of Christ and, like that woman who seeks out the lost coin, the church seeks out the greatest treasure entrusted to her: the lost sinner. That fall day, the Lord used a faithful layman named Wayne to restore a wandering saint. The Lord used an unsure and uncertain me to deliver that sure and certain Word of absolution and forgiveness, in Word and Sacrament, to a burdened soul.

We – you and I - are part of the body; we – you and I - are the church in this place. Look around; look at the empty seats in the pews. Each empty spot is waiting for a lost soul - for some who have been part of the body of Christ, for some who are not yet part of the body of Christ - that is wandering and lost, in danger of being lost forever. You and I – with our fears and anxieties, with our rough-around-the-edges style and mannerisms, with imperfect words, yes; but, also with our Spirit-given care and compassion, armed with prayer and with the light of the Word that shines into the darkness, we will seek those who are lost and when they are found, we will welcome them to the fold again. For the wounded, we will cover them with the peace of Christ. For the broken, we will be a safe place to heal. For those who have been adrift, we will hold on to them. We will speak truth, but we will do so with compassion. We will show grace to those who hurt. We will show love to those who are afraid. We will walk with the lonely. Why? Because we are the body of Christ.

Searching for the lost doesn’t always have a happy ending. In the years since first visiting Melinda, I’ve been told to not come back, or even not to visit at all. I’ve even had people curse God. But this did have a happy ending. It was a Sunday morning, a few weeks later, when I heard a hubbub at the door of the sanctuary. There she was, Melinda, pushing her walker, trying to get into the church but she couldn’t. She was being welcomed back as a long-lost friend.

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[1] This is a conflation of two stories, both true, that have happened in my ministry. Except for mine, the names are changed.

The Cross of Discipleship - Luke 14:25-33

Jesus has been speaking of what it is to be a disciple. He does so by way of a simple parable: A man hosted a banquet and when everything was ready, when the party was ready to start, no one was there. He sent servants out to remind his guests of the invitation but, one by one, the guests beg off because they can’t make the party. The excuses vary but the end result is the same: they simply can’t make it.

I cannot come to the banquet, don’t bother me now;
I’ve married a wife, I’ve bought me a cow.
I have fields and commitments that cost a pretty sum -
Pray, hold me excused, I cannot come…

Irate, the host cancels their invitations and tells the servants to drag anyone off the streets and bring them all – the blind, the poor, the lame - to the celebration. The ones who seem to be unworthy become the worthy. The ones who seemed to be worthy and who had been extended an invitation are rejected. Why? Because they did not see the gift of discipleship that Jesus had been offering. They thought discipleship was about positions of power, a loaf of bread on every table, and being the greatest in the kingdom. They were precisely backwards.

The word “disciple” simply means “student” or “follower.” A disciple, a student is never greater than his master. In that day and age, students literally followed their teachers while they walked around. The fancy word is peripatetic – to teach while walking. Rabbis lead; disciples followed. But the pharisees had it backwards. They thought they could tell Jesus what their discipleship should look like, that they could make exceptions to the rules, that they should lead and Jesus should follow.

But it wasn’t just pharisees. Many of those in the crowds who were following Jesus had the same mindset. After all, here was One who was a great miracle worker, a great teacher, a man with gravitas – following after Him should bring all sorts of health, wealth and happiness…right?

Wrong. Discipleship isn’t easy. Whether it’s the prosperity gospel preachers of 2019 or the glory-hungry crowds that followed in Jesus’ footsteps in ancient Jerusalem, we do not get to set the terms on discipleship. It’s simply not possible, not is it permissible, to come to Jesus with explicit, up-front expectations of what discipleship is and our demands of what discipleship will give to us.

“If anyone comes after me and does not hate his own father and mother and wife and children and brothers and sisters, yes, and even his own life, he cannot be my disciple. Whoever does not beat his own cross and come after me cannot be my disciple.” (v. 26-27)

We’re not very good at cross-bearing. At least, I don’t think we are as a society, as a culture, and even as the North American church. We’ve been told for so long in our day-to-day routine that we can have it all at little or no cost and, simply, that’s not true. In fact, Jesus speaks plainly: if you don’t hate your parents, spouse, and kids and even your own life, you can’t follow me. Now, he is using something that is technically called “dialectical negation,” a type of hyperbole, where he is overstating a negative to demonstrate the power of the positive. Jesus is the Lord of love and, as C.S. Lewis says, He is not telling us to resent our family members or treat them spitefully. Jesus is pointing out the seriousness of discipleship: He is Lord and to follow Him means everything else takes a definite second place, even being willing to surrender everything else.

Do you get what Jesus is saying? No one is able to come to Jesus, to follow Him as a disciple, with our own explicit, up-front list of expectations and reservations. We can’t say, “Well, Jesus, I want to be a disciple, but I want you to know up front that my parents are really the most important people to me.” Jesus says you can’t do that. We can’t say, “I’m excited to begin this new life of discipleship, Jesus, but I’m not really into suffering, especially if I have to risk my friends, my job, and my good reputation I’ve worked so hard to attain.” Jesus says you can’t do that. We can’t say, “I’m willing to give up almost anything, but if my life’s on the line, then I may have to reconsider.” Jesus says you can’t do that.

You can only be a disciple of Jesus if you allow Him to set the pace, to guide the journey, to make the agenda. Disciples follow, remember? You cannot be His disciple on your terms. He will not accept that kind of discipleship because that’s not discipleship. That’s not following. That’s trying to lead. You don’t know the pace He will set; you don’t know where the journey will lead; you don’t know what the agenda will be. You don’t know when, or where, or why you may have to bear a cross.

A cross is not something you chose. A cross is laid upon you. Likewise, a cross isn’t an inconvenience, or a result of a bad decision, or a difficult family situation. Tobacco use, alcoholism, chronic pain – these are difficulties in life, yes, but they are not crosses as Jesus speaks of crosses.

Crosses kill. They are instruments of suffering and death. To take up your cross is to take up your death. You can’t follow Jesus without a cross. His way is the way of death and resurrection. It stands to reason that if you can’t die, you can’t rise, and if you can’t rise, well, you’re kind of stuck in your unredeemable mess. That’s the problem with the angels. They can’t die. So if you want to follow Jesus in the way He’s going, then you need to pick up that cross of yours, and go the way of death and resurrection with Him. Suddenly, this business of being a disciple doesn’t sound like so much fun anymore, does it? It sounds dangerous, deadly even.

It's no wonder that many turn away from Jesus. The crowds that were following Jesus in the middle of Luke soon began to turn away. It won’t be long that their cries go from Hosanna to Crucify Him. They don’t like discipleship. They don’t like the cross.

Remember, His face is set to Jerusalem. Jesus has His cross front and center in His gaze.

Jesus bears the cost of discipleship. That’s the good news hidden in today’s Gospel. Jesus bears the cost. He lays down His life to save the world. He becomes the world’s Sin. He dies our Death. He did not count equality with God something to be held like a treasure but emptied His grasp of all that He had to go to His own death on a cross. Jesus counted the cost of being the world’s Savior. Jesus counted the cost of rescuing you from your Sin and Death. And it was worth every drop of His holy, precious blood to save you. He gave up everything that was His – His honor, glory, dominion, power, His entire life – and for the joy of your salvation, He set His face to Jerusalem to die. He took up His cross to save you.

He didn’t ask you to choose Him. He chose you. He baptized you. He called you by His Spirit. He put you on the path of life before you even so much as twitched. You were dead and God made you alive in Christ. You were dead and God rebirthed you by water and Spirit. He placed His cross upon you, on your forehead and your heart, in token that you have been redeemed by Christ the crucified. You were captive to Sin and Death, and God made you free in Christ. Before you believed, before you were born, before you ever were, Christ was your Savior and Lord and Redeemer. You didn’t choose Him; He chose you. He laid His cross on you, not to kill you, but to bring you life

That’s where you need to be looking: not your cross, but His. This is what it means to trust. That is to say, we become disciples only by faith. And faith takes us to The Cross.

But you know there will be a cross. Discipleship says, while under the cross that has been placed upon us, I know Jesus is my savior and the Holy Spirit has brought me to faith in Him.