What's in Your Lamentations? - Lamentations 3: 22-33

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

Today is a first for me. In 21 years of ministry, I have never preached from Lamentations. Come to think of it, I am not sure I’ve heard a sermon from Lamentations. Have you? I doubt it. That’s in part because Lamentations only appears once in our 3-year lectionary: today, on the 5^th Sunday after Pentecost, year B. The next time you’ll hear from Lamentations, unless you read it yourself – which I do encourage, by the way – will be three years from today. But that’s only part of the reason why Lamentations doesn’t get much pulpit time. If you’ve ever read the book, you might understand why. If you’ve not read the book, the name itself, Lamentations, gives you a clue to its content with its root word, lament. A lament is a verbal description of suffering, affliction, and humiliation. It’s not always a request for its removal; sometimes it’s a catharsis, an emotional enema, as my undergrad advisor would say, pouring out the pain of the soul.  

It’s a tough, tough book to read and preach because it’s a book of lament. We don't like laments. We don't deal well with laments. In fact, we would rather do almost anything than have to sit and be present with someone who laments.  

Historically, Lamentations was read annually on the 4^th Sunday of Lent in the old, common lectionary. In the 8^th Century, selections from Lamentations were read throughout Holy Week. Those placements made sense, as Lent was a season of lamentation, considering the suffering and affliction that our sins have caused, and especially as we read of our Lord’s own laments in the Garden and at the cross.

Yet, here we are, a third of the way into the Pentecost season, with this reading from Lamentations. But, perhaps it is good that we are reading this text today for one, chief reason: suffering, and the Christian’s cries and prayers to God in the midst of that suffering, have no time constraints, for pain – emotional, physical, mental, and spiritual pain – has no limit in breadth, width, depth or time. God’s people hurt – not just during Lent. And we lament – not just during Holy Week. That was true of Jairus for his dying daughter. It’s true of us. Our lamentations rise to God – not just during the liturgically purple season, but any and every time as well. When questioned by the mysterious Man in Black about the death of her fiancée, the Princess exclaimed, “You mock my pain!” Immediately, the Man in Black snapped, “Life is pain, highness.”[1] Lamentations describes that pain, no matter when or where it strikes.

You hear it in the voice of Jeremiah, the Lamenter, as he returns to Jerusalem. “How lonely sits the city that was full of people! How like a widow she has become, she who was great among the nations! She who was a princess among the provinces has become a slave,” (1:1). The beauty of the city, the majesty of the city of David, the glory of the Temple of God was all gone and the people – God’s people, the people of Israel, the sons and daughters of Abraham – exiled into servitude. And Jeremiah laments.

But it’s not a mystery as to why this all happened. Jeremiah knows – even the people know! This has happened because of Israel’s unfaithfulness to God. “Jerusalem sinned grievously; therefore she became filthy…” (1:8a). The Lord had been gracious, holding back His own anger against His people, patiently calling them to repentance again and again through the mouths of the prophets. There were times of repentance and renewal, times of faithfulness, but then the pendulum would swing back, a little further each time, until the Lord declared it was enough.

And, make no mistake, it was the Lord who did this. Jeremiah makes no bones about it, that the Lord has brought about this suffering, chaos and destruction. “The Lord has afflicted her,” (1:5) he said. The fire, the destruction, the death – He caused it all, giving Israel what was deserved for her sins.

You can almost imagine Jeremiah wandering through the city, walking through the once-proud walls, stepping over rubble, strewn pieces of pottery and long-dead fires, passing by corpses left to be buried by the dust of the air because no one was there to cover them. “Zion stretches out her hand,” he laments, “but there is none there to comfort her,” (1:17). And, then he comes to the high point of Jerusalem, to the pinnacle of Mount Zion where the Temple stood, the sacred Holy of Holies stands, ripped open and desecrated, the presence of God long since departed. “The Lord has become like an enemy; he has swallowed up Israel; he has swallowed up all its palaces; he has laid in ruins its strongholds, and he has multiplied in the daughter of Judah mourning and lamentation. He has laid waste his booth like a garden, laid in ruins his meeting place; the Lord has made Zion forget festival and Sabbath, and in his fierce indignation has spurned king and priest. The Lord has scorned his altar, disowned his sanctuary…” (2:5-6).

And, as Jeremiah turns and looks around, down the streets and he smells and hears and touches and even tastes the destruction in the air, Jeremiah laments, “Look, O Lord, and see!... In the dust of the streets lie the young and the old; my young women and my young men have fallen by the sword; you have killed them in the day of your anger, slaughtered them without pity,” (2:20a, 21b).

Most of us are of Germanic or Czech roots. We are notoriously stoic with upper lips that have been stiffened by generations of European and American stoicism. So, do yourself a favor. When you read Lamentations – and, again, I encourage you to do so; it’s so important that the Holy Spirit saw fit to include it’s brief 5 chapters in the Sacred Scriptures – when you read Lamentations, do it slowly. Do it deliberately. In fact, read it out loud, without worrying what others might think, because that’s how ancient Hebrew poetry was meant to be utilized – out loud, so the words could be fully experienced, the feelings emoted, the pain and the grief they carry delivered to the soul.

It’s important to do this, because Lamentations teaches us how to bear afflictions, how to lament, as people of God. Wait, you say, we know how to lament; we do it all the time. But, do we? Conventional wisdom teaches us that lamenting is all about woe is me.  We’re good at wailing, hollering, carrying on and pitching a fit to gain attention. But the object of this is the unholy trinity of me, myself and I. The world’s idea of grieving turns us inward, to try to find answers to our grief from within. But, if we look to ourselves in the depths of despair, our strength is about like sand in the water or dandelions in the wind: worthless, meaningless, hope-less. If my faith is based on my faith, and my faith is fading fast, that is not of much value. Even Jeremiah agrees: “My endurance has perished; so has my hope from the Lord.”

So, Jeremiah, with his Lamentations, he teaches us how to have hope during these things: our afflictions, and our suffering, and our humiliation. Instead of pointing at me, myself and I for the answers to our sorrows, Jeremiah the Lamenter points us to God and to His promises. He laments to God, “Remember my affliction and my wanderings, the wormwood and the gall. My soul continually remembers it and is bowed down within me, but this I call to mind, and therefore I have hope…” (3:19-21), and then he speaks the words of our text.

Open your bulletin; look at these words with me, look where hope is placed.  Look at the words: steadfast love – whose love? The Lord’s! - it never ceases; mercies – whose mercies? The Lord’s - that never end; His mercies are renewed every morning; great is your faithfulness. Our translation next reads, “The Lord is my portion.” A better way to understand that is “The Lord is my everything.” The Lord is good to those who wait for Him, to the soul who seeks Him. It is good that one should wait quietly for the salvation of the Lord. Over and over, Jeremiah points to God, turning, returning to God and what He knows of God and His goodness.

Again, St. Paul will say that suffering produces character, and character produces hope. God uses suffering to purify His people, to restore His people, for His purpose. In suffering, everything else is stripped away, except Him. He is brought into sharp focus. He gives hope. That is the only hope. To have that hope in the midst of that kind of loss, when you’re wandering through the rubble, stepping over corpses, remembering what was and seeing what is, to have that hope takes faith of incredible proportions.

For Jeremiah, and the ones returning from Exile, it would be faith in the promises of God, even while standing among a destroyed city. Israel would have to wait, quietly raising their lamentations for the salvation of the Lord. You and I, we sit quietly – sometimes in our homes, sometimes in hospitals, sometimes in the office of a banker, or lawyer, or doctor, sometimes in solitude, sometimes in a crowd, sometimes at the grave of a dearly departed, and we offer our laments. But these laments are always grounded in the hope of the One who not only hears, but who bore the laments of the world upon Himself. Jesus would sit alone in near silence, speaking only seven times from the cross, as the sins which caused the laments of the world were placed upon Him. He was whipped, beaten, and insulted, and exiled, separated from His own Father. We hear our Lord’s own laments, “Father, if it is possible, take this cup from me,” culminating with “Ali, Ali, lamma sabacthani – My God, My God, why hast thou forsaken me?”

And, the Lord, “The Lord will not cast off forever,” (3:31). “It is finished,” remember? On the third day, the One who was cast off, cast down, and cast away was raised to life by the Father who once rejected Him. And, in accepting that sacrifice, and in giving His only begotten Son life again, we have hope, hope for life – life now, even in our laments, and life into eternity when we will lament no more. Jeremiah teaches us to lament, in hope, through faith in Christ Jesus who lamented for us and in whom we rejoice.

“The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. The Lord is my portion,” says my soul, “therefore I will hope in him” (3:22-24). Those words, once spoken by a prophet in lament over a destroyed city, are now spoken by us. Those words and promises ground our life in times of lament, they form our worship with joy, they locate our witness to a world that does not understand, and they direct our hope, through faith, in Christ. And they remind us how good it is to wait quietly for the salvation of the Lord. Amen. 

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[1] From The Princess Bride, c. 1987

"Don't You Care?" - Mark 4: 35-41

 

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

“Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?” Among the disciples were seasoned fishermen, but even they were frightened by the windstorm that had blown up. The boat was taking on water and starting to fill. Drowning is a frightening way to die. In that day and age, it was magnified by the idea that if you drowned, you were going into the abyss, the realm of the demons. Drowning was not only physical death but had eternal implications as well.

If you need help imagining this scene, the artist Rembrandt painted a picture about 400 years ago with his idea of what it looked like. He called it simply “The Storm on the Sea of Galilee.” In his picture some men fight the ship, some appear to fight the storm, some, it seems, are fighting Jesus, waking him from sleep, while collectively, they all fight for their lives. “Do you not care that we are perishing?” The question isn’t just reserved for passengers on a boat in the middle of a storm-tossed ocean. It’s one of the existential questions of our time, perhaps the greatest question of all time, and it’s a question that is asked still today, even by those of us who never get in deeper water than a bathtub.

We ask it in our personal lives when the waves of crisis break over us. Dad’s doctor says that he has only a few hours left to live; a day or two at max. I’m over-extended, the savings are gone, and I’m going bankrupt. It’s been 22 months and I still don’t have a job. What do you mean, you don’t love me anymore and you’ve found someone else? Ours is a modern day story of Job, and like him, we turn to the heavens and cry out to God, trusting He promises to hear, but wondering why He is so slow to answer, “I’m perishing, here! Do you not care?”  

We ask it as the winds of the world blow and threaten to knock us over. Nations practice brinksmanship to see who will blink first. Three more shootings this past week. True story, our oldest daughter was just a block or two away from where the bullets were flying in Austin last week...kinda takes the breath away finding that out.  The virus seems to not want to quit, and the very topic drives wedges between family, friends, and coworkers. There is terrible drought along the west coast while the upper Gulf coast cleans up from another flood event. All the while, society seems to slide further and faster toward Gomorrah.

We ask the question as storms swell and threaten to overwhelm, even in the church. We see brothers and sisters in Christ speak in anger and not in gentleness. We hear people assume the worst from what was done in love. There is gossip about others, talking and texting behind people’s backs and listening with itching ears, hoping for something to save for a later day. Some hearts grow hard, refusing to repent until the other one apologizes first, our Old Adam’s game of sanctified brinksmanship. Polls tell us that nationwide, the Christian faith is on the decline with church attendance, participation and offerings are all at record lows. Churches close, pastors resign, and parishioners are left wondering.

As the storm swirling around and, water poured into the boat; as hands fought to save the boat and crew while other hands were wringing in worry, the disciples found their Lord Jesus was asleep, resting comfortably, completely unconcerned and unencumbered by the roaring chaos. Their eyes see what is happening, and their hearts are filled with dread while also angry at his complete peace. It’s almost as if they are rebuking the Savior, as they demand of him, “Do you not care?”

It feels that way for us, too. In our losses, and our hurts, and our fears, and our experiences, we turn to the Lord, our words echoing the disciples, “Do you not care that we are perishing? Do you not care that mankind is perishing? Do you not care that your church is perishing?”

Why? Why were the disciples so afraid? They were afraid of the wind and the waves. But, why? The God of Creation is literally mere feet from them, in the stern of the boat. They are afraid of dying. But, why? They have the Lord of Life resting comfortably and peacefully, literally entrusting His own life into the hands of His Heavenly Father. All the while they scramble like – well, like drowning men. They were afraid of going to the other side, to the Gentile world, to the Decapolis, where bad things and bad people lived. They have the One who speaks and even the demons obey.

Jesus speaks, rebuking the wind and ordering peace to the sea. In the Scriptures, rebuke is a call of repentance. Peace is a word of restoration and wholeness. It may seem strange to us, to hear Jesus rebuking the wind and pacifying the seas, calling creation to repentance and restoration, but He is restoring creation. Literally, Jesus, who is the Word made flesh, who once spoke order into the nothingness of nothing in Genesis again speaks order into the chaos of the storm. With the same powerful voice that taught and healed and drove out demons, He calms the storm. From the great storm comes great calm.

Jesus speaks again, this time rebuking the disciples. “Why are you so afraid,” He said. “Have you still no faith?” This is interesting: Mark uses the word “great” three times in these verses: in v. 37, it was a great windstorm; then, in v. 39, there was great calm. Now, Mark says the disciples were filled with great fear and questioned who this was standing before them. They were afraid before, of the wind and waves, of drowning, even of their Gentile destination. But this…this was different. They way Jesus spoke to creation, the way Jesus calmed the storm, it was reminiscent of the Old Testament. Why were they so afraid? Their question was rhetorical: they knew exactly who He was. They knew the Scriptures. They knew the Psalms. They knew the prophets. He spoke with the power of God as of old because He was, is, and will forever be God. And they missed it. With faith absent, they had rebuked God and with the storm now dissipated and dissolved, there was God standing with them in the boat with nothing to protect them from their own foolishness.  

If you don’t know that the answer to the second question, “Who is this?” is Jesus, the Christ, then the first question, “Do you not care?” becomes even more terrifying. All he could be is a man who has empathy for his friends. But when this Man is also God enfleshed, when it is Jesus, the Savior, when it is the One who is the fulfillment of all of God’s promises to His people of old, then it is obvious.

Teacher, don’t you care? Of course, I do. I have rebuked the wind for you. I have delivered peaceful seas for you. I have rescued you. And, more than that, I am with you – both in storm and in calm. But, teacher, don’t you care? Of course, I do. What if I told you that you are already perishing in your sins and trespasses. The entire reason I became incarnate is because I care. The reason I teach about the kingdom of God being fulfilled is because I care. The reason I am heading to the cross is because I care. The reason I will rise from the grave is that I care. I care now and into eternity, and that care for you will never end.

Now, let me turn the question to you: why are we so afraid? There are lots of excuses: we are afraid of losing our property, our health, our lives; we are afraid of losing our status, our jobs, our families; we’re afraid of what people think of us and how they might treat us; we are afraid of losing our place in society, our place in the world, our tax-exempt status. We could extend that list ten-fold without even working up a good sweat. They are all excuses; they are all symptoms of the real issue. The real issue, the core sin that leads us to cry out, “Teacher, do you not care?” is that we do not trust Jesus and the power of His Word of promise, of life, and of rescue.

As He rebuked the winds, and spoke to the sea, and asked the disciples, so also Jesus calls us to repentance. He calls us away from all those excuses that get in the way between Him and us and He calls us back to His Word. He calls us to lift our eyes from things temporal and instead to look into eternity. As the metaphorical storms of this life swirl around us, know that He is with us no matter if they rage or if they are silenced; if they are great or small. So, what do we do when we feel like we are about to be overwhelmed, or as if Jesus doesn’t care?  

If you look at Rembrandt’s painting this afternoon, notice all of the details: The boat is riding high on a wave, with whitecaps crashing against the hull of the ship and spraying into the air. At the front of the ship, four professional fishermen are fighting, tooth and nail, to save the ship. Two other men are hanging on to guy ropes, clinging for dear life. One is hanging over the side, feeding the fish. One man has his back to Jesus but is hunched over, as if in prayer. If you look closely, in the shadows, there is a ghostly figure; one gets the idea he is praying to an unknown diety – strange, since Jesus is only a few feet away. One man is steering the boat, and Jesus is sitting at his feet. Three men, all with differing body language, face Jesus – one wringing his hands while looking out over the wind-swept water; one grabbing Jesus’ robe, as if demanding something; one with hands outstretched, as if pleading. It’s interesting – furthest away from Jesus, the storm rages: waves are huge, white-capped, foaming monsters, men are fighting creation for survival; nearer to Jesus, the storm is less intense but the men seem to be fighting against Jesus Himself.

Count the men in the boat, and you discover fourteen men: four up front, two hanging on, one steering, one getting sick, one praying to a strange diety, three facing Jesus – that accounts for the 12 disciples. Number 13 is Jesus. So, who is mystery man #14? Art historians tell us that Rembrandt liked to paint himself into his religious paintings, but in an unassuming way so that it would be easy to overlook him if you didn’t look closely. His robe is dark brown and blends in to the boat and the various accoutrements – ropes, buckets, and so on. But if you look closely, you notice two things: one, he is bowed at Jesus feet in prayerful homage and faithful reverence. You know this because, two, Rembrandt painted a faint halo around his head.

Rembrandt was pointing his viewers, reminding them, urging them to humbly sit at the feet of Jesus. Even if it seems He is asleep, He is not; He is fully aware of what is happening. Even if it seems He does not care, He cares deeply – enough to be with us, even in the midst of our suffering and struggles. Even if it seems we are perishing, Jesus will care for us into eternity.

There is one more detail I want to draw your attention to: Jesus is looking ahead. Ahead is the cross. There are two crosses in Rembrant’s painting: the first is the mast of the ship and it’s yardarm. But at the peak of the mast is a flag flapping in the wind. It’s also emblazoned with the cross. The cross is the place where Jesus demonstrated His great love for us by giving Himself as the world’s sacrifice for sin. The cross marks us as children of God in our baptism. And, as children of God, we live – we sail, so to speak – under the cross of Jesus, following it wherever Jesus leads us.

The Forgivable, Unforgivable Sin - Mark 3: 20-35

He said his name was Ernesto, but everyone called him Ernie. Actually, the name he said everyone called him, I can’t repeat in polite company. He said I could call him Ernie. Ernie was about my size, a little over 6 feet tall. He had black hair that fell past his shoulders, tattoos up both forearms that looked like he could straighten out horseshoes by hand. Physically, he looked like he could be a middle linebacker for the Texans, a bouncer at the toughest bar in town, a motorcycle gang rider, an oilfield roughneck, and either an undercover cop or the guy the undercover cop was trying to bust. His voice was such a low rumble that it had to come from between his ankles and his knees. While it was a soft voice, he spoke so powerfully that whatever words passed by his mustache and goatee, you knew it was important. In a word, he was tough looking dude.

And, he sat in my office crying like a child who woke up at midnight, terrified of the dark. His job had kept him out of church for several weeks, so he had been listening to the radio and a preacher who preached about Jesus’ words, “Whoever blasphemes the Holy Spirit never has forgiveness, but is guilty of an eternal sin.” Even as he was telling me this story, Ernesto’s voice cracked and he had to stop for a moment. Finally, he got to the crux of his burdened conscience: “…and I am afraid I have done sinned against the Holy Spirit and I am going to hell.” He hung his massive head in his massive hands, and his massive shoulders shook with the massive pain and fear he was experiencing.

Any time Jesus speaks words of punishment, it leaves us with an uneasy feeling. But, usually, there is a word of hope for a child of God to cling to. For example, when the woman comes to Jesus and begs Him to show mercy and He dismisses her as a dog, she turns in hope, “But even a dog gets the crumbs that fall from the table.” There is usually a word to cling to, but when He speaks so clearly of eternal damnation, it is absolutely terrifying. And, Ernesto was terrified.

Jesus isn’t speaking into a vacuum. This is early in His ministry. In Mark’s Gospel, Jesus has healed many, He has preached and taught, He has called the disciples to follow Him. Meanwhile, the crowds grow as Jesus’ popularity starts to rise. They begin to follow after Him, pursuing Him so vehemently that even when He goes home, He can’t even eat. His family thinks He is delusional. The reason is unclear in Mark’s reading: perhaps they think He is shirking responsibilities as first-born son; perhaps they are displeased that he has become an itinerant rabbi; perhaps they have heard He is being labeled as Messiah and doesn’t seem to be denying that idea; perhaps there is jealousy, the idea he’s getting too big for his britches. But, the family isn’t the only ones doubting Him. The scribes go so far as to label Him, not God’s anointed but instead as Satan’s instrument.

It’s an old game – if you want to get rid of someone, discredit them. In today’s culture, it’s called “cancelling” someone – literally, you shame them into social non-existence so that they have the value of a cancelled stamp. Twist their own words. Take a sound-byte out of context and you can make anyone say almost anything you want to. It doesn’t even have to be openly said – just a whisper of inuendo with enough of a hint of righteous indignation, and the rumor mill will do the rest. The old adage “where there’s smoke, there must be fire” comes true again.  There’s nothing new under the sun. The devil tried to do it with God for Eve – did God really say? He was discrediting the Word of God. The scribes to it to Jesus. They wanted to get rid of this Man who is preaching and teaching in God’s name and growing in popularity, and they accuse that Man of being filled with demons instead of the Holy Spirit.

You have probably heard this before, “A kingdom divided against itself cannot stand,” and “a house divided against itself cannot stand.” It’s funny…it’s often attributed to Abraham Lincoln, quoted in his 1858 speech accepting the nomination as Senator for Illinois. Lincoln was speaking of how slavery was dividing the nation. The words belong to Jesus. Jesus isn’t espousing political unity, or social programming, or whatever hot topic was on the tongues of people in Jerusalem. He was speaking of Himself and the false accusation of the scribes. 

The argument is simple: if Jesus is possessed by Beelzebul, then how is it possible that He is also driving the demons out? He uses two small parables: if you are going to break into the house of a very strong homeowner, you had better tie him up first so you can steal and plunder.  

It’s both a statement in present tense as well as future tense. Jesus is not of Beelzebul, but from God, and He has come to put satan in his place. More than that, Jesus will enter into satan’s place and proclaim victory. He is speaking of His own death and resurrection. Jesus is referring to His descent into hell. Jesus doesn’t knock on the devil’s door and beg for mercy. Jesus blows down satan’s door, strides into the devil’s own throne room, and declares that the battle is over and Jesus is the victor over sin, death and the grave. Satan no longer will have the final word of guilt and shame against the child of God. Jesus will take the world’s shame into Himself; He will absorb the world’s guilt. He will carry it to the cross and die the sinner’s death. He is God’s Son, the perfect Lamb of God. Christ’s death will be once-for-all, He will be the substitutionary, vicarious atonement, a perfect payment for all of mankind’s sins. Sacrifices, completed; prophesies, fulfilled; promises, satisfied. Although Jesus is still several years from the cross, His ministry is demonstrating His divine power. He heals the sick, making creation whole. He drives out unclean spirits, showing that satan’s days are numbered. He faces and resists temptation, perfectly fulfilling the Law of God. He is, already, the Savior of the World, sent by God for the forgiveness of the world.

So, if that is true, that Jesus is the Savior of the world, and that in Him there is full and free forgiveness of sins, why does He say that whoever blasphemes the Holy Spirit never has forgiveness, but is guilty of an eternal sin?

You heard this last week, and you probably know John 3:16 by heart, “For God so loved the world that He sent His only-begotten Son, that whosover believeth in Him should not perish but have everlasting life.” Jesus is the Savior of the world because of God’s great love for His fallen creation. His death is the perfect payment for our sins. This is the gift. And the gift is received by faith. Faith receives the Gospel, the Good News of Jesus’ death and resurrection. But, man cannot receive the Gospel by himself. So, God provides the very thing needed: faith. Faith is the work of the Holy Spirit. In fact, faith is completely, solely an act of the Holy Spirit. The Spirit of God works through Water and Word to create and sustain faith. You hear people speak of how they have decided to follow Jesus, or they have invited Jesus into their heart. Impossible.

Here’s an analogy that I use – wives, this is for you. Your husband wakes up, coughing, running a fever, aching. In a word, he’s miserable. You tell him that he’s sick. Of course, he insists he’s just fine. Finally, around lunch time, he goes to the doctor who then tells your dear, sweet hubby he is, in fact, sick and he needs to go home, take these meds, and rest. He comes home and you innocently ask, “What did the doctor say?” As if it’s a sudden revelation, he says, he’s sick. When did your hubby get sick? Was it when he got home? At the doctor’s office? When he woke up that morning? No. In reality, he’s been sick for a day or two – he just didn’t realize it. That’s an example from the negative. Turn the analogy: when we realize we have faith, it’s not because we have suddenly decided to follow Jesus. Faith isn’t because I suddenly woke up and said, “Yes! It’s true!” It’s because the Spirit of God has been at work in our hearts in ways we could never perceive, slowly planting the Gospel seed, nurturing it, growing it until we are able to say, “Yes, I believe.” Faith is the Spirit’s work in our lives.

So, the sin against the Holy Spirit, the blasphemy against the Holy Spirit, is simply this: to deny Jesus is the Savior and disallow the Spirit’s work in us. It’s one of the great paradoxes of Christianity. On the one hand, the Word of God is irresistible. It does exactly that which God would have it do. It creates faith, it sustains life, it gives salvation and forgiveness of sins all by the power of the Holy Spirit. On the other hand, it is also conversely resistable. The old adam, the sinful nature, is able to resist the working of the Spirit in the heart. Like the three monkeys, if the sinful nature refuses to hear it, to see it, to receive the Word of God, it is denying the Holy Spirit. In short, blaspheming the Spirit is the outright refusal to believe in Jesus as Savior.

The Jewish leaders, the Scribes, they were guilty of this terrible sin. They were in danger of the eternal fires of hell because they would not, could not, believe that this Jesus of Nazareth was also Messiah for whom they so long waited. He didn’t fit the mold; He didn’t meet their expectations. It couldn’t be Him!  Jesus’ family was also in danger. It was easier to mock their own than believe He could be of God.

A moment ago, I said we are used to having a nugget of hope when Jesus speaks of eternal damnation. There is a kernel of hope, here, as well. Repentance is confessing one’s sins and turning away from them. Even when a soul sins against the Holy Spirit, the Word continues to be preached and read and the Spirit continues to work against that hardened heart. When that Word penetrates into the cracks and crevices, the Law does it’s work and leads that soul to recognize how far they have fallen, how great of a sinner they are, and how desperately they need Jesus. They want to leave the old life behind and to follow the Savior, instead. It may only be a kernel of faith, but that small faith is placed in the greatness of Jesus’ life, death and resurrection. That is the power of the Holy Spirit. And, for that soul, there is forgiveness – even of this seemingly unforgivable sin.

I told Ernesto that he had not, in fact, committed this unforgivable sin. The beautiful irony is this: only a person who has faith would worry about it! An unbeliever wouldn’t care if they had sinned against God. Ernesto was firmly, and faithfully, in the arms of Jesus, a baptized child of God.  

So, what I told Ernesto in my office, and what I say to all of you. If you have ever wondered, like him, if you have ever committed the blasphemy against the Holy Spirit, the answer is that yes, your old, sinful self did exactly that. But God, rich in mercy, has made you His through water and word, filling you with His Spirit, enabling you to believe in Jesus as the Savior, forgiving you of all your sins. In Christ, by grace through faith, your sins – including any doubt you may ever have - are not held against you.  To Ernesto and to you I say this: As a called and ordained servant of Christ, I forgive you all your sins – including that of doubt – in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Depart in peace, your sins have been forgiven. Amen.