Standing Firm in Faithful Hope (!) - Luke 21: 5-28

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

It’s almost to the point where you do not want to know what is going on anymore.  Turn on the television, open your favorite news website, flip open the paper, or even scan the magazine rack while you’re standing in line at the grocery store and, unless you’re a Houston Astros fan, the news does not seem to be good.  You name it - politically, economically, socially, geologically, meteorologically it seems there is nothing but bad news. There is government unrest all across the globe from the not-so-cleverly-disguised worldly war in Eastern Europe to the threats made by China and North Korea. In our own country, different groups try to shout down their opponent while spewing their own vile words and vitriolic rhetoric. I have rights, yes I do, you can’t tell me what to do! Politicians, historically the voices of calm and civility, add their own threats, with the donkeys and elephants lobbing verbal manure at each other. One part of the country suffers from crippling drought while another battles to recover from floods. Barely starting to turn the corner in recovering from one hurricane, another hits, tearing apart what was only recently set right. Whether local, state-wide, across the state, the nation, or the world, the news is such that it makes you want to find an ostrich with its head in the sand and ask it to scoot over and make room for you. 

A person told me a few months ago that this all was really weighing on him. Watching or reading these kinds of stories was starting to cause him physical problems. He was growing anxious. His stomach hurt. He was losing sleep. I told him while he cannot control what goes on outside of his home, he can control what happens inside it. Turn the TV off. Change the station on the radio. He said, but he needs to know what is all going on. Then, limit the news content. Do it in small bites. There is no rule that says you have to watch the entire news hour, or read the entire paper. It’s not just adults. Kids are anxious about exams, friendships, social media standing, and things happening in the world. This spring, when Russia invaded the Ukraine, every evening a young man gave his parents regular reports of the progress, some times several times in a night, citing cities lost and casualties. Finally, the parents insisted he stop watching and reading the stories. “But I need to know,” he said. Fine, his parents said, then do it in the living room with us so we can help you digest this. 

This young man’s story is one we understand. It’s easy to look at these things and get wrapped up in the moment, the event, the news, and develop a sense of lost-ness, listlessness, and even hopelessness. Spiritually, it’s the direct result of placing our hopes and trust in these monuments of men - governments, society, the economy, and even the local weather prognostications. It’s the additive inverse of hope in Christ. If hope in Christ is the exclamation point that declares “this is most certainly true,” when these things become our gods - lower case g – and they fail, like houses built on shifting sand, then hope quickly crumbles as well. And when things fail us, and they always do, it is easy to sound like Chicken Little and proclaim the sky is falling. 

Jesus gives us, and the disciples, a powerful example when he points us to the walls of the Temple. They were massive stones, making up the massive walls of the massive temple. It was one of the wonders of the ancient world, almost on par with the architecture of Greece and Rome. While not as beautiful as Solomon’s Old Testament Temple, the Temple at the time of Jesus was still very impressive. White stone, gold, beautifully polished hardwoods, and jewels all made it a place of wonder. In fact, it was easy to forget it was supposed to be a place of worship, it was so opulent. King Herod the Great had rebuilt it as both a way to appease the Jews which also appeased the Roman Emperor and as a way to show the world of his own socio-political skill, a way of saying “Look what I accomplished.” 

So, when the disciples passed through and gawked in awe and amazement at the sights of the magnificent temple, they were stunned when Jesus said the day is coming when those massive, quarried stones - as big as a school bus - would no longer be standing on top of one another. It stopped them in their tracks to think of the improbability - the impossibility - and the size, scope and magnitude of what it would take to make that massive and beautiful structure crumble. It just couldn’t happen. Their question was both sincere and laced with fear: tell us, when will this be? We need to prepare for such a tragedy and travesty as this. But Jesus wasn’t done. He adds layer to layer of coming loss and tragedy. I can imagine the disciples reeling as He added to the list of coming terror: wars, pestilence – we would call it a plague, earthquake, famine. Even the heavens join in, He continues, with there even being signs from the heavens. Jerusalem, this beautiful city of David, this city of God, it will be surrounded, cut off, and it will fall. Then some of you faithful, I imagine He looks one-by-one to Peter, James, John, and the rest of His friends, you faithful will be hauled before the authorities and put to death and the rest hated because of me.  

This is a Gospel reading where “This is the GOspel of the Lord” makes us want to add a question mark behind “Thanks be to God,” and where instead of departing in peace and serving the Lord, it feels like a better idea to hunker down firmly and safely in the pew. At first glance, this Gospel lesson is overwhelming, leaving us with anything but peace and comfort. In fact, it is very easy to draw parallels to our own time as we face war to our east and west, as we continue to struggle with Covid and now flu, as droughts rage, economists argue the depth of the recession, and as food supplies face uncertainty. But these are the very reasons these words of Jesus are so necessary today.

As the world around us sees all of these things without any hope, without any great reason, Jesus gives us a small glimpse of a promise. It’s interesting in the way He does it. There isn’t a long grocery list of terrors all countered by a list of contra-terror. Instead, Jesus offers a word of promise, a word of sure, certain hope, a bright beacon of light against the darkness that rages around us.

Jesus offers the faithful, glimpses of His remarkable protection even in the midst of this vision of what is to come. So, when He speaks of their persecution, Jesus takes away their trusting in their own clever words and repartee. He says don’t worry about what you will say, the Spirit will fill your mouths with words of wisdom so you might bear testimony of God’s powerful grace. When He speaks of their betrayal and martyrdom, He takes away their strength and ability to bear up under it. Instead, He promises that not a hair of your heads will perish and by your endurance you will gain your lives. And, when He strips away trust in creation’s order, depicting the heavens being rent asunder, or trust in massive buildings that will fail the test of time, Jesus says look to the Creator: straighten up and raise your head, because your redemption is drawing near.

This takes place during Holy Week. He has ridden into Jerusalem, welcomed as the Son of David by the crowds. But, behind the scenes, the Jewish leaders are working to have Him arrested and put to death, turning the crowds against the One whom they welcomed. It’s probably Tuesday or Wednesday. His arrest is hours away and the cross looms large on the horizon. Jesus knows He must suffer and die. He will do so for your salvation. He will stand under the curse of death and die the sinner’s death, taking your place, paying the life-price you owe. He will die, and He will rise to reveal that He has overcome sin, death, and the grave for you. There is nothing, then, in this life – not wars, rumors of wars, pestilence, famine, earthquakes – that can tear you from His strong and saving hand.

This is how faith works. It sees what our eyes cannot see. It grasps hope in the promises of Jesus where all around us we see failing and falling things of this world. This is how the life of faith works. Notice this: Jesus doesn’t tell the disciples, now y’all don’t worry…I’m going to zap you right out of here so you don’t have to experience this. Instead, He promises that in the midst of these things, His Word, His promises will endure and that through faith in Him, they will endure into eternity. Christ does not move us from a world of destruction – snap – to a land of milk and honey. Instead, we are tested and tried with times of suffering so that we grow spiritually wiser and stronger in faith. When everything else is stripped away, we are left with Jesus and His Word. So, we cling all the more tightly to God’s work for us in Christ – even when it comes to us in the midst of trials and tribulations and even in the loss of those things that we hold so dear in this world.

It's easy to fall into the temptation of the disciples, to look to the wrong places and talk about the wrong things. It’s tempting for our mouths to be filled with admiration for all of the things around us and, then, to place our trust and hope in these failing things. Jesus turns our attention to something more beautiful: the work of God in the midst of suffering, and the promises of God that sustain us now and into eternity. And, it’s easy to get caught up in the news cycles. What, with wars and rumors of wars, fires and floods and drought, mass shootings and civil unrest, and paychecks that just don’t last like they did a few months ago, it sometimes feels like the end is near. Luther thought that was true, 500 years ago, that Jesus had to return soon to spare the Church from greater suffering, and he preached as if Jesus was returning by the following Sunday. We don’t know the day or the hour. So, Jesus turns us to what is certain. This may or may not be the end. I know we are closer than ever before. But what we do know for certain is the One who holds us in His nail-pierced hands is forevermore near.

When you see folks around you wringing their hands, acting like Henny Penny, lamenting that the sky is falling, that they have lost all hope, speak of Jesus. Tell them where your hope rests. Then, straighten up, stand firm, raise your heads, and have faith in Jesus because your redemption, won for you at the cross, is drawing nigh.

Dear Veteran: Thanks

Yesterday, November 11, was the solemn, somber remembrance of Veteran's Day. On the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month, we shall remember,” someone intoned at the first Armistice Day in 1919. It was the day marking the end of World War One, the “war to end all wars.” 

That “someone” lied. 

Not intentionally, of course. Following the horror and bloodshed that was executed - I use that word deliberately - at Flanders, the Somme, and other places long faded from our memory, it was spoken with romantic, noble, and good intention. Alas, mankind’s heart is inclined to evil, and with the fuel of nationalistic pride coupled with the world’s arrogance to think that Germany would take the brutal social and economic punishment and limitations placed upon it, thrust to the side of the roaring global stage like a kindergartener who got caught eating paste in art class, peace lasted but two short decades. A short man with a bad haircut, a terrible taste in moustaches, and sick, twisted moral and ethical values would soon throw the world, kicking, screaming, or denying, into yet another bloody world war,

In the years since, at least in the United States, Armistice Day became Veterans Day. Were Memorial Day honors and remembers those who died, paying the ultimate price for the country and fellow citizens, Veterans Day remembers and honors those who are alive.

It's been my privilege to have met Veterans from all branches of the Service. When I was a kid, inspired by China Beach and Tour of Duty television shows, when a retired Army Major named Howard showed us some of the memorabilia he brought back from Vietnam, I foolishly and naively asked, “Did you kill any?” He looked me in the eye and flatly said, "I don't know." I’ve since learned that question is taboo. My idle and foolish and naive curiosity does not earn the right to enter that sacred space where time and memory clash.  Major Howard - if you are reading this, I sincerely apologize. I’m sure I met other veterans back then but, not knowing it, I escaped further stupid questions.  

I met a man who was on the USS Arizona on December 7, 1941. I assure you, that date lived in infamy in his heart and mind. My uncle says we can now talk about the fact that his son was part of a highly secretive unit of the United States Navy which shares the same name as a semi-aquatic animal.  He must have taken creative writing in school, because his Linkedin account has some very interesting ways to describe what he did in the Navy. I have two other cousins who are mechanics in the Air Force. One uncle was a door gunner in a Huey in Vietnam. Two other uncles were over there on the ground and as soon as they got home, they tried to bury their experiences with their uniforms in Grandma's basement closet. My father-in-law is a veteran of Vietnam, also - a USAF cartographer, who got to look at pictures and make maps of Vietnam and other "interesting places."  My high school band teacher was drafted for Vietnam, but when he confessed to knowing how to type, he wound up stateside teaching typing for clerks heading overseas. I met a Korean War veteran at Wal-Mart who was at the Chosin Reservoir in 1950 with the 1st Marine Division; he swore he still hadn't thawed out 60 years later.

At one time, my previous congregation had ten or eleven WWII and Korean War veterans, members of the congregation and members of the greatest generation. I think I buried all of them. One fought up Italy with the 10th Mountain Division in WWII. Another, a Korean War veteran, was the company cook. He made so much oatmeal that, until the day he died, he couldn't even look at an oatmeal cookie without groaning. Another served on McArthur's staff, part of the occupational force in Japan after VJ-Day. A woman was in the US Army nursing corps in World War II, and a gentleman (who was also a gentle man) was at the Battle of the Bulge --- on the German side, having been conscripted at the age of 11.  I have a good friend who is a tank driver in the Armored Cav, only recently returned home from a rather interesting teaching opportunity where the classroom was a nearby battlefield.  The best man at my wedding later served in and retired from the Navy. I've lost track of all the men I've met at my church in Victoria who were drafted or volunteered. If I tried to name them, I would surely miss one, so let me simply say, collectively, they did what they needed to do and came home safely - thank God. 

Rightly, attention is given to these veterans, but a word needs to be said of the veterans of a different kind, those who “served” in the home while loved ones were away. The country musician John Conlee sings about the husbands and wives, mothers and daughters, fathers and sons who stay home to welcome the veterans when they return, many with broken bodies and broken minds. These men and women, the heroes of the home, deserve an honor as well. While their serviceman or servicewoman is away, they have to take care of house and children, work and school, all as a single parent knowing that being single could last a long, long time if he or she never comes home. And when they get home, it’s not always as easy as picking up where they left off. Thankfully, we know more about PTSD than ever before, but that doesn’t change the mental combat that still takes place behind closed doors in living rooms all across the country. There is one spouse whom I am thinking of in particular as I write this. I would love to tell that story, because people need to know that the battle they read about that took place in 2021, or 1991, or 1951, still rages on in some people’s lives to this day. Hers is not my story to tell, and I dare not dishonor her sacrifice by short-telling it. Service personnel receive a Purple Heart if they are wounded. To those husbands and wives who care for their wounded warrior, the nation owes you the highest of all honors: the broken heart medal.   May I suggest that if November 11 is set aside to honor veterans, we set aside November 12 to remember and honor those who stand alongside those who have served. Truly, they deserve their own honor. God bless you for your faithfulness to your love done, fighting in a battle that may not end this side of heaven.

This year, Veterans Day means a little more to my wife and me. At the school Veterans Day program yesterday, she teared up. It was a combination of the esprit de corps, the speeches, the Star Spangled Banner followed soon by Taps, and then seeing our son, a senior, on the field, with the band and choir. He plans to enlist in the United States Air Force. We are scheduled to meet with the recruiter next week to start the paperwork. It’s a humbling thing to know your child, your son or daughter, is surrendering themselves to the United States Government. We still see them as our little kids, boys and girls. They will see him, not as my son but as a tool, an instrument of war whose job, ultimately, is to kill and break things - hopefully - for a sanctified reason. I know we’re not alone as parents. Friends have sons and daughters who serve or who have served. A mother at church passes her yellow ribbon and every day thinks of her son who is getting ready to go over there. Someone send the word that the Yanks are coming.   

To each and every Veteran who might read this, please know you have my deepest respect and appreciation for what you did. Whether you carried sacks of potatoes or a 9.5 pound M1 rifle; whether you served under the sea or never left our own shores; whether you were in the court of the queen of battle or in an office pool; whether you proudly display a chest full of earned medals or quietly treasure the DD-214 that is in your safe deposit box, I don't care. Wherever and whenever you served you did what was asked. As one who hasn't served and can't serve, I won't pretend to know your story. But if I run into you, and you're wearing a cap, or a coat, or a pin, or have a bumper sticker that says that you're a proud veteran, you can expect a handshake from me. Or maybe I'll simply look you in the eye and give a knowing nod, or maybe I'll even buy you lunch or a beer. I learned my lesson a long time ago from Major Howard: I'm not asking for anything and I don't want a war story. I simply want to say thanks.

All Saints Day - Rev. 7:9-17; 1 John 3: 1-3; Matthew 5:4

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

 Blessed All Saints Day to you all. A distinctly Christian day, I am glad this is one that hasn’t been stripped from us by the secular world. Christmas and Easter have been corrupted by secularism. They get close to All Saints with Halloween and, to a degree, Dia de los Muertos, but All Saints Day belongs to the Church. That is fitting because the Saints belong to Jesus - all of them, all of us - the saints, the people of God, living and dead, made holy by God’s declaration of justification through faith in Christ. Last week was red - the color of blood, the color of battle, to remember the battle for the free Gospel and the freedom of the Gospel. This week, the liturgical color is white, the color of holiness. This is how God sees us through Jesus, holy, precious, and redeemed. It’s the picture from Revelation, the innumerable saints of God who are washed white in the blood of the lamb.  

All of the saints, both living and asleep in Christ, all who are waiting or who waited faithfully for Christ’s return, all the saints belong to Jesus.  

But I do have to admit it is an odd festival day. It doesn’t have lights and decorations like Christmas, or the same joie de vivre of Easter. It’s odd, too, in it being a generic day for all saints. While many saints canonized in either the Western or Eastern tradition have a day set apart particularly for them, the early church wanted a day to remember all the faithful men and women, all saints of God, who died confessing Christ as Lord. So, while St. Andrew will always have November 30 as his day of commemoration – Advent always begins on the Sunday closest to his day. April 25 will always be the Feast of St. Mark; for me, it’s the day my Dad died.  My Dad, Saint Walt of Walburg, will never have his own day. Neither will you or your loved ones. Thus, All Saints Day allows the church a time to remember and thank God for the innumerable faithful who have gone before us. We remember their lives of faithful love and service to friends and neighbors and the Church. We consider them as models of Christian living and we strive to model that in our own sanctified lives as children of God.  

Thus, while we thank God for our loved ones, All Saints Day often feels less joyful than the great festival days because of the memories and the recollection of our loss. There are no two ways around it: losing a loved one hurts.  If that’s you today, especially if those tears are shed in memory of a father or mother, a son or a daughter, a husband or a wife, or a dear, close friend;  or even someone who died alone and anonymous known only to God, it’s OK. Jesus Himself wept while He stood outside the tomb of His dear friend Lazarus. This is Jesus, who only moments before, when talking to Lazarus’ sister, Martha, declared Himself the resurrection and the life and that those who believe in Him, though they die, yet they shall live; Jesus, who deliberately delayed after getting the message of Lazarus imminent dying; Jesus, who was there with the Father and the Spirit when Adam received his first breath and will soon draw His own final breath, this same Jesus stood outside the tomb and wept. Real tears, real sadness, real sorrow because death robbed Lazarus of life.  

If Jesus can weep, then it is perfectly fair to weep today. It is appropriate to have a flurry of emotions today: sadness for those not with us, joy for the gifts of God in Christ, hope for what is to come. Tears flow freely for all these reasons and more. 

I have to admit; All Saints Day gets me every year. The Scripture texts set the stage. In his first Epistle, St. John tells us that we are all children of God - not just called His children, but we are His. You are adopted into sonship and daughtership. He surrendered His only-begotten Son to pay the adoption price. Paid in full, completely through the merits of Jesus, God sees you as little Christs, Christian. The Revelation - it’s truly a wonderful book, so misunderstood by so many. They think it’s a roadmap filled with secret truths to deduce and hidden messages to try to get you to the end, sort-of the BIble’s version of Candyland. It’s not. It’s the Revelation, the revealing, a glimpse of what eternity will be like in the resurrection of all flesh, as God sits on His throne, and the Lamb, Jesus Christ. And then there’s the Church.  The word used in the Greek New Testament for “church” literally means “the called-out ones.” John says that the Church is called out from everywhere - all peoples, tribes, nations, languages, backgrounds, family histories and genealogies. They’re in white - there it is again - waiving palm branches. Palm Sunday is reversed: Jesus isn’t entering in humility to die, surrounded by misunderstanding people waiving palm branches; this time, He enters in resplendent glory surrounded by those who rejoice that sin, satan and death are destroyed and they no longer need to fear, or weep, or mourn, or shed tears because those they love are suffering and dying. Revelation paints this magnificent picture of what awaits us on that great and glorious Easter of Easters when Jesus returns and renews creation. 

But, we’re not there yet. Now, we’re still on this side of heaven. And we want to see Jesus. Ralph got it. He had been battling cancer for at least a decade. I don’t remember where it started, but by the end, it was everywhere. He had fought the fight, mentally, physically, spiritually. And, he was tired. Someone had given him a little hand-held wood cross, for those difficult days when he needed a physical reminder that even if He was too weak to cling to Jesus, Jesus clung to Him with His entire life. He was dying. His wife called me; it was late. If you can come, Ralph would appreciate it…and so would I. So, with a lump in my throat, I drove to Ralph and Ethel’s house, was greeted by the family, and then was ushered into his room. Ethel said, I’ll let you two talk and she shut off the monitor. He had his cross in his hand. He said, “I’m tired, Pastor. I’m so tired. I just want to touch His robe.” I prayed the commendation of the dying. “Now may God the Father, who created you; may God the Son who redeemed you with His blood, and may God the Holy Spirit who sanctified you in the waters of Holy Baptism, bless and keep you until the day of the resurrection of all flesh.” And, with me, he said “Amen.” St. Ralph of Sheldon died a few short hours later, confident in the promise of Jesus that there will be a day when he won’t need to touch Jesus’ robe any longer. 

That night, though, that night was heavy with mourning for Ethel and her kids and grandkids and great-grandkids. And me. Oh, they knew those promises of God in Christ and they were clinging to them with empty-yet-full hands, empty of anything they had to offer, but filled with faith in Jesus. When everything is stripped away, there is Jesus and they were hanging onto Him. 

That’s what it means when Jesus says, “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.” He was speaking prophetically, early in His ministry, but already pointing ahead to the purpose for which He came. The comfort is in the death and resurrection of Jesus because His resurrection guarantees our own resurrection. For the church, this side of heaven, we have that promise of a day of comfort that will be complete when Jesus returns. You know this: you will say it in just a moment. “I look for the resurrection of the body and the life of the world to come.”  But, I want you to notice, Jesus doesn’t scold: shame on those who mourn, for you should know better; there is no need to mourn because your feelings aren’t valid. No, He says, Blessed are those who mourn. 

So, today, if you mourn the death of fellow saints of God, mourn in faith knowing that they are already experiencing the peace of God which truly passes all understanding. Their body is at rest but their soul is already experiencing the beginning of the fulness of eternity. Jesus calls it “being asleep.” That’s a good way to think of it.  Mourn in hope - remember, hope with a capitol  H that is Jesus - in the sure and certain hope that you, too, will have your resurrection day. Mourn and give thanks to God for those whom you love who have died in the faith that they shared with you. Mourn knowing you will see them again. 

When we conclude this morning’s service, the last verses of the hymn will sing of that day. As you sing it, envision what that day will be like. Sing it loud, sing it bold – I don’t care if you can’t carry a tune in a bucket, today, belt it out. It’s our confession, it’s our hope, it’s Christ’s promise put to music. And, if like me, the tears get in the way and your throat gets tight and you can’t sing, it’s OK. Every year, it gets harder for me to finish the hymn as I remember those whom I have buried and transferred from the church militant to the church triumphant. And I remember those whom I love who have fallen asleep in Jesus. But, even as I wipe the tears from my eyes, I see what is to come. 

But, lo, there breaks a yet more glorious day:
The saints triumphant rise in bright array;
Thye King of Glory passes on His way,
Alleluia, Alleluia. 

And, on that day, we will fully receive Jesus’ blessing as our mourning becomes dancing. Amen.

A Message for Parents of Young Kids: Keep it Up! (Church newsletter article)

 A Message for Parents of Young Kids: Keep it Up!

A couple Sundays ago, I had fourteen children come up for the children’s message during the worship service. Fourteen! I felt like the Pied Piper. Or King Leonidas at Thermopylae. ("Thermopylae had her messenger of defeat; the Alamo had none." - Texas Governor Edward Burleson) If you’ve never faced down a dozen young ‘uns, single-handed, without the benefit of snacks or treats, let me tell you – those five minutes often become an exciting (!) challenge to share Jesus. I’m glad for each one who’s there. And I’m glad for the moms and dads, aunts and uncles, neighbors and friends, and grandparents and great-grandparents who bring the kids to church and Sunday school.

It’s not easy to get to church on a Sunday morning with your kids. This is doubly difficult for parent whose spouse is at work and for the single parents – you don’t have someone to help share the struggles with. You feel like it’s you against them and they are winning – and sometimes you’re not even sure who “they” are! I have watched my wife in that role for 25 years. Before that, Dad was the solo parent while Mom played the organ. I get it.

With infants, you have diaper bags, bottles and blankets to carry.  With toddlers, there are snacks and toys and other distractions to hopefully keep their attention up and volume down. As they grow older, you have to fight cell phones, video games, friends, and the inevitable “I just want to sleep,” just to get them up – grumping and grousing – for the ride to church. You finally find a pew – your pew – and get settled, only for the baby to load a diaper, the toddler to whack herself with the hymnal, and the teenager to sigh and mumble one more time about how stupid and boring church is.  So, you go to the restroom and clean up the infant, try to hush up the crying infant so to not disturb anyone, and you give the teen a sigh right back along with a look that says, “not today, mister.” 

Before you know it, the service is over. You missed most of it and what little you heard, you remember very little of it. You tried, but it didn’t go the way you had hoped. Your Sunday morning was anything but a Sabbath rest. As you wrestle the infant seat into place; as you try to buckle in the toddler (who suddenly decides going home is a bad idea); as you listen to the teenager’s silence, you wonder if it was worth it. Maybe your neighbor has a better idea of staying home and having a lazy day of coffee on the porch with the dog while the kids sleep.

It is easy to find excuses to stay home, but even on the most stressful of Sunday mornings it is important that Christian parents haul their families to church, even if we just feel like we are going through the motions. Jesus is there and He provides good gifts for His Church in Word and Sacrament. He gathers you together as His Body. He loves His Bride, the Church. Children see what you do. You’re there to meet Jesus. They learn to love what we love and make important what we make important. I need to go to church to be encouraged and forgiven. The regular struggle to attend regular worship reinforces to our children that church is a priority.

If we wait until we have perfectly well-behaved children to bring them to church, it is likely Jesus will return first. Instead, use the time to teach, practice, and live grace. Our children need grace, and so do we. Regardless of how the children are acting during worship, if worship involves entering the presence of God, then what better time than with screaming children to experience such a grace. Who needs more grace than parents of young kids? Let the grace and mercy of God flow over you when you need it most.

So you got to church and you survived the service, but you can’t repeat any points from the sermon and your child was throwing a fit so epic you missed Communion. You feel like the morning was a waste. But was it? Not at all.  The Spirit was at work, even if you didn’t realize it. While not as essential as participating in the word and sacrament, your kids are also learning what it is to be part of the body of Christ. Your children are meeting other kids whom, Lord willing, will likewise grow in faith together. They are meeting adults who are praying for them, teaching them, guiding them, and setting an example of a godly life. I have had adults tell me how (when I was a kid) they prayed for me. They prayed for me when I left for college, got married, went to Seminary and started the ministry. A few of them tell me they still remember me and my family in their prayers.

These peers, pray-ers, teachers, and mentors are essential to your child’s spiritual well-being. We live in a time when fewer and fewer other associations will speak the Gospel. With the secularization of the world, our children – your children! – need the Church and the church community more than ever.

And, as a parent, you have the privilege of being part of this community as well. If you stay home, when do you have a chance to share your needs as well as offer support to others? Perhaps an exhausted tired momma with a screaming baby in the back will remind others to pray for all of the exhausted tired mommas (and especially you). You need the prayer. And, you also need to pray for others. You see each other in your needs and you support each other.

Perhaps the most important reason to strive for regular church attendance is because it is part of the duty of a Christian parent. It is our responsibility as parents to bring them up in the church. When children are baptized, parents and sponsors promise to instruct, pray with, set an example for, and bring the child up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord. This is an intimidating responsibility, if only for the sheer weight of its consequences. It’s hard enough being a parent; why not do it with the help and guidance of the church?

For the rest of us, see these kids and their parents as the blessing that they are. Remember them in your prayers. If you are able, consider lending a helping hand. Refrain from judgement about “the way it was back in our day” – that’s neither helpful nor encouraging – and instead, tell them the true story of how your son threw up on pastor’s alb and your daughter locked herself in the bathroom. Then, remind the parents it’s OK, that it’ll get better.

So dear parent, rest easy. While Sunday morning might feel more like a wrestling match, a battle of wills, or a circus, your time, efforts, and distracted worship are worth it. Even the messiest and most frustrating days are not wasted. Thank God for his grace—and keep it up.

Your fellow parent,

Justified Tax Collectors and Self-Righteous Pharisees - Luke 18: 9-14

To understand this parable, you need to remember that these words immediately precede this text: “When the Son of Man comes, will He find faith on earth?” That’s an interesting question. At the rate the world is going, it would be easy to sarcastically say something like, “It doesn’t seem like it.” But, before we make the easy claim, let’s consider: what does faith look like?

What does faith look like? Well, that’s not quite fair, is it - you can’t see faith, per se, but you can see the marks of faith in the lives of people. So, let me rephrase the question a bit: what does faith look like in the life of a Christian? What are some of his or her characteristics?  Probably things like regular worship attendance, frequent reception of the Lord’s Supper, attends Bible class or Sunday school, serves in some volunteer capacity at church, practices good stewardship, being a good neighbor, praying every day, and their children are equally well-mannered and behaved as they follow in parents footsteps.

In this morning’s Gospel lesson, Jesus is expounding on the last sentence of the text last Sunday: “When the Son of Man comes, will He find faith on earth?” This morning’s Gospel lesson picks up immediately – Jesus is still speaking with the Pharisees, a conversation that began in chapter 17. As a rule, Pharisees were confident in their own righteousness. And why not? They kept the Law. Period. They were the perfect model of faithfulness and righteousness, so they thought, with their obedience of the letter of the law, their memorization of the Law and the Prophets, their refusing to associate with any riff-raff like tax collectors or prostitutes. They were self-righteous to the point that they considered themselves better than anyone else, and the competition to be the best of the best was serious. As they say, if you’re not the lead dog, the view is always the same and as far as they were concerned, they – as a group – were all contenders for the lead dog with everyone else being far behind.

Jesus speaks to them, calling them to repentance, with a simple parable. Two men were in the temple to pray. The first, a Pharisee, stood front and center boasting about his greatness before God and man, his chest thrown out, his head held high, and his voice ringing in the temple he begins his Litany. “Lord, I thank you I am not like these other men – robbers, evildoers, adulterers – or even like this tax collector.” Evidence consisted of his tithing, his fasting, and his self-determined “worthiness” – and please understand I say that with quotes around it. But, who is his God? It’s not whom you think. Ironically, the God he worships is the unholy trinity of me, myself and I; his faith rests in his own perceived goodness placed over and against others’ unworthiness; his self-justification is self-imposed and his self-righteousness is self-appointed.

Contrast that with the tax collector. Alone, in the corner, in the shadows where his haters can’t see him so easily, with his face turned downward. I imagine hot tears ooze between his tightly pinched eyelids and, with a voice husky from emotion, he simply pleads “God, have mercy on me.” You notice, there’s no argument about his position before God – he’s a sinner and confesses it freely, tearfully. His sin is unnamed; his guilt is unspecified but his profession gives a clue: he’s a legal thief, overcharging his fellow citizens for their taxes by fiat of Rome. Perhaps there were other burdens of conscience. Perhaps he had been caught with a lady of the night; perhaps he had taken the Lords name in vain. Perhaps it was a lifetime of sinful mistakes that the Spirit of God had exposed through the Law and the Prophets. His burdened conscience is in danger of being crushed.  The weight of the sin is terrific. He knew it and even other temple worshippers knew it: this man has no right to stand there before God in God’s temple…

…Yet, he does. Why? He believes that God will have mercy on a sinner, even a sinner like himself.

When the Son of Man returns, will he find faith on earth? Where is faith found? Not in the foolish arrogance that thunders of his own merit, importance, and self-righteousness. Faith is found in Christ and Christ alone. Faith is present in the sinner who repents, confessing his sins and believing that Jesus can forgive even him or her of the guilt, shame, and eternal consequence of their failings. Faith is found when the sinner pledges that the old way is gone and a new way, enabled by the Holy Spirit, is underfoot. Faith is found, not in the self, but in the mercy of God.

What is it that makes a good Christian a good Christian? Not monogrammed Bible covers or perfect attendance, not memorized lists from the Bible or the size of the offerings. A good Christian is one who stands before God without any self-righteousness or pretentiousness in their goodness or merits. A good Christian is one who stands before God, humbly praying, “I am a sinner with nothing to offer you. I ask for your mercy for the sake of the One who died for me, and I trust that His death is enough because I have nothing else to give.” A good Christian clings to and only to the mercy of God in Christ.

You see the mercy of God in the form of another broken, beaten Man. He, too, stood in the corner of the temple: He was identified by the Pharisees as a heretic who claimed Himself to be God. He was drug out of the shadows of the Garden of Gethsemanie to stand before another self-righteous judge who washed his hands of the whole matter, saying he was innocent while he turned this innocent Man over to be murdered. You hear the mercy of God being spoken from this man’s lips as nails pierce His hands and He cries out, “Father forgive them for they know not what they do,” and again later, “Today you will be with me in paradise,” finally declaring, “It is finished.” Mercy is attained only through Jesus own innocent suffering and death in the place of sinners.  In the Old Testament, the lid on the Ark of the Covenant, hidden in the Holy of Holies in the Temple, was called the mercy seat, the place from whence God dispensed His mercy. In the New Testament, the mercy seat of God is brought out into the light – well, actually, into the darkness of Good Friday. The mercy seat is the cross of Jesus – the same cross where murderers and insurrectionists are crucified. There, Jesus dies as the once-for-all sacrifice for the sins of the world. Innocent blood shed for guilty sinners. God puts forth Christ as a propitiation – a mercy covering of blood – and He accepts Jesus sacrifice in our place and makes Him, who was humbled for our sakes, to be the Exalted One.

What does faith look like? I asked you to think of your own personal faith-hero. These are the people you know, parents, grandparents, family members, or even fellow church members, who have stood in the field of spiritual warfare and have fought the good fight. These are the ones who, in the midst of all things hard and difficult – job loss, death of a loved one, illness – and have said, “Blessed be the name of the Lord.” These are the ones whose faith never seems to waiver or flag; who always speak confidently “This is God’s will for me.” These are the ones who we consider to be heroes of faith and we look to them as models.

But for the rest of us, faith might not always be so easy to live out. Oh, don’t get me wrong – we know Jesus is our Lord and Savior, but sometimes with faith that is weak and broken, bloodied and bruised, we are left to wonder if there is even a mustard seed of faith left. We pray, but it seems God is distant and aloof. Maybe he’s not exactly “against” us, but then he must be neutral towards us. Our hopes are shattered, our dreams tarnished, our love is rejected, our forgiveness unappreciated, and our faith – the living, daily life of the child of God – grows weak. Pray, a well-intentioned friend says; “how?” we answer; “Why – it doesn’t do any good. It’s as if God has gone silent on me.” Yet, we look to the heavens and cry out, “Lord, have mercy…I believe, but help my unbelief.”

Who is it who goes home justified before God? Not the one who didn't need God's mercy - he had it all under self-control and self-righteousness, but far from the righteousness of God. It's the one who knows he needs God’s mercy and who believes God is able to deliver it to him. You notice it’s not the one the world would identify as the “Good Christian.” Believe it or not, in the time of Jesus, it would have been a complement to be called a pharisee because they were seen as so good. Jesus redirects that idea. It’s the one who looks anything but: it’s the one who is broken and who needs Jesus.

Justified is a legal term. It’s more than just “not guilty.” It’s full, complete exoneration without fear of double jeopardy. It means that the penalty of sin can no longer be returned to you because it was paid in full. You’re not guilty because Jesus was declared guilty. Break the word down and you get a good word picture: it is just as if I never sinned. Justified. The broken, repentant sinner is justified. The extortioners, the unjust, the adulterers, the tax collectors of Jesus’ day; the farmers, the ranchers, the teachers, the stay-at-home parent, the retiree, the student, you, and, yes, even the pastor of today – the broken, repentant sinner, in asking for mercy, is literally asking to be covered up in blood, to be covered in the blood of Jesus, so that God does not see him as a sinful fool, but as redeemed and beloved in Jesus.

So, what does faith look like? Maybe a better question is where does faith look? It looks at Jesus.

 

Persistent Prayers for Mercy - Luke 18: 1-8

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

This morning’s Gospel lesson, this parable of the Persistent Widow, is fundamentally about prayer. Luke makes sure we understand this: “And Jesus told them a parable to the effect that they ought always to pray and not lose heart.”

Prayer is one of God’s great gifts to us. He welcomes, invites, and encourages us to come to Him in prayer, placing before Him our petitions, our needs, our fears, as children speak to their father. He does this out of His great, fatherly love for us. “Cast all your cares upon Him, because He cares for you,” is a Bible verse that is familiar to many, if not most, of us. And, so we do – from morning prayers to bedtime prayers, before and after meals, in church and in living rooms, in hospitals and in restaurants, together and alone, we turn to the Lord with prayers we know from memory and with those that arise from the needs of the moment.

I cannot prove this, I don’t have demonstrable, objective data to offer as evidence, but I have a working theory that our prayers – especially of the North American Christian church – miss what our Lord teaches about prayer. I think the driving force behind this is our culture of consumerism. Think about it: we see something on television; we want it; we go get it, one way or the other – cash, credit, or barter. We do it with goods and services. We do it at school – if I do extra credit, can I get a few extra points? We do it at work – what do I need to do to be considered for that job? We even do it with our health – Doc, what do I need to do to get my blood pressure down?

And, so we carry this day-to-day way of life over to the economics of prayer – not the theology of prayer, but the economics. Much like kids with their Christmas lists, we come to God with our laundry list of wants and perceived needs. It’s been said the only difference between men and boys is the price of their toys; I suspect this is true in prayer, too. At the risk of stereotypes, a boy prays for a new Matchbox car and his dad prays for a new pickup truck; a girl prays for a new dollhouse while mom prays for a house as nice as her sister’s.

So, when we hear Jesus say we should always pray and not lose heart, it sounds like it’s another piece of the economics puzzle. If we follow this widow’s persistence and keep pestering Jesus for the new Matchbox or dollhouse, or the new truck or new house, or the new job, or the A on the exam, or even our health and the wellbeing of loved ones, then, surely, He will grant our request. Or, better yet, if I get another person to pray with me, or two more, or twelve more, or even two dozen more – strength in numbers, right! – surely, God will relent and give me what I want, I mean, need.

And, so with our consumer-driven Christianity, we take this parable as if we somehow have a secret key to getting God to answer our prayers. Rubbing our hands together, we assemble our prayer warriors and get set to wear God down with our incessant praying to get what we want.

There are several problems here. First is the assumption that God, like a kind-hearted Great-Grandpa, is just waiting to spoil us with all the goodies we want. Every prayer is not guaranteed a “yes.” Many prayers merit an answer of “no.” Second, we cannot manipulate God with our prayers, as if there is a secret formula. Third, there is no overwhelming God with increased number of prayers or praying people for Him to give us what we request.

So, if the parable isn’t about getting what we want in prayer, then what is it about? It’s about praying faithfully, even when it doesn’t seem the Lord is listening. But, not praying for just anything – specifically, praying for His mercy.

Prayer, like all aspects of the sanctified Christian life, is lived in faith – specifically, that God will hear and he will answer in His time and in His perfect knowledge. But there are times when faith grows weary, especially as we continue to wait for our Lord’s return. And, perhaps, nothing is more wearing on faith than when children of God face the unrighteousness and wickedness of this world and pray for the Lord to intercede on behalf of the weakest and the neediest and the poorest and the least of all.  We pray and pray and pray for these, our brothers and sisters in Christ, but it seems nothing is happening – at least, not in this world. The suffering goes on, there is no redemption or rescue, and it is easy to become discouraged or give up when it seems our petitions aren’t being answered, either soon enough or in ways we can tangibly see.

You’ve seen this. You pray and pray for the dear friend who lost their job mid-pandemic and can’t find gainful employment. You pray and pray for your cousin, an alcoholic, bouncing between shelters and the hospital, slowly burning up her liver and stomach. You pray and pray for your daughter who claims she has become a Wiccan, denies Jesus, and thinks that hell and the devil are just fairy tails you told to scare her into being a good girl. You pray and pray for your neighbor, the former soldier, who saw too much and heard too much and has fallen into a terrible state of depression and despair. And, you especially pray for those who suffer for the sake of Christ. You pray for missionaries who are mocked. You pray for pastors who are ignored because they don’t preach wealth and happiness. You pray for Several years ago, you heard a presentation from a missionary to Africa, so you have been praying and praying for the church there, only to read a news story that says, on average, a Christian is killed every two hours in Nigeria.[1]  You pray and pray, yet nothing seems to change. And, in moments like that, when it feels like faith’s mustard-seed is being ground up into powder, you turn to the Lord and – much like the disciples in the sinking boat – turn and cry out, “Lord, don’t you care that these people are perishing?”

This parable is for you, you who pray faithfully while it seems as if nothing changes and the Lord refuses to act. At first glance, it doesn’t seem so – especially when the God-figure in the parable, the judge, is shamelessly unscrupulous, neither fearing God nor his constituents. And even the parable’s widow is shameless – in that ancient world, no self-respecting widow would dare show herself before a judge, let alone repeatedly after getting a firm initial answer. But the unrighteousness and unscrupulousness isn’t the point – it’s the final action that takes place because the shameless judge’s reputation is at stake by a shameless woman. Our translation says, “I will give her justice, so that she will not beat me down by her continual coming.” More accurately, it reads, “I will give her justice so that she not keep coming until the end and give me a black eye.” So, here is the point: if this human judge, who is known as being shameless, succumbs to the persistent widow and gives her justice, then how much more will God, who is  known for mercy and compassion, vindicate those who call out to Him for justice and action. God’s reputation is at stake. He has promised salvation to His people, the Church, who cry out to Him day and night. He must vindicate; He must rescue; He must save because He has promised to do that very thing.

Note why God answers – not because of persistent prayer, or because of the quantity of people praying. He answers because He is who He is: He is faithful, and He keeps His promises for mercy and compassion. Although sinners deserve His alien work of wrath and anger, He acts mercifully even in our long-suffering this side of heaven because of the suffering of Jesus on the cross, His death and atonement, for our sakes.

In Luke’s narrative, the cross looms large on the ever-nearing horizon. Literally, the Passion narrative is only a few pages away. Jesus’ enemies are rallying, growing in number and in strength, seeking only an opportunity to spring their evil plan against Him whom they reject as Messiah.  The tension mounts – He is betrayed by one of His own; He is put on trial before an unjust, unscrupulous judge who cares nothing for God nor man but only his reputation as being better than others around him. Yet, the Lord goes forward. He prays in the Upper Room, in the Garden, on trial. As spikes pierce His hands and feet, as a penitent thief cries for mercy, He prays to His Father who seems both silent and terribly slow to act. Remarkably, He prays not for vindication but for their forgiveness by the Great Judge of all. He promises salvation quickly; today, paradise would be granted.

Our long-suffering Judge, who vindicates quickly, wants His Church to pray constantly, that is uninterruptedly and without ceasing, continually, with perseverance, and confidently for the return of Jesus even as the Church suffers this side of heaven.  The underlying reality is the Good News that God is merciful and long-suffering and He will deliver the Church in Christ. We pray, in faith, hope-filled in the promise of God in Christ Jesus, who always answers Yes to prayers for compassion, mercy and grace. Those very prayers, uttered sometimes from the very depths of prison in China, at the bloody executioner’s station in Iraq, and in pews in the comfort of South Texas, those persistent prayers of the saints imploring the Lord to return soon to relieve them from suffering – Come, Lord Jesus! – this is the very sign of faith that Jesus asks about. It is both the faith, that is the truth of Jesus Christ as Savior, and the act of faithfulness, that trusts those spoken-yet-unseen promises of God waiting to be fulfilled on the last day.

Your prayers, persistent, constant, never-ceasing, for those who suffer so much this side of heaven, your prayers stand as the very evidence of the faith that trusts Christ’s promise: Behold, I am coming soon.

Even so, come, Lord Jesus. Come.

 

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[1] https://www.fggam.org/2022/03/heres-where-every-2-hours-a-christian-is-martyred/

Ten Lepers, One Savior, Abundant Mercy - Luke 17:11-19

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

There were ten of them: men, miserable with leprosy, a disease that slowly killed the skin from the outside, flaking it away like a terrible sunburn, while nerves burn like shingles from the inside. Lepers were in constant agony until they weren’t. And when it didn’t hurt any more, that meant the limb was, in effect dead. A dead limb on a dead man walking. If, as Hollywood says, zombies are the un-dead, lepers are the un-living. Their bodies slowly and painfully failing them, losing nerve and muscle control, and eventually even the ability to care for themselves as individuals. As commanded by Moses in the Law of the Lord, the disease forced them out of town, out of the community and, most importantly, out of the worshipping body of Israel. They couldn’t work, they couldn’t live with their family, they couldn’t play with the kids and grandkids, they couldn’t join in the community’s prayers for Messiah to come and save. They relied on family, friends, or a well-wisher to toss them food, clothes, and medicines from a safe distance, as if feeding a wild, chained animal. Adding insult to injury, if someone came too close to their encampment, they would have to call out with whatever voice was left, “Unclean! Unclean!” It was a warning lest someone who was healthy, clean, and living, get too close, become contaminated with the disease, and join them waiting to slowly die.

Ten men. Ten lepers. In the Bible, ten is a number of wholeness, completion, perfection, and harmony. The number betrayed them. They were anything but whole, complete, and perfect and their disease demonstrated the disharmony that existed among God’s once-perfect but long-fallen creation.

I imagine them in a lousy, miserable camp in the hardscrabble land outside the city walls. Think of the terrible homeless camps you’ve seen on the news, minimal shelter, clothes of thrown-away rags, a smoldering fire with some indistinguishable food scraps nearby. The smell is almost indescribable admixture of body odor and rot. No birds sing, but buzzards roost, watching and waiting. The ten are there, in various positions of laying down, propped up, and leaning, the strongest caring for the weakest who can do nothing but wait.

What a strange, melancholy and ragtag welcome they offer Jesus as He enters their town. It wasn’t the city fathers, or the synagogue leader, or even another rabbi welcoming Him with praises and honor and applause. Instead it is, ten men, more dead than alive, who welcome Him with their plea for His attention, hoping He doesn’t just pass them by like everyone else, praying that the Great Physician is able to help. They cry out for mercy.

What else can you pray for in that position but Jesus’ mercy? They know who He is – He is the Great Physician. He is the one who calms storms. He heals with touch, with words, even with spittle and mud. To the One Man, the ten call, cry, whimper, whisper, “Jesus, Master, have mercy.” What is fascinating, though, is that their prayer is not what you would expect. They aren’t asking for a healing touch or for cleansing. They ask for mercy. They pray for salvation, seeing their leprosy not only as a sign of their mortal, fallen condition but their eternal condition as well.

“Jesus, Master, have mercy on us.” This is the prayer of the church, calling out in unison and also individually for the Lord of Life, the Son of God, Immanuel – God with us, to give us merciful relief, aid and comfort both now and into eternity. “Jesus, Master, have mercy,” is the cry of faith that rests in the power of Jesus, the Son of the Most High God. It confesses we cannot mercy ourselves; He must do it. We have no strength; He has great power to save: save us from the separation, destruction, and eternal consummation of hell that sinners deserve. Redeem us from the lostness that we experience in a moment of illness, loneliness, lostness, sadness, destruction – those things that, now, point to what could endure into eternity outside of Jesus.

Those few words, have mercy, are prayed in hurricane-destroyed and rubble-strewn neighborhoods that once held beautiful homes and in neighborhoods where you would never go alone; they are prayed in prisons and jails; they are prayed in hot combat zones in Eastern Europe and Africa; they are murmured in quiet nursing homes and loud hospital emergency rooms; they are prayed by the elderly who desire to be with Jesus and by the young who are only beginning to experience life; they are prayed in the privacy of a home, a living room, a bedroom, and in the public worship in the sanctuary, a gym, or a field. They are sung in harmony from the hymnal and they are murmured when no other words will come to form prayers from our lips.  They are prayed in boldness and confidence; whispered in moments of fear and dread; cried in moments of despair and loneliness. Wherever, however, and whenever it may be, the prayer of the faithful isn’t merely prayed into the empty voids of nothingness. The prayer for mercy is prayed through faith in Christ.

Remember, Jesus is going toward Jerusalem. He is going towards the cross. The cross is the place from whence mercy flows – mercy finds its source in the throne of Jesus that stands on Golgatha and flows from nail-pierced hands and feet. It’s ironic: mercy is not getting what you deserve. To grant you mercy, Jesus gets what He doesn’t deserve. He doesn’t deserve to be beaten, or whipped, or crucified, or abandoned or die.  He does it out of His great love for His Father and for us. He comes to restore that which was broken in man’s fall into sin. He comes to make right what has been wrong since the world was cursed by Eve and Adam’s action. He comes to heal the fallenness of the world and to make it holy again. He comes to re-establish the relationship between man and God.  

He takes the brokenness of the world into Himself and in His flesh and in His blood, carries it to the cross. With your cries of “Jesus, Master, have mercy,” your kyrie eleisons confess your hope and trust, in faith, in the power of Christ to restore.  Christ mercies you until your beggar’s sack overflows. In the empty cross is a picture of the restoration that will take place in the resurrection of all flesh. Love, without end; forgiveness, without limit; hope, without fear; joy, without tears; peace, beyond understanding.

The One Man speaks to the ten lepers, simply and directly: Go. Show yourself - to the priest, to the family, to the world! Show them what it is to have been mercied. Show them what is to receive pardon, to have a life sentence commuted, to have a death penalty absolved. Show them what it is that faith, in Christ, saves.

Ten men, ten men dying, ten men who are the un-living, they go at Jesus’ command. Surely, they believed Jesus’ command would somehow grant mercy. Lepers move as little as possible because going hurts. This time, however, they go because they are compelled by the Word of Jesus. His command gives them the strength needed; His very command enables them to go. Having faithfully prayed for mercy, now they faithfully go, expecting to hear from the priest that they had been healed of their death sentence and could then be restored to the community of faith and life. That verdict was still necessary – without the priest’s approval, no matter how healthy, they would not be whole. They needed the priest to see for himself.

On the way, ten men make a remarkable discovery: they have been healed. The un-living are again among the living. I wonder what their first clue was: a shuffle became a stride; arms began to swing in rhythm without pain; crutches became a hindrance; hands and feet didn’t hurt; they could see and hear and speak clearly. Imagine the laughter and joy as ten men, once dead men walking, now living men rejoicing, clapped each other on the back, hugged, and wept.

Ten men were healed. Presumably, nine go on to the priests – healed, yes, but now to be declared restored and welcome back into their homes, their neighborhood, and their synagogue and temple. Nine men would be restored and completed. Nine men, once dead – now alive.

But one man, no longer a leper, returns to give thanks to the One Man, Jesus, who granted mercy. One-tenth, a tithe, returns to Jesus with thanksgiving for the incredible gift of restoration, both now and into eternity. Only one - whom Jesus notes - is a Samaritan. Ten saw Jesus as a miracle worker. Ten saw Jesus as a means to salvation. But nine, presumably Jesus’ fellow Jews and fellow Sons of Abraham, could not grasp Jesus was indeed the Messiah whom they longed for. For the nine, their journey would end with the priests, healed, but still waiting, missing the Messiah who spoke mercy to them. .

But for one, for one Samaritan, his journey returned him to Jesus. His thanksgiving shows his faith in Jesus as the source of healing and all mercy and comfort. There’s an interesting play on words. Our translation records Jesus words as being, “Rise and go your way; your faith has made you well.” A better way to say it is, “Your faith has made you holy,” that is, “Your faith has saved you.”

Whether it is one man, one woman, one child who hears those words, or a whole congregation that gathers in unison, there are no greater words that can be spoken to the child of God. Whether it is one person or the church who confesses weakness, desperation, and cries for God’s mercy, the Lord of Life promises to hear and answer. The answer was given at the cross, delivered in your baptism, and repeated to you over and over in Word and Sacrament, that you are forgiven of your sins through faith in Jesus.

So, go. Go and show yourself - to your friends, to your family, to coworkers, classmates, neighbors, and to the world! Show them what it is to have been mercied. Show them what is to receive pardon, to have a life sentence commuted, to have a death penalty absolved. Show them what it is that faith, in Christ, saves.