Mercy for Tax Collectors and You - Luke 18:9-14

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and from our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Amen. The text is Luke 18.

"The Emperor's New Clothes" is a short tale written by Danish author Hans Christian Andersen, about two weavers who promise an emperor a new suit of clothes that they say is invisible to those who are unfit for their positions, stupid, or incompetent. The trick is that, in reality, they make no clothes at all, but make a big deal about about the quality of their garments and the beauty of their handiwork that don’t exist. Of course, no one wants to be the one to admit they can’t see the clothes – that would prove them to be the fool.  When the emperor parades before his subjects in his new "clothes", no one dares to say that they do not see any suit of clothes on him for fear that they will be seen as stupid. Finally a child cries out, "But he isn't wearing anything at all!"[1]

The Pharisee in Jesus parable is such a fool. Arrogantly standing in center stage of the temple courtyard, you can imagine him with his hands raised up, his head held high, and his voice echoing across the stone walls and into the ears of gathering worshippers. The fool boasts: “I thank you, God, that I am not like these other sinners.” He slowly turns around, looking at the crowds who are before him, and he starts to identify and call out one by one – “the loan sharks, the hustlers, the shysters, the hookers,” and then he lowers his voice a half-octave to demonstrate his disgust and sheer repulsion while staring, and then gesturing, into the corner at one man in particular, “and tax collectors.” No one stood near him: perhaps no one feeling worthy of being in the presence of such a perceived holy man; others, perhaps afraid of what he might say about them. Taking a deep breath, he continues, “The Law says we are to fast weekly, I fast two days. And tithing – why I even tithe the herbs my wife grows in the patio.” He looks around, as if daring anyone to be as worthy of Law-centered perfection. Seeing no challengers, he again holds his arms out at his sides as if to say, “I am worthy,” and strides from the Temple.

But that’s all that he has: himself and his self-worth. Jesus specifically notes that he stands alone and by himself as he presents himself to God. That is a perilous place to stand: alone, before God. When one stands before God, dressed in only his own self-righteousness and self-worth and self-merit, standing alone, by himself, with no one else to serve as an intercessor or intermediary, he stands as naked before God as the emperor. There is no confession; just bragging at how well he keeps the law, compared to his fellow Israelites.

The Pharisee doesn’t realize it, but in that bragging, and in his lack of repentance and confession, his sins are uncovered and put on full display: his foolish consideration of himself as holier-than-all; his arrogant thinking that he is not a sinful man; his boastful comparison that, ok – possibly he sinned somewhere in his life, but at least he isn’t as bad as those scum-of-the-earth so-called “worshippers” who dare to enter the Temple; his sad naiveté in thinking God is more pleased with him skipping a meal rather than sharing a meal with the poor and hungry; his shameful score-keeping of who keeps the Law better when, in fact, no one keeps the Law perfectly. He has forgotten what the Psalms declare, “There is no one who is righteous, not even one.” This fool is not the exception to the rule. He has forgotten the words of Isaiah that their goodness is no where near as fine as the clothes on their back; instead, they are like dirty, filthy, bloody rags. In a word, he is a fool – literally, a damned fool for trusting his nothingness before God.

In the corner, trying to hide after being exposed, pressing himself against the wall as if wishing he could crawl into the cracks and crevices between the stones of the massive wall, hunched over, is the tax collector. He, too, stands alone – his profession keeping fellow Israelites at arms-length. No one feels sorry for this man and his misery. They pass him by as if he is part of the furnishings. As such, no one could hear his simple, broken-hearted and humble prayer.

But, if you did stop, if you did listen, and if you did hear his mumbles and murmurs, you would note the contrast from the previous display. There was no boasting, no litany of good deeds done and laws kept, no self-justifying comparison to make himself feel better. The tax collector pounded his chest, unable to look up, his body reflecting the burden of each and every one of his sins weighing on his conscience. He recognized his nakedness with nothing to hide his unworthiness from God. There was only simple, repentant confession: Lord, have mercy on me a sinner. He identifies his condition as sinner and trusts that the Lord will have mercy because God has promised that a smoldering wick will not be snuffed out and a bruised reed will not be crushed. He prays, in faith, that a broken and contrite heart God will not despise.

To ask for mercy is to ask to not receive the deserved punishment. It’s a courtroom word, where the accused is found guilty yet begs for his sentence to be reduced or cancelled. Mercy is found in the compassion of the judge, given to whom he feels worthy of a second chance, of forgiveness of their guilt.

How does one ask for mercy when he or she knows they are guilty as charged? To be more specific, how can a sinner, the likes of a tax collector who is as much as a publicly acknowledged, yet legally protected thief who steals from his own people, how can a tax collector ask God for mercy?

The tax collector begs for mercy in a unique way. He’s not asking for God to be arbitrarily lenient to him. He doesn’t argue that he deserves mercy. He doesn’t offer a justifying comparison saying that, yes, he is a tax collector, but that not as bad as murders or insurrectionists who get crucified. He doesn’t try to defend himself as a son of Abraham. He doesn’t try to hide behind the law allowing him to effectively steal from his fellow Israelites. No arguments, no excuses, no justification.

Where the pharisee stood spiritually naked and alone with nothing separating him from God’s wrath and displeasure, the tax collector, in asking for God’s mercy, places himself at the mercy-seat of God.  

In the Old Testament, the lid to the Ark of the Covenant was described as the mercy seat. It was the place, the locatedness, where God would meet His people. On the Day of Atonement, the High Priest would sprinkle a portion of the blood of the sacrificial animals on the mercy seat and the rest of the blood would be sprinkled on the people Mercy was given to the worshipping Israelite in exchange for the blood of the sacrifice. To be mercied is to be blood covered. They were shown by God because of the blood.

But the Ark disappears from history several centuries before Jesus’ birth. To this day, no one knows where it is. Historians call this a mystery. Christians call this God redirecting the eyes of the faithful from a gold-covered box hidden in the center of the temple to it's fulfillment: two, wooden beams planted for all to see outside Jerusalem. 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.  

The repentant sinner - the extortioners, the unjust, the adulterers, the tax collectors, the farmers, the ranchers, the teachers, the stay-at-home parent, the retiree, the student, and, yes, even the pastor - 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.

Mercy is a gift that you receive by grace, through faith, in Christ. Christ’s once-for-all substitutionary, propitiatory sacrifice covers you in His blood and God sees you – not your sins; He sees you clothed in Christ’s holiness – not naked; He declares you justified – not condemned; and He sees you as His beloved and exalted child – not the one to be cast out.

Today is the 502^nd anniversary of the beginning of the Reformation. On October 31, 1517 Martin Luther nailed his 95 theses, or points of discussion, to the castle church door at Wittenberg, Germany. Chief among his concerns was whether a sinner approached God naked, with only his own self-justification to clothe him, or whether he approached God wrapped up in the blood of Jesus, asking to be mercied because of Christ’s sacrificial death. Luther may have re-discovered this powerful truth of salvation, the mercy of God in Christ, that had gotten buried and lost, but he would be the first to say the Reformation was never about him. It was about Jesus. It still is.

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[1] Wikipedia

The Lord Mercies the Broken: Luke 17:11-19

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and from our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Amen. The text is the Gospel reading, Luke 17:11-19.

What do you do when everything you have, everything you are, everything you had hoped to be or become has been stripped from you?

What do you do when you are an outcast, literally pushed outside of town to a dump of a tent community where others as pathetic as you live off of the scraps of food, clothing and money that are tossed to you as you beg. But, you must beg from a distance; if anyone draws too close, if someone ventures too near your place of ill respite you must stand – or try to stand – and wave your arms – or try to wave your arms – and shout – or manage as loudly as you can – “Unclean, unclean!” so that the unwary and unobservant traveler doesn’t become contaminated and have to join you in your public isolation and shame. You have lost your business, your home, family and friends. Ostracized, you’ve lost your ability to be touched by the ones you love and, even if a fellow outcast does touch you, you might not be able to feel it anyway because your nerves, your muscles no longer register a sense of touch.

In Deuteronomy, Moses was given instructions for careful and deliberate restrictions on the one who is contaminated by leprosy. Over the years, a sense of superstition evolved around illnesses such as blindness, or being lame, or leprosy, the idea becoming that one who developed this disease must have done something to deserve it – or perhaps the parents or even grandparents were guilty of some great and magnificent sin against God that, in His wrath, He levied this terrible punishment against you. You’ve lost everything to the point that even God is against you. You are separated from the worshipping community: no priestly care, no pastoral presence, no presence of God. Just you and a burdened conscience wondering what God has against you to levy this terrible disease on your body that is slowly dying.

There is a word for this: excommunicated. Take this word apart, ex/communicated and you discover what it means: to be separated from the community. But, excommunicated sounds too academic, too theological. It’s something we talk about only in our constitution and bylaws, perhaps in our Catechism, a desperately severe move made by the church to lead a sinner to repentance. But, in this case, the word is too clean. We need a harsher word, a sharper word to help us understand the suffering of this separation that is caused by something you didn’t do. Your sin didn’t cause this; it’s the fallenness of the world, the fallenness of our bodies. Let’s use the word amputate – traumatic amputation. In the ancient world, when you are the one cut off from the body of believers is as dreadful to you as it would be to your leg if it were severed from your body. In the ancient world lepers were amputated, you were excommunicated, from the worshipping and living body of believers. You were cut off from the land of the living. You were condemned to be part of the pile of detritus, the living dead and the dying living.

Jesus was traveling through the no-man’s-land between Galilee and Samaria. In the Gahenna of lepertown, there were ten men. “Jesus, master, have mercy.” They’re at a distance, remember, and their voices probably aren’t much more than a whisper, but that mustard-seed prayer of faith is directed to the Great Physician. Not “heal us,” not make us whole so we can return to the community, to our families, to the worship life of Israel – no, simply “Have mercy.” Mercy is all there is to rely upon: the loving God in the person of Jesus Christ, and His inclination to show mercy.

Mercy is not getting the punishment that you deserve. It’s the accused’s plea to a judge in court. It’s not an argument from strength; you have nothing with which to argue. It’s a prayer made from weakness; you have no position from which to plead. Yet the prayer, itself, is grounded in the strength of the one to whom the prayer is addressed. There is only Christ and His inclination to be merciful to unclean ones, those struggling under and in the fallenness of the world.

This is the simple, mustard-seed sized and faith-laden prayer of God’s faithful people of all ages. It is prayed in boldness and confidence; it’s whispered in moments of fear and dread; it’s cried in moments of despair and loneliness. In the hallways of hospitals, in the solitude of nursing home beds, in the fearful closeness of a prison, in the silence of the widower’s kitchen, in the coldness of family court, in the silence of the empty nest, in the blinding lights of the emergency room, in the stone-laden cemetery, the prayer, “Jesus, have mercy,” joins in the ancient echoes of the lepers.

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. But Jesus gets what He doesn’t deserve. He doesn’t deserve to be beaten, or whipped, or crucified, or abandoned or die.  

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 broken, diseased bodies of the world and to make them whole. He comes to re-establish the relationship between man and God. He comes to bind up the broken.

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 Lord 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 He, who enters into humanity, answers. His answer is simple and direct: 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.

There is an interesting play on words, here: our translation says, “your faith has made you well.” It is better, more accurate, to say “Your faith has sanctified you,” that is, “Your faith has made you holy.” Here is why this is important.

In today’s world, it is popular and easy for a preacher to conclude a sermon on this text by saying, “So, if you have faith like this Samaritan leper, you too will be made well of all of your illnesses.” It’s a glory answer; more than that, it’s a chicken answer because it’s unfair. If you are made well from your illness, then obviously you have great faith, right? But what if you’re not healed? Does that mean you lack faith? It places the burden on you, the repentant child of God, that it’s somehow your fault you weren’t healed.

This isn’t what the text is saying. It’s a narrative; part of the story – part of the story that leads to the cross. That’s where Jesus is going: to Jerusalem, to the cross, to die. This side of heaven, we still live under that cross. Yes, it is an empty cross – to be sure, Christ has died; He is risen, risen, indeed! Alleluia! – but it is still a cross. This narrative does not promise you will be made well temporally, in the now. It does not promise, to use a very specific example, that an accident victim will be made whole and well again because of her faith or the mustard-seed prayers of this body of Christ interceding for her. That is the “Thy will be done,” remember – holding on with both hands to the promises of God, but doing so loosely so that whatever the answer, we are content with what the Lord gives. This narrative does promise that, regardless of the wholeness of the body, one is made holy now by the mercy of God given abundantly in Christ Jesus. And, in that last and great day, there will full and complete restoration and all sorrow and sighing, all cries of “Lord, have mercy” will disappear.

That is to come. Now, this is life under the cross. It is not easy, but it is light. It is not comfortable, but it is a comfort that we follow the one who showers mercy on us.  When life narrows down, there in the middle is Jesus.

So, go – show yourself to friends and family, to coworkers and neighbors. Let them see you have been mercied by Jesus. In your living, wherever that might be, give thanks to God for all He has done for you.

Forgiving the Unforgivable - Luke 17:1-7

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

Forgiveness may be the most difficult aspect of the Christian’s life of sanctification. St. Paul gives us a good definition in 1 Corinthians 4 of what forgiveness looks like: “it does not keep account of the sin and bears no harm.”  Author Lewis Smedes simplifies this and says to forgive is to surrender the right to get even[1].  Easy to say; hard to do. In large part, this is because we are human beings, people who are hurt, physically, mentally, emotionally and spiritually by what others do to us when they sin against us. We remember these things. Some hurts, some sins, are bigger than others and those are even harder, yet, to forgive.

If we are honest, at times we don’t want to forgive. We would rather hold on to those memories, those sins committed against us as a way of keeping score, a way of holding someone else in their place while elevating ourselves as “better than.” Even our language – carefully crafted and phrased – helps us attain this goal. Meanwhile, we keep the catalogue of sins committed against us neatly arranged so that when asked – and sometimes without invitation – we can pull the list from our memories and by date, size and location, we can drag out into the open each sin committed against us. We keep the list polished and prepared so that our friends, family members, and co-workers give their assurances that we have every reason to keep and add to that list of sins committed against us. “Oh, I’m no saint,” we gladly admit, “but at least I didn’t do such and such like so and so. Remember when she, remember how he did that?” And, thusly fortified by the devil, the world, and our own sinful flesh, we cling to our self-justification that convinces us its OK to not forgive him, it’s OK to hold that grudge against her.

Part of us feels that way, but there’s part of us that also knows we are called by Christ to forgive. Our Christian conscience, which is also redeemed in Baptismal waters by the way, hears the words of Jesus saying we are to forgive the repentant sinner even if he or she has sinned against us seven times – the point being, of course, not to cap forgiveness off at seven times, but rather that seven, a number of wholeness and holiness, indicates we are to forgive wholly and without end. A baptized child of God, we want to fulfill this sanctified act of showing mercy and love to our neighbor.

That’s relatively easy, of course, if sins are so minor that they can be forgiven with hardly a thought – someone borrows a pen and forgets to return it, effectively stealing it from you. Ten Bics for a buck – no major loss; it’s not hard to forgive the theft of that pen. In fact, most wouldn’t even register that as sin, let alone forgiveness.  But, what if your roommate stole next month’s rent money out of your sock drawer, or kid at school – who you thought was your friend - writes your name and number with sexual inuendo on the bathroom stall door at school? What if your next-door neighbor pot-shots your best show animal, or your spouse commits adultery, or your child swears at you and tells you to go to hell? How do you forgive those sins? Those are much harder to forgive.

Now, what if it happens again, and again, and again – the same person doing the same thing to you, and each time repenting, contritely acknowledging their sin against you, asking for grace, offering amends, and promising not to do it again --- only to do the exact same thing again, and again and again.   Now what? How do you forgive that? How do you forgive someone who, based on their continued and repetitive actions, obviously does not deserve your forgiveness even when they ask for the umpteenth time to be forgiven for the umpteenth time they have sinned against you?

To forgive begins with your own repentance. Repent for your selfish desire to get even. Repent for the attitude that says they do not deserve to be forgiven. Repent for the attitude that you are less of a sinner than they are and they are going to get what they deserve. Repent for the desire to act as judge and jury for those who have sinned against you. Repent of your heart that has grown hard and unwilling to forgive. Repent for an idea that you no longer need to forgive someone who has sinned against you for the eighth time.

Repentance may seem like a strange place to begin to forgive when someone has sinned repeatedly against you. But in confessing your own sins and standing in humility before God the Father as a sinner, you see yourself as a sinner and under the same condemnation for your own sins as the one who sinned against you. You see yourself as one for whom Jesus died. And, more than that, you are able to see the one who sinned against you through their reflection of the cross of Jesus.

The second part of forgiveness is prayer, specifically prayer for faith. Again, this seems strange – to pray for faith in order to forgive. But we are only able to forgive when we first understand that forgiveness flows from Jesus and can only be received through faith in Him as Lord and Savior. Forgiveness, like faith, is a gift of God given through the death and resurrection of Christ. In Christ, God reconciled the world to Himself, Christ’s perfect life fulfilling God’s commands for holiness; Christ’s innocent death fulfilling God’s demands for atonement. Sins wages are fulfilled in Jesus’ sacrifice on the cross, the payment made in full by the blood of Jesus. We obviously do not deserve forgiveness because, among other things, we daily sin much and indeed deserve nothing but punishment. And, we commit the same sins over and over and over. How many times have you stood at this very altar confessing the same sin, knowing you deserve nothing but God’s wrath for your repetitive sin?

Thanks be to God, We are forgiven, not because deserve it, but by the merits of Jesus.  Faith receives this gift of God and enables the child of God to trust that Christ came into the world to save the sinner. Faith believes that repentant sinners are forgiven solely and completely in Christ.

Forgiveness is a gift that is meant to be shared. We become channels, conduits, of forgiveness. Having been forgiven, Christ’s forgiveness flows through us to those around us.  Faith, then, enables me to receive that forgiveness from Jesus and share it with those who have sinned against me. The same faith that trusts Christ’s forgiveness also trusts Christ’s forgiveness for the one who has sinned against me. And if Christ is able to forgive me for all my sins against Him, and the same is true for my brother or sister, then what else can I do bur forgive him or her, regardless the number of times I’ve been sinned against.

But, Pastor, that sounds great in theory, but you don’t know what my husband or wife, my ex or their family, mother or father, neighbor, coworker, classmate, or my used-to-be-friend did to me. It was too many times, too great of sins, too painful. It’s impossible to forgive that person. To you, my friend, Jesus tells this very short parable of faith the size of a mustard seed and a mulberry tree. People misunderstand this parable as being a demonstration of the power of our faith. It’s not. Put it in the context of this passage: Jesus is speaking of forgiveness. The disciples have prayed for an increase of faith so that they can forgive as Jesus forgives. Faith is not about making a tree jump into the Gulf of Mexico. Faith in Christ – even the smallest amount - enables you to look at that person, that brother or sister in Christ who sinned terribly against you, and say, “I forgive you.” That is an even greater miracle than successfully telling that huge Live Oak tree out front to jump in the Guadalupe River. That’s impossible. But, by God’s grace through faith in Christ, it is possible to even forgive that which seems to be unforgivable. That doesn’t mean it will be easy. It might even have to be something you practice daily, over and over, day after day. But God, in Christ, by the power of the Holy Spirit will give you mustard-sized faith to be able to do this.

Earlier I said forgiveness may be the most difficult aspect of the Christian’s life of sanctification. Difficult does not equal impossible. What does this look like? In May 2015, during the trial for the murderer Dylann Roof who shot victims in a Charleston, South Carolina, church, one of the surviving family members told mass murderer Dylann Roof that they had forgiven him.  "I forgive you. You took something really precious away from me," said Nadine Collier, daughter of Ethel Lance, one of the nine church members killed. "But I forgive you and have mercy on your soul. It hurts me, it hurts a lot of people, but God forgives you, and I forgive you."

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[1] The Art of Forgiving: When You Need to Forgive and Don’t Know How, p. 5-6

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How is this prayer possible?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Cross of Discipleship - Luke 14:25-33

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When Edna St. Vincent (Millay) Came For A Visit

When Edna St. Vincent (Millay) Came for a Visit

It was a typical Tuesday: slow, after Monday's rush. Only two customers had come in since we had opened two hours earlier. I was sitting at the desk, taking care of some paperwork and considering which stack of new trade-ins to attack when the phone rang. The woman on the other end of the line said she was cleaning out her mother’s things; there were a couple boxes of old books, would I be interested in looking at them for purchase? Yes, I said, when should I expect her?  She said she would come by after lunch, maybe closer to two, and she hung up without saying goodbye.

When she arrived, somewhere between lunchtime and two, she had two small Lowes’ moving boxes, each about half full of books. I glanced at the titles on top; would she prefer to browse while I prepared the offer or come back later in the afternoon? She said she would come back later around three or maybe four. She started to turn, then hesitated, saying, as if to answer a question I had not asked, “My mom was in an assisted living home. These were on the shelf in her room.” Her voice caught, she paused, and then added, “And I don’t want them.” She pushed open the door and walked out, the bell dinging behind her.

I started making an inventory list of the first box: a dozen cheap romance novels, a couple of best sellers, an Oprah book club selection, and a couple miscellaneous fiction books. Nothing exciting. I made a note of what I thought the box was worth.  In the next box were two coffee table photo books – the kind that folks used to have laying out, whether they had visited those places or not – one of England and one of Germany. I set them aside. Next were three history books covering the European theater of World War 2 and a pair of photo books of the war. Odd, I thought, that the same woman who had harlequin romances would have military history books in her small library; those don’t usually go together. I lifted them out of the box.

There was one hardback book left in the box. I lifted the slender, orange colored, cloth-bound hardback out and looked at it. It was obviously old, styled from the early/mid 1900s. The title-less cover of the book had a simple, gold weave around the edge, nothing more. The spine was also gilded with gold weave, and had only two words on it, each in its own box. The top box simply said POEMS; below, in a black box, was the author’s name, standing out as starkly as a name carved into a black granite tombstone: MILLAY.

Edna St. Vincent Millay was a semi-popular poet around the time of the Great Depression. I have been a fan of hers since I was in high school when Mrs. Winnie Karens gave me some of her sonnets to read. Happy to reconnect with an old friend, and less-than-eager to get back to the overflowing stack of books demanding attention, I gave in to the temptation.

I pulled my stool out from under the counter and opened the book of poems. On the title page, in the top right corner, in impeccable, clear penmanship was written, “G. Schaeffer – 1942.” I glanced at the stack of WW2 books at my left; the date made me wonder. And, what did G stand for? Gertrude? Glennis? Maybe Grace, or Gracie?

I turned a few pages of the old book. The edges were reddish orange, but the paper was off-white - perhaps “eggshell” would be how Sherwin Williams would describe it - with only very slight aging along the edge. The book had been read, that was obvious, but it was well cared for. Strangely, the book kept trying to open itself, as if it had a secret to tell me. I placed the open book on the counter and lifted my fingers, then my hands, letting the pages separate and form a slight arch as if the book’s spine had been broken at that point.

As I slid my thumb into the narrow space and lifted gently, the pages rolled upward and to the left until the book lay almost flat. I looked down and saw words I recognized: “Sonnet XXX.” I heard myself murmuring aloud, from memory, not needing to read the text.

Love is not all: It is not meat nor drink,

Nor slumber against the rain…

Along the left and right edges of the pages there were a few slight smudges, as if thumbs had held the book open repeatedly for reading. The caught a slightly masculine scent rising from the page, leathery and smokey, very faint but still present. Was that pipe tobacco? At the bottom of the page, written in large, round, loopy and masculine cursive, was a note to his beloved: “My love will bring me back home to you. Yours, August.” Below was the date: 4 September, 1942.

I began to connect dots in my mind and a picture began to form. Millay’s book of poetry was a gift from August to his beloved Ms. G. – what was her name? – as he prepared to leave for war. He purchased the book at a local bookstore before shipping out. I could imagine his pipe dangling, carefree, from the corner of his mouth, a curl of smoke dancing around his mustache (why a mustache? Why not?) and kissing the side of his cheek, rubbing through his hair, and fading away. Perhaps he had read Millay first, as if they could share an intimate moment when she later read the book in private. Were they married, already, when he set sail? Or was she faithfully waiting for her fiancée to come home? Was his note merely a promise to return safely, or was it also a promise for a marriage to come?  Had  Ms. G held that book open, reading not only Millay’s words but also the promise of her beloved? How many times had she ached to hold him, whole and complete, so they could begin, or resume, their lives as husband and wife? Would the war change him? I imagined her sitting at a bay window, looking out to the east, willing and wishing he would suddenly appear, first a small dot on the horizon, then growing and growing into a man – her man – and she would rush out to his arms.

My reverie was interrupted by the jingle of the bell at the door as a customer entered the store. With a quick trip to the gardening section, a payment, and a hopeful “See you next time,” I was ready to return to Ms. G, Millay and August.

A few more pages had arched themselves upward, again. I helped the pages roll to another poem, revealing yet another mystery. This page had no writing, but it had yellowed significantly compared to the other pages I had viewed. Across the pages were marks where, it appeared, water had dripped, slightly altering the paper’s smooth texture to a raised grain. A hint of vanilla, iris, jasmine and musk rose from the page…was that Chanel No. 5 I was smelling? I started to scan the page and my palm rose to my mouth as I heard myself gasp.  The poem was titled, “Thou Famished Grave.”

Thou famished grave, I shall not fill thee yet.

I cannot starve thee out: I am thy prey
And thou shalt have me; but I dare defend
That I can stave thee off; and I dare say,
What with the life I lead, the force I spend,
I'll be but bones and jewels on that day,
And leave thee hungry even in the end.

My mind completed the picture. Ms. G. had gotten word that her love – was he beau or husband? Either way, the romantic - had died in the war. Although he promised to return, and although Millay said the grave would not be filled, the promises were not enough to keep the enemy’s weapons of war at bay. Where Sonnet XXX was read and treasured with its words and note of promise and hope, this page, and the famished grave, were marked with her tears of pain and loss. Where the Sonnet had been kept closed and protected, as if it were too much to leave it open and the hope fade, the sheer pain of the loss was too much to keep entrapped, preventing her from closing the poem. It, and she, aged slowly…

I wiped a tear from my eye as I imagined Ms. G sitting at her writing desk, tea cup full but cold, with the book of poems laying there – one page, once filled with hope but now mocking her pain; one page, once just a poem, now a final statement of irony as, somewhere, perhaps even in an unknown place, her beloved lay in the grave. I could see the tears that ran, large and wet, from her eyes, splashing on the open book below as she stared eastward, again, her beloved never to return.

I closed the book and set it aside on the counter, separate from the other books, while I stared out the window, gathering my thoughts. Silly me, I thought, letting my imagination run so wildly while there was work to be done. I finished figuring up my buy offer and went back to my desk to try to work, but I kept looking at the book, wondering about the fate of Ms. G and August. Finally, somewhere between 3 and 4 o’clock, she came through the door. “Do you have a price for me?” she asked. I touched the stack of books and gave her my price. She nodded; that sounded fine to her, but what about the orange book?

I smiled. “You said these were your mom’s books. I think this one might be special. You might want to keep this one. May I ask a silly question?” A nod. “Did your mother wear Chanel No. 5?” A quizzical look, but another nod. I motioned her to a stool at the counter. When she sat, I showed her “Sonnet XXX,” then the well-worn poem. “It’s a slow day. Why don’t you tell me about your her…”

And she did.