Getting the King's Ransom: Luke 24:23-47

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and from our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Amen. The text is Luke 23:26-43

Today is the Last Sunday of the Church Year. It’s also called Christ the King Sunday. These last Sundays of the Church year, we especially focus, as we say in the Creed, that “He will come again with glory to judge the living and the dead, whose kingdom will have no end.” And, when we think of Christ’s return we think – rightly! – of the pictures painted in the Scriptures of what that day will be like. In those pictures we have in our minds, we think of a glorious and majestic event with trumpets, and lights, and angels, and all the heavenly host in attendance as Jesus descends. And every eye shall see and every ear shall hear and every one – faithful and unfaithful, in Christ and outside of Christ, the body of Christ and those who separated themselves from Christ – everyone shall know Christ is Lord.

But our Gospel reading does not take us to the glorious return of Jesus. Last week, we heard Jesus’ words direct us to a tree, to the tree, as He drew closer to the cross. Today, St. Luke leads us to that very tree, to the foot of the cross, where we see and hear the narrative of Jesus’ crucifixion. Strange scene, isn’t it, an odd picture to be given to us on the day we proclaim Christ the King to instead see Jesus as Victim, the sacrifice. Behold, the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world.

The world expects glory in parades, pomp and circumstances. Christ shows His glory in the exact opposite: in His innocent suffering and death. The world expect a king to reign from behind the walls of an expansive castle while sitting on the finest of thrones. Christ reigns outside the city walls, near the town dump, with his throne being the lonely place of the cross. The world expects a king to wear a crown made of the finest of gold, silver and precious jewels. Christ wears a crown made of thorns – the curse of the garden of Eden literally coming to rest on His brow.

A king is surrounded by his subjects, bowing and scraping before his feet. Jesus is surrounded by the crowds who mock and jeer. A king stands with soldiers at his side, ready to do his bidding. Jesus hangs with two criminals, one on each side. A king rules in majesty. Jesus rules in humility. A king rules by fiat and royal edict. Jesus rules in mercy and grace. A king threatens and punishes wrongdoers and, in Jesus case, even punishes the innocent. Jesus forgives not only the unwitting participants, but also the penitent sinner who only asks to be remembered. A king is heralded with trumpets and armies. Christ was mocked, with just a note to declare Him “The King of the Jews.” A king fights tooth and nail to live and to hold onto his earthly kingdom. Christ takes spear and nail to die and to surrender his life for the ransom of many. A king’s bedchamber is filled with the finest of pillows, the softest of beds, and faithful servants to minister to his every whim and need. Christ’s bedchamber was hewn out of stone, his bedclothes a grave shroud, and laid to rest hurriedly by faithful but frightened disciples. When a king dies, there is national mourning and heads of state offer words of consolation.

Where earthly kings enjoy every kind of service and servant, Christ came not to be served, but to serve. Where kings command and people die, Jesus gives His life as a ransom for many.

A strange king, this One who takes the place of His people. Abdicating His heavenly throne and divine royalty to take up human flesh. A strange kingdom, indeed: reigning to die. No one has ever done such a thing before.

That’s because no king has ever loved like this One. Christ, the King, does all of this to trade places with His people: one, innocent death to take the place of all people of all time. He does it to stand under God’s own judgement – judgement that otherwise would have fallen upon us.

In the Old Testament sacrificial rite, when an animal was slaughtered for sacrifice, the blood of the animal would be caught in a bowl. The animal would be prepared and placed on the altar and then half of the blood would be poured out on top of the sacrifice. Using a hyssop branch, the high priest would dip into the blood and fling it on the worshippers, sprinkling them with the blood of the animal. Life is in the blood, Deuteronomy says, and the collecting, pouring and sprinkling of the blood signified that the life taken from the animal is life given to the people.

But once a year, on Yom Kippur – the Day of Atonement – the High Priest would enter into the Holy of Holies in the Temple with his basin of blood. There, the blood would be sprinkled, not on the sacrifice, but on the Ark of the Covenant, the place where God promised to dwell among His people. This place, the lid of the Ark of the Covenant, was called the mercy seat. God would show mercy by receiving the blood of the sacrificial bull and remember His pledge and promise that He would not destroy His people. He would accept a sacrifice in their stead. Then, the priest would sprinkle the blood on the people of Israel. The covenant of God was signed in blood.

A moment ago, I said that the cross was Jesus’ throne. It also served as an altar, an altar upon which Christ is offered as the once-for-all sacrifice, the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world.  In Christ’s crucifixion, the cross becomes a throne-altar, the mercy seat, where Jesus blood is shed, poured out for us for the sins of the world.  It is, truly, the King's ransom for you.

As blood-covered and mercied people of God, we call out in repentant faith, “Father forgive us, for we know not what we do.” And, God, rich in mercy through the blood of Jesus, speaks to each of us: Today, you will be with me in paradise.

That sounds strange, to be sitting here in this sanctuary in South Texas on the Last Sunday of the Year. Today? As beautiful as this place is, it is hardly paradise. Paradise – that is, eternity in the presence of Christ in the resurrection of all flesh – paradise is yours, today. You are baptized, you are redeemed, you are made whole in Christ. Christ has died for you, Christ has fulfilled the Law for you, Christ has completed the Father’s will for you.

Christ is your King. But, here’s what’s remarkable: He makes you royalty as well so you can be an active part of the Kingdom. “You are a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people for His own possession, that you may proclaim the excellencies of Him who called you out of darkness into His own marvelous light. Once you were not a people, but now you are God’s people. Once you had not received mercy, but now you have received mercy.” (1 Peter 2:9-10)

Here’s why that’s important. You are made holy for a purpose. Not just for your own salvation, but for sharing the news of the King with those around you. Some people hear that and think they have to be missionaries, or pastors, or at least Sunday school teachers. No. You are proclaimers of the King in your daily vocation. When you stand in line at the grocery store, when you attend your grandson’s concert, when you make the kids’ lunches, when you change someone’s diaper, when you are pumping gas, when you eating lunch at the Barn, when you and your family eat together – in any of those moments, in what you say and do, you proclaim Christ and His mercy and grace. You, who received the King’s ransom, now share it with those around you.

In the name of Christ, the King.
Amen.

The End is Near! Go Watch a Tree. Luke 21: 5-33

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and from our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Amen. The text is the Gospel, Luke 21:34-36.

We are now in the last Sundays of the church year and you will notice that the readings become quite dark and heavy with anticipatory warnings. They sound like the apocalyptic doom & gloom TV shows and movies that were so popular a few years ago. Whether global flooding, an asteroid strike, nuclear winter, or alien invasion, these shows and movies got the attention of millions and made millions of dollars as well. But, viewers knew that when the show or movie was over and they got off their sofas or left the theater, it was right back to the same ol’ same ol’ routine. Life was normal, boring, routine and safe.

Oh, sure – there are plenty of real-world stories about war and conflict and political unrest on the evening news. Occasionally, we hear of Christians being martyred over in the Middle East and we pause for a moment to reflect on our ability to gather here. But these stories catch our eye only for a moment. We see the terrible firestorms that swept California and watch with horror at homes and livelihoods and lives that are destroyed. It’s funny…we watch and listen to these kinds of stories and, other than that moment or two of discomfort, we quickly change the channel, close the webpage, fold up the paper, and head to work or to bed and with hardly another thought, forget and move on with our own lives.

But when Jesus speaks of wars and destruction of what we know by earthquake and fire and conquest, and then say that those things are just the beginning, it catches our attention. We’re not used to Him speaking this way. The idea that your parents or children or aunts or cousins might turn against you to deliver you and other faithful Baptized Christians to governing authorities to be arrested, tried and convicted, that makes us uncomfortable, to say the least. To realize that droughts and famines and other so-called “natural disasters” that we know and experience are only the beginning, and could drive our world to a screeching halt like we’ve never experienced, like Hollywood only can begin to imagine, we wonder how we would survive such a thing.

These aren’t some attention-grabbing headline you see in the grocery store tabloids. These aren’t something on a cheesy internet channel. This isn’t a reporter trying to drum up ratings. Jesus is speaking with full, Divine authority, prophesying what will come.

This does cause us to pause and reflect on our sitzenbleiben – our place in life, especially our standing before God.

For some, these readings strike fear into the heart, and it’s easy to understand why. We look around at our homes, our families, our world in which we live and realize all of this can be gone, literally in a moment. It’s frightening to think any of these things could happen at any time. Things are beyond our control in every sense of the word. It seems that politically and socially, everything stands against the church and then even creation gets into the act.

For others, the response is more dismissive. After all, Jesus spoke these words 2000 years ago. Some flippantly comment that yes, it’s happening all around, but it’s not happening here; it won’t happen to me. Still others offer the glib and wry comment that we can’t do anything about it, so we may as well eat, drink and be merry for tomorrow we may all die. Les bon temp roulet – let the good times roll.

It’s no wonder that the disciples, walking with Jesus, ask the question that Christians have wondered since Jesus spoke these words of warning 2000 years ago. Across time and spanning generations, the question echoes: “Teacher when will these things be and what will be the sign when these things are about to take place?”

Jesus gives us a picture: that of a tree. “Look at the fig tree, and all the trees,” Jesus says. He’s using the tree to demonstrate the passing of time. As the seasons change, so does the tree: first the leaves come out, then fruit is produced, then the leaves wither and die.

With each passing season, so the kingdom of God draws closer. With each sunrise and sunset, with each rolling forward of the news cycle, whether the fall of Jerusalem in AD 70, or the arrival Hurricane Harvey in 2017, whether fires in Australia or school shooting in California, whether social unrest in a foreign country or the foolish political posturing of Washington, with each passing story that we hear about or live out, Jesus’ return draws closer. Inversely, with each spin of the earth on its axis and each revolution around the sun, the earth with all of its chaos and loss, this world draws closer to its end. The day is coming when Jesus will return. He will set all things right, restore creation, claim His throne, and to rule with glory and honor.

In all those movies and shows, have you noticed they always follow the same theme. In a moment of weakness, someone will say “Can we do it?” and the rest, with Bob the Builder positivity, say “Yes, we can!” With a combination of science, ingenuity and good old fashioned muscle, the heroes muster the courage, strength and wherewithal to survive and conquer. As we wait, Jesus would not have us look to ourselves. He would not turn us science or wisdom, technology or muscle. These things are good, and they are helpful, but they cannot save.

With the drawing close of the kingdom, from the beginning of the kingdom of Israel to these gray and latter days, there is only one response that the children of God: look at the tree. Look to the Tree. Not a fig tree, or an oak tree, or a pomegranate tree; not a fir or a cypress or a cedar. Look to the tree upon which the Lord of Life hung.

Look to the Tree. Jesus was nailed to the Tree after His own betrayed Him to be arrested, tried and convicted. Jesus was left alone to defend Himself when all His brothers fled in fear. Look at the tree where, as Jesus breathed His last, the sun fled from the sky and the earth shook with sorrow at His innocent death. Look to the Tree where it seemed the fires of hell consumed the One who died. Look to the Tree, stripped of its own leaves of life, supporting the one who had life stripped from Him. Look to the Tree. Look to the cross. There, at the Tree, the Lord of Life redeems the world with all of its fallenness, all of its destruction, all of its pain. At the Tree, Jesus conquers it all for us.

So, look to the Tree. Look to the Tree with repentance, confessing your sins. Look to the Tree with faith. With our cries of “Lord, have mercy,” confessing in faith that Jesus will rescue and save, look to the Tree with hope. That, even as this world falls and fails around us, when Christ returns, this world will be recreated and restored and renewed in the resurrection of all flesh.

As our fall season deepens, look at the trees around you. They simply go on being trees. They don’t fear the winter to come, and God in His grace, provides for them and He prepares them for winter when the leaves fall and they have their season of rest. Then, after their rest, comes new life, springtime, a season of Easter even for creation. It’s a metaphor for our lives now as we prepare for that which is to come. Look to the trees. But, more than that, look to the Tree for grace and strength to endure that which is before us. “But watch yourself lest your hearts be weighed down with dissipation and drunkenness and cares of this life, and that day come upon you suddenly like a trap. For it will come upon all who dwell on the face of the whole earth. But stay awake at all times praying that you may have strength to escape all these things that are going to take place, and to stand before the Son of Man.”

Oh, For Heaven's Saints! Revelation 7:9-17

What does heaven look like? Take a moment and picture it. Maybe you have clouds and angels playing harps in your head. Maybe rainbows and green valleys, or something like a golf course. Maybe you just thought of the Field of Dreams in Dyersville, IA.

St. John was exiled to the prison island of Patmos for being a Christian. There, as an old man, he had a marvelous vision – and he wrote down what he say. We call that writing, “The Book of Revelation”. And while Revelation is filled will all sorts of the images John saw, some of them even quite scary, we also see here some of the clearest pictures of heaven in all of scripture.

One striking thing about heaven, pictured in Revelation, is that it's not so much a place as a people. Or, should we say, a situation – between God and his people. John doesn't so much describe the surrounding environment – that's not what's important. But what is important is who is there, and why.

God is there. That's what makes it so heavenly. That's what makes it a good place – a place we want to be. Heaven means a blessed reunion of God and man – a relationship restored to full and perfect harmony, after it was lost in the ancient paradise of Eden. To be cast away from God forever is Hell. But to be in his presence forever, singing his praises, is heavenly. John certainly pictures God throughout his vision – both as a mighty king on his throne, but also also as the Lamb who once was slain – Jesus Christ, the firstborn of the dead.

But on this All Saints Day, it's worth noting who else is there – his people.

In Revelation 7 we see two pictures of God's people. First, we have the 144,000. Contrary to the teachings of some, this does not mean there's a limited number who can be saved. It's not as if heaven has a big flashing “no vacancy” sign, and the rest of us are out of luck unless you’re one of an uber-select group who received a secret invitation to get in. Here is a symbolic number – 12, the number of God's people throughout scripture – is squared and multiplied by 1000. It really stands for the totality of all God's people, the church, the chosen ones of God. This is the people of God on earth, the church militant who still struggles under the cross. This is you, me, and the Christians across the globe who are still living, this side of heaven, waiting for the day of Christ’s return.

Then there is the great multitude no one could count. And these are really the same people – God's people – but it’s the view from the other side of the resurrection on the last day. This is the picture of all who have died in the faith, from the days of Adam and Eve, until the day when Christ returns to judge the living and the dead. It’s a crowd that is so vast that no human eye can count them all who are saved and stand before God in heaven.

John sees this great crowd, and one of the elders asks, “who are they?” We might wonder the same, but the answer is obvious. One wonders, too, if John didn't even recognize some of them. Perhaps as he looked on the crowd he saw Christian friends – apostles and martyrs who had gone before him. “Oh there's Peter, there's Matthew. There's my brother James”

Who are they? Its obvious. “Sir, you know” he says. But this moment is worth comment. Of all the visions in Revelation, few are explained to this extent. The elder makes it plain, “These are the ones coming out of the great tribulation. They have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb” These are believers in the glory of God's eternal presence.

These are, in fact, all the saints. Can you see their faces? There are our parents, our children, our grandparents; our neighbors and friends; distant family members; co-workers; Edna and Sandy. Heroes of the faith of generations past – all standing there before the Lamb of God.

But it’s not just them. By the grace of God, you and I will be there, too. For in Holy Baptism, our robes are washed clean in the blood of the lamb. There you were first clothed with Christ. And his righteousness covers you even now, and even forever. You are declared holy; you are sainted through Christ. Now, you are part of the church militant, struggling in this world; then, you will be part of the church triumphant. And all the trouble of this world, or as Revelation calls it, “the great tribulation” - none of it compares to the glory revealed there. There, in the presence of God, there is no more pain, hunger, thirst, suffering or sorrow.

What a beautiful picture it is, that God will wipe every tear from our eyes. Like a loving father whose kiss makes the boo boo all better, but even more perfect and full. His tender, loving, mercy will take away all cares and troubles, not just for a moment, but forever. It's almost impossible to comprehend.

By rights, heaven is already yours. You already stand in the merciful presence of God, by grace through faith. One day we will see it in all its fullness, but we possess it even now.

Yes even now, God gives us a taste of it. We have the forgiveness of our sins, and the peace with God that brings. We have the promises of blessings now and future, and in those words we trust. We have the hope of the resurrection, the certainty of things unseen. And we have his gracious presence even now - “Lo, I am with you always” and “where two or three gather in my name, there am I”.

Even now, before the great marriage feast, we have a foretaste, a sample, if you will, of that blessed banquet. When we gather at the rail and kneel to receive his body and blood, we participate in the great communion – the community – of heavenly host, together with angels, archangels and all the company of heaven. It's as if the saints themselves are here with us, praising and thanking the God who has brought us salvation.

That's why we sing the same songs. Power and riches and wisdom and strength and honor and blessing and glory to God and to the Lamb, forever and ever, amen. We, like the saints, are blood-bought and victorious in Christ. We, like the saints, will live forever. And that eternal life with God has already begun.

All Saints Day – not a day to mourn or bemoan those who have departed this world, but a day to rejoice in triumph with those who have joined the everlasting company, the great multitude in the eternal presence of God. All saints – all holy people – who continuously praise the Holy One, our Lord and savior Jesus Christ.

Today we see images, visions, with St. John of the glories of heaven – not a place, as much as a state of being – God, in mercy, dwelling with his people forever.

For the promise of glories to come, and for the present blessings he so richly reveals – we thank you, O Lord. For all the saints who from their labors rest, we thank you, O Lord. And for the grace to remain in that great company here in life and there for eternity we pray, keep us always, O Lord, in Jesus Christ. In his name. Amen.

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)