Twinning with Thomas

In Nomine Iesu
St. John 20:19-31
April 28, 2019
Easter 2C

Dear Saints of Our Savior,

Do you have a nickname? Nicknames can be funny things. They can be silly or significant. They can be demeaning or descriptive. Several of Jesus’ disciples had nicknames. Jesus Himself assigned a nickname to Simon, saying, “You are Peter” (which can also be loosely translated, “You are Rocky.”) Says a lot, doesn’t it? And then there were the brothers, James and John. Together they were nicknamed the “Sons of Thunder.” That sounds really impressive, although it might just mean that they snored really loudly. You never know with nicknames.

And then there’s Thomas. You surely know his nickname. He’s not just Thomas, but “doubting Thomas.” But actually, he’s never called by that nickname in the Bible. Instead, Thomas’s true nickname is Didymus, which means: The Twin. Thomas, the Twin. The problem is, we don’t know when or why Thomas was called “the Twin.” Presumably, there was a sibling with whom he shared a womb. But nowhere are we told the true identity of Thomas’s twin. Thomas’s twin is a bit of a mystery.

Thomas always comes up on this Sunday after Easter because he had the misfortune to miss church on the very first Easter Sunday. He wasn’t there in the upper room when the risen Lord appeared to His disciples who were cowering behind locked doors. Jesus simply came and stood among them, saying, “Peace be with you.” After that, Jesus makes those men His apostolic ministers, giving them the Holy Spirit and sending them out to forgive sin—and to withhold forgiveness. Some people think the church spends too much time on matters of sin and forgiveness. But sin and forgiveness is the very first topic Jesus takes up after being raised from the dead. That says something, don’t you think?

But Thomas Didymus—Thomas the Twin—he wasn’t there. He missed out. We don’t know why; but Thomas wasn’t there to see or to hear

the good news that Jesus is risen. Sure, the other disciples caught up with him later that week. “We have seen the Lord,” they exclaimed. But Thomas doesn’t believe them. He’s skeptical. He wants proof—hard evidence. He first wants to see and touch the wounds of Jesus. Unless I see in His hands the mark of the nails, and place my finger into the mark of the nails, and place my hand into His side, I will never believe.

Thomas was an enlightened, modern man—not some ignorant, gullible, superstitious, rube who believed ever rumor than came down the pike. Yes, he heard the news from trusted friends and fellow disciples. Yes, Thomas had been there when Jesus had predicted His own death and resurrection at least three times—heard it with his own ears. But, no, still, Thomas did not believe it.

But I say thank God for Thomas! For his faithless skepticism ultimately strengthens the truth of the resurrection account. Think about it. If you were making up the resurrection of Jesus to deceive future generations—if you were concocting a myth or legend about a resurrected Jesus—would you have someone from His inner core of disciples doubting His Word, questioning the good news, demanding hard evidence? I don’t think so. You’d have Thomas shouting, “He is risen indeed, alleluia!” Thomas isn’t shouting, but doubting—actually worse than doubting, Thomas is faithless. He does not believe.

A whole week goes by. It’s the next Sunday. It’s this Sunday—the Sunday after Easter. And Jesus shows up again. (Sunday seems to be a significant day, doesn’t it?) It’s Sunday and Jesus appears to His gathered disciples—His tiny church. And with Jesus: His body, His blood, the wounds of His sacrifice for sinners. His peace, His forgiveness, His Holy Spirit. All of it on a Sunday morning. Those same gifts are right here for you—on this Sunday. This is the foundation for Christian worship and liturgy. The only difference between that room and this room is that our doors aren’t locked and we can’t see Jesus. But we have the same wounds, the same words, the same Spirit.

Thomas shows us what happens when you aren’t here—where Jesus gathers with His people. It’s toxic to your faith. But Thomas also shows us what to do when doubt gets the upper hand. He shows us where to go when it seems like faith is fading away. For when Jesus appears on the Second Sunday after Easter, Thomas is there, doubts and all. If you’ve got doubts, do what Thomas did. Bring them to Jesus. Being a baptized believer means that you are always dealing with things unseen—things you can’t measure with the methods of science.

The great men and women of faith have always had doubts. Abraham and Sarah laughed at the promise of God that they would have a son in their old age. Mary wondered how she could conceive and bear a son in her virginity. St. Paul must have wondered why so much misfortune and so many false teachers hounded him along every step of his missionary work. I and my fellow pastors have doubts too—doubts about the power of God’s Word as we see so many baptized, catechized Christians just walk away from it to pursue their own agendas. And I suppose you too know what it is to struggle with doubt. The devil makes sure of it.

Who is the twin of Thomas? You are. We are all twinning with Thomas. You are the double of Thomas Didymus. We are, as Luther famously wrote, simultaneously saints and sinners. We are, at the same time, faithless and faithful. We are riddled with doubts and brimming with confidence in Christ. We are fearful and courageous in Christ our Savior. You have a long lost twin; and his name is Thomas. And what we learn from our dear twin, Thomas, is to bring all of our sins and all of our doubts to church—to the altar and pulpit—to the wounds of Jesus and the words of Jesus. And there—here—Jesus will meet us and give us what we need.

Put your finger here, and see my hands; and put out your hand and place it in my side. This is the genuine body of Jesus. Not a ghost. Not an apparition. Not just a spirit. Flesh and bone. The risen Christ is touchable. And the wounds are the clincher—the glorious proof of His love and His sacrifice for you—still visible in His resurrected body. By His wounds, we are healed. Those wounds forever mark Him as the Lamb who was slain. Even seated at the right hand of the Father in glory, Jesus bears the scars of His sacrifice as an eternal reminder of your forgiveness. Those wounds teach us that the sacrifice of Jesus is never just a distant memory of a past event. Christ’s sacrifice for us is always visibly, tangibly, concretely given and applied to us. His wounded hands and side for Thomas; His body and blood in the Holy Supper for us—the same thing.

And with the wounds of Jesus come also His words—faith creating, faith enlivening, faith sustaining words: Do not disbelieve, but believe. And Thomas does. And together with our twin Thomas we can only confess, “My Lord and my God.”

And then comes a blessing from our Lord—a blessing not on Thomas, but on all his twin siblings: Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed. Blessed are you this second Sunday of Easter, that you believe Christ is risen from the dead. You trust that though your sins are as scarlet, yet Jesus makes them whiter than springtime snow in April. No, we don’t get to see like Thomas. But blessed are we to hear, to take and eat and drink—to be born again in Holy Baptism. Blessed are you, for you have not seen and yet believe. And believing, you have life in the name of Jesus.

In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Amen.

Angels Thrill to Bid

In Nomine Iesu
St. Luke 24:1-12
April 21, 2019
Easter C

Dear Saints of Our Savior~

Alleluia! Christ is risen! He is risen indeed! Alleluia!

Oh, the sweet joy that sentence gives. It’s so concise and compact. It proclaims the beating heart of all our hope with crisp clarity. It’s a statement of fact and conviction—a declaration that death is defeated. Many of the hymns we sing this morning begin with similar declarations: Jesus Christ is risen today. Our Savior lives. Jesus Lives! The Victory’s Won. I know that my Redeemer lives. Strong statements, one and all, declaring death’s demise.

But do you realize that Easter actually begins with a question? The first words spoken at the tomb in today’s text are not a declarative statement of fact, but a question: Why do you seek the living one among the dead? Now, an aptly worded question can be a powerful tool for teaching. If you attend one of my Bible classes, then you know that it’s sometimes all about asking the right questions, rather than just lecturing on the answers.

Why do you seek the living one among the dead? What’s going on with those angels as they pose this question to the women? Is their aim to reproach the women, to correct the women, to chastise the women for what they should have already known? Or are the angels smiling—gently teasing the women with a timely question—thrilling to bid these sad women to welcome the best news the world has ever known?

Like me, you’ve probably visited the tombs of some very famous people. I’ve seen where Luther was laid to rest. I’ve been to where Bach is buried. I’ve been to the tombs of presidents Lincoln, Eisenhower, and Kennedy. And there’s a certain protocol—a reverent decorum—when you visit such places. Hushed voices. Bowed heads. Quiet contemplation.

But these Easter angels seem to be breaking all the rules with their inappropriate tomb-talking! And that’s the point, perhaps. Easter breaks all the rules where death is concerned. The angels are talking in a tomb—which is no longer a tomb! It was just temporarily a tomb. To be a tomb, a corpse is needed—or at least a few dry bones. But that tomb—on that morning—was empty. Its temporary occupant had checked out earlier that morning—leaving His linens behind. The tomb was the logical place to look for the body of Jesus. But the angels’ question requires that logic be set aside: Why do you seek the living one among the dead?

Whether you think their question is pious or impertinent, these Easter angels are so important—so much more than mere window-dressing to the resurrection. Angels are, by definition, messengers from God. They speak for God Himself. Their questions and answers . . . are God’s questions and answers. And it is by the voice of these angels that the women are re-directed from the wrong place to the right place.

We need to be re-directed too. For we too have a sinful tendency to look for life in all the wrong places. We worship our idols and expect them to provide for us. We bow the knee to a successful career. We give all we have to academic achievement and good grades. We sell our soul to get friends with benefits, or an uptick in our profit margins. We hope these idols can make us more alive, but knowing all the while that they can ultimately deliver only death. We need re-direction. We need repentance. Why do you seek the living one among the dead?

Listen to the angels. Let them re-direct you, as they did the women: “Remember how he told you . . . that the Son of Man must be delivered into the hands of sinful men and be crucified and on the third day rise.” And the women—they remembered His words. The angels re-directed the women from their own fear and confusion to the crystal clear words and promises of Jesus. Jesus had predicted His death and resurrection just as it had happened. And if He gets that right—if His words about that prove to be true—then we can surely believe every other word that proceeds from the mouth of the Lord.

What changed everything for the women at the tomb was remembering the words of Jesus. But rather than remembering those words, we rely on our feelings, our experiences and our emotions as the keys that determine the decisions we make and the directions we take. If it feels good, do it. If it seems right, go for it. Listen to your heart. That’s really bad advice—given that our feelings are flawed and our hearts are by nature sinful and unclean. If you’re going through life guided by your feelings and emotions—allowing them to define who you are and where you stand in relation to God and one another—then, to borrow a phrase from St. Paul, you are “of all people most to be pitied.”

Our feelings and emotions can’t help us when it comes to our deepest questions and needs. We simply don’t have the answers. (We think we do, but we don’t.) The Easter angels tell us: If you want answers—if you want real life—remember His words. Remember how He told you. Remember what Jesus said and how He promised. Jesus has the words of eternal life. “I am the resurrection and the life,” He says, “Whoever believes in me, though he die, yet shall he live, and everyone who lives and believes in me shall never die.” “Because I live,” he says, “you shall live also.” Those who trust in Jesus, who remember His words, they have the answers. They have the ability to seek Him where He may be found.

Why do you seek the living one among the dead? Isn’t it interesting how Easter began with a message from the angels before the risen Christ actually appeared in the flesh? Why did God orchestrate Easter in such a way that the main players could only hear about it first, before they actually saw the risen Christ? God didn’t have to do it that way. It could have been the risen Christ sitting in the tomb waiting for the women instead of angels. But it wasn’t. Why not? So that those women—and all of us—would learn what it means to walk by faith and not by sight—so that we learn to trust and depend on the words of Jesus, even when we can’t see Jesus in the flesh—to teach us to trust the Word of God and the messengers of God more than our own two eyes.

The angels’ question was about the “living one.” We know who that is. Christ has been raised from the dead, the firstfruits of those who have fallen asleep. Jesus promised it, predicted it, preached it—and it came to pass. What He said would happen—happened. This is why we gather around His Word on every first day of the week. His Word is truth. His Word changes everything. When Jesus says, “Whoever believes and is baptized will be saved,” we take Him at His Word. When Jesus says, “Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood has eternal life,” we take Him at His Word. You can be as confident of your resurrection as you are that Jesus Christ is risen from the dead, lives and reigns to all eternity. Our preaching is not in vain. Your faith is not in vain. Your sins are forgiven. Nothing can separate you from the love of God in Christ. And it all hangs on this little sentence, “He is risen.”

On the cross Jesus was clothed with your sins, wrapped up in your wickedness, but those grave clothes are left behind in the tomb. Your sin is buried and remains in the tomb. The wrath of God was spilled and spent completely on Jesus. And there is now no more for you: No more wrath, no more punishment, no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.

And you can celebrate this holy day in no better way than as you remember what he told you. “This is my body, given for you. This cup is the new testament in my blood, shed for you for the forgiveness of sins. This do as often as you drink it.” The Savior’s love and life are here for you. Here is the best place of all to come looking for the Living One, Jesus the Christ.

And remember this—that every Sunday is a little Easter. Every Sunday is a resurrection celebration. Every week we leave behind a dying world to seek the “Living One” where He has promised to be found. On the first day of every week Jesus Christ comes to serve you in the preaching of His Word, and in the bread that is His body and the wine that is His blood. Every Sunday the Lord comes to remind you of your own resurrection, and a blessed reunion in heaven with those you love who have departed with faith in Christ.

Why do you seek the living one among the dead? That question begins the thrilling good news of Easter. And it points ahead to Easter’s final fulfillment—when you and I will also be numbered among the “living ones,” when we will all “check out” of our temporary tombs, clothed in white robes washed in the blood of the Lamb, singing an eternal alleluia chorus to our Savior.

In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Alleluia! Christ is risen! He is risen indeed! Alleluia!

Pure, Wholesome, Soothing Medicine

In Nomine Iesu
St. Luke 22:7-20
April 18, 2019
Maundy Thursday-C

Dear Saints of Our Savior~

Our Lord Jesus Christ, on the night when He was betrayed—on this night!—took bread and wine and gave His church a priceless gift—a sacrament—for the forgiveness of sins. What is the Sacrament of the Altar? The Small Catechism tells us: It is the true body and blood of our Lord Jesus Christ under the bread and wine, instituted by Christ Himself for us Christians to eat and to drink. That’s

how, Luther says, the head of the household is to teach his family about this holy meal—in terms that are simple, and clear, and most certainly true.

But in his Large Catechism Luther broadened his approach as he sought to explain the six chief parts for pastors and teachers. In fact, Luther wasn’t opposed to using a good metaphor when it helped to teach the truth about God’s good gifts. And to help express the blessings and benefits of the Lord’s Supper, Luther used the metaphor of medicine. He wrote: We must never regard the sacrament as a harmful thing from which we should flee, but as a pure, wholesome, soothing medicine which aids and quickens us in both soul and body. For where the soul is healed, the body has benefited also. (LC68)

This medicine metaphor is absolutely marvelous! For all of us—from the greatest to the least—have taken medicine. We’ve all benefited from an aptly administered pharmaceutical. It could be something as simple as aspirin for a headache or decongestant for allergies. Or it could be that you are alive and breathing today only because of the miracle of a modern medicine.

When it comes to the medicine of the Lord’s Supper, please note that it is “by prescription only.” The Lord Jesus is the one who gives this medicine; and you can’t receive it unless He gives it. And He gives it by the power of His Word. No mortar and pestle, no test tubes and Bunsen burners. This medicine is created exclusively by the Words of our Lord. Without His Words there is no medicine, no sacrament, no body, no blood. But with His Words—His Words of institution—we have the blessed medicine that heals us in soul and body: This is my body, which is given for you. This cup is the New Testament in my blood, shed for you for the forgiveness of sins. It’s not the power of the pastor. Nor is it the power of our faith. It is by power of Christ’s own Words that this heavenly medicine can be offered among us on earth.

As with all medicines, so also with this sacramental medicine: You must take it as directed. Every med comes with directions and precautions. Otherwise, great harm can result—sometimes, even death. We heard earlier tonight that the medicine of our Lord’s body and blood is “for the special comfort of those who are troubled because of their sin and who humbly confess their sins, fear God’s wrath, and hunger and thirst for righteousness” (LSB 290). If you don’t think that you have any sins to confess, then this medicine is not for you. If you have no plans to change your sinful life with the help of the Holy Spirit, then this medicine is not for you. If you have no intention or desire to forgive others as you yourself have been forgiven by God—or if you do not believe the words of Jesus when He says, “This is my body. This is my blood, given and shed for you for the forgiveness of sins,” then this medicine is not for you. We are not playing. We are not pretending here. We are not simply engaging in an ancient ritual with symbolic meaning. We are receiving potent and powerful medicine which has the potential for great harm if received unworthily—but also the promise of great good and healing when received in repentant faith—the promise of forgiveness, life, and salvation.

The blessings and benefits of this medicine when it is received in faith are amazing. Tonight’s readings all describe this medicine as part of the “new covenant,” or “new testament.” Jesus said, “This cup is the new testament in my blood.” Through the prophet Jeremiah, the Lord proclaimed the benefits and blessings of the New Covenant, summarized in these precious words: For I will forgive their iniquity, and I will remember their sin no more. The chief blessing of this New Covenant medicine is the forgiveness of sins. And not only does the Lord forgive our sins; but He remembers them no more.

Do you want to be freed from your shameful record of sin? Do you want those sins to be forgiven and forgotten—along with the power to forgive and forget the sins that have been committed against you? Do you desire to lead a holy life in word and deed—a holy life that corresponds to the Holy Baptism you have received? Do you need help and strength for the crosses you bear and the burdens you carry? Do you desire an antidote to the devil and his deceit? Do you want to be busy doing good, letting your light shine so that others may see it and give glory to your heavenly Father? Then receive the medicine that makes it all possible. Take the bread that is His body. Drink the wine that is His blood. Let your life be filled with His life.

What would you pay for medicine like that? Do you think you could afford it? Good medicine isn’t cheap. It never has been. And it sometimes seems like the more helpful and necessary a medication is, the more expensive it is. The medicine of our Lord’s body and blood—this pure wholesome, soothing medicine—this is medicine that money can’t buy. Only the precious life and death of our Lord could secure it for you. His sinless life in exchange for your sinful life. He Himself accepts the charges that you could never pay. He goes to Calvary’s cross so that this medicine might be yours—in the proper dosage, at the proper time, bringing you forgiveness, life and salvation.

Accept no substitutes. Don’t let anyone tell you that this medicine is not real—that it is not the true body and blood of Jesus. To believe otherwise is to make a liar of our Lord—to reject the clear and unambiguous words He spoke on the night when He was betrayed. And as for those who claim that this medicine is all just symbol and no substance—I wonder how many of them would go to their physician and say, “I only want the symbolic medicine.” Or, “Please, just give me the placebo. I’m fine with that.” No, sin and death are powerful enemies—a contagion that can only be treated and defeated by something more powerful: real body and real blood for our real sins, bringing real life that lasts forever.

The Lord’s Supper is, indeed, “a pure, wholesome, soothing medicine.” But I recently read somewhere that fewer people than ever before in our culture are receiving this medicine. The percentage of our population regularly receiving this pure medicine is shrinking down lower than it has ever been. It certainly explains a lot, doesn’t it? If it seems like the whole culture has gone “off its meds,” there may be some truth to that.

So, let’s take our medicine-with repentant joy. Let’s receive this medicine with deep thanksgiving to the Lord who gives it. And let’s hold fast to our confession concerning this medicine—without wavering—trusting our Lord, tasting His love, and receiving His healing.

In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Faith at the Cross

In Nomine Iesu
St. Luke 23:39-43
April 14, 2019
Palm/Passion Sunday

Dear Saints of Our Savior~

This Sunday has it all: powerful Scripture readings, moving hymns, triumph and tragedy, sin and sacrifice. Thousands of sermons could be preached based upon the Word of God we’ve heard today. And, in fact, every sermon is based upon the Word of God we’ve heard

today. And St. Paul in today’s epistle manages to summarize it all in one sentence: And being found in human form, He humbled Himself to the point of death, even death on a cross.

What the Scriptures tell us about the final days leading up to Calvary’s cross is, at times, difficult to hear. For nearly everyone around Jesus—even His closest disciples—found disappointing ways to behave badly. On the way into Jerusalem, the disciples got into an argument about which of them was the greatest. Judas made plans to betray Jesus. In the Garden of Gethsemane, the disciples snoozed while Jesus agonized in prayer. Peter bragged about his loyalty, and then denied even knowing Jesus three times. And when Jesus was arrested, His faithful followers fled into the night. It is a sad, sordid, faithless account—with one notable exception.

Tucked away in the Passion of our Lord according to Saint Luke, is one little paragraph filled with fervent faith and good news. Two others, who were criminals, were led away to be put to death with [Jesus]. He was numbered with the transgressors. On His right and on His left were criminals—literally, evildoers. They had lived such outwardly evil lives—their sin was so extreme—that they were now receiving the death penalty—a public execution designed to discourage others from following their evil example. One of our Lord’s crucified comrades ranted and raved against Him, unrepentant. But the other man repented and recognized that he was getting what he deserved. Concerning Jesus he says, “This man has done nothing wrong.” And then he makes an amazing request: Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.

This is faith. That dying, crucified criminal teaches us what it means to walk by faith, and not by sight. When he looked at the man crowned with thorns on the center cross, he saw one thing with his eyes; but he saw something quite different by faith. With his eyes he saw a bleeding man, a dying victim, a powerless casualty of Roman brutality. Yet by faith he addressed Jesus as if He were a powerful king—a victorious hero: Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.

That is faith. And that faith is precisely what you and I need more than anything else in this world. Your faith in Christ—the ability to see Him as your Savior—that is your most precious treasure. Faith alone sees the hidden realities that our eyes cannot see. Only by faith in Christ can we understand that this life isn’t all there is—that the sufferings of this present time aren’t even worth comparing to the glory that will be revealed in us—that at the name of Jesus every knee will bow and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord. Faith is the key to everything!

So if this faith is truly our most precious possession, why do we risk it? Why do we endanger it? Why do we imperil our faith through willful sinning—by treading right up to temptation instead of fleeing from it? If faith is so important, why do we squander so many opportunities to strengthen it through the reception of God’s gifts right here on Sunday morning? Faith makes all the difference between heaven and hell—between Paradise with Jesus and eternal punishment. What measures are you taking to guard and protect it—to strengthen and preserve it?

Your faith is of greater worth than gold. Faith gives what money can’t buy—what all your good works added together could never earn or achieve. Faith receives and believes the outrageous promise of Jesus the Christ: Truly, I say to you, today you will be with me in Paradise. Without faith, that promise is just a bunch of worthless words. But by faith, the one who hears it believes it, and it is so. Nothing changed immediately for the criminal who first heard this promise of Paradise. His body was still pierced by nails. Each breath became increasingly difficult. His cruel execution continued uninterrupted. But he—he had the promise of Jesus ringing in his ears that he would be with Jesus, that day, in Paradise. And that is faith. And that is everything.

For me this scene brings to mind a scene on a Libyan beach four years ago. Twenty-one men—Egyptian Coptic Christians—were kidnapped and killed by the Islamic State. A recent article I read about it was enlightening. The martyrdom of these faithful men was carefully choreographed. A video released by ISIS shows the martyrs clad in orange jumpsuits; and it labels them derisively as “People of the Cross.” The cross, you see, is the most offensive part of Christianity to the Muslim mind—that God should take frail flesh and die. The video is pure propaganda, designed to incite hatred for the West and cause Christians to tremble. But what the video cannot hide—what cannot be edited away—is the calm and courageous faith—faith that made all the difference for those 21 martyrs. For as knives are placed on necks, and as blades begin to draw blood—no one screams. No one fights. Only the soft voices of prayer are audible: Ya Rabbi Yasou. “Oh my Lord Jesus! Jesus, remember me!” And in an instant, they were with Jesus in Paradise.

These martyrs—together with the faithful criminal crucified with Jesus—they were given to see beyond temporary pain and death—to view with serenity and clarity the kingdom of Jesus. But they have nothing over you. You share their faith. The kingdom, the power, the glory of our Lord Jesus Christ is hidden here for you in the washing of your baptism, in the preaching of God’s Word, and in the life-giving, faith-sustaining power of His Holy Supper.

Faith in Jesus is a miracle. It was faith that transformed a hardened, crucified criminal on death row into a newborn child of God, forgiven and free. He would have been listening later on when Jesus cried out, “It is finished.” He would have watched the soldiers come, seen the spear that pierced the Savior’s side, beheld the blood and water that flowed from that sacred wound—blood that paid for his sins, and water that washed him clean. Blood that atones for your sins; water that washes you whiter than snow.

And then in an instant, came total release and rescue. With his last breath on earth came the moment of perfect healing. At that very moment, on that very day, he was with Jesus in Paradise! Three days later others would see that it was impossible for death to keep its hold on Jesus. But already on that day, that man was with Jesus in Paradise.

By faith, Paradise is where God is taking you too. What happened to that repentant evildoer will also happen to all who repent and trust in Christ the crucified. His departure is a preview of our own departure. When we depart this life—at that very moment—we are with Jesus in Paradise. No wait. No limbo. No purgatory. No pearly gates. No soul sleep. Just with Jesus. In Paradise. And that is everything.

In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Grace Notes in a Passion Prelude

In Nomine Iesu
St. Luke 20:9-19
April 7, 2019
Lent 5C

Dear Saints of Our Savior~

Nearly every service at Our Savior begins with a prelude. A prelude is music with a sacred purpose. It’s not mood music. Nor is it just background noise—something to fill up a few minutes so that our late arrivals can be seated. Nor is the prelude’s purpose merely to showcase the pipe organ or the skills of the organist. No, a prelude is music with a sacred purpose.

The purpose of the prelude is to engage the hearts and minds of the baptized, leading them to ponder and reflect and perhaps even pray—based upon the Biblical theme of any given Sunday. It is music based on words—on texts—from the hymnal and the Bible. The practice of “preluding” goes back centuries. It even precedes the musical ministry of Johann Sebastian Bach—who set new standards of excellence with his preludes.

The prelude points ahead, sets the table, announces the presence of the Risen Lord among His people. This is why, when the prelude begins, our visiting and conversations conclude. The prelude is your invitation to set aside the routine cares and concerns of life, and instead, “lift up your hearts” and consider the Christ. Ponder the Passion. Reflect on your redemption from sin and death.

I’d like to suggest that the parable we heard from Jesus this morning—the parable of the wicked tenants in the vineyard—that this parable functions as a kind of prelude. That is to say, this parable points ahead and sets the table—causes the hearers to ponder what is about to happen—especially when you consider that Jesus spoke these words only a few days before the day of His death. Jesus was in

Jerusalem. Crowds of people followed Him everywhere, while the teachers of the law watched from a distance, looking for an opportunity to arrest Jesus and kill Him.

Now, I would also suggest that this Passion-prelude isn’t a very complex composition. The main themes are relatively easy to pick out and understand. It begins with the simple statement that a man planted a vineyard, rented the vineyard to some tenants, and then went away for a long time. Planting a vineyard is hard work and a big investment; but the end result—namely a well-stocked wine cellar—makes planting a vineyard the perfect plan.

But the owner of this vineyard seems to make some rather unwise business decisions. First of all, he rents the vineyard out to tenants; and tenants can be trouble. Renters can be rascals. You never know what you’re in for when you delegate the delicate task of grape-growing. But then the owner ups the ante when he decides to go off traveling to another country for a long time. Those of you in business know that if you want things done right, then you need to check in once in a while, keeping a close eye on the operation. This landlord seems just a bit too trusting and confident.

Well, not surprisingly these tenants turn into big-time trouble at the harvest. It’s a full-fledged mutiny in the vineyard. No absentee landlord is going to collect anything from these rascals. When the owner sends a succession of servants to collect the fruit of the vineyard, the servants are beaten, wounded, and thrown out of the vineyard empty-handed. Now, this is the point where the owner of the vineyard should have lawyered-up. But he makes a fateful decision instead: What shall I do? I will send my son, whom I love; perhaps they will respect him. Anyone can see that this isn’t going to turn out well. They threw [the Son] out of the vineyard and killed him.

Now if this parable were set to music as a prelude, imagine what it might sound like. The main theme is certainly one of judgment. There is a slow but steady beat as the parable progresses, and as the catastrophic conclusion becomes clear. In minor tones with increasing dissonance this music would reflect murder—the murder of the owner’s beloved son. But, of course, this isn’t just any owner and any beloved Son. The owner of this vineyard is God Himself. The servants He sends are the Old Testament prophets. The terrible tenants are the chief priests and teachers of the law. And the Owner’s beloved Son is the One who tells this parable: Jesus, the Christ.

The overarching theme of this Passion-prelude is judgment—judgment on Old Testament Israel. You can’t reject the owner of the vineyard and kill His beloved Son and not get yourself evicted or worse. This parable also speaks of the judgment that would befall Jesus. It’s a bald-faced prediction of His Passion—of how He would be killed by ruthless tenants. St. Luke writes that the teachers of the law knew that Jesus had spoken this parable against them; but I perceive that He spoke it against us too.

We too can be terrible tenants. We too have been placed in the midst of a beautiful vineyard that we did not plant. That is to say, we are members of the holy Christian church—not by our own choosing, but by grace, through faith, for the sake of Jesus. We are but tenants here. Everything we have is a gift from our gracious LandLord—spiritual blessings like the forgiveness of sins and the promise of life everlasting—as well as physical, tangible blessings like house and home, family and food, money and property.

We each live in a veritable vineyard of blessings. It’s a vineyard that we didn’t plant, full of blessings that we don’t deserve. And we’ve been all too happy to ignore the Owner—to live life on our terms, counting our grapes and hoarding our wine. At harvest time, when the paycheck comes in, we’ve been reluctant to give our gracious God His fair share. Oh, we know it’s all His. But we’re fearful—scared that if we give too much back to the Owner, well then there might not be enough left for us. On our best days we are stingy stewards. And on our worst days we are faithless rebels who openly defy the will of our Lord.

As tenants, we are always tempted to ignore the Landlord—or worse. There will always be reasons to hold on to more of the harvest and keep it for ourselves—including the high cost of retirement, healthcare, and college tuition. But do we fear a downturn in the economy more than we fear, love and trust in a gracious God who gives us all things and who withholds nothing from us, including His own beloved Son? “He who did not spare His own Son, but gave Him up for us all—how will He not also graciously give us all things?”

This gracious God of ours spared not the life of His beloved Son to redeem us. And that brings me to one final aspect of this Passion-prelude. In music there is also a sound called a “grace note.” A grace note is a short little skip of a note, attached to a note of the main melody. It’s really not much more than a little embellishment to the main musical theme. But in this parable, it’s the little grace notes that mean the most to you and me. Let me mention just a few of these grace notes.

The actions of the owner comprise a beautiful grace note in this Passion-prelude. This owner—this Landlord—is gracious and forgiving—slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love. By human standards it’s almost pathetic the way He bears with us terrible tenants. His faithfulness is greater than our faithlessness. He is not an evictor of sinners, but a Savior of sinners.

And that saving work was accomplished through the cross of His beloved Son. This is the ultimate incredibility of God’s love for you. What you had coming to you for your sins—Jesus accepted as your substitute. Jesus got clobbered for you. And now, because your sins are answered for, they can condemn you no more. Everything that would destroy you, convict you and evict you—Jesus has faced it all. And none of it, not even death, destroyed Him. And none of it, not even death, will destroy those who belong to Jesus.

This prelude parable contains another little grace note. You might have missed it. I hear it in the crazy plan of the wicked tenants when they say, “Let’s kill the Son, and the inheritance will be ours!” Now, everybody knows, that’s not the way it works. Murderers don’t inherit what their victims had coming to them. But in a plot-twist no one saw coming, this is exactly the way it worked with Jesus. In the murder of God’s beloved Son we terrible tenants—we poor sinners—we stand to inherit everything. The Son’s rejection is our acceptance by the Father. Jesus’ death is the trump card that makes every hand a winner, no matter how big a loser it might have been.

This is grace—a “grace note” in prelude to judgment. But unlike the musical grace notes, the grace notes of our God mean everything for you and me. In this case, the grace notes form the only theme that matters—a song of salvation that will ring on until that day when we’re all gathered around the throne of the Lamb, singing a symphony of love and praise that will have no end.

Until then, these grace notes mean that you are already living the good life—forgiven and free. You have a place at the Owner’s table. And at the Owner’s table only the best is served—the wine that is Jesus’ blood and the bread that is His body. Your gracious God is so generous with you; you don’t have to ruin it with your grasping, greedy ways. The inheritance—all of it—is yours. For Jesus’ sake.

In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

The View from the Pigpen

In Nomine Iesu
St. Luke 15:1-3, 11-32
March 31, 2019
Lent 4C

Dear Saints of Our Savior~

It’s too bad it’s not Fathers’ Day today. For of all the fathers in the Bible, there’s none quite so amazing as the waiting father. It is the waiting father who stands at the heart and center of the parable we heard from Jesus today. This father endures everything—including dishonor, disgrace, mistreatment, and shame—all at the hands of his children. And yet this father never stops hoping, never stops enduring, never stops loving his wayward sons. He never disowns them. This waiting father rejoices in the return of his sons, is prodigal with his forgiveness, is quick to throw a party, and is outrageously lavish with his grace.

The parable begins with a scandal. The younger son tells the old man to drop dead. By requesting his inheritance early, the unspoken message is: “Dad, I wish you were dead.” Shamefully scandalous words—words that make the Fourth Commandment blush for shame. But incredibly, the father does just what his son requests—drops dead in a legal sense—divides his property between the boys—as should have happened only if he were six feet under.

As you might imagine, it rarely goes well for young men who suddenly inherit large sums of money. The younger son headed to a distant country with his newly acquired wealth and began to squander it in reckless living. And “reckless living” does not mean that he invested in the wrong mutual funds or occasionally forgot to balance his checkbook. No, one wordsmith explains reckless living like this: “He whored with the best of them. He swore with the best of them. He gambled with the best of them. He drank with the best of them.” All that he had been given by grace—the inheritance, a good name, a father’s love—all that he wagered and wasted and tossed out like yesterday’s garbage.

Hard times set in for the boy. Destitute and dizzy with hunger, the younger son took a job working in a gentile’s pig pen. I’m not sure where the closest hog farm is to Whitefish Bay, and I don’t care to find out. But in my limited exposure to hog farms, I can tell you that there’s little doubt when you’re in the vicinity of one. The smell and the flies are what start to give it away—especially after a rain on a hot afternoon. Working in such a place is about as bad as it gets for a good Jewish boy—for whom pigs were considered unclean in every way. About the time he started longing to eat what the pigs were eating, the young man finally came to his senses.

The pig pen has a way of doing that—of slapping sinners across the face and wakening them from their downward spiral. I’m sure we can all think of times in our own lives when we’ve found ourselves in the pig pen, so to speak—surrounded by a sinful squalor of our own making—far, far away from the forgiving embrace of our heavenly Father.

But this is actually one of the best things about our heavenly Father: He’ll often allow you to wallow in the mess you’ve made for a while, until you come to your senses and repent. Of course, our sinful nature doesn’t much care for this kind of fathering. We’d prefer to have Him swoop in and bail us out of every sinful situation we back ourselves into. In the pigpen you can either rail against your heavenly Father and blame Him for the mess you’ve gotten yourself into, OR you can simply go home to your Father with a repentant heart.

It’s that moment of repentance that you see depicted on the cover of today’s bulletin. The great artist Albrecht Durer shows us the prodigal son in the pigpen. Take a look at that engraving with me. Notice that the son is literally down on one knee with his hands

folded—the posture of repentance. It’s also worth mentioning that the prodigal son bears a striking resemblance to Albrecht Durer himself. Might it be that Durer has placed himself in the place of the prodigal? Don’t we all need to see ourselves there? Notice also that he’s looking off into the distance toward home—toward his father’s house. And doesn’t his father’s house in the distance look remarkably like a church? Don’t we all need to see this place as the Father’s house—the place where repentance leads—the place where we are welcomed and forgiven and embraced?

It’s hard to imagine the prodigal son’s journey back home—what exactly was going through his mind. I have no trouble imagining his journey from home down into the depths of the pig pen. But the journey from the pig pen back home—the journey of repentance—well, that’s a road less travelled. As the boy walked home, he planned what he would say to his father:
Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you.
I am no longer worthy to be called your son.
Make me like one of your hired men . . . so that I can redeem myself, pay off my debt, and earn back your love which I have squandered.

That little speech is the way we expect the story to go. It’s certainly what Jesus’ hearers expected. They expected the young man to return home on his knees, groveling, begging, pleading with the father for a second chance, and promising to make things right.

But the last thing anyone would have expected is for the father to go running down the road, past the neighbors, to greet his wayward son. The last thing anyone would have expected is for the father to throw his arms around the boy and shower this son with kisses who still reeks of the pigpen. The last thing anyone would have expected would be for the father to listen to the son’s two-sentence confession of sin, but not even allow him to launch into that third sentence about how he was going to make things right by living like one of the servants. No, before he can even get to that, his father places the robe and the ring of sonship on the boy. He gives orders to kill the fattened calf and throw a party for this kid who was dead, but now alive—who was lost, but now is found.

The last thing the religions of this world expect is for God to be merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love. The last thing the religions of this world expect is a God who justifies sinners—while they are still sinners. The last thing the religions of this world expect is a God who shows undeserved kindness to sinners for Jesus’ sake.

It’s only once he’s already in the father’s embrace, as the father is kissing him, that the son squeaks out his little confession. And this is terribly important. He never gets to make a deal with dear ol’ dad—never gets to say that line: Make me like one of your hired men. Our God doesn’t make deals. He strikes no bargains. Our God drops dead to save sinners. This is the God who in Jesus Christ dies for His enemies, who seeks and saves the lost, who scans the horizon for sinners returning home so that He can meet them at the gate and gather them up in His embrace.

Like the prodigal son, we too have an older brother. His name is Jesus. He is the Son of God who left His Father’s home to join us in the pigpen of our sin and misery and death. Jesus did what the older brother in the parable did not do. He went out to seek us and find us, to rescue us from the slop of our sin, and bring us back home to the Father. Our older brother, Jesus, laid down His life as a ransom to save us, to buy us back. God made Jesus to be sin who knew no sin, so that in Jesus we might become the righteousness of God. He was executed as our sacred substitute, and reconciled us to the Father.

But before the music swells and the credits start to roll, there’s the matter of the older son, the firstborn son, who behaves like a lot of firstborn sons. He’s the rule-keeper—the serious, stressed-out, straight “A”, religious, voted most likely to succeed son. He can’t believe what a pushover his father is. “Lo, these many years I have served you, never disobeyed, yet you never gave me so much as a goat, let alone the fattened calf. But now this scumbag son of yours comes crawling back home after burning through your money with prostitutes and you roll out the red carpet.” To which the father essentially says, grab a glass and join the party. Your lost, dead brother is alive and found.

And there the parable ends. We don’t know what the older brother ends up doing. The more important question is what will we do? For we have walked in this son’s footsteps too. Will we get angry at the Father’s prodigal grace? Will be become religious, judgmental, looking down our noses at those who can’t seem to get it right, wanting them to be “good” like us before we permit them to join us? OR will we grab a glass and celebrate? Will we learn to laugh out loud at the grace of God who wants all of His children—the rule-keepers and the rebels, the first born and the last born and everybody in between—at His eternal party? Will we come to Communion rejoicing to remember that Jesus welcomes sinners and eats with them? Will we “get it,” that grace that’s bargained-for and earned and worked-for isn’t grace at all? Will we draw strength each day from the fact that we who were dead in sin will now live forever in Jesus? God grant it for Jesus’ sake.

In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.