Justified in Jesus

Jesu Juva

Romans 3:19-28                                                     

October 29, 2023

Reformation Sunday           

 Dear saints of our Savior~

        On October 31^st, 1517, Martin Luther made the six minute walk from his cloister in Wittenberg to the doors of the Castle Church.  This Augustinian monk—this Professor of the Old Testament—was just shy of his 34^th birthday.  Martin Luther wanted to talk.  He wanted to know why the teaching of his church didn’t square with what he had learned from Holy Scripture.  He wanted to know why—if the pope had the power to spring souls from purgatory—he didn’t just do it out of the kindness of his heart.  He wanted to know how a piece of paper—an indulgence letter—could take away God’s punishment, as though God were a crooked jailer who could be bought off with a bribe.  Martin Luther wanted to know what all this had to do with Jesus who hung dead on a cross for the sin of the world.

        It could be said that Luther began the Reformation with repentance.  For the very first of those 95 theses wasn’t a jab at the pope, but a timeless call for repentance:  When our Lord and Master Jesus Christ said, “Repent” (Matt. 4:17), he willed the entire life of believers to be one of repentance.  When you cut away the clutter and distill down the politics, it’s clear:  The Reformation began with repentance, not rebellion. 

        Of course, repentance is a red-flag—an indicator that something isn’t right—that there’s a problem—that something needs to change.  And if you’re thinking that the Pope was the problem or the catholic church was the problem or purgatory was the problem, well, think again. This isn’t a day for catholic-bashing, or some kind of Protestant Pride Parade.  No, the Reformation is about repentance.  Repentance means there’s a problem.  And that problem isn’t so much with Rome as it is with you and me.

        The Apostle Paul neatly sketches out the problem in Romans chapter 3:  For there is no distinction:  for all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God, and are justified  by his grace as a gift, through the redemption that is in Christ Jesus.  Faith alone justifies the sinner before God.  Not your works, but Christ’s work.  Not your righteousness, but Christ’s righteousness.  Not your blood, sweat, or tears, but Jesus’ blood, shed once for all on the cross (and now distributed from this altar).  If you don’t get this right, then you’ll get nothing right.  If you don’t get this right, then Christianity becomes just another world religion.

        Every other religion out there is a religion of works.  It’s all up to you—your works, your rule-keeping, your zeal.  But we confess with St. Paul that good works and commandment-keeping are not anyone’s stairway to heaven.  The Law of God may be good and wise, but it’s not your friend.  The Law can save no one.  It’s there to silence all religious boasting.  The Law is there to shut every mouth and empty every hand—to sweep away every religious credential and leave you on your knees with nothing to say in your defense except: God, be merciful to me, a sinner.

        Many of you have undergone an MRI at some point.  MRI’s are wonderful diagnostic tools.  They see what the human eye can’t see.  They reveal the root of the problem—and the results are sometimes shocking:  Here’s where the tumor is tangled up.  Here’s where the cartilage should be.  Here’s why you’re in such bad shape.

        The Law of God is our spiritual MRI, peering deeply into the heart of all that we think, and do, and say.  The Law sees what we can’t see.  It gets past all the symptoms to reveal the root of the problem: a heart that doesn’t fear God, or love Him, or trust Him.  The Law reveals a heart that’s defective—a heart that covets, lusts, envies, hates, murders, fornicates, lies, steals and slanders.  Martin Luther caught a glimpse of that diagnosis and it terrified him.  It was like reading an MRI that showed a body riddled with cancer.  God’s Law shows a body of death riddled with sin.

        So what do you do?  As a monk, Luther was accustomed to going to confession on a daily basis—sometimes multiple times in a single day—running back to confess one more sinful thought, word, or deed.  It got so bad that his father confessor, Johann von Staupitz, finally told Luther to stop looking at his sin . . . and start looking to Christ.  And, in a sense, the reformation for Luther began right there.  He began to behold Jesus—not as a judge, but as his Savior—not holding the scales of justice to measure your sins against your good works, but holding the scars that saved you, the wounds that rescued you, the death He died to free you.  If the Son sets you free, you will be free indeed.

        This is what makes Christianity different—distinct from a world of religions.  No one else has this—that you, a convicted sinner, guilty as guilty can be, can stand before God and be declared innocent by the blood of Another who died for you.  Christ became sin for us to free us from our sin.  Christ went to death for us to free us from death.  He became what you are (a sinner) so that you might become what He is (holy).  Jesus takes our sin and gives us His righteousness.  Luther called it a “blessed exchange.”  It’s not a deal.  It’s not a negotiation.  It’s not God doing His part so you can get busy doing your part.  We hold that one is justified by faith apart from works of the law.  To have faith in Christ is to trust that the deed of our salvation is done—that the transaction is complete—that all bets are off.  “It is finished.”  Jesus said so.

        To the unbelieving ear this sounds outrageous, scandalous, and just plain crazy.  It’s certainly no way to run a religion.  How do you expect people to do good works if they aren’t necessary to be saved?  Aren’t we supposed to do our part?  Doesn’t God help those who help themselves?  Don’t my prayers and my offerings and my volunteer hours do something to get me in good with God?  Nope.  All fall short.  AND all are justified by His grace as a gift . . . through faith in Jesus Christ.

        If you feel like you need something to do—well, here’s a suggestion: Repent.  Come before the God who loves you with your hands empty and your heart broken—and admit the worst about yourself.  And thank God that Jesus Christ has given you His best.  He has set you free for a whole life of good works—good works not for God, but for your neighbor.  God doesn’t need them; your neighbor does.

        Why does all this matter?  Well, next Sunday is All Saints’ Sunday.  We will remember with thanksgiving all those from our fellowship who during the past year departed this life to be with Christ.  This was no achievement on their part.  Jesus did the achieving; they (the saints) did the receiving.  They were justified by grace, for Christ’s sake, through faith.  And so are you.  And that makes all the difference.  And if I have the privilege to be at your deathbed in the years ahead, I don’t plan to say, “He was a good man,” or “She lived a good life.”  None of us has lived a good life.  All fall short.  But we are indeed justified freely through faith in Jesus.  He did not fall short.  He accomplished it all at His cross; that He might give it all to us:  the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and the life everlasting.

        And that’s the good news that never gets old.  That’s the good news that brings us peace and joy even 506 years after the Reformation began. That’s what keeps us going for this year, and for all the years until our Lord comes again in glory.  I’ll see you there. 

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

 

Rendering to God & Caesar

Jesu Juva

St. Matthew 22:15-22                                                   

October 22, 2023

Proper 24A                     

 Dear saints of our Savior~

          Render to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s, and to God the things that are God’s.  It’s one of those classic sayings of the Savior.  It’s Jesus at His best, deftly maneuvering in that perilous territory where church and state collide.  Render to Caesar (that is, give to the government) the things that are (the government’s,) and to God the things that are God’s.

          Jesus said that in response to a question about taxes—everyone’s favorite subject.  Nothing but death is quite so certain in this life.  When Jesus tells us to give to the government what is due the government, He comes down squarely on the side of the IRS.  Pay your taxes.  Honor your rulers.  Obey the laws of the land.  Government—even though flawed and ineffective and adversarial at times—is a gift from God.  It’s a Fourth Commandment issue, really; we must give honor to whom honor is due (Rom. 13:7). 

          But what about the second half of Jesus’ saying?  You know, the part about giving to God the things that are God’s?  Uh oh, you’re saying to yourself, that sounds like stewardship.  After all, our “giving to God” is never quite so tangible as when the offering plate passes our pew.  The topic of stewardship often comes up this time of the year.  Our congregation will be planning for how to manage next year’s expenses and income at our next round of congregational meetings. But there’s more in today’s text than simply a reminder from Jesus to pay your taxes, or to be generous in your offerings to the Lord.  So let’s dig a little deeper, shall we?  

          It seems that the Pharisees had teamed up with the Herodians to trap Jesus between a political rock and a religious hard place.  The Pharisees and the Herodians were a strange match, if ever there was one.  Kind of like if you saw Nancy Pelosi and Tucker Carlson holding hands and skipping through a dewy meadow—you’d know that something fishy was going on.  “Teacher,” they said, “We know that you are true and teach the way of God truthfully, and you don’t care about anyone’s opinion, for you are not swayed by appearances.”  Please!  Anyone who starts out with a sentence like that can’t be trusted with the keys to the car, much less with matters of theology.

          Then comes the kicker:  “Tell us what you think, Jesus.  Is it lawful to pay taxes to Caesar, or not?”  Gotcha!   Is it right to pay taxes to Caesar?  If Jesus says “no,” then He’s a traitor to Rome, a tax dodge, and a right-wing, insurrectionist threat to national security.  If He says “yes,” well then, He’s a traitor to His own people, a Roman loyalist, a supporter of the occupation government, an enemy of Israel and an enemy of Israel’s God.  The Pharisees and the Herodians had Jesus right where they wanted Him.

          But these tricksters are no match for the Messiah.  “Show me the money,” says the Savior.  And so they bring Him a denarius—a coin.  “Whose likeness and whose inscription is this?”  “Caesar’s.”  “Well, there you go.  Give to Caesar what is Caesar’s.  It’s his picture, so give the old boy his coin when he asks for it.”  Jesus dodges the political bullet, but then fires a volley right back at His bi-partisan attackers:  “Oh, and by the way, guys, as long as you’re giving to Caesar what’s his, make sure you give to God what is God’s.”

          Giving to God what is God’s might leave some folks scratching their heads.  What’s He talking about?  What might that be?  Jesus doesn’t say.  Caesar is entitled to his coin, but what’s God entitled to?  Follow it through.  If the coin bears Caesar’s image, what bears God’s image?  On what is the image of God inscribed?

          On you! You bear that image!  You are made in the image and likeness of God, even if that image is terribly tarnished by sin.  God placed His name on you when you were baptized.  There you received the sign of the cross upon your forehead and your heart to mark you as one redeemed by Christ the crucified. You’ve been branded by the Almighty.  He wants you, not just your coin.  You!  God doesn’t demand taxes, He demands you.  Your heart, your soul, your mind, your strength.  He wants your fear, your love, your trust!  He wants you!

          When it comes to taxes, no one pays one dime more than necessary.  We’re inclined to withhold—to pay the absolute minimum necessary.  We shelter our income and divert our investments—whatever it takes to give as little as possible to Caesar.  Give Caesar what He asks for, we say, but not a penny more.  There’s a whole industry built up to help tax payers play the tax game.

          Unfortunately, we usually take the same approach with God.  We deal with God like we deal with Uncle Sam.  We look for ways to do as little as possible to get by.  Give to God what is God’s.  What does that mean?  Does it mean ten percent?  Does it mean showing up at church once or twice a month?  That would be nice and tidy, wouldn’t it?  Show up every so often, give God His ten percent, and your work is done. Is that how it works?  Pay your religious dues and stay on God’s good side. . . then go and live however you please.

          That may be how it works with the IRS, but not with God.  The Kingdom of God is not of this world.  This is a kingdom that doesn’t just want a piece of you; it wants all of you—including your repentance.  And your God won’t give up until He has all of you—your heart, your soul, your mind, your strength, your fear, your love, your trust.

          The problem is that you and I won’t give it up.  We can’t.  We’re too wrapped up in ourselves to give to God what is God’s.  We claim it as our own.  It’s my time, my treasure, my talent, my life—mine, mine, mine.  I worked for it.  I earned it.  And you can’t have it, God.  Oh, I’ll give you an hour or two on a Sunday morning now and then.  I’ll pay my church dues and toss a few of Caesar’s coins into the offering plate and, hey, I might even get a little tax deduction from the IRS at the same time—two birds, one stone.  You can’t beat that!

          That’s how it is with us.  God knows it.  This is why Jesus tells us, “Give to God what is God’s.”  Everything.  Your whole life is God’s.  He wants it all, but we don’t want to part with any of it.  Over and over again, we need to hear this truth:  You are not your own.  You don’t belong to you.  You are not autonomous, independent, and self-sufficient.  You are not your own; you are God’s.  You have been bought at a price.  But daily we deny it.  Daily we do not believe it.  Daily we refuse to render to God what is His. 

          And so God sent His Son—to do what we would not—to render to God what is God’s.  Jesus did just that—gave to God what is God’s, for all of us:  His perfect obedience.  His perfect life.  His perfect death.  God’s image and God’s likeness isn’t found on any coin or any currency.  God’s image and likeness is found on a cross.  That was the payment for our sin.  That was the death that delivers us from death.  That was the only transaction that matters—the biggest bailout in the history of humankind.  On the cross Jesus gave to God what was God’s.  He did it for us all.

          In our liturgy we often sing from Psalm 116:  What shall I render to the Lord for all His benefits to me?  I will offer the sacrifice of thanksgiving, and call on the name of the Lord.  What can we render to God?  Our thanks, our praise, our prayers, our confession.  We can take the cup of salvation—the chalice filled with the blood of Jesus shed for us—and drink deeply for the forgiveness of our sins.  We can call on His name in worship, not as a duty or obligation, but as a privilege and a gift.  We can give our offerings, not grudgingly (the way we pay our taxes) but generously, out of love and thanks—recognizing that what we put in the offering plate is a testimony to the fact that all we are and all we have comes from the God who has loved us with an everlasting love.

          Caesar’s kingdom crumbled long ago.  The denarius that was held up as an object lesson now sits behind glass in some museum—an artifact of history.  The same will also be true someday of our dimes and quarters and bills with all the famous names and images.  No earthly kingdom lasts forever.

          But the kingdom of God has no end.  This kingdom is based on the dying and rising of Jesus Christ.  This kingdom has no coin because there are no transactions in this kingdom.  No deals to cut.  No taxes to pay.  It’s all free, by grace, through faith, thanks to the King who hung on a cross to reign.  This kingdom has no end.  On the Last Day, when the kingdoms of this world are plunged into darkness and fire, the dead will rise in the power of Jesus’ resurrection. And on that day, you and I and all the saints of God will finally and forever render to God what is God’s. 

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

 

Joy in Jesus

Jesu Juva

Philippians 4:4-13                                                         

October 15, 2023

Proper 23A                              

 Dear saints of our Savior~

          What is the most misunderstood teaching of the Bible?  What teaching do most Christians get wrong most of the time?  Which Biblical teaching do we understand the least?  It’s not the nature of the Holy Trinity; we’ve got the creeds to help us with that every Sunday.  It’s not the teaching of original sin; we can see the evidence of that all around us.  Nor is it the teaching of justification by grace; because that gets preached from the pulpit and sung from the hymnal every week.

          So which teaching is most misunderstood?  It’s joy!  Now, admittedly, I don’t have the research to back this up.  It’s just a hunch based on my own pastoral intuition.  But Paul’s letter to the Philippians gives us the perfect opportunity to diagnose our joy deficit and joy deficiency. Paul uses the words “joy” or “rejoice” at least fourteen times in four chapters here.  And nowhere in the Scriptures does the call for joy ring out more clearly than in the first verse of today’s epistle:  Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice.

          What do you think when you hear those words?  When the Scriptures say to “rejoice . . . in the Lord . . . always,” what does that mean?  What are we supposed to do—or do differently?  Is it a call to be happy?  To smile more?  To be more optimistic?  More cheerful?  There’s nothing wrong with any of those attitudes.  But joy is something very different.

          The context of Philippians is extremely helpful in understanding joy.  Many of you will recall Paul’s personal circumstances when he put pen to parchment to write this epistle—he was in prison.  Paul the apostle was locked up.  And you will recall from chapter one that he didn’t know whether he would be released or executed.  And he faced both of those possibilities realistically: For to me, to live is Christ and to die is gain.  I don’t hear happiness in those words.  I don’t hear optimism or cheerfulness.  But I do hear joy.

          And this joy is not an emotion or a feeling.  Emotions and feelings come and go, ebb and flow.  Emotions and feelings are usually tied to our immediate circumstances—to where you are or who you’re with.  Everybody has their happy place these days—maybe some place with a water view or tropical warmth.  But Paul was in prison.  Prison is not a happy place.  But even prison, apparently, can be a joyful place.

          Joy is a gift.  Joy is a fruit of the Holy Spirit.  Joy is the God-given ability to see beyond our immediate circumstances.  Joy is the ability to recognize that Christ is in control—that not even death can separate us from His love and care.  Joy is the ability to navigate both plenty and hunger, abundance and need, trusting that Jesus is holding onto us with His nail-scarred hands.  With joy we can see the horizon of heaven despite all the crosses that confront us here and now.

          Perhaps Paul wrote this epistle of joy to the Philippians because they needed to hear it—because Paul sensed that this particular congregation had “room to grow” when it came to joy.  Of all the different congregations that Paul had founded, the Philippian church was the one that “worked.”  It clicked.  While other churches were filled with strife and divisions and false teachings and false teachers and bad practices—somehow the gospel flourished at Philippi.  The Philippians were solidly grounded in faith toward Christ and in fervent love for one another.  They were ambitious when it came to good works—eager to believe the good news about Jesus and to share the good news about Jesus.  The church at Philippi “worked.”

          I happen know another congregation that “works.”  It’s this one.  Conflict and division are not a part of our personality.  But care and concern and love for one another are always evident.  We have problem-solvers and peace-makers and hard-workers aplenty.  We’re grounded in the gospel of Jesus Christ; His gifts in Word and sacrament are the beating heart of our life together.  Sure, we’ve got our challenges—our weaknesses—and no congregation is perfect.  But I see similarities between this congregation and the one at Philippi.

          And if that’s true, then perhaps we also lack what they lacked.  As Jesus famously told the rich, young, ruler:  one thing you lack.  When it comes to joy we have room to grow, just like the Philippians.  And the thing that wrecks and ruins our rejoicing is the same thing that hindered the joy of the Philippians.  It’s anxiety.  Anxiety is the enemy.  Anxiety robs us of joy and hinders God’s work in us and in our congregation.  This is why, right after Paul writes to “rejoice in the Lord always,” he writes, “Do not be anxious about anything.” 

          If joy is the God-given ability to see beyond our present circumstances, then anxiety is what happens when our present circumstances overwhelm us and hold us hostage.  Do not be anxious about anything.  The bad news about our anxiety is that it’s not merely a bad habit; it’s a kind of idolatry.  We worry and fret because, at some level, we think it will help.  Anxiety gives us a sense of control.  Our anxiety becomes like a false god to whom we turn in times of trouble.  It’s a first commandment problem.  We don’t trust in God above all things.  Does anxiety put bread on the table?  Pay the mortgage?  Does anxiety add a single hour to your life?  No, but it can make the hours you do have absolutely miserable (and joyless).

          Beloved in the Lord, there’s a better way.  There’s a remedy for anxiety.  “Do not be anxious about anything,” writes Paul, “but in everything, by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known to God.”   You don’t have to hold on to your worry.  You can hand it over to the Lord in prayer.  You can let Him handle the trouble.  St. Peter put it even more succinctly:  “Cast all your anxiety on Him, because He cares for you.”  That’s what prayer is.  It’s facing your worst fears, naming them and confessing them, and then handing them off to Jesus—letting them go—trusting Him to work all things for your eternal good—asking that His good and gracious will be done on earth as it is in heaven.

          You can trust this Jesus—this Jesus who made Himself nothing, taking the very nature of a slave, being made in human likeness, who humbled Himself and became obedient to death—even death on a cross.  He died to take away sins—including the sin of failing to trust Him above all things.  But even more than that, Jesus died to give you freedom—freedom from anxiety.  You don’t have to live with that.  The nail-scarred hands of Jesus are just waiting to carry your worry away.

          We believe in the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body and the life everlasting.  In your future is that feast of salvation about which Isaiah prophesied in today’s OT reading—a feast of rich food, the best of meats and the finest of wines.  Death has been swallowed up in victory.  According to Jesus, your heavenly homecoming will be like a wedding feast thrown by a king.  In Holy Baptism you were given an invitation.  It’s all been prepared for you by grace.  All that matters is the king’s invitation and the garments of righteousness that He has placed upon you.  Heaven is a party—a feast that has no end.

          Now, if God has gone to all that trouble for you—if, through His Son He has spared nothing to save you and serve you as a guest at His feast for all eternity—don’t you think He can handle whatever tops the list of your troubles today?  Don’t you think He can bear away your angst and replace it with joy and peace?  Don’t you think He can wipe away your worry and give you the gift of contentment in any and all circumstances?  You can have victory over anxiety through Christ who gives you strength.

          Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known to God.  And the peace of God, which passes all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.  Let Jesus bear your anxiety away—hand it over in prayer—and receive the peace that passes understanding.  That peace will guard your heart and mind, Paul writes. 

          It sounds strange to think of “peace” as something that guards you.  But the city of Philippi housed a large garrison of Roman soldiers.  It was a military town.  The Philippians would have understood.  God’s peace, like a garrison of soldiers, will guard your heart and mind from the tyranny of anxiety.  God’s peace will guard the door of your heart against that unwelcome intruder who wants to rob you of joy.

          Joy and peace—these are fruits of the Holy Spirit.  They don’t come naturally; they are fruits of faith, gifts from God to you—leading you to live joy-filled lives, free from worry.  For you, to live is Christ and to die is gain.  Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, rejoice! 

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