In the Arena with God

Jesu Juva

Genesis 32:22-30                                          

October 19, 2025

Proper 24C              

 Dear saints of our Savior~

        There’s no other account quite like this one in the entire Bible.  Parables we have aplenty.  Multitudes of miracles.  But then there’s this singular story of how Jacob wrestled all night with God Himself in the form of a man.  And what’s stranger still about this wrestling match is that the winner—the one who conquers—the one who comes out on top—is Jacob!  Although Jacob limps away with a hip injury; he also leaves with a blessing and a new name from the Lord.

        We hear this account and we automatically want to spiritualize it.  Surely we can’t take this at face value.  Maybe it was all a dream.  Jacob was known to have some pretty wild dreams, after all—like that one about a stairway to heaven with angels ascending and descending.  Maybe this is just a metaphor—a symbolic smack down—or a case of mistaken identity.  Nope.  This was real wrestling—a bona fide brouhaha that left Jacob limping, while also declaring:  I have seen God fact to face!  This wrestling match really happened.

        I suppose if anyone were to wrestle with the Lord, Jacob would be the most likely candidate.  After all, Jacob was already wrestling in utero with his twin brother, Esau!  He exited the birth canal grasping at the heel of his hairy brother.  The name Jacob literally means, “He grasps the heel.”  Figuratively, his name means “deceiver,” somebody who will trip you up and pull your leg. 

        And, wow, did Jacob ever live up to his name!  He schemed, plotted, and planned how to acquire Esau’s birthright and Esau’s blessing.  He used his mother, Rebecca, as a partner in crime.  He lied to his blind father, Isaac—deviously deceiving him and dishonoring him.  He schemed against his Uncle Laban; and Laban fought fire with fire.  In Genesis 32 Jacob was heading home to face his brother, Esau, twenty years after fleeing for his life.  But before his showdown with Esau would come a smack down with the Lord.

        What does this mean?  Jacob was Esau’s twin; but in some ways Jacob is our twin too.  Like Jacob, we’re all ambitious schemers at heart.  Deep down we hold to the lie that God helps those who help themselves—that we can get ahead by outwitting, outsmarting, and out-scheming everybody else—including the very people we are supposed to love and serve.  In each of us there’s a devilish drive to succeed no matter how many commandments have to be broken, or how many lies have to be told.

        It is precisely at such moments that God Himself steps in and stands in the way of our demonic drive for control.  Sometimes the God who is our friend—the God who is for us—the God who is our ally—this God steps in as our adversary.  And we suddenly find ourselves in the arena with God Himself as our opponent.

        Our loving Lord sometimes loves us by showing us just how helpless we really are.  And this is never pleasant for us, but painful—as painful as having your hip wrenched out of the socket or some other thorn in the flesh.  A debilitating illness, trouble at work, trouble at home—prayers that go unanswered and unacknowledged. 

        What do you do then?  When all your sinful schemes have been shattered—your idolatries exposed—and it appears that God is working against your as your adversary?  Repent of your sin.  Confess your unworthiness.  But don’t run away from this “adversary God”!  Don’t give up.  Don’t give in.  Do what Jacob did: You grab ahold of the Lord for dear life, and demand from Him what He has promised.  I will not let you go unless you bless me!  Twenty years earlier, as Jacob slept beneath that stairway to heaven, the Lord had promised to bless Jacob.  God had promised that all people on earth would be blessed through Jacob and his offspring (28:14).  And as sinful and unworthy as Jacob was, he was now going to hold God to that promise—literally, physically, bodily pinning Him to the mat until that blessing was given.

        That’s what you do when it seems like the Lord is your adversary.  You hold on for dear life—for eternal life—and demand from God what He has promised you in His dear Son, Jesus Christ.  This is nothing more and nothing less than what we call “faith.”  Be like that poor widow in the parable of the Unjust Judge.  Just keep pleading your case.  Pray without ceasing.  Nothing delights God more than to be held to His Word and promises.  Nothing delights God more than faith.

        Regarding this tenacious type of faith, Martin Luther writes:  Even if [God] hides Himself in a room in the house and does not want access to be given to anyone, do not draw back but follow.  If He does not want to listen, knock at the door of the room; raise a shout! For this is the highest sacrifice, not to cease praying and seeking until we conquer Him.  He has already surrendered Himself to us so that we may be certain of victory (Day by Day in Genesis, October 2).

        Who is this God who “surrenders Himself?”  Who is this God who seems to step in as an uncaring adversary?  What kind of a God can be so “conquered?”  How can mere men and women—sinful to the core—be certain of “victory” over God?  This is the great mystery of our faith.  The Opponent Jacob pinned down was considerably stronger than He was.  And the God with whom we wrestle is considerably stronger and wiser than we are.  God is stricter and more just than us.  He is also more gracious and more forgiving than us.

        When I was a very little boy, I used to wrestle with my dad.  You might have similar memories of “wrestling” with your dad.  We would “rough house” right in the middle of the living room.  Dad was in every way stronger, bigger, wiser, more powerful.  He wasn’t God; but He was God’s representative in my life.  And as you might expect, he would often let me win.  I conquered and he surrendered.  Through those wrestling matches, our love for one another was strangely strengthened.  I grew to trust him more—knowing just how much he would surrender for my sake.

        Every sinful schemer has a Savior who has surrendered everything for us—a Savior who made Himself nothing—who for us men and for our salvation came down from heaven and was incarnate by the Holy Spirit of the Virgin Mary and was made man.  He was crucified, died, and was buried.  He allowed Himself to be captured and crucified for us—pinned down to a Roman tool of torture to save us.

        When morning came and his blessing was secured, Jacob exclaimed:   I have seen God face to face.  Beloved in the Lord, you too have seen the face of God . . . in Jesus Christ.  All of our faithless scheming He has carried to His cross and buried in His tomb.  Jesus is the offspring of Jacob through whom you and all the world have been blessed.  He took your sin.  He took your punishment.  He died your death.  And now, by faith, your life has been delivered from death. And this Jesus now blesses you.  You, like Jacob, have prevailed.  And like Jacob, you will see God face to face.

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

 

Pray, Praise, & Give Thanks

Jesu Juva

St. Luke 17:11-19                                         

October 12, 2025

Proper 23C        

 Dear saints of our Savior~

        As Jesus entered a village, He was met by ten lepers.  With just that single sentence from Saint Luke, most of us know exactly what’s coming.  We know this account like the back of our hand.  Even Sunday school drop-outs know at least a little about leprosy—a debilitating skin disease.  And whenever Jesus encounters diseased people, there’s a fairly good chance that He will heal them.  The only surprise twist in this account is when just one of the healed men returns to give thanks to Jesus.  It’s all so predictable.

        But what if the lepers had kept quiet?  You have to admit that this entire account would be vastly different if the lepers had not voiced their collective cry for mercy.  What if they were too depressed to pray?  What if they figured that Jesus already knew what they needed, so why go to the trouble of spelling it out?  What difference would it make?  What if they didn’t think Jesus would receive their prayer or even acknowledge them?  (They were unclean, quarantined outcasts, after all.)  Safe to say, if the lepers had not voiced their prayer for mercy, there would have been no healing, no cleansing, no praise or thanksgiving.

        This account teaches us, first of all, the importance of prayer.  It’s unthinkable that those desperate lepers might have kept quiet.  Yet, we do it all the time.  We fail to pray.  We refuse to lift up our voices to the Lord Jesus Christ and simply pray.  I don’t think it’s unfair to say that we Christians often spend more time talking about prayer than we spend actually praying.  Prayer is a gift.  Prayer is a privilege.  But prayer is also commanded.  Martin Luther in his Large Catechism reminds us that God requires us to pray; He hasn’t left it to our choice.  Prayer is our duty and obligation.  If you are not praying daily, if you have no time scheduled or set aside to speak to God, then you are failing at one of the most fundamental duties of the Christian life.

        But so that you might not fail to pray—so that you might be encouraged and drawn into a life of prayer—God gave ten lepers to lead us in this prayer:  Jesus, have mercy on us.

        The lepers’ prayer is something of a surprise.  They don’t specifically ask to be cured of their leprosy.  They don’t specifically ask for healing, but for mercy.  Kyrie eleison.  Lord, have mercy.  That is what you pray when you’re helpless and powerless.  Lord, have mercy.  It’s what we pray here in this place at every service.  We may pray those words thoughtlessly or carelessly at times.  But there was nothing careless about this prayer as it was shouted from the lips of lepers.

        When you pray “Lord, have mercy,” you’re asking for God’s help.  But like the lepers, you’re leaving the details of your deliverance in God’s hands.  You’re leaving the specifics up to the Lord.  You’re trusting Him for help; but you’re leaving the methods and the timing in His hands.  Lord, have mercy is no puny prayer request.  For whenever we pray, “Lord, have mercy,” we are aligning ourselves with lepers—helpless and wounded with sin.

        Jesus will not ignore this prayer.  When Jesus heard their prayer He stopped and said but one sentence to the ten: Go and show yourselves to the priests.  Okay.  (But on the surface that doesn’t sound like much.)  Notice that there were no explicit promises from Jesus.  No encouraging words, no “fear not,” no special effects. Jesus just says some words.  Go and show yourselves to the priests. 

        In the book of Leviticus it says that you’re supposed to show yourself to the priest after you have been cleansed of leprosy.  The priests would verify your healing and offer a sacrifice to mark the occasion.  Jesus’ words make perfectly good sense for someone who had already been cleansed of leprosy.  Only these ten men had not been cleansed of leprosy.  Their skin was still festering!  They were still outcasts!  Nothing had changed!  The only difference was that now they had the words of Jesus ringing in their ears.

        And it’s just at this point that St. Luke takes us to the heart of the miracle.  Luke writes:  And as they went they were cleansed.  Let me read it again: As they went they were cleansed. 

        If I had been one of those lepers, I think I would have needed to see at least some evidence of healing before I set off.  “Seeing is believing,” or so they say.  But not these lucky lepers.  All they had were the words of Jesus—and they were good to go.  And as they went they were healed.

        This is a great illustration of the Christian life.  We’re just like the lepers.  We’re helpless and hopeless and so sick with sin that it’s killing us and cutting us off from those we love.  Our situation is dire and desperate.  But every so often a loving Savior passes our way (right here!); and we can’t do much except lift up our voices and pray the prayer of those desperate lepers:  Kyrie Eleison.  Lord, have mercy.

        That loving Savior then puts His words into our ears.  “Go,” He says.  Go and love me above all other things.  Go and serve your neighbor.  Go and love your spouse; honor your parents.  Go and forgive those who sin against you.  Go and pray without ceasing.  Go and take up your cross and follow me.  And as you go, Jesus gives healing and cleansing.  Along life’s way, as you place one foot before the other, Jesus promises help and healing and the forgiveness we so desperately need.

        The question is, “Will you go?”  Do you believe it?  Will you walk with the lepers and step out in faith—even though you have no evidence of deliverance—even though your life is still festering with sin?  Will you go?  Will you step into the future with confidence and faith, expecting and believing that Jesus will fulfill every promise—even though right now, at this moment, things look grim? 

        Our Lord knows what it’s like when things look grim.  His own journey led to death by crucifixion.  He was sacrificed as your substitute.  The One who laid down His life for you is the same One who will carry you through this life in faith—all the way to the life of the world to come.

        If those lepers had decided not to go—if they had stayed stuck in their despair—if they had decided to do the safe thing and stay put—this story would have ended far differently.  The promises were from Jesus.  The healing was from Jesus.  The miracle was from Jesus.  But it was the faith of the lepers that enabled them to receive that promised healing.  Your faith has made you well.

        That’s the same faith God gave to you way back when you were cleansed in the splash of your baptism.  That baptism is the reason you can indeed go when your God says “go.”  That baptism means that you have cleansing and healing from every sin.  That baptism means that Jesus’ perfect, sinless life counts for you.  It means that He’s already died your death, so that the life you live today—you live for Him, and in Him.

        Hear again this simple sentence about the lepers:  And as they went then were cleansed.  They moved forward in faith.  Today, your feet have carried you forward in faith to this place.  Your feet will carry you in faith to this altar.  And as you go—as you walk this way—the Savior will feed you with His body and blood.  And by that holy food you will be cleansed.  You will be healed.  You will receive forgiveness of sins, and the strength to keep going in faith.

        As you come and go from this place—with the words of Jesus ringing in your ears—you are being cleansed.  Oh, your life is probably messy and complicated, riddled with anxiety and weariness, but don’t miss what’s really happening.  You are being cleansed by Jesus.  You are being healed.  You are being saved and delivered from death.  This is how your God operates.  He cares for you more than you can know.  No detail of your life is too small or insignificant.  You are holy and precious to Him—as precious as the blood of His Son and as holy as the perfect life of Jesus, our Savior. 

        This is why we pray, praise, and give thanks.  Your faith has made you well.  And this is why—every day—we join in the litany of the lepers:  Lord, have mercy on us. 

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

 

The Clear Conscience of the Faith

 Jesu Juva

2 Timothy 1                                                    

October 5, 2025 

Proper 22C                

 Dear saints of our Savior~

        I’ve had the opportunity to read a lot of old letters lately—clearing out my childhood home in Kansas, sifting through boxes from my flooded basement.  Letters I sent, and letters I received, a long time ago.  Letter-writing is becoming a lost art these days.  Emails and texts just aren’t the same thing as putting pen to paper with the intent of expressing something meaningful.

        Perhaps the most famous letters ever written are those in the New Testament.  We call them “epistles.”  They are letters; but so much more.  They are the Word of God; but, oh, so human.  Nowhere do you sense this more than in Paul’s second letter to Timothy.  It’s so personal, so sincere, so profound and meaningful. 

        Second Timothy is the last epistle we have from Paul—written right before he was executed.  He was in prison, in chains, in a cold dungeon, all alone.  2 Timothy is the inspired Word of God, of course; but it also contains the very human words of a dying man on death row.  And to really appreciate this letter, you have to read it in this light—in this context.  It is in many ways Paul’s last will and testament.

        As Paul sat there in prison shamefully shackled, his thoughts could easily have trended negative.  People on death row have lots of time to think, time to brood, time to kill—before being killed.  What did Paul have to show for his work as an apostle of Jesus Christ?  What successes were surrounding him as a faithful preacher to the gentiles? 

        The things we might hope for, Paul did not have.  No family to comfort and support him.  No grandchildren to make him proud.  He had no pension, no house in the suburbs.  Although he founded many congregations, he never stuck around long enough to enjoy the fruits of his labors.  There would be no retirement dinners with folks standing up to applaud—no gifts, no plaques, no cake and punch.  There would have been every reason for Paul to be bitter and depressed.

        But Paul’s first full sentence is the last thing we might expect to hear.  Paul writes: I thank God.  I thank God.  He’s chained up in the squalor of a cold dungeon with rats and roaches and Paul writes: I thank God.  How can that be?  Perhaps Paul remembered what the risen Christ had once spoken to him: My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.  The weakness of Paul made room for the surpassing strength of Jesus.  It was through the strength of Jesus that Paul could have a thankful heart—a heart that was so faithfully focused on the life of the world to come, that even the hell of death row could not rob him of joy and thankfulness.

        Can you say with Paul, “I thank God?”  As you survey your surroundings and count your blessings can you say, “I thank God?”  And if all those blessings were to disappear, could you still say, “I thank God?”  What kind of words will pass through your lips today?  Will there be more words of thankfulness and appreciation, or more words of bitterness and complaint?  When everything goes wrong and success eludes us—and we all know the agony of defeat—Paul teaches us to give thanks to the Lord, for He is good and His mercy endures forever.

        Now, if Paul’s thankfulness is surprising, then wait until you hear what he writes next:  I thank God . . . with a clear conscience.  A clear conscience means no guilt and no regret.  There’s an old proverb that says, “A clear conscience is a soft pillow.”  In other words, when your conscience is clear, you can sleep peacefully, and comfortably.  Perhaps the opposite is also true:  A guilty conscience is a prickly pillow.  It pokes you and pricks you and pains you and allows you no rest—only suffering.

        How could Paul claim for himself a clear conscience?  It’s rare to find a clear conscience among dying men.  Guilt, remorse, and regret have a way of taking over.  “Could haves” and “should haves” and “if onlys” flood the thoughts of dying men.  And don’t forget the fact that Paul had earned for himself a place in the sinners hall of fame.  Earlier in his life (as Saul of Tarsus) he had masterminded the persecution of Christians—hunted them down, threw them into prison, watched with righteous approval as faithful Stephen was stoned to a bloody pulp.  Those shameful scenes could have replayed over and over again in Paul’s mind.  Guilt could have gripped him by the throat.

        Perhaps you’ve felt the grip of guilt around your throat too.  There are scenes of shame in each of our lives—scenes that the devil loves to rewind and replay for us over and over again (in high definition).  The sins we want so desperately to forget about are the very ones we keep on remembering.  Sins confessed to Christ—sins forgiven by Christ—they should no longer trouble us.  But trouble us they do.  They rob us of the joy of our salvation.

        Beloved in the Lord, let’s learn a thing or two from reading someone else’s mail.  Learn from Paul, the chief of sinners.  If he could rest easy on the soft pillow of a clear conscience, then so can you.  Learn from Paul that it’s all about Jesus.  It’s Jesus, Paul writes, “who saved us and called us to a holy calling, not because of our works but because of his . . . grace.”

        The secret of a thankful heart—the secret of a clear conscience—is Jesus, the Son of God.  It’s through faith in Him that you can lay your head down tonight with a clear conscience—guilt-free, sins forgiven, a shame-free slumber.  It’s Jesus who gives you a thankful heart—a heart fortified by faith—strong enough to bear every cross and every loss in this life—because you know that Jesus has already borne His cross for you, for your sins, for your salvation.  His grace IS sufficient.  His power IS made perfect in your weakness.  When every earthly prop gives way, He then is all your hope and stay.

        And of course, being on death row is a whole lot easier when you share Paul’s conviction that this life isn’t all there is—that Jesus Christ is risen from the dead and in Him you too will rise.  Christ Jesus, Paul writes, “has abolished death and brought life and immortality to light through the gospel.”  Paul could live with joy in a terrible present, because He knew that there was a glorious future in store for him, and for all who follow Jesus in faith.

        The promise of the resurrection is also what keeps us going.  It keeps hope alive.  It inspires our living and our dying.  The promise of the resurrection inspires our witness to others.  It’s why we pass on the faith to children and grandchildren.  One of Paul’s personal remembrances of Timothy was of his sincere faith—a faith, he writes, “that first dwelt in your grandmother Lois and your mother Eunice and now, I am sure, dwells in you as well.”  It’s a testimony to the power of parents and grandparents—who make it their aim to pass on the faith and the sure and certain hope of the resurrection.  Who are you passing along the faith to?  Who are you mentoring and encouraging in the faith?  Who has God placed in your path who needs to know that our present suffering isn’t even worth comparing to the glory that will be revealed in us?

        Perhaps (just spit-balling here) you could write that person a letter—a tender, personal, affectionate letter—an epistle that spells out the hope you have in Jesus—so that they too might thank God with a clear conscience—and live and die in the victory of Jesus Christ.

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