Talent on Loan from God

In Nomine Iesu
St. Matt. 25:14-30
November 19, 2017
Proper 28A

Dear brothers and sisters in Christ Jesus~

If the parable of the talents teaches us anything, it teaches us that God is no communist. And He’s certainly no socialist. In this parable, God (the Master) sounds more like a free-market venture capitalist, who rewards entrepreneurial risk, and who has no problem showing to the door those who can’t seem to turn a profit.

The talents tell the whole story. A talent was a unit of money—a huge chunk of change that was worth at least a thousand days’ wages. Five talents were essentially 15 years’ wages for a common laborer. Even one talent was worth at least six figures by today’s standards. Our English word, “talent,” meaning “special aptitude or skill,” goes all the way back to this parable.

The Master entrusted this treasure trove of talents to three servants. Please note that the Master doesn’t give the same amount to each servant. One gets five. Another gets two. And the third gets one talent. That’s not fair, we say. But this master knows his

servants well. He doesn’t give them more or less than they can handle. He gives according to the ability of each servant. He puts into their hands what is exactly right for each.

Do you also trust this to be the case with you—with what you have in your life? Do you believe that your Lord and Master knows exactly what you can handle—and exactly what you can’t—and that He places into your hands exactly what is appropriate for you—no more and no less? Either way, keep listening.

After distributing his talents, the master in the parable goes on a long journey. Amazingly, he leaves no instructions on what to do with the talents—no rules, no quotas, no carefully crafted goals, guidelines, or expectations. He just hands over a big wad of cash and says, “Now you take that and do whatever you think is right.” This master refuses to micro-manage. He just turns his servants loose with his money and leaves town.

Can you handle a God like that—a God who doesn’t micromanage your life—who gives you an abundance of talent without any stipulations about exactly what to do and exactly when to do it? Can you fathom a God who hands off His treasure into the hands of fumbling, failure-prone sinners, and then disappears with a promise? Surely I am with you always to the very end of the age.

What would you do if you were one of those servants with all those talents entrusted to you? Drive directly down to Northwestern Mutual and demand a meeting with their best financial advisors? Invest it in the stock market? Start your own business? Buy property? It would probably greatly depend on just how you viewed your Master—the giver of the talents—right? If he were easy-going and forgiving, you might take a few chances and more risk. But if he were a tight-fisted, unforgiving, Ebenezer Scrooge, you might play it safe and be more conservative.

In the parable, the servant who was given five talents doubled his investment, as did the servant who was given two. But the third servant took an extremely conservative approach with his talent. He dug a hole and buried it.

After a long time, the master came back and settled accounts with his servants. It’s a preview of Judgement Day—the Last Day—when all accounts are settled for all eternity. The two who turned a profit are praised with a hearty “Well done,” and get to share in the joy of their Master. The third servant—with his single, shiny, unused talent—is condemned to the outer darkness where tears always flow and molars always grind. Make a profit or . . . you’re fired.

Now wait just a minute! This is starting to sound as if our salvation depends on our performance—as if works and profits and success are absolutely essential to avoid the outer darkness. Does this parable really teach that you’d better do all you can for God with the talents you’ve been given, and pray that you post a healthy profit at the close of the business day, or you’ll be joining that third servant (the conservative one) in the eternal unemployment line?

That third servant is actually the key to understanding the true meaning of the parable. Why didn’t he turn a profit? Why didn’t he do business or invest with his talent? It wasn’t his money. There were no rules or regulations on what to do with it. He had nothing to lose. So why didn’t he do anything? Why take that precious, shiny talent and bury it?

Well, why do we? Why do we refuse to step out of our comfort zones to use the talents God has given us? What keeps us from freely sharing our talents—from living large and living generously? In a word, it’s fear—fear of failure, fear of punishment, fear of loss, fear of the future, fear that others will disapprove of what we’re doing. Fear is the great paralyzer that prevents us from even getting off the starting line. Servant number three even admits it: he was afraid of his master, so he went and hid the talent in the ground.

That third servant is actually a picture of you and me beneath the Law of God. The Law is a harsh taskmaster. The Law of God demands perfection. And if you offend at just one point, you’re guilty and accountable for the whole thing. The Law demands obedience, but it can’t produce a single good work. It just produces fear and dread and terror as we look ahead to the day of judgment when all our works will be tested by fiery flames.

If you view God only through the lens of the Law—if your commandment keeping and your profit margins are the only way you can deal with Him—then you’ll wind up like servant number three: cornered and paralyzed by fear, terrified of making a mistake, stuck inside your sinful self.

Beloved in the Lord, listen carefully: Jesus has set you free from all that. What matters is not the abundance of your works, because they are not your works anyway. They are God’s works worked in you. How can you take credit for something that isn’t yours in the first place? What does matter—what matters more than anything—is trust—trust that Jesus Himself settled your account on the cross with His perfect life and death, so that you can venture it all in this world without fear of failure. What matters is simply faith toward God, along with fervent love toward one another.

And here’s the kicker: What was lacking in that third servant was not profit, but faith. He believed that his master was harsh, demanding, and cruel. And he got what he believed. Had he believed that his master was gracious and merciful, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love—that so long as you transact with your talent and spread around your master’s good name all’s well—well, then that servant would have gone out and boldly done business as one who had nothing to lose.

You have nothing to lose. Salvation is yours. Eternal life is yours. The treasures of heaven are yours. The judgment ends in Jesus, and Jesus was judged in your place. Jesus came to earth to do business—to risk everything, to invest His very life and gamble everything to save the whole God-forsaking world, including you. Though Jesus was the good and faithful servant whose every deed was “well done,” He became for you the Suffering Servant, bearing the sins of our wickedness and slothfulness and faithlessness. Jesus became like faithless servant number three—was crucified and cast into the darkness of the tomb for us. In fact, when Jesus told this parable of the talents, His own execution for us was just days away.

Yes, our works do matter. Yes, it matters how we use and invest our talents on loan from God. Our works need to be cleaned up. The dross of our sin needs to be burned off. The greasy fingerprints of our old Adam need to be wiped off so that we can clearly see that what we have achieved has really been achieved by God Himself. Our works will be judged. But we will not be judged by our works, but simply by faith in Jesus—who loved you and gave Himself for you—who defeated death to remove the fear that keeps you paralyzed.

Your greatest “talent on loan from God” is the very gospel itself—the good news that God has reconciled the world to Himself in Jesus—that He doesn’t count our sins against us—that this life is just a shadow of the life of the world to come. That talent—the gospel—is placed into your hands to be shared and not hoarded—to be proclaimed and not kept private. You know something the world doesn’t know: God isn’t like Ebenezer Scrooge, miserly and vengefully firing those who fail to show a profit. You know that the Lord is good, that His mercy endures forever. He justifies the ungodly and forgives the sins of all who are penitent, for the sake of His dear Son. The world doesn’t know this or believe it. But you do. That’s your talent on loan from God. How will you invest it?

The question today is whether we will use our talent freely or fearfully—in faith or unfaith—trusting that God is good or fearing that He is harsh and cruel. Look to the cross of Jesus, and you will see the God you have. There you will find confidence, boldness, and freedom to use your talent on loan from God, and so enter into the eternal joy of Jesus.

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

Here Comes the Bridegroom

In Nomine Iesu
St. Matthew 25:1-13
November 12, 2017
Proper 27A

Dear brothers and sisters in Christ Jesus~

The Parable of the Ten Virgins is filled with distracting details—things that just might make us miss the main point—if we don’t listen carefully to what our Lord is saying.

Take the term “virgin,” for instance. In our sex-saturated culture, virgins are seen as something peculiar. In a culture where sex is everything, virgins seem to be missing out. Virginity prompts sympathy and curiosity these days. But in the First Century, virginity corresponded to holiness and purity. Virginity was an honorable estate. The ten virgins in the parable are basically bridesmaids. And in

the parable these virgins represent you—members of the Church on earth.

Other people hear this parable and get distracted by the part where everyone gets drowsy and falls asleep—as though the point is to stay awake and alert at all times. But please note that nobody gets condemned in this parable for falling asleep. Sleep is good. Sleep is natural. People need sleep—even baptized children of God who are awaiting the Lord’s return. No one will be damned for their drowsiness.

Other people focus on the aspect of waiting in this parable. Weddings in Jesus’ day didn’t start promptly at 3PM. They started whenever the groom decided to show up. The groom could be early or he could be late. The bridesmaids had to be ready and waiting. I’ve often preached about how nobody likes to wait—how impatient we get. But the waiting here is more like eager anticipation. It’s like waiting for Christmas. It’s not a dull, dreadful, drudgery—but a hopeful expectation. That’s the waiting these bridesmaids are doing. That’s the waiting we Christians do—as we eagerly anticipate our Lord’s return and the day of resurrection.

Having addressed the distractions, let’s now focus what matters most in this parable. First of all, note that there’s a distinction between the bridesmaids. They may all have matching dresses; but there’s distinct difference between them: Five are wise. Five are foolish. Now, in the Scriptures, to be “wise” ultimately means to have faith—to believe. To be foolish means to be unbelieving—to have no faith. All ten bridesmaids took their lamps along to meet the bridegroom. The difference was that the foolish bridesmaids didn’t bring any oil for their lamps, while the wise brought along flasks of extra oil.

This oil is an important detail in the parable. Oil is energy. Oil is fuel. It’s what lamps in the first century ran on. And this oil corresponds to something in the Christian’s life. It corresponds to the fuel of faith—the life-giving sustenance that our Lord provides in His Word and Sacrament. What our Lord gives you here in the Divine Service is what keeps your faith burning strong.

But there’s a bit of irony in the parable where this oil is concerned: The foolish bridesmaids must have looked plenty smart and sophisticated with their cute little wedding lamps cradled in their perfectly manicured hands. Yeah, the foolish bridesmaids seemed confident and carefree. For them, this wedding was just another thing on their to-do list. Go to the mall, get your hair done, go to the movie, go to the wedding.

And as for those wise bridesmaids, well, what can you say? Those wise women must have looked rather foolish and unfashionable. They lacked a certain flair as they lugged around those extra flasks of oil for their lamps. What kind of an accessory is a big flask of extra oil? That’s silly! What were they thinking? They acted as if this wedding (and the arrival of the bridegroom) was the biggest thing—the thing that mattered most in the whole world. Not cool. Kind of nerdy.

Are you getting this? The wise bridesmaids—those with faith—appear to be dumb and foolish. That’s also how it is in the world today. Those who are wise—those who have faith in Jesus and eagerly anticipate His arrival—they appear to be the biggest fools of all. That’s us, wouldn’t you say? How foolish we appear as we gather here week after week, watching and waiting for Jesus! How foolish it seems to get up early on Sunday and hear God’s Word preached to you when you could just as easily do other things. How foolish to consume a bit of bread and wine, trusting it to be the body and blood of Jesus. How foolish to give away a big chunk of your hard-earned money to God when there are so many other things on which to spend it. How foolish to preach about sin and sacrifice when all people really want is to be entertained.

Nobody likes to look foolish. We all go to great lengths to avoid looking foolish. So do you know what we do? We put down the oil. We set aside the faith and forgiveness that keeps us going while we wait for Jesus. We forego the very fuel we need. We package up and put away the commands and promises of our God so that we can appear more fashionable—wiser and smarter to those around us.

When do you do it? When do you set aside the oil of faith? When do you hide that little gospel light of yours so that you can appear to be fashionable and sophisticated? For some of us it happens at work or at school. We leave the faith and forgiveness of Jesus at home so that we can blend right in at work and run right along with the herd of complainers, backbiters, bullies, and deadbeats. For some of us, it will happen this Thanksgiving or Christmas when we get together with extended family. We package up matters of faith and forgiveness, sin and grace—lock them up—so as not to make our unbelieving, unchurched family members uncomfortable. For others of us it happens at home. We can be loving and gracious and forgiving Christians to every soul on earth, except for the souls we live with—with siblings, with parents, with spouses. When we deal with them, the gloves come off and our faith is drained down to nothing. It happens all the time. It’s a crisis of conformity. We carefully cleanse ourselves of every last visible trace of faith so that we can be stealth Christians—indistinguishable from unbelievers—always aiming to walk like them and talk like them—to be fashionable and trendy and wise like them.

And pretty soon—we ARE them. And sooner still, we’ve completely lost sight of the fact that Jesus, the Bridegroom, is coming. And the faith and forgiveness we once carried close to our hearts is nowhere to be found. The lamp of faith has gone out. The party will start. The door will be shut. And those who wanted so badly to appear wise to the world will grieve to hear the Lord say: “I don’t know you.”

In the end, when the Bridegroom shows up, when the Lord Himself comes down from heaven, with a loud command and the voice of the archangel and with the trumpet call of God—when that happens those who looked like fools in this world will turn out to be wise, while those who appeared to be so very wise in this world will turn out to be damned fools. This is why Jesus says, “Keep watch.” Jesus wants you, His church, to be expectant, watchful, ready for the trumpet call of God with a rich supply of the fuel of faith on hand at all times, so that your faith might burn brightly at all hours of the day and night.

Thankfully, your God isn’t stingy about supplying you with all the fuel your faith will ever need. All the forgiveness, life and salvation that Jesus hung on the cross to win for the world—He gives it all away in a multitude of ways—in baptism, in absolution, in the Lord’s Supper, in His Word as it’s preached and proclaimed. In these precious gifts (which appear so foolish) is more forgiveness and life and salvation than we can even imagine. There’s far more JESUS in the Word and Sacraments than we think we need—more than enough to keep our little gospel lights burning and shining until the Last Day. Only a fool would say, “No thanks. I can do without that. I’ve got better ways to spend my time.”

The wise bridesmaids didn’t care how foolish they appeared with their extra flasks of oil. No, they knew the One in whom they hoped and the One for whom they waited. They lived and slept in the confidence of their bridegroom’s coming. They knew He was coming; they just didn’t know when.

You too are waiting—for Jesus. You know Him. You believe Him. You don’t know when He’s coming. Your salvation depends entirely on Him. He is the One who was crucified for you—for your sins—who rose from the grave for you, who is today interceding for you at the Father’s right hand in glory. He is the One who baptized you, who forgives you, who feeds you with His body and blood, who gives you His Holy Spirit. You are precious to Him.

To be wise—to have faith—means that we’re living each day in the hope and expectation that Jesus is coming. And what others may think doesn’t matter. For at midnight, when we least expect it, the cry will go out: “Here is the Bridegroom! Come out to meet Him!” You can live and work and sleep and die in the glad confidence that Jesus will come in glory on the Last Day. And on that day those who are wise—those in whom the fire of faith is burning—they will shine like the stars forever and ever. Amen.

Little Church ~ Big Family

In Nomine Iesu
Revelation 7:9-17
November 5, 2017
All Saints’ Sunday

Dear brothers and sisters in Christ Jesus~

Did you hear what I just called you? You might have missed it, since I call you the same thing every Sunday—before every sermon. I called you “brothers and sisters” in Christ. Now, to be brothers and sisters is to be family. And on this All Saints’ Sunday we are able to catch a glimpse of just how big and how diverse and how blessed this Christian family of ours really is. “See what kind of love the Father has given to us,” writes St. John, “that we should be called children of God! And so we are.”

Our family here at Our Savior is a relatively small family. As congregations go, our numbers are not impressive. But being small has its advantages. Everybody tends to know everybody, at least by sight if not by name. It’s easy to take attendance. And if you’d like to try something new (liking singing in the choir, or teaching arts and crafts at VBS, or attempting that new recipe for a Lenten supper) we will sign you up in a heartbeat! Small churches rock!

But sometimes a bigger church family would be better. Sometimes having just a few more bodies and a few more voices and a few more helping hands would be a great encouragement.

But All Saints’ Sunday reminds us that this family is not as small as it seems. What we learn about our Christian family today is similar to what I used to learn in the family gatherings of my youth. My immediate Henrichs relatives were a small group indeed. Not a clan or a tribe by any stretch of the imagination. I’m now down to three first cousins. But every so often in my childhood there would be a family reunion—at which all manner of Henrichses would seemingly emerge from the woodwork—people I had never met or seen or heard of

before—people to whom I was related. Suddenly, I felt strength in those numbers. My puny, little family had hope—a lively history and a promising future. My only question was, “Who are all these Henrichses; and where did they come from?”

That question is not unlike the question that will be asked at the end of time when all the children of God, from the greatest to the least, are gathered together around the throne of God: “Who are these, clothed in white robes, and where did they come from?” Today’s reading from Revelation chapter seven is a beautiful, hope-filled reminder that we are—each of us—on our way to a grand and glorious family reunion. And the sense of wonder and amazement that we sometimes feel at our earthly family reunions will pale in comparison when all the family of faith gathers around the throne of God in heaven.

St. John describes a great multitude that no one can count, from every nation, tribe, people and language, standing before the throne and in front of the Lamb. They are wearing white robes and holding palm branches in their hands. And this family is not a quiet family, but in a loud voice this multitude declares, “Salvation belongs to our God, who sits on the throne, and to the Lamb.” Those in white robes are also joined by all the angels and archangels in worship of God, lifting their voices to proclaim, “Blessing and glory and wisdom and thanksgiving and honor and power and might be to our God forever and ever. Amen.” The Lamb who was slain has begun His reign. Alleleluia.

Beloved in the Lord, my brothers and my sisters, this is your family being described—your church. This is the family reunion to which you are being drawn—and in which you are already a participant every time you gather around this altar. Who is this host arrayed in white? “These are the ones,” John says, “coming out of the great tribulation; they have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb. . . . They shall hunger no more, neither thirst anymore; the sun shall not strike them, nor any scorching heat. For the Lamb . . . will be their shepherd . . . and God will wipe away every tear from their eyes.”

It sounds too good to be true; but it is true and better than good. You might think of these words as a kind of family portrait. Most of you have probably had a family portrait taken at some point. The last time my little family posed in front of the camera, our clothing was carefully coordinated. Hair was parted perfectly. Smiling faces were huddled together as if all was perfectly blissful. A beautiful family portrait somehow manages to bring out the very best in us.

But I have to tell you, it’s almost too good to be true. It is true in that it is us; and we weren’t photo-shopped. But we don’t always look like that. Our hair is mostly messy and we’re probably better at snarling than we are at smiling. But a good family portrait brings out the best. And there’s no better family portrait than the one in which all of us are dressed in white robes, with palm branches in our hands, with eyes that weep no more, and voices that sing for joy. That’s the family portrait—that’s the family reunion—which is not too good to be true. It’s our family. It’s our reunion. And all this is thanks to our Savior, Jesus the Christ.

It’s Jesus who makes it possible for sinners like us to stand among the white-robed saints of God. The beatitudes that Jesus spoke in today’s holy gospel are first and foremost descriptions of Himself—the perfect life He lived as your substitute. We are anything but meek, merciful, pure-hearted peacemakers. Not by nature. Not in and of ourselves. Jesus alone is all of this. He embodies these beatitudes perfectly. Jesus is poor in spirit. Though He was rich, He became poor so that by His poverty you are rich. Jesus mourns. He weeps over our sin as He did over Jerusalem; and He weeps over our death as He did at the tomb of Lazarus. But by that mourning He brings us comfort and joy. Jesus hungers and thirsts for our righteousness, and out of His hunger you are fed. Jesus is merciful, pure-hearted, peace-making. He showed mercy by laying down His life for the sin of the world. He made peace by the blood He shed. He offered His pure and holy life as the sacrifice for your sins. He was persecuted, insulted, and falsely convicted. But by that conviction you have been acquitted, justified, declared righteous before God. On the cross Jesus hung bloody in nakedness and shame. But by that blood you have been washed. You have been cleansed. You have been forgiven.

In addition to those formal family portraits, most families also have photo albums filled with candid, casual snapshots which tell the family story in a more informal way. These candid snapshots capture us the way we really are at a given moment in time. Sometimes it’s not too pretty. This is also true for the family of God here and now. For us who walk as yet by faith, there is hunger and thirst and tears and the ongoing struggle with temptation and sin and death. The wages of sin is death, and there can be no denying that. Death is the consequence of sin. But today and every Sunday we celebrate the fact that Jesus has done something remarkable with death. He has taken this feared and dreaded enemy—this monster with an insatiable appetite—and He has made it into the gateway of eternal life with Him.

This is why it also says in Revelation, “Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord from now on.” Yes, you heard correctly, “Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord.” The Lord Jesus has gone the way ahead of them. He Himself has gone to death and the grave, and those who follow Him, trusting Him in faith, are called “blessed” in their death. They are blessed because those who die in the Lord are with the Lord. There’s no waiting around at the pearly gates—no standing in line. There’s no joking around with St. Peter. There’s no soul sleep. No, when you close your eyes for the final time in this world you will immediately open them in paradise with Jesus. Blessed are those who die in the Lord.

Our numbers here today are small. It probably took our ushers a mere matter of minutes to total up the attendance here today. But let’s not forget the family portrait that tells the whole story for all the people of God on this day. That portrait depicts a great multitude that no one can count.

And you will be there, with all the family of God, dressed in white, standing shoulder to shoulder with the very people you see around you this morning—and with that multitude that no one can even begin to number—a multitude that now includes Bob Schulz, Beth Dittmar, and Kay Williams. Today we feebly struggle; they in glory shine. To say that you will be happy when you join them would be an understatement. “Blessed” would be more accurate. Blessed are you, my brothers and my sisters, dear family, fellow children of God, blessed are you in Jesus, now and forever. Amen.

An Eternal Gospel to Proclaim

In Nomine Iesu
Revelation 14:6-7
October 29, 2017
Reformation Sunday

Dear brothers and sisters in Christ Jesus~

This Sunday—this 500th anniversary of the Reformation—it reminds us of where we have been . . . AND it reminds us of where we are going. This day points us back in history . . . AND leads us into a promised future. It tells, ultimately, of what God Himself has done . . . AND it tells what God will do—for His whole church, for all who believe, and for you.

First, the history—the looking back at where we have been.

Five hundred years ago this Tuesday an obscure Augustinian monk did something that would forever change the course of history on this planet. Nobody realized it at the time—not even Martin Luther himself. He was a doctor of theology at the University of Wittenberg. And Doctor Luther had been doing something radical—something that practically no one—not even his fellow doctors of theology—had been doing. Martin Luther had been reading his Bible—studying the Word of God.

And the more Luther studied those words, the more troubled he became. Because what he was learning from the Scriptures about grace and the forgiveness of sins and righteousness before God—was completely contrary to what was actually happening around him in the church of his day. In the church of his day, grace and forgiveness and righteousness had to be earned by the sinner—or, worse—paid for by the sinner. What the Bible describes as a “gift” was being treated as a commodity that could be bought and sold with gold and silver. Well, Luther needed to talk about this. He wanted a thoughtful, scholarly debate. And so, he crafted 95 theses—95 propositions for discussion and debate—and posted them on the community bulletin board—the doors of Wittenberg’s biggest church—the castle church. (That was “social media” in the sixteenth century.) And the rest, as they say, is history.

I visited the Castle Church this past July. Today Martin Luther’s bones are buried in that church. His legacy is enshrined in stained glass and it sounds forth from the massive pipe organ. His 95 theses are engraved in bronze on the church doors. On the top of the massive steeple are engraved the words of Luther’s most famous hymn: Ein Feste Burg ist Unser Gott, A Mighty Fortress is our God. That church is everything you would expect . . . with one glaring exception.

Suspended from that high, gothic ceiling is the strange figure on the front of today’s bulletin. It’s new, from what I understand.

People my age and older have heard about the flying nun. But here, hanging just above the heads of the worshipers, is a flying monk. It’s not a bird and not a plane. It’s everyone’s favorite reformer flying through the air. It’s super Luther! Here in one of Christianity’s most historic structures is something so new and so novel that, quite honestly, it fits in with the gothic décor about as well as a flashing disco ball would fit in here at Our Savior. When I saw “Flying Luther” this past summer, I scratched my head and wondered, “What were those Wittenbergers thinking?”

Today’s first reading from Revelation provides a tantalizing clue: Then I saw another angel flying directly overhead, with an eternal gospel to proclaim to those who dwell on earth, to every nation and tribe and language and people. And he said with a loud voice, “Fear God and give Him glory, because the hour of His judgment has come, and worship Him who made heaven and earth. I would like to think that the flying Luther in the Castle Church is no superhero, but the angel of Revelation chapter 14—the angel with an eternal gospel to proclaim.

No, people don’t become angels in the narrow sense. People are people; and angels are angels. But the word “angel” in its broadest, most basic sense, means “messenger.” And who can deny that Martin Luther was a messenger from God? He was self-admittedly a sinner—a sack of maggots. He didn’t always get it right. But what he did get right—what he did proclaim with purity and precision—was the gospel—the unchanging, eternal gospel—that sinners who always fall short of the glory of God and who deserve nothing but death and hell—can become righteous before God only by God’s grace, only through faith, only for the sake of Jesus Christ. Sola gratia, Sola fide, Sola Christus.

God’s gift of salvation is found exclusively in Jesus Christ; but as the angel of Revelation 14 makes clear, that gift is offered and proclaimed in the most inclusive way possible—“to every nation and tribe and language and people.” There is no one so bad that they cannot be saved by Christ; and there is no one so good that they can be saved without Christ.

The angel of Revelation 14 sounds suspiciously like Luther. “Fear God,” says the angel. Luther took that simple phrase and multiplied it tenfold as he explained each one of the Commandments in his Catechism: We should fear and love God. To fear God means to take God seriously—including His threats, His warnings, and His Commandments. But in each of our lives there is a terrible famine. Not a famine for lack of food, but a famine of fear—a famine for fearing the Lord. Oh, we fear what our friends think of us. We fear what our neighbors and co-workers think of us. We fear being unpopular, being unloved, being wrong. We fear what we cannot control. But we do not fear the God who controls heaven and earth. Luther once confessed his sins for six hours straight; we would be hard-pressed to confess our sins for six minutes straight. Why? Because we do not fear God as we should.

But the angel’s message is not just one of Law, but of Gospel: Fear God and give him glory . . . and worship him. Give Him glory and worship Him. You give God glory when you confess your guilt and your sin. You give God glory when you admit to the famine of fear in your life, trusting and believing that He can do something about it. You worship Him by receiving His gifts—His absolution—the blood-bought forgiveness that Jesus Christ earned for you. He is bone of your bone and flesh of your flesh. Jesus suffered as you suffer. Jesus was tempted as you are tempted. Jesus mourned the death of loved ones as you mourn the death of loved ones. Only He has done something about it. And when you come here, believing His promises and receiving His gifts, that is the highest worship you can offer.

Jesus Christ was crucified as your sacred substitute, bearing all the sins that should rightly bar you from heaven. And on the third day Jesus Christ was raised from the dead, defeating the power of death over you and all creation. You will live forever. Your body is destined, not for destruction, but for resurrection. We call this good news the gospel. Martin Luther preached it. Your pastors proclaim it. It is the main message that every angel is given to proclaim. It’s there in the book of Genesis; and it’s there in the book of Revelation, as we now hear: Then I saw another angel flying directly overhead, with an eternal gospel to proclaim.

Think about it this way for a moment: God could just walk away. God could just give up. God could clam up, and corral His angels, and cause His messengers to go mute. He would be completely justified to disengage from a world that is increasingly intoxicated with the liquor of Satan’s lies. It would be completely understandable were God to abandon all those men and women who have abandoned Him and rejected Him and turned their backs on Him—and just say, “To hell with them.” There, but for the grace of God, go you.

But our God—He has an eternal gospel—good news that doesn’t quit—and that eternal gospel is to be proclaimed and preached until the Last Day. He will not stop speaking. He is still working to woo and win the lost. He still sends His messengers—His angels—His pastors to preach the good news, to wash away sin in Holy Baptism, to serve His holy supper to His holy people. He just can’t keep quiet because He has an eternal gospel to proclaim.

This day reminds us of where we have been—five hundred years’ worth of history. But it also reminds us of where we are going. We are going to heaven. We will see and hear the sights and sounds of Revelation 14—which is nothing less than a sneak peek into the glories of the life of the world to come. There you will see all the company of heaven, with angels and archangels flying overhead. You will be reunited with those you love who have died in the faith. You will be gathered around the throne of the Lord Jesus, singing the songs of heaven, with every tear wiped away from your eyes. A grand a glorious future awaits you—a future we can hardly begin to imagine.

Beloved in the Lord, this is why the Reformation matters. This is why we fear God, and give Him glory, and worship Him. This is why we give thanks to God for His angel, Martin, and the eternal gospel he proclaimed.

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

In Memoriam: Kay Williams

In Nomine Iesu
1 John 3:1-2
October 13, 2017
What Kind of Love

Dear family and friends of Kay Williams,
Dear brothers and sisters in Christ,

The apostle John invites us to see something amazing this morning: See what kind of love the Father has given to us, that we should be called children of God. He wants us to look at the love of God. And that is what we are going to do, with His help.

Love is a tricky topic. Love is the most overused, least understood, word in the English language. We have all experienced love in one way or another—to one degree or another. We have witnessed love. We have felt love. We all aspire to love and to be loved.

But human love is always flawed and faulty. Human love always falls short. That’s because the love we receive and share is usually a merit-based love—at least to some degree. Consider the sentence which begins, “I love you because . . .” Think of all the ways that sentence can be completed. I love you because you are intelligent. I love you because you are attractive. I love you because you bring out the best in me—because you make me proud—because you make me happy. I love you because you are so good at so many things. Now, there’s nothing wrong with any of those sentiments. But please notice how this love between people is always based on some merit, some quality—some desirable, attractive attribute—some quid pro quo. I love you because . . .

But now, see what kind of love the Father has given to us, that we should be called children of God; and so we are. See what kind of love the Father has given to Kay that she should be called a child of God. Now, to see the Father’s love for Kay, we have to go back to 1946. Kay was born that year on April 29th. But she was also born again that year, on June 16th, in the waters of Holy Baptism, poured out on her little head by the hand of her Uncle Harold. Before Kay even had the opportunity to do one good work—before she could smile or wave or crawl—the unmerited love of God claimed her and adopted her as a dear child of the Heavenly Father—a sister to the Savior. Her body became a temple of the Holy Spirit.

See what kind of love the Father has given to Kay! That baptism was more than just a quaint ritual or a merely symbolic act. That baptism was God’s love in action. As the Catechism reminds us, baptism gives forgiveness of sins, rescues from death and the devil, and gives eternal salvation to all who believe, as the words and promises of God declare.

In the years that followed 1946 there were constant challenges and struggles in Kay’s life. Her life did not go according to our plans. It didn’t proceed according to that template we call “normal.” No, Kay had needs that were unusual—special needs, we say these days. And there must have been many times along the way when those needs were so great that you could not meet them—times when you were overwhelmed and burdened—times when you despaired—times when you felt like a guilty failure because you could not do all that needed to be done—times when all you could pray was “Lord, have mercy.”

But today I want you to see what kind of love the Father has given to Kay—that dear child of God. He provided for her. He cared for her. He did what we were unable to do. He provided care-givers. He provided therapists. He led Kay to various centers of care where she was able to find satisfaction and contentment and a happy routine in an environment of acceptance. He provided doctors and specialists who could make Kay more comfortable. Do you see it? Do you see what kind of love the Father has given to Kay? It must have been scary and stressful for you to try to navigate all the unforeseen twists and turns of Kay’s life. But her heavenly Father saw them all. For Kay was His child. And there He was—all along the way these 71 years—guiding and leading and directing and providing for Kay. Looking back, we can see that much more clearly now.

See what kind of love the Father has given to us. Part of our heavenly Father’s love for you was bringing Kay into your lives. Yes, Kay was a gift from God for you. For in addition to God’s love, Kay also enjoyed the love of a mother and a father, a brother and a sister, and nephews and nieces and cousins and aunts and uncles. And Kay taught all of us a thing or two about God’s love. For Kay didn’t bring a lot to the table in our merit-based system of love. She was defined by her needs more than her accomplishments. For Kay there was no honor roll, no diploma, no standing ovations for outstanding achievement. Yet, you loved her. You didn’t love her because she merited it. You didn’t love her because. You just loved her. That love was a giving love, a sacrificial love—a selfless, serving kind of love. It was the love of God.

See what kind of love the Father has given to us, that we should be called children of God. We can’t fully understand the Father’s love apart from Jesus, the Father’s Son. A few paragraphs later St. John lays it out plainly: By this we know love, that [Jesus Christ] laid down His life for us (3:16). And just a few paragraphs later, the apostle makes it plainer still: In this is love, not that we have loved God but that He loved us and sent His Son to be the propitiation for our sins (4:10). This is the kind of love the Father gives to you—undeserved, unmerited, and unearned. Jesus Christ bears away all your loveless thoughts, words and deeds on His crucifixion cross. He takes your punishment. He bears your shame. He endures your pain. And by His wounds we know love. And this is perfect love—real love—divine love—love that lasts forever.

This is the love that sought and found Kay. This is the love that surrounded her a week ago Wednesday when she peacefully departed this life to be with Jesus. That’s the final promise of our text this morning: Beloved, we are God’s children now, and what we will be has not yet appeared; but we know that when He appears we shall be like Him, because we shall see Him as He is. Kay is now with the Lord; and there she enjoys complete and total healing. Kay no longer has special needs. She no longer has regular needs. All that she could possibly need or desire or hope for has been given to her by her loving Savior. She sees Him as He is. And one day you will too. That’s His promise to all His children. See what kind of love the Father has given to us, that we should be called children of God.

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

Remember Lot's Wife

In Nomine Iesu
Philippians 3:4b-14
October 8, 2017
Proper 22A

Dear brothers and sisters in Christ Jesus~

Do you remember Lot’s wife? You should. You’re supposed to. Jesus says exactly that in Luke 17: Remember Lot’s wife. But just in case you’ve forgotten Lot’s wife, let me remind you. Things didn’t end well for her. Lot and his family were citizens of Sodom. Sodom and Gomorrah were terrible twin cities. The wickedness of those cities was so great that the Lord decided to destroy them

both. Two angels told Lot not to linger—but to get out fast—and not to look back. But as fire and brimstone rained down from heaven—as Sodom and Gomorrah were being consumed by God’s righteous wrath—Lot’s wife—she looked back. And she became a pillar of salt. Remember Lot’s wife.

Why did she look back? Why did she disobey those clear instructions? As a little boy, this story always bothered me. I worried that I would have looked back too. Like most boys, I was very fascinated by fire and fireworks. Who could resist looking at such a fantastic display of fire and Sulphur? I hoped never to be in the same situation for fear that I, too, would look back.

But the older I get, the more I realize that I remembered Lot’s wife for the wrong reason. Her looking back had more to do with her heart than with her eyes. For even as the Lord was practically dragging her and her family to safety and deliverance and salvation, her heart ached for what she left behind. As citizens of Sodom, Lot’s family had enjoyed status and success, fame and fortune—a big house, lots of livestock, and acres and acres of lush green pasture. They had a good life in Sodom and Gomorrah—a life of achievements and accolades. And Lot’s wife couldn’t bear to leave it all behind—couldn’t bring herself to believe that the Lord would provide. Her faith was faulty. She loved her life and lost it. She turned back. She became a statue of sodium. And, so, we remember Lot’s wife.

We’re tempted to look back, too—to find our security in past success—to draw comfort from competitions we won. At some level, we love our trophies, our ribbons, our medals. They’re little symbols of our achievements and accomplishments. I know some pastors who have four or more framed diplomas hanging on their office wall. Do you really need to know that I earned a Bachelor of Arts degree in 1991 before you’ll receive pastoral care from me? Now, there’s nothing wrong with a case full of trophies and medals and diplomas. These things are part of our history. They show how God has gifted us in various ways.

But the problem is that our sinful nature always wants to translate our earthly success into heavenly merit. At some level, our plaques and awards make a pretty good case for why God should love us, accept us, and just be grateful that we’re on His team. This kind of thinking is nothing new. Meriting God’s grace was at the heart of the religious system under which Luther grew up—a system in which your religious resume—your assortment of good accomplishments—had to counterbalance your sins on God’s scale of justice.

In today’s epistle from Philippians three, the Apostle Paul engages in some serious boasting as he looked back over his life: If anyone else thinks he has reason for confidence in the flesh, I have more: circumcised on the eighth day, of the people of Israel, of the tribe of Benjamin, a Hebrew of Hebrews; as to the law, a Pharisee; as to zeal, a persecutor of the church; as to righteousness under the law, blameless. Those are some serious credentials. An Israelite with the papers to prove it. The top of his class—listed on page one of Who’s Who Among the Jews. He would have gone far, except for a fateful encounter with the risen Christ on the road to Damascus—an encounter that changed everything for Saul (including his name).

Never again would Paul look back. Never again would Paul look back to keep score on his achievements or to beef up his religious resume. He writes, “Whatever gain I had, I counted as loss for the sake of Christ. Indeed, I count everything as loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord.” Now, as he looked back at his past in Judaism, all he saw was loss, rubbish, garbage. All those trophies, those merit badges and medals? They’re worthless in comparison to knowing Christ and being found in Christ.

Those two words, “in Christ,” are the key to understanding Paul. To be “in Christ” is to be a new creation—the old has gone and the new has come. To be “in Christ” is to have a righteousness before God that is not your own. It’s not about your works, your merits and achievements. Before other people, yes, those things can have some importance. People can’t see your faith; they can only see your works. But before God there is only one thing that holds—only one way that a sinner can stand before God justified, and that’s through faith in Christ, to be found in Christ, to be clothed with the righteousness of Christ—to believe that His death atones for your sins.

Paul suffered for this faith. And yet he considered his own suffering to be a share in the sufferings of Christ. He considered it a privilege to suffer and become like Jesus in His death, so that He might be like Jesus in His resurrection. The goal for Paul—the finish line—the end of the race—was resurrection. Paul’s goal wasn’t a good life or even a good death, but resurrection from the dead. That is the Christian hope. That’s why Paul pressed on, forgetting what was behind and straining toward what was ahead. Like the marathon runners who ran through our neighborhood last Sunday, there was no looking back. There was only forward progress toward the finish line—which, for us, is the resurrection.

Now even if marathons aren’t your thing, your baptism entered you into the race of faith. You were clothed with Christ, born again of water and the Spirit. Now, no race is fun while you’re running it. It can be painful, exhausting, and demanding. Did you see any of the runners’ faces last Sunday? They didn’t look too joyful. They weren’t very relaxed. So, too, you and I shouldn’t expect the baptized life to be easy or pain-free—a series of open doors and easy paved roads. No, it’s all uphill—with the devil, the world and our own sinful nature actively working against us every mile. But for those who follow Jesus, the joy comes at the finish line, where all the pain pays off, where suffering gives way to eternal joys.

And as you are running this race of faith, remember Lot’s wife. Remember the Apostle Paul. Don’t look back. Runners with a habit of looking back will inevitably stumble and fall. Don’t look back on your past successes; and don’t look back on your past sins. Christ bore your burden of sin to death on His cross. He bears it all away so that you can run unencumbered and forgiven. A fifty pound bag of guilt and shame will get you nowhere fast. Christ bore that on the cross so that you don’t have to. He bears your sins away even today in His holy meal, where the bread is His body and the wine is His blood.

Remember Lot’s wife. Don’t look back. Forget what lies behind and press on toward what is ahead—the resurrection of the body and the life of the world to come. The only hardware that matters is a crown of righteousness. There’s one of those waiting for you at the finish line. You haven’t earned it. But it’s yours by grace, through faith, for the sake of Jesus’ own death and resurrection.

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

A Matter of Authority

In Nomine Iesu
St. Matthew 21:23-27
October 1, 2017
Proper 21A

Dear brothers and sisters in Christ Jesus~
An intruder entered our house this past Monday morning—unwelcomed, uninvited, unannounced. It was our own fault, I suppose, for not locking the back door. I have to tell you, it was, frankly, a little bit scary. My wife was the one who discovered him as he was ripping insulation out of our walls. He seemed to have a bit of a personality disorder, the way he obsessed over our electrical wiring, dickered with our ductwork, and pondered our plumbing.

Well, long story short, it turns out that this intruder was the village building inspector, just doing his job—trying to find faults on a molecular level with our kitchen remodeling job. This man had the authority—authority to enter our house. He had the authority to stick his little flashlight into every crack, crevice, and floor joist in the parsonage. Now, if anybody else had walked into our kitchen on a Monday morning and started doing what he was doing, we would have called in a few squads of Whitefish Bay’s finest. But the village building inspector—he had full authority to do what he was doing.

“By what authority are you doing these things, and who gave you the authority?” That was the question that the Chief Priests and the elders posed to Jesus in this morning’s holy gospel. They were challenging His authority. Who did Jesus think He was? He had just ridden into Jerusalem like some kind of Messiah—with palm branches and “hosannas” lining His path. From there He had marched into the temple as if He owned the place—like some kind of religious building inspector, turning the tables of the money changers, putting pigeons to flight, and referring to the temple as “His” house (which was supposed to be a house of prayer). Where did Jesus get the authority to do these things?

As you’ve probably figured out by now, the word of the day is “authority.” We often confuse authority with power. You can exert your power—you can make a power play—even when you have no authority. But authority is always a matter of permission—permission granted by someone greater to say and do certain things. The President is authorized by the voters to act as the chief executive officer of the nation. Our judges are authorized to try cases.

My authority is indicated by the stole I wear. When I forgive sins in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, I do so in the stead, by the command, and under the authority of my Lord Jesus Christ. He has authorized me to absolve repentant sinners. He approves of it. He delights in it. He recognizes it. He stands behind it. He gives this special authority to forgive sins to the church; and when you called me to be your pastor, you authorized me to exercise that authority publicly on your behalf. Authority is a big deal.

And for some time now in Matthew’s gospel, the religious superstars of Jerusalem had noticed that their authority was slipping away. First it was John the Baptist who had drawn crowds of thousands, and had referred to the religious elites as a brood of vipers. And then, Jesus came along. He taught the people as one who had authority in Himself—who had no need to sprinkle His sermons with quotes from other rabbis. What’s more, Jesus demonstrated His authority—healing the sick, casting out demons, stilling storms, walking on water, raising the dead. Only someone authorized by God could do such things.

By the time Palm Sunday rolled around, there was no one in Jerusalem who hadn’t heard about the astounding authority of Jesus. Today’s challenge to Jesus’ authority happened during holy week—just days before Jesus would die on the cross and rise again. It was late in the season—almost time for the playoffs. Jesus’ authority had been on the table for nearly three years, going back to when He was baptized by John, and the Spirit descended, and the Father declared, “This is my beloved Son with whom I am well pleased.” Authority granted.

But the religious establishment would have none of it. As the authority of Jesus increased, their authority shriveled and shrank down to nothing. Their questioning of Jesus’ authority was a last ditch attempt to trap Him—to make Him stumble—to make Him say something that could and would be used against Him in a court of law. As usual, Jesus turned the tables on them, requiring them to give a “thumbs up” or a “thumbs down” on the baptizing John had done. It was a question they couldn’t and wouldn’t answer—and their authority sank to new levels of shrinkage.

There’s no middle ground where the authority of Jesus is concerned. Either He is the Son of God or He isn’t. Either His Word is the truth or it isn’t. Either all authority in heaven and earth has been given to Him or it hasn’t. And you would think that, among baptized believers, the authority of Jesus would not be up for debate. After all, we recognize His authority. We honor His authority—at least, when it suits us, and when it agrees with our savvy sensibilities.

The sad truth is that our sinful nature delights in chipping away at the authority of Jesus—carving out a few exceptions to the Law—looking for some loophole which will allow us to live as we please—to subtly shrink the authority of Jesus down to a more manageable size.

How easy it would be, for instance, to jump on the LGTBQ bandwagon—to align ourselves with celebrities and professional athletes—to have praises rain down upon us for re-defining marriage and human sexuality—to encourage people to choose their own sex regardless of the body God has given—to concede that the concept having both a mother and a father has gone the way of phone booths and dial-up modems.

Sex and marriage aren’t topics that appear in our text today. But sex and marriage—just like life and death—fall under the authority of Jesus. Homosexuality and transgenderism are two culturally approved ways to negate Jesus—to neutralize Jesus—to amputate His authority in your life. No human being has the authority to redefine marriage; because marriage rests on the authority of Jesus—who said, “for this reason a man shall leave his father and mother and be united to his wife; and the two shall be one; and what God has joined together let not man separate.” No human being has the authority to do away with fathers and mothers—and, ultimately, the family. No human being has the authority to reject the body God has given—be that body male or female.

These things don’t represent a new kind of freedom, or even a loving approach to life. These things are an assault on the authority of Jesus—the author of life and the Savior of sinners. And when we begin to think that we know better than Him—or that we can just work our way through the faith “cafeteria style,” picking and choosing what we like and leaving behind what we don’t like, we are ultimately rejecting Jesus and rejecting His authority.

Beloved in the Lord, we need to repent. We need to turn back to Jesus and confess that all authority in heaven and earth has been given to Him (and not to us). We need to return to the font of Holy Baptism, where Jesus used His authority to wash us and cleanse us and claim us for Himself. We need to return to the regular hearing of God’s Words and promises; for Jesus says that those who hear the Word of God and keep it are blessed. We need to return to the Supper of Jesus’ body and blood, to find strength and forgiveness to live as lights in this dark world—to light the way for others who are lost and confused.

Life under the authority of Jesus is never easy. Doubts and temptations and fears will still find you. But you can know this for a certain fact: Jesus Christ died for you, rose for you, reigns for you over heaven and earth, and is working all things for your eternal good. Nothing in this life can separate you from the love of God in Christ Jesus. God has claimed you as His own in your Baptism. He has justified you in Jesus, His Son, whom He sent with divine authority to love you, to be your Savior, and to take away the sin of the world. He is authorized by His Father to save you; and He has done it.

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