Glory to God in the Lowest

Jesu Juva
John 1; Luke 2
December 25, 2019
Christmas Day

Dear Saints of Our Savior~

A very blessed Christmas Day to one and all. I think most of you would agree that, when it comes to music, no season can compete with Christmas. At what other time of the year is music so important—so meaningful and moving? I think my Christmas playlist on Spotify has over eighty songs now. I add a few more every year; and I never grow tired of listening to them.

Do you know what is the oldest song of this season—the very first Christmas carol? It’s from back before Bach. It was first sung long before Luther. It’s even older than old Saint Nicholas himself. Here’s a clue: It was sung for the very first time by angels.

Gloria in excelsis Deo. Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men. Beloved in the Lord, that is unquestionably the first and oldest of all Christmas hymns and carols.

But God’s greatest glory—the glory of this holy day—has nothing to do with the highest. This day is all about the lowest. The movement—the action—the trajectory of the Nativity—it’s all downward and descending. The Word became flesh and dwelt among us (down here on earth). The eternal Son of God by whom all things were made—for us men and for our salvation He came down from heaven and was incarnate by the Holy Spirit of the Virgin Mary and was made man. A steeper, more precipitous dive has never happened before or since. The God of heaven has burst and broken the bounds of eternity. The Son of God has left His heavenly throne and has taken the plunge to take His place as your Brother and your Savior. With Jesus, all that is good goes down. Glory to God . . . in the lowest.

Ever since our first parents fell into sin, this world has been marked by a marked decline. God’s perfect planet plummeted into chaos. And human beings—the crown of God’s good creation—have alternatively assaulted God as rebels, or fled from Him in guilt and fear. Sin has ruined everything. And we sinners truly excel at sinking to new lows, finding ever deeper and darker ways to express our depravities, idolatries and adulteries. Our usual strategy is to take down the competition so that we can be gods in the place of God. But for all of our selfish climbing and clawing to the top of the heap—there is waiting for each of us a final resting place about six feet beneath the surface. The wages of sin is death. We’ve made our own beds and dug our own graves; and one day we will lay down for the final time.

But on this Christmas Day I say: Glory to God in the lowest. For today we celebrate the one thing that outrushes, outruns, excels and exceeds the fall of man—and that is . . . the height of the fall of God.

Just how low can He go? Lower than you, that’s for sure! From His royal throne He descended to dwell as a holy embryo in the womb of the Blessed Virgin Mary. He spent His Nativity far from home. He was basically delivered in a barn. He slept in a feeding trough for livestock. Infant holy, infant lowly. And about the only people who took note of His birth were a rather rough handful of men from the lowest rung of society’s ladder who smelled strangely of sheep.

Just how low can Jesus go? See Him stepping down into the deep waters of the Jordan River to undergo a sinners’ baptism—to stand shoulder-to-shoulder, in solidarity with sinners. See Him bending down low to bless the little children, to reach out and touch the sick and the unclean, and to wash the stinking feet of His disciples.

But Jesus would go lower still. See Him bear our basest deeds, our deepest secrets, our worst and lowest sins of thought and word and deed. He came to His own, and His own people did not receive Him. His crown of thorns, His throne a cross—His subjects saw fit to spit and mock. Nails, spear, shall pierce Him through, the cross be borne for me, for you. Glory to God in the lowest.

But His downward trajectory has achieved eternal victory for every sinner, and forgiveness for every sin. He goes down low to raise you up. He sank down into this sinful world to lift you into a new life of faith. Christ is born of Mary to bear our sins and be our Savior. And this deep dive is what secures peace on earth, goodwill to men—as that very first Christmas carol of the angels expresses it. But even as you lift up your hearts with thanks and praise for this gift, don’t forget just how low Jesus had to go to achieve it. Glory to God in the lowest!

But the Christ of Christmas still comes down among us. He still humbles Himself to serve you, and lowers Himself to love you. How low can He go? You won’t find Him in swaddling clothes, but you will find Him mangered in the lowly bread and wine of the Holy Supper. You will hear His voice in the lowly words of your preacher and in the simple sentences of Holy Scripture. And in your baptism you were lowered into the water where you were united with the Christ. And now, nothing can separate you from His love—a love that lasts forever—a love that lifts you up on wings like eagles. Glory to God in the lowest!

As you head off this morning to celebrate, surrounded by the glorious sounds of this season, remember: God’s lowest always brings out your best. Who can exalt himself in pride when our Savior goes so low? Who dares to claw and climb their way to the top of the heap when, at the bottom of the heap—at the lowest level—beneath us all—is the Son of God—who was crucified for our offenses and raised for our justification? Who can raise up a fist in anger when God’s love comes rushing down into our lives? Who can hurl up hurt and harm—who can launch lies and curses—who can fire off volleys of violence—when all that is good goes down—when all that is good descends from heaven to earth—to you, to me?

The Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we—we have seen His glory, not by looking up, but by looking down. Glory to God in the lowest.

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

[Based upon the poem, “Gloria in Profundis,” by G. K. Chesterton]

Home for Christmas

Jesu Juva
Luke 2:1-20
December 24, 2019
Christmas Eve

Dear Saints of Our Savior~

The Christmas Eve crowd here at Our Savior is always an unusual mix of people. Many of our regulars are not here tonight. People who practically own their pew through decades of regular use are nowhere to be found on this night. But thankfully, in their absence, many people who are not here regularly have taken their place—college students, extended family members, and even a few strangers who simply decided on the spur of the moment that this place was the right place to be on this holy night. Welcome, one and all.

Of course, the unusual composition of tonight’s crowd can be rather easily explained: It’s the powerful pull of home. The regulars who aren’t here have, by and large, gone home. They have Christmas reservations with grandma and grandpa, with mom and dad, with family and friends, somewhere away from here. And as for the irregulars here tonight, this service simply syncs up with the area home to which they have traveled. The powerful pull of home is actually hardwired into our hearts and minds. And we feel it quite powerfully on December 24th.

It is precisely the lack of a home that provides one of the biggest plot twists surrounding the birth of our Lord Jesus Christ. That decree from Caesar Augustus meant that the newlyweds from Nazareth had to trek nearly ninety miles, all the way into Judaea,

unto the city of David, which is called Bethlehem. They had to leave home behind at a rather precarious time, as Mary was great with child. And the most notorious no-vacancy sign in history drove them out of the inn, depriving them of even a temporary home, eventually depositing them in a stinky stable beneath shaky timber, where only creatures with four legs felt at home.

Now, much has been made about the apparent homelessness of the Holy Family on that holy night—and rightly so. But please ignore those who would hijack the nativity to fit some modern political template on immigration policy or a humanitarian response to the refugee crisis. Mary and Joseph were not undocumented aliens. Nor were they refugees in the modern sense. They were simply being good citizens—respecting authority—obeying Caesar’s summons.

Jesus Christ was born away from home because that’s where we are. We’re the homeless ones. We’re the refugees. And since our Savior had to be like us in every way, His birth away from home was perfect. The sad truth is that we’ve been exiles—all of us—ever since Eden’s paradise was lost. We’ve been homeless ever since our first parents decided to be god in the place of God—and so got themselves evicted from the most perfect home ever created. That sinful slide began a precipitous fall through the downward drift of time—a fall that will eventually deposit every son and daughter of Adam six feet under.

But wait! Home is where the heart is, we like to say. We like to say it because it affords some consolation in the face of our sinful situation. But, actually, home isn’t where the heart is, for our hearts were lost long ago, swallowed up by sin. Our sinful hearts can only conjure up sad substitutes for home. This sin is why our earthly homes aren’t always happy places. Home—with all of its joys and memories—can also be a crime scene for conflict, a haven for hateful words, a launching pad for prodigal sons and daughters to spit in the face of our elders, demand our share of the inheritance, and head for the horizon.

Our earthly homes are just temporary shadows of our real home. This is why we sometimes feel homesick at home. It’s why going home at Christmas sometimes triggers more pain than pleasure. It’s why we feel like strangers under the sun. Every night when we go to bed, we lay our heads down in a foreign land, an alien place, far, far from home. We are refugees from Eden, wandering nomads, always longing for home, but never quite there.

Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For the Savior born this night—He too was a stranger under the sun. This land is our land—not His. He left His home on high to dwell among us. He lived like one of us, so that He could sympathize with us in every way, yet without sin. He was homeless so that He might lead us home. From His birth in a stable He was whisked away to Egypt to seek asylum from Herod’s sword. Foxes have holes, Jesus once said, and birds of the air have nests, but the Son of Man has no place to lay His head. Jesus is the homeless God—who came to win a new and everlasting home for you.

He lived like one of us; He died like one of us. His cross was a crime scene caused by our sin. There He took the place of every prodigal son and daughter, rendering perfect obedience to His Father, and earning perfect obedience for all His wayward siblings—including you and me. Our homeless Savior traveled from heaven to hell and back again.

Risen, ascended and glorified, Jesus is now making all things ready for your final homecoming. Christmas is the first step on our long journey home again. The way to Paradise stands open. Jesus, our brother, has gone ahead of us. Home is on the horizon.

But we’re not there yet. And until we’re there, we’re here. This place is where the refugees gather. This church is an oasis where the weary come for rest. This is our Bethlehem, where we gather like confused shepherds, beneath a timbered roof, to be with our Savior, who is Christ the Lord. This is His house, and our home away from home. The cornerstone may say 1948, but this sacred space is as old as Eden; for here the homeless gather. Here every attendee is a refugee who finds asylum from sin and death in the Savior’s warm embrace. And all this a free gift, received through faith.

It’s true what they say: There’s no place like home. Christmas is a reminder that we’re on our way. Jesus once spoke about what He called His “Father’s house.” It’s a spacious place with many rooms. And unlike the inn at Bethlehem, there are plenty of vacancies—always room for more! That’s the home that’s hardwired into our hearts. The powerful pull of that home is what you feel tonight. A home on a hill, aglow with light and laughter and love. The smell of good food—a real feast. A Father’s warm welcome. The embrace of our Brother with the nail-scarred hands. The Spirit of peace and joy. Everyone there a regular. Not one soul a stranger. And the faces! So many old and familiar faces, saints you haven’t seen in God knows how long. They’ve gone home ahead of us. I’ll see you there. But for now, merry Christmas.

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

[Based on the poem, “The House of Christmas,” by G. K. Chesterton.]

Advent Greatness

Jesu Juva
St. Matthew 11:2-15
December 15, 2019
Advent 3A

Dear Saints of Our Savior~

He shall be great! What new parent hasn’t had that thought upon holding their firstborn child for the first time? He shall be great! She shall be great! In sports, in music, in wisdom—this kid has the potential to be a prodigy. The possibilities are limitless for the newborn child of proud first-time parents. It’s a time of big dreams and aspirations. But after those parents have been humbled—humbled by weeks of sleep deprivation, and a thousand dirty diapers—all those dreams of greatness don’t die, but they usually get tabled for a time.

He shall be great. Search the pages of your New Testament and you will find that only one person aside from Jesus is ever called “great.” The greatness of John the Baptizer was a done deal even before he was born. When the angel Gabriel informed old Zechariah that barren Elizabeth was going to have a son, Gabriel, that great angel warrior, was clear and direct: That son, Gabriel said, “He shall be great in the sight of the Lord.” Fast forward three decades and today we hear Jesus pick up where Gabriel left off: “I tell you the truth: Among those born of women there has not risen anyone greater than John the Baptist.”

But by the time Jesus called John “great” in today’s Holy Gospel, that opinion was starting to fizzle. The fiery-eyed wilderness preacher we heard from last Sunday had, since that time, dared to publicly criticize the immoral conduct of Herod, who had shacked-up with his brother’s wife. By the time Jesus called him great, John was languishing in prison, about to have his head severed and served up on a

silver platter.

You call that great? The world certainly wouldn’t. From the world’s perspective Herod was great. In fact Herod’s father had been known as “Herod the Great.” People feared him. He had whole towns wiped out. Caesar was great; he reigned over most of the inhabited world. But John, that sunburned man with uncut hair eating grasshoppers and digging for honey in hollow trees? Great? Get real! Novel, eccentric, interesting, a religious side-show perhaps, but not what most people would call great. What did he accomplish? Nevertheless, Jesus, the Son of God, called John great.

Some have questioned the greatness of John based on what we learn in today’s holy Gospel. From prison John had sent his disciples to ask a question of Jesus: “Are you the one who was to come? Are you the one we are waiting for, or should we expect someone else?” Some have seized on that question and concluded that John must have been wavering—that his faith was going wobbly now that he could only keep company with cockroaches in Herod’s dungeon. Was John himself having doubts about Jesus? That’s a distinct possibility; John was only human, after all.

The other possibility is that John was simply doing what John did best. He was pointing the way to Jesus. Sending his disciples to see the Savior seems about right for the one who pointed his prophetic finger and declared, “Behold, the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world.” Perhaps John sent his disciples to Jesus with that question so that they could hear Jesus’ answer with their own ears. John must decrease; Jesus must increase. Perhaps John wanted his disciples to be in the very same spot to which he points all of us—that is, with Jesus.

It is in this little episode that the greatness of John begins to reveal itself—in a new way. What is this Advent greatness of John? John was so captivated by the God He served—so consumed by the Word of God he had been called to preach—that he could live his days on earth in a kind of freedom—freedom that you and I can only imagine. John’s faith in the Christ gave him a glorious freedom—an absolute independence from the things that keep most of us chained up day in and day out.

John’s blessed independence was evident to all. He preached without regard for what people thought of him or how high up he was in the public opinion polls. As a preacher he didn’t worry about being relevant or clever like so many preachers worry about today. John’s message was “Repent and be saved, or else prepare yourself for hellfire,” which is a message that never goes out of style. John didn’t care about what he wore—camel’s hair and leather was good enough. He didn’t care about living in a pricey north shore neighborhood—the wilderness was good enough. He didn’t care about what was on his table or in his wine cellar—locusts and wild honey were sufficient for John’s daily bread.

What made John great was that freedom and independence from all the patterns and expectations that would draw us away from Jesus. John was a non-conformist in the very best sense. He was totally conformed to Christ—and nothing else mattered. His voice, his finger, his baptizing—it all served to point people to the coming Christ. John’s conformity to the Christ is what made him one of a kind—the greatest ever born.

You can’t hear of John’s greatness without realizing how much we lack it—how much we don’t have it. John’s zeal for the Lord brought him freedom and independence. But our lack of zeal makes us conformists of worst kind. We are far too eager to conform our lives—not to Christ—but to the secular sleaze of the world around us. It would be nice to be free and independent of all that. But we usually go along to get along. We go with the flow—even when the flow is away from the Lord. We don’t dare rock the boat with our Christian beliefs, our morals, our doctrines. No, we keep all that safely tucked away so that nobody can accuse us of being judgmental, or eccentric or some kind of religious fundamentalist.

Instead of conforming our lives to Christ, we conform to all the wrong things—to a culture driven by greed and lust. We seem to fit right in. We fear the condemnation of our friends more than we fear the condemnation of God. We trust our own opinions more than we trust the Word of God. We love the people and pleasures of this world more than we love God and His gifts to us. We prefer the security of mediocrity and a safe spot among the majority. It’s so nice to be normal. It’s nice to be accepted. It’s nice to belong. But if that’s all you’re aiming for in this life, you will never, ever be “great” in the way that John was great.

John the Baptizer ultimately paid the price for this kind of Advent greatness—the greatness of independence and freedom in Christ—the greatness of total conformity to the Christ. Ultimately, John the Baptizer was executed. But when you conform your life to Jesus of Nazareth, execution—or at least cross-bearing—is always to be expected.

We call John the “forerunner” of Jesus. He even ran ahead of Jesus into death by execution. John got it just right, for that’s why Jesus came—to die. If Jesus is going to sever us from our sins and cut off our conformity to the ways of this dying world, if He has truly come as the Lamb of God who takes away our sin, then, of course, He Himself would have to die—in your place, as your sacred substitute, bearing your sins.

If you want the boldness of John, if you desire the freedom and independence of John, if you want the Advent greatness of John in your life—you will find it in the cross of Jesus. Jesus is the greater one of whom John spoke—the One whose sandals John wasn’t worthy to stoop down and untie. John—John the Great!—he lived and died for Jesus. But Jesus lived and died for you. The commandments of God which we keep so casually and carelessly—Jesus kept them perfectly; and through faith in Him that perfect record of obedience now belongs to you. And death which seems so scary to so many in this world—well, Jesus has destroyed death by His own resurrection. Your death—and the deaths of all who die in Christ—it’s simply the final step until you are with Christ—until you are enjoying the greatness of resurrection life. That’s real freedom—looking forward to the resurrection of the body and the life of the world to come.

Jesus called John great, but He also said that even the least and the lowly in His kingdom are greater than John. Do you know what that means? I think it means that you—yes, you—are great. You are not perfect, but sinful. But in Jesus who lived and died and rose again for you—in Him you can confess your conformity to this world. In Jesus you are being transformed into the greatness of Jesus Himself. Oh, you might not feel great as you head off to your job, your school or into the darkness of December. But great you are. Great you are because you are baptized into Jesus’ death and life, joined to Him through faith, having His body and blood in your body, you are great in Jesus, riding the coattails of His death and resurrection to the life of the world to come.

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

Welcome to the Wilderness

Jesu Juva
St. Matthew 3:1-12
December 8, 2019
Advent 2A

Dear Saints of Our Savior~

6021 North Santa Monica Boulevard. That’s where we are. This has been our location since the late 1940s. Before that, there was a time when the saints of Our Savior worshipped right down the street at Richards School. And our original location was a building on Silver Spring Drive. You know what they say: Location, location, location, right?

On this Second Sunday of Advent John the Baptizer always comes calling. He’s quite a character: a little eccentric, somewhat uncivilized, kind of quirky. He’s unemployed. He’s unmarried. He’s unkempt, to put it kindly—long hair, weird diet, his only clothing made of camels’ hair. And, perhaps most troubling of all is his location: John lives in the wilderness. He’s off the grid somewhere in the Judean desert.

Turning his back on both city and village, John’s ministry takes place in the wilderness. The Judean backcountry is his bedroom—the desert his dining room. Scorpions keep him company. Although John was born from a priestly line, yet, his temple is under the sun, his altar is the Jordan River, and his vestments made of animal skin. Even though he’s the grand finale of the Old Testament prophets and—as Jesus said—the greatest man ever born of woman, John spits in the face of flattery, deeming himself unworthy to even carry the Messiah’s sandals with his sinful fingers.

My fellow city-slickers, welcome to the wilderness of Advent. John calls us to leave behind civilization with all its distractions and temptations. He wants us to hear the warning he heralds. He wants us to follow his bony finger that’s always busy pointing at the One who is to come. John is the Advent man, preparing you for the coming of the Christ. One writer suggested that a psychiatrist might diagnose John as a monomaniac—someone with an excessive interest or an irrational preoccupation with one subject (kind of like my labradoodle gets whenever I shake the bag of treats). But for John, it’s all about Jesus.

But why the wilderness? What’s so appealing about the desert? Why force folks to hike for miles through unforgiving territory, under a blazing sun, to hear what you have to say? Why not set up shop in a more civilized suburb, or at least set up a soap box on a street corner? What’s up with the wilderness? C’mon John! Where are we supposed to get our venti, coconut milk, extra hot, no-foam, chai lattes with vanilla syrup and cinnamon sprinkles?

But honestly, John had no choice in the matter. Seven centuries earlier the prophet Isaiah was already pointing ahead to John as, “the voice of one crying in the wilderness.” Of course, God’s people had been in the wilderness before. It had taken a full forty years of wilderness wandering for the Israelites to make it to the Promised Land. Now John was calling them back into that unforgiving location.

Civilization, it turns out, is overrated. Civilized sinners are too easily duped by demons into believing the most outlandish lies. This is why we need to get out—to make an Advent escape into the wilderness. Leave behind that place where you are so easily deceived into believing that your career is your life—that your family is your life—that your possessions are your life—that your grades define you—or that social media defines you. (No Wi-Fi in the wilderness.) Leave “civilization” behind, where urban planning has made pleasure into a god—and where death masquerades as life.

John’s Advent call into the wilderness isn’t just a call to get back to nature. He’s not calling us to go camping. That would be easy. It is, rather, a call to come and stand coram Deo. Coram Deo is one of those handy Latin phrases; and it means “in the presence of God.” Just you. You and God. Mano a Deo. To stand coram Deo requires you to empty your pockets, your purse, your hands. You have to let go of all the non-essentials and extras—especially your good works and even your church membership. Do not presume to say to yourselves, ‘We have Martin Luther as our father,’ for God is able from stones to raise up children for Martin Luther.

Standing in the wilderness, coram Deo, is both clarifying and terrifying. We quickly see how comfortable we’ve become with our love of money, how good we are at blaming and shaming other people, and how easy we are on ourselves. In the wilderness, coram Deo, you begin to see the real desert of your own heart, which is filled only with the monsters of your sin. In the wilderness there’s only dust and dirt. That dust and dirt points to your beginning . . . and to your end: Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Coram Deo, pride evaporates, hands are emptied, hearts are broken, and parched voices can only pray, “God, be merciful to me, a sinner.”

Welcome to the wilderness. It is, in fact, a very good place to be. It’s a great location. One universal truth about the wilderness is that life is found where there is water—only where there is water. Thankfully, the one who calls us here isn’t just called “John,” but “John the Baptizer.” He’s the water-guy. John drags you out of the civilization of sin, into the wilderness of repentance, to lead you ultimately to the river of life. And once he’s got you to the water, he’s done his job. For right there, standing in that eight-sided oasis is your Savior, Jesus Christ. John just points. And you know what he says: Behold the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world—who takes away your sin—who died to give you life.

That font, or one like it, is where you first stood coram Deo—where the sinful monster inside you was exorcised, and God the Holy Trinity named you and claimed you as His own dear child. Our Lord has located Himself right there, in that precious liquid of life. Jesus Christ suffered the unquenchable fire of His Father’s wrath on the cross, as your sacred substitute. But the blood He shed quenches the fiery wrath that you deserve, and brings instead absolution, compassion, and comfort for all who trust in Him.

Welcome to the wilderness. It probably didn’t even occur to you this morning as you schlepped to church that your destination was the desert. Here in this place you are called coram Deo. All you are required to pack along on this trip are your sins for confession and absolution. Your wilderness preacher might not have much leather on today, but I’m pointing you to the same salvation and the same Savior that John did. In this wilderness your provisions are few, but they are all you need: the Word of God, the liquid of life, and a meal of our Lord’s body and blood for the forgiveness of sins. You are never more Coram Deo than you are when you kneel at this Communion rail.

From here, it’s back to the “civilized” world out there. But we leave here different than we arrived. To stand coram Deo always changes us. Our broken hearts are now full—full of faith and hope and love. Our ears have heard the truth proclaimed and the devil’s lies exposed. Now we have clarity and comfort—and the confidence that we are in Christ’s keeping—that our location is with Him—now and forever.

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

Wake Up! It's Advent!

Jesu Juva
Romans 13:11-14
December 1, 2019
Advent 1A

Dear Saints of Our Savior~

It’s beginning to look a lot like Advent! The blue paraments and the big wreath hanging from the ceiling are dead giveaways. It’s also the Sunday when we come perilously close to running out of number threes on our hymn boards. Thanksgiving dinner is barely digested and it’s already Advent. How did that happen? Well, a late Thanksgiving conspired with a mid-week Christmas to give us an earlier-than-expected start to this holy season.

The traditional Gospel reading for this Sunday is our Lord’s triumphal entry into Jerusalem. You’ve heard it before: the donkey,

the palm branches, the shouts of “hosanna.” The King of kings is drawing near; The Savior of the world is here. That sets the table for this holy season. That’s the overarching theme of Advent.

But it’s today’s epistle from Romans 13 that drills down deep into the nitty-gritty of daily life. Today’s Gospel tells us what Advent is about. Today’s epistle tells us what it means for daily living. It’s an Advent wake-up call. The hour has come for you to wake up from sleep. Advent is the season to rise and shine. Live in the light of Christ and have nothing to do with the deeds of darkness.

December is an especially good time to hear these words about waking up and living in the light because there’s no darker month than December. It’s tough to wake up in December. It’s always dark and the house is cold. Even for early birds like me, it can be a challenge to separate yourself from that Serta perfect sleeper at this time of year.

But don’t worry if you like to sleep late; Paul’s words aren’t aimed at you sleepyheads. His concern is over a different kind of snoozing—that even while our bodies may be awake and functioning, yet our hearts are asleep to the things of God—or even worse, that we’ve sleep-walked our way into a dark and sinful place where our very salvation is in jeopardy.

We baptized Christians are designed for the daytime. We are people of the light. Paul expressed it this way: The night is far gone; the day is at hand. So then let us cast off the works of darkness and put on the armor of light. Night is gone; the day is at hand. This is the urgency of the Advent season. It’s not the urgency of getting your shopping done or getting your baking done or the urgency of a calendar so crammed with activities that you’re either depressed or stressed to the max. The urgency of Advent is living in the light of Christ.

Advent—at least here in the church, historically—is not supposed to be a happy season of celebration. It’s a penitential season—a sober season of repentance in preparation for Christmas (which IS joyful and celebratory). But the thrilling voice of Advent always sounds out a warning—a warning to put off the works of darkness—to cast off the bathrobe and other duds of the darkness—and put on what befits the day—what Paul calls the “armor of light.”

Another way of saying it would be to put off the Old Adam with all his lusts and wicked desires, his sexual immorality and drunkenness, his quarreling and jealousy. Those are the works of darkness and death. And sadly, there seems to be more of those kinds of things going on at this time of year. Many offices and businesses no longer host Christmas parties for their employees. Why? Because people get drunk, behave badly, sin boldly, and sometimes get hurt. Don’t you follow that crowd this Advent. Those deeds of darkness don’t fit you. You don’t look good wearing them. They are foreign to who you are as a baptized child of God. And they totally discredit your Christian witness to those around you.

What should you wear? Put on the armor of light. Adorn your life with good works that leave no doubt as to who you are—and whose you are. What clothing will show you at your best as the child of God you are? Nothing other than the perfect righteousness of Jesus Himself. For as many of you as were baptized into Christ have put on Christ (Gal. 3:27). To be baptized is to “wear Jesus” as a robe—to be covered with His righteousness, innocence, and blessedness.

When our first parents fell into sin they tried to cover up their naked rebellion by clothing themselves with fig leaves. Not only did that look kind of silly, but those hand-stitched fig leaves couldn’t cover up the real problem, which is sin. That’s our problem, too. And the wages of that problem—the final, unavoidable result—is death.

That’s why we can’t forget that, before the Lord kicked Adam and Eve out of the garden, the Lord Himself provided them with new clothing. Not with fig leaves, but with animal skins. Some sort of animal had to die for that clothing to be made. I like to think it was a lamb—the very first sacrificial lamb—the first blood ever shed—the first vicarious victim to die for the sin of the world. No big deal EXCEPT that this all points ahead to Jesus, THE Lamb of God. Only He—only by the blood He shed and by the death HE died—can sinners like us receive what we need through faith: the forgiveness of our sins; and a robe of His righteousness, the armor of light.

And so we know what time it is. The hour has come for us to wake up. No more punching the snooze button. You snooze; you lose. No more lounging around groggy and hungover and ashamed. In Jesus you are a new creation. In Jesus you have salvation. And that final salvation is nearer to you now than when you first believed.

The Last Day—the Day of Resurrection—will be here before you know it. It sometimes sounds terrifying, but by Jesus’ own promise, you can hope for it and long for it—just as we do whenever we pray, “Thy kingdom come.” On that day, what we believe by faith will finally be seen and visible. What we long for, we will finally have. What God has promised us in Christ, will be given to us in full—forgiveness and life and salvation.

How will the promise of that day affect your Monday, your Tuesday, your Wednesday and all the days to come? Well, we did just celebrate Thanksgiving, right? Would you thank the fireman who saved you from a burning building by running right back into the flames? Would you thank the lifeguard who pulled you from the waves by diving back into the rip current? Would you thank your Savior, who called you out of darkness and into His marvelous light by running back into the darkness? Of course not! You can’t do that, dressed up the way you are in the righteousness of Christ. Would I wear what I have on right now to mow my lawn on a hot July afternoon? Unthinkable! No way!

And so it is for you on this the first Sunday in Advent in the year of our Lord 2019. Wake up! Rise and shine! You have been clothed with Christ. You are wearing the armor of light. The King of kings is drawing near; the Savior of the world is here!

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