Follow Me

Jesu Juva
St. Matthew 4:12-25
January 26, 2020
Epiphany 3A

Dear Saints of Our Savior~

There’s a lot going on in today’s holy gospel—so much, in fact, that it’s easy to overlook the ominous note that sounds in the very first sentence: “Now when Jesus heard that John had been arrested, he withdrew into Galilee.” John the Baptizer had been arrested. The voice of one crying in the wilderness had now been sequestered in Herod’s dungeon. And it wouldn’t be long before John’s severed head would be served up on a platter—and that voice would be silenced.

You may recall that what got John into trouble—what led to his arrest—was that he publicly criticized the morals of King Herod. Herod had taken up with his brother’s estranged wife, and John called him on it. Everybody knew it was wrong. Everybody still knows that adultery is wrong. Even if you were never taught the sixth commandment, yet the moral law, written on every human heart, screams out with absolute clarity that marriage is holy—that what God joins together man must not separate. Everybody knew it was wrong, but it was John who had the courage and the conviction to speak the truth publicly about Herod’s sin. And for speaking this truth John died a martyr’s death.

The truth—God’s truth—is rarely tolerated in this world. In our nation today it’s the truth about abortion that is so intolerable. Thank God for the thousands who marched in Washington on Friday. Those people are the conscience of our country. Everybody knows that murder is wrong. Everybody knows that taking the life of a helpless human being flies in the face of all that is good and right. Even if you were never taught the Fifth Commandment, yet the moral law, written on every human heart, screams out with absolute clarity that killing the living but unborn is an outrageous act of evil. Everybody knows it’s wrong.

That’s why those who advocate this this evil must resort to lying. They cannot speak openly and accurately about abortion, so they speak in terms of a woman’s “right to choose” and in terms of “women’s reproductive health,” and in terms of “planned parenthood.” That all sounds well and good. But we know the truth.

We know not only the tragic truth about abortion, but we know God’s glorious truth that every human life is sacred—that God loves life—that God sent His Son into this world (first) as a fetus in the womb of a virgin—a holy embryo—and then to die a sacrificial death as the Lamb of God for every precious human life. That’s the truth we are called to speak. But learn from John not to expect applause and accolades, but rejection and a cross. Speak the truth and you may even lose your head. But that’s how it goes for God’s kingdom in this world: It suffers violence. It appears vulnerable and weak. It always comes with a cross.

In today’s gospel the Kingdom of God is on the move and on the march. There’s a subtle but distinct shift underway in Matthew chapter 4. Jesus’ earthly ministry is getting underway. The Kingdom of God is establishing a beachhead from which the Gospel will eventually make its way to the ends of the earth. Jesus begins preaching. Jesus begins teaching. Jesus begins healing those afflicted by disease and tormented by demons. Epileptics, diabetics, and paralytics—Jesus brought hope and healing to them all.

As all this is going on, Jesus relocates. He moves from Nazareth to Capernaum on the Sea of Galilee. It’s in what used to be known as the northern kingdom—a region despised by the southerners in Jerusalem and Judea. The populous of Galilee was half-Gentile and half-Jewish. It was a backwoods kind of a place—not the location you and I would have chosen to start a movement much less a religion. But then again, we’re not in charge. The Kingdom of Heaven is flipped upside down compared to the kingdoms of this world. The last are first. Those who walk in darkness get to see the dawning light first. And so, Galilee becomes ground zero; and Capernaum, a little fishing village, becomes Central Command.

But as all this is going on, Jesus does something that gives away the whole plan. The strategic priority that will carry Jesus all the way to Calvary’s cross is plainly and boldly revealed. Jesus lays all his cards on the table. His strategic priority—what He’s really

after—what He will stop at nothing to acquire—is followers. Jesus just wants followers—wants people to follow Him in faith. As His first order of business—at the top of His agenda—Jesus says, “Follow Me.”

Jesus calls four fishermen to discipleship with that simple invitation, follow me. Peter and Andrew, James and John. With a word Jesus calls them away from their nets and their boats. “Follow me and I will make you fishers of men.” They used to catch fish in their nets. Now they would be sent to catch people for the kingdom in the net of Jesus’ death and resurrection, by making disciples, baptizing and teaching in His name. These four were not only the first disciples of Jesus, but the first apostles of Jesus. Not everyone is called to leave behind their line of work to become a disciple. Most didn’t. But these four did. They began a new calling, a new vocation.

Thus began three years with Jesus, listening to His teaching, watching the wonders He did. These men would see Jesus through His crucifixion and resurrection. They would see His physical presence disappear into the cloud at the Ascension. And they would go forth until they themselves followed Jesus into paradise, being fishers of men, gathering men and women into the church to confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father.

But as you back things up to that day on the lakeshore when Peter, Andrew, James and John left their nets behind to follow Jesus—do you think they knew what they were getting into? Did they know then how God’s plan for the salvation of the world would unfold? Did they have any idea what the months and years ahead would bring? How could they? Of course, we know all the twists and turns. We know how the story turns out. But don’t forget that these four men at that moment on the lakeshore—they had no idea what was coming. All they had was faith to trust Jesus—faith to follow where He led. And that is everything.

It’s not so different for you and me. For we too have heard and responded to that gracious invitation from Jesus, “Follow me.” We hear it echoing in every sermon, “Follow me.” We have felt it in the cleansing splash of our baptism, “Follow me.” We taste it each time we receive the bread that is His body and wine that is His blood, “Follow me.” What Jesus wants more than anything are people to follow Him in faith. What Jesus wants more than anything is you.

But do you know what you’re in for? Do you know just how God’s plan for your life is going to unfold? Do you know with any degree of accuracy what the months and years ahead will bring for you? How could you? Twists and turns, tears and triumphs, valleys and mountain peaks, drudgery and surprise, sin and grace. And through it all, the invitation echoes down to the depths of your soul: “Follow Me.” You have no idea what is coming. All you have is faith to trust Jesus—faith to follow where He leads. And that is everything.

You may wonder, sometimes, if you are of any use to God and His kingdom. (Or worse, there may be times when you don’t care—times when you don’t give a thought to God’s kingdom and your place in it.) You may think that you don’t have the skills, the aptitude, the personality. You may think that you don’t have the guts to speak the truth about abortion, about adultery, about life and death. When you begin to wonder such things, remember Peter and Andrew, James and John. They were fishermen. Theirs was a low-tech operation in a low-tech world. But God used them to change the world. God used them—used their preaching and their witness and their teaching—to make sure that you—and other fish like you—would be caught up in the net of God’s grace and mercy.

That’s right, think of yourselves not as fishers of men. Think of yourself as a fish. And don’t pretend for a minute that you’re some kind of a good, religious fish—that you’re so smart that you jumped right into Jesus’ net of grace. Doesn’t work that way! I’m no expert, but even in my limited fishing experience, I have never, ever, encountered a fish that wanted to be caught. No, against your natural will and instincts, you’ve been caught. And you’ve been cleaned—made holy through faith in Jesus—to go out and do holy things—not knowing where you go or what tomorrow may bring—but only that you are following Jesus, and that you will go where He has gone, that you will live and reign with Him forever.

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

Look and Listen to the Lamb

Jesu Juva
John 1:29ff
January 19, 2020
Epiphany 2A

Dear Saints of Our Savior~

The musical score on the front of the bulletin is from the hand of Johann Sebastian Bach—the great Lutheran kantor. The prelude

pictured there is based on the hymn we know as Lamb of God, Pure and Holy. (We will sing it as the first distribution hymn today.)

Bach’s prelude preaches a powerful, musical sermon; although it’s unlikely many of you have heard it before. It doesn’t have any of the flash and flair of Bach’s better-known organ works. Instead, this piece intimately reflects its subject: the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world. The hymn declares that this Lamb was slaughtered on the tree of the cross—even though this Lamb is innocent, patient, and uncomplaining.

Bach’s musical sermon has four voices: soprano, alto, tenor, and bass. The soprano and tenor lines work together to form the main motif, or theme. This motif is the main thing your ears would hear—slurred seconds which suggest sadness, mourning, and lamentation. But buried beneath all that, the melody of the hymn begins in the second measure, played by the pedal, or bass, line. But that melody is so quietly buried beneath the motif that you can barely follow it with your ear. And then, two beats later, the melody of the hymn begins to be played again—this time in the alto line, only one fifth higher than it’s being played in the bass.

It’s complicated and complex. I could play it for you; but you wouldn’t be able to hear that hymn melody being played in canon. It gets swallowed up by the mournful motif. Bach’s detractors were quick to criticize compositions like this. They called it augenmusik, or eye music because, they said, it appealed more to the eye than to the ear. Even as an organist, even with my eyes on the music and my fingers on the keys and my feet on the pedals, I can’t hear the hymn melody when it comes in with the alto voice, two beats behind the melody in the bass. When I complained to my organ teacher about my inability to hear the very melody my fingers were playing, he replied, “Yes, but God hears it.”

Somehow I suspect that answer would have pleased Bach very much. Bach’s prelude hides, disguises and downplays the hymn melody—even as that melody is plainly played by two different voices, separated by two beats and an interval of one fifth. It almost defies the laws of sound and hearing.

But remember that this hymn and Bach’s hymn prelude are all about the Lamb of God, Jesus Christ. And God’s Lamb did His sin-bearing work with no flash and no flair. From most people, His true identity as God’s Lamb was hidden and disguised. Plenty of people saw Him. Plenty of people heard Him. Plenty of people touched Him. And plenty of those same people concluded that this Jesus was nothing special. They downplayed His significance, doubted His promises, and decided to turn their backs on Him. He had no halo above His head. No angels accompanied Him. No trumpets announced Him. He was just an ordinary thirty-something from up north in Nazareth—the Fond du Lac of Israel, from where nothing good or spectacular ever came.

Behold the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world. He needs to be pointed out to us. He needs to be singled out to us. Otherwise, you and I would miss Him entirely—like the hymn melody in Bach’s prelude. It’s why the angel had to tell the shepherds that the baby in the manger was “a Savior who is Christ, the Lord.” It’s why at His baptism His Father had to declare from heaven, “This is my beloved Son.” It’s why the Spirit had to descend from heaven like a dove and land on Him. It’s why John had to point his wet, prophetic finger at Jesus and confess what we would never have guessed on our own: Behold, the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world.

This is also why God has called me to be your pastor—that in the midst of this world’s loud celebrations and lamentations—that you might never lose track of God’s Lamb—that you might hear His voice clearly, and trust Him, and learn to love this Lamb.

Today we think of lambs as cute little wooly white animals bounding around the barnyard or the petting zoo. But in the Bible, “lamb” meant but one thing: sacrifice. That’s what lambs were good for. Their throats were slit. Their blood was poured out on the altar. Their bodies were roasted and consumed. Remember when Abraham was taking his little boy, Isaac, to sacrifice him at God’s command? Remember little Isaac’s question as they walked along: Where’s the lamb? Where’s the lamb for the sacrifice? And remember Abraham’s response: The Lord Himself will provide the lamb. Jesus is the Lamb of the Lord’s providing. He is the Passover Lamb whose blood now marks our door.

The idea of blood sacrifice sounds a little “over the top” to modern ears. The notion that an animal had to be bled to death for a person to be right with God sounds downright offensive to many people. You certainly cannot say that no animals were harmed in the making of the Old Testament. But the real objection to blood sacrifice is that it shows our sin—just how deeply flawed we are—how by nature we are so bad that only the shedding of blood can make things right between us and God. The practice doesn’t continue today only because of Jesus, the Lamb of God, whose blood cleanses us from all sin.

Notice that this Lamb dies for the sin of the world. It’s “sin” in the singular; not plural. In the church we tend to focus a lot on our sins—all the thoughts, words and deeds of ours that are contrary to the Law of God. We Christians often focus on symptom management—trying to overcome specific besetting sins that really trouble us. But the bigger problem is the underlying condition—the original sin in which our mothers conceived us.

Behold the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world. Not sins. Sin. Jesus deals with the underlying condition. He goes for the source of the problem. Jesus doesn’t simply take up our sins; He Himself becomes the Sinner. Jesus becomes sin for us. This innocent, spotless, sinless Lamb of God takes up our sin. And He bears it all away.

Behold, the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world. Not only our sin, but the sin of the world. Not potentially, not theoretically, but actually. Not just for some, but for all. Christ didn’t come as God’s Lamb only to save the religious few, but to save the world. He is God’s Lamb for the whole world. Every person you meet has been died for by Jesus. There’s no room for talk of how Christ died for you if you do this or that. No, Christ died for you. Period. It is finished. Believe it. Receive it.

God’s Lamb is for the world. God wants the world to know about His Lamb—to trust in Him. For in this Lamb exclusively is forgiveness and resurrection life. You have all that in Jesus. And what Jesus does for you, He wants to do for all. We are called to be like John the Baptizer, pointing and proclaiming to the world that Jesus is the Lamb of God. We are called to be like Bach, using our talents, within our vocations, to sound out the hope that we have. That’s our purpose here at Our Savior—to tell the good news about Jesus just like Andrew did for Simon, like John did for his disciples. The world needs to hear it—is literally dying to hear it. The world needs to know that there’s no person so bad that the Lamb of God did not die for them. And there’s no one so good that they can do without the Lamb of God. Who do you know who needs to hear that? Who has God placed in your path so that you can invite them here—so that they can look and listen to the Lamb—and live?

You can get no closer to the Lamb of God than when you come to this altar for the Lord’s Supper. The liturgy teaches us to recognize the body and the blood of the Lamb. For centuries, Christians have sung to the Lamb of God (the Agnus Dei) right before the distribution. Why then and there? Because the Lamb of God is here in bread and wine to take away your sin—to have mercy on you—to grant you peace. The altar recalls Christ’s sacrifice—when He gave His life for yours—when He took your sin and made it His. The body of the Lamb and the blood of the Lamb are here for you.

Behold the Lamb of God who takes away your sin. And if He takes it away, it’s no longer yours, but His. In the Lamb, your sin is no longer your sin. Jesus has owned up to all of it. He has taken that sin away. You won’t hear that good news anywhere else. Here you hear in clearest strains what is hidden to the rest of the world. This is where you look and listen to God’s Lamb. His bearing of your sins is a mystery—submerged in the water of your baptism, hidden in the bread and wine, deposited into your ears and heart by the preaching of your pastor. Listen and look. Taste and see. Behold the Lamb of God.

You belong to Him. No matter how faint your voice may be—no matter how drowned out you feel by the loud dissonance of this dying world—God hears it. Whether the cry of your heart is one of sadness or joy, hope or fear, delight or despair—God hears it. Your prayers and pleadings, your tears and your trials—God hears them all, clearly and distinctly. A bruised reed He will not break. A smoldering wick He will not snuff out. Just look. Just listen to God’s Lamb.

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