Like Newborn Babies

Jesu Juva

St. John 20:19-31                                                              

April 24, 2022

Easter 2B                                           

 Dear saints of our Savior~

          It’s a well-established fact that babies like to cry in church.  Or maybe it’s just that crying babies are more noticeable here.  But honestly, I wish I could conjure up a crying baby right now; because crying babies and screaming infants are at the heart and center of this Sunday after Easter.  A bawling baby would be the perfect object lesson for today.

          The traditional name for this Sunday after Easter is Quasi Modo Geniti, which in Latin means, “like newborn infants.”  It comes from today’s Introit, from 1 Peter 2:  “Like newborn infants, long for the pure spiritual milk [of the Word], that by it you may grow up to salvation.”  Quasi modo geniti—in the same way that newborn infants scream their little lungs out for their mother’s milk, so should we long for the sweet gospel of the forgiveness of our sins in Jesus Christ.  Just like little babies demanding to be fed—no matter what time of day or night it may be—that’s the way we all should crave and cry out for hearing the Word of the Lord, for receiving His absolution and His holy supper.  In other words, be a baby.  Show off your inner infant.  Demand what your pastor has been called to give you.  And don’t stop demanding it until you receive it.

          Of course, most of us know the term “Quasimodo” because that’s the name of the fictional hunchback of Notre Dame.  In the novel by Victor Hugo, a crying baby is discovered on the steps of the city’s cathedral on the Sunday after Easter.  But the infant is incredibly deformed, with a twisted face and a hunched back.  Not even his mother could love this grotesque child.  And so he is taken in by the church, baptized and named for the day on which he was found.  Quasimodo was raised within the confines of the cathedral to become its bell ringer—the hunchback of Notre Dame.  Only within the church could such a disfigured man find sanctuary and refuge.

          In today’s holy gospel, on the evening of that very first Easter, there were some other Quasimodos—real ones, not fictional—all desperately seeing sanctuary and refuge.  The tiny remnant of Jesus’ disciples huddled together behind locked doors as if they were abandoned babies.  Their spiritual condition was just like Quasimodo the hunchback.  Their performance as disciples had been grotesque.  In a twisted desire to save themselves, they abandoned their Lord when He was arrested—even after they had promised to die with Jesus if necessary.  They were acutely aware of their failures and deeply ashamed of their sin-deformed souls.  Like Quasimodo, they didn’t want to show their faces for shame.

          But into this room of distorted, disordered sinners, the Lord of Life appears.  The Lord Jesus comes to His disciples.  Does He chastise them for their failings and their fears?  Does He scold them for being fair-weather followers?  No!  But neither does Jesus ignore their sin.  Jesus absolves them.  He forgives them.  He pardons their transgression and remembers it no more:  Peace be with you, He says two times.  Peace, shalom, the peace that passes understanding which includes forgiveness, life and salvation.

          Jesus proclaimed peace; and then He showed them exactly what made
peace with God possible.  Jesus showed them His hands and His side—the very wounds by which healing comes—the wounds that satisfy the penalty for all the sins of all people.  His scars identify Him.  The risen Christ was also the Christ who was crucified.  This is no imposter—no ghost—no vision.  His Words and His wounds turn the disciples’ sorrow and shame to joy and peace.

          Every Sunday we gather here like the disciples did—a bunch of Quasimodos—hunched over and hideous in our sin.  Instead of standing up tall in faith toward God and in fervent love toward one another, our sin twists and curves us back in on ourselves.  It fills our hearts and minds with twisted, distorted priorities.  It is a grotesque love for ourselves that governs our thoughts and actions.  We are distorted, deformed, and disordered, which leads us to love the darkness and turn our backs on the light and love of Jesus.

          But Jesus came to seek and save the likes of us.  He doesn’t recoil over our horrid, grotesque condition, but—just like with Quasimodo—He receives us into His church and baptizes us.  He comes to us in love to bring us peace.  He deals with our sin head on by absolving us.  His Word of peace separates us from our sin and connects us to His perfect righteousness.  Just as He showed His hands and side to His disciples, so He gives us His body and blood to eat and drink for pardon and peace.

          But please note that Jesus didn’t just forgive these men and send them on their way.  He breathed on them and said Receive the Holy Spirit.  If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven; if you withhold forgiveness from any, it is withheld.  Amazingly, Jesus not only forgave His “hunchback” disciples; He ordained them:  As the Father has sent me, so I am sending you.  He made them instruments of His forgiveness to others.  He sent these poor absolved sinners out to absolve other poor sinners—in the stead and by the command of their Lord Jesus Christ. 

          We call this authority “The Office of the Keys,” and Jesus still uses it to deal with us today.  Even though pastors are a bunch of spiritual Quasimodos like everyone else, yet Jesus uses them to speak His absolution to others.  Forgiveness is God’s work to be sure; but God accomplishes that forgiveness through a Word placed in the mouth of a man.  Or if it helps you remember, think of God as a ventriloquist and the pastor as His dummy.  The words belong to Christ; the man who speaks them is just a mouthpiece of the Lord.

          Now, one more thing.  We can’t forget about Thomas—Thomas who wasn’t there when Jesus came—Thomas who missed out on the paschal pardon and peace of the risen Christ.  That’s what happens when you aren’t here in worship on any given Sunday.  You miss out on Jesus!  You miss out on the gifts He gives!  When the other disciples reported to Thomas that they had seen the Lord, Thomas didn’t believe it.  Unless I see in his hands the mark of the nails, and place my finger into the mark of the nails, and place my hand into his side, I will never believe.

          Eight days later the Risen Christ reappeared for the sake of His doubting, faithless disciple.  Jesus is the Savior of skeptics.  His Words and His wounds

have the power to convert the most dyed-in-the-wool doubters.  The words and wounds of Jesus lead Thomas to confess His newly created faith in the Christ:  My Lord and my God!  Skeptics, unbelievers, and doubters beware . . . the Risen Christ is coming for you next!

          The resurrection appearances of Jesus continue here among us on this Sunday, much as they did on that Sunday.  When Jesus came to His fearful disciples, He said, “Peace be with you.”  And from this altar, in just a few minutes, the minister whom God has sent to you will say, “The peace of the Lord be with you always.”  To Thomas, Jesus said, “Put your finger here, and see my hands.”  To you Jesus will say, “Take; eat.  This is my body which is given for you.”  To Thomas Jesus said, “Put out your hand, and place it into my side.”  To you this day Jesus will say, “Drink of it, all of you.  This cup is the new testament in my blood, which is shed for you for the forgiveness of sins.”  In this Holy Communion Jesus says, “Be not faithless, but believing.”

          And as you taste, touch and see that the Lord is good—as you receive the good gifts of Jesus—you are Quasimodos no more.  The sin that deforms and destroys you has been forgiven.  You are no longer hunchbacks, hidden and isolated.  You are healed, restored, and forgiven.  You are equipped to face the challenges that lie ahead.  You are blessed; for that’s what Jesus declares:  Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed.  Blessed are you. 

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

 

I Have Seen the Lord!

Jesu Juva

St. John 20:1-18                                                                    

April 17, 2022

The Resurrection of Our Lord              

Dear saints of our Savior~

Alleluia!  Christ is risen! . . . He is risen indeed!  Alleluia!

          I have seen the Lord!  With those words from the mouth of Mary Magdalene, Easter was unleashed.  Those words changed everything!  Without those words—without that proclamation—without the telling of that good news—the resurrection of Jesus would have been but a private affair involving only a select few followers.  But with those words, I have seen the Lord! Easter was unleashed to the ends of the earth.

          I have seen the Lord!  Those words started it all.  Every Easter sermon you’ve ever heard.  Every time you’ve stood at the graveside with the resurrection of Jesus as the beating heart of all your hope and joy.  You can trace that sweet comfort all the way back to Mary Magdalene.  She was the first.  Before Peter, James, or John would preach that Christ is risen—and long before Paul would preach that death has been swallowed up in victory—a woman named Mary declared:  I have seen the Lord!

          Mary Magdalene was no pastor—no preacher.  Mary was no apostle.  But as one church father said of her:  Mary was “the apostle to the apostles.”  She was the one who first brought the joyful news of Jesus’ resurrection to the men who would carry that good news to the ends of the earth.  Luther wrote:  This is something to ponder, that the Lord first appeared to Mary Magdalene, and it is something to consider that He first appeared to a woman.  It is a great comfort that women are the type of those who hear the gospel.  In these women there is a great unconquerable strength from the Word that stands firm against all the assaults of Satan. 

          Luther saw in Mary Magdalene a “great, unconquerable strength;” but that strength wasn’t so apparent in the predawn hours of that first Easter Sunday.  St. John gives us unique details about that morning—details that don’t emerge from the pen of Matthew, Mark, or Luke.  Mary was a devoted follower of Jesus.  Mary was a devoted supporter of Jesus, helping cover expenses for Jesus and the Twelve from her own means.  Mary Magdalene knew the wonder-working power of Jesus first hand.  For from Mary Jesus had once cast out seven demons.

          I’d like to think that Mary was an early-riser like me—that she was habitually up before the dawn’s early light.  But perhaps it’s more likely that she was up early because she couldn’t sleep—because sleep eluded her—because her heart had been shattered with pain and grief.  You see, Mary had been there on Good Friday.  When most of the other followers of Jesus had fled for safety, Mary Magdalene was there at the cross.  Nails, thorns, and spear could not deter her devotion to Jesus.  Mary made her way to the tomb early that morning because—in her grief—what else could she do?

          We’ve walked that same road of sleepless nights of sorrow.  We, too, have traveled to the graveside.  We’ve walked through the cemetery where every monument and marker stands as a tribute to the terrible truth that the wages of sin is death.  The soul that sins shall die.  But death comes not by God’s design.  Death was not a part of our Creator’s plan for His creation.  Death is an unwanted intruder.  Death is unnatural.  Death is the enemy—the last enemy to be destroyed.

          But Mary’s trip to the tomb was unlike any other.  Imagine her shock at seeing the stone rolled away from the entrance to the tomb.  She immediately goes to get Peter and John, who come running.  John, the younger, runs faster, but only peeks into the tomb.  Peter, the older, runs slower, but boldly barges right into the tomb to discover that the body of Jesus is gone.  And then Peter and John depart the tomb almost as quickly as they arrived—almost like they were fleeing the scene of a crime.  (Perhaps that’s what they thought!)  And Easter could have ended there, with just an empty tomb.  But an empty tomb proves nothing.  It’s cold comfort.  An empty tomb could be bad news, just as easily as good news.

          But Mary—quite contrary—stays at the tomb.  When the others leave, Mary stays.  Mary persists at the scene.  She had to know.  Locating her Lord—dead or alive—was all that mattered to Mary at that point.  When two angels ask her why she’s weeping, she answers:  They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him.  And even when a man whom she supposes to be the gardener asks her the reason for her tears, she again inquires about the location of her Lord.  Where is He?  She had to know. 

          And then comes one of the most touching scenes in the entire New Testament.  The Great Good Shepherd—the One who calls His sheep by name—He simply says:  Mary.  And in hearing those syllables from the Lord’s lips, Mary knows.  Christ is risen!  It’s a reminder that the Risen Christ knows you by name, as well.  It’s a reminder that this Jesus, who has destroyed death, will call you (by name) from your grave on the day of resurrection.

          In Albrecht Dürer’s depiction of this scene on the cover of today’s bulletin, it’s interesting that Jesus actually looks like the gardener.  He’s carrying a shovel

for crying out loud!  He’s wearing a wide-brimmed hat to keep himself cool from the warm rays of the rising sun.  But if you look closely at what Dürer gives us, there’s no doubt that this is the Lord.  Look at His hand.  Look at His foot.  Those nail holes are the identifying marks of Jesus Himself.  By those wounds we are healed.  In those wound is our forgiveness.  The risen Christ is the same Christ who was crucified, died, and was buried.  The Jesus who was crucified for our sins is the same Jesus who rose from the dead to open the kingdom of heaven for all believers.

          And Mary is the first one to witness this—the first one to see and embrace the risen Lord.  To Mary is given the high and holy privilege of taking this great good news to the other fearful followers of Jesus.  With joy, she can’t help but confess:   I have seen the Lord. 

          God’s ways are higher than our ways; His thoughts are higher than ours.  God’s priorities are not our priorities either.  Let’s face it, if you or I had written or directed the events of that first Easter morning, Mary certainly wouldn’t have been the one we would have cast as the first to encounter the risen Christ.  Mary hadn’t made any headlines up to this point.  We would have expected one of the Apostles or, if it had to be a woman, then Mary the mother of Jesus.  (That would have been something!)  But this is grace:  Jesus reaches down low to the one who appears to be the least of His followers and makes her the greatest—lifts her from obscurity to center stage—makes her the apostle to the apostles—honors her as the very first eyewitness of the very best news to ever be proclaimed by human lips:  I have seen the Lord!

          Mary Magdalene wasn’t a pastor.  She wasn’t ordained.  She wasn’t even a widely recognized leader among the disciples.  She likely was not the best educated or the most articulate follower of Jesus.  But because she had seen the risen Lord, nothing could stop her.  Nothing could deter the joy she had in telling the good news that Jesus Christ is risen from the dead.

          You too have encountered the risen Lord.  This is the place where Jesus Christ comes to meet you.  It’s why we gather here early in the morning, on every first day of the week.  Here we celebrate a “little Easter” every Sunday.  Here the risen Christ speaks to you as His promises are preached and proclaimed.  Here the risen Christ appears to you in the bread that is His body and in the wine that is His blood—bringing you the forgiveness of sins. 

          In the two thousand years since that first Easter morning, the Easter gospel has gone from Mary’s lips to the ears and hearts of people around the world.  And yet, there are people who live on this very block for whom Easter is little more than an excuse to overindulge in chocolate bunnies and jelly beans. And down through the centuries there’s been one technique that has worked better than all the rest for bringing outsiders inside the church.  It’s not flashy signs or wonderful websites.  No, what brings the outsiders in is when ordinary followers of Jesus—as ordinary as Mary of Magdala—invite them to come along. 

          Who, me?  You might not feel qualified.  You might not feel equipped to invite someone along to our weekly Easter observances.  I’m sure Mary didn’t feel qualified.  But God never calls the qualified.  He calls us—calls us by name in the water of Holy Baptism.  And then He sends us out to do the work of our callings and vocations.  And we do it all in light of the resurrection.  We know how this story ends.  We know that because Christ lives, we shall live also.  We know that our labor in the Lord is not in vain.  Thanks be to God who gives us the victory!  Alleluia, Christ is risen . . . He is risen indeed, alleluia!

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

 

A Rich Burial

Jesu Juva

Is. 53:9/Lk. 23:50-53                                                            

April 15, 2022

Good Friday                                                                    

From the Prophet Isaiah:  And they made his grave with the wicked and with a rich man in his death . . . (53:9)

And from the Passion according to St. Luke:  Now there was a man named Joseph, from the Jewish town of Arimathea.  He was a member of the council, a good and righteous man, who had not consented to their decision and action; and he was looking for the kingdom of God.  This man went to Pilate and asked for the body of Jesus.  Then he took it down and wrapped it in a linen shroud and laid him in a tomb cut in stone, where no one had ever yet been laid. (23:50-53)

 Dear saints of our Savior,

          Where will you be buried?  Some of you know exactly where.  The plot has been purchased; the plans have been made.  Your burial is a done deal.  Others of you are probably like me.  You have no idea where you will be buried; and you’re okay with delaying that decision for at least a little while longer.

          Down through history, important people have always received a rich burial.  The Pharaohs of ancient Egypt built the pyramids for their tombs.  Many of you have probably visited the impressive tomb of Abraham Lincoln in Springfield, IL.  Others of you have seen the simple yet stately grave of John F. Kennedy at Arlington National Cemetery.

          Of all the details surrounding the death of Jesus, one that often gets overlooked is the burial of our Lord.  The fact that the corpse of the Christ was buried is an important fact—so important that we confess in the Creed, that Jesus “was crucified, died, and was buried.”  Like so much else that happened on Good Friday, the burial of our Lord’s body was not a haphazard, last-minute arrangement.  It was foretold.  It was prophesied.  Seven centuries earlier the Prophet Isaiah declared concerning the Christ:  They made his grave with the wicked and with a rich man in his death.

          But those words raise questions:  Was His grave with the wicked, or was it with a rich man in his death?  The answer is “yes.”  Both are fulfilled in Jesus.  In life and death, Jesus was surrounded by wicked men.  In fact, beginning with His baptism in the Jordan, Jesus made a point of standing shoulder-to-shoulder—in solidarity—with sinners of every stripe.  And on Good Friday especially, Jesus was numbered with the transgressors.  He was one of us—pierced for our transgressions, crushed for our iniquities.  By His wounds we are healed.

          In Israel it was an honor to be buried next to your relatives.  A man buried in the family plot was said to be sleeping with his fathers.  It was a dishonor to be consigned namelessly to a public cemetery.  To be denied any burial at all was considered an abomination in God’s eyes.  According to the Bible, even the worst criminals were to be buried.  But the Romans, who lacked God’s Word, often left their crucified victims hanging on the cross indefinitely—to be ravaged by the elements and attacked by birds of prey.  Their putrid corpses were a gruesome reminder of just what would happen to you if you followed in their wicked ways.

          In thinking about a dishonorable burial, the final scene of the movie Amadeus comes to mind.  Amadeus was the award-winning movie about the life and death of the famous composer, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.  Mozart was an incredibly gifted musician and composer—a prodigy, a musical genius.  Yet as the movie makes clear, the man was also an absolute scoundrel—immature, immoral, thirsty for his own pleasure and popularity, petty and vindictive.  At the end of the movie, Mozart’s corpse is unceremoniously dumped into a paupers’ grave with other corpses, as a driving rain falls from the sky.

          Where will you be buried?  Good Friday is a good day to consider the kind of burial we deserve—we who are ever aware of our own wickedness and sin.  Good Friday is a good day to recall that we are all by nature absolute scoundrels—immature, immoral, thirsty for our own pleasure and popularity, petty and vindictive.  Good Friday is a good day to remember how we have wasted so many of the talents and gifts God has given to us.  All the monuments and memorial stones that we dream of erecting for ourselves—all the flowers, the eulogies, the carefully-constructed caskets, the long obituaries touting all our achievements and success—it all amounts to nothing apart from faith in the man on the center cross.  He came down from heaven for us men and for our salvation.  He is the one—the only One—who was crucified, died, and was buried as our sin-bearing substitute.

          Too often this is where our Good Friday observances come to a screeching halt.  And to be sure, our Lord’s final cry from the cross, It is finished, calls for a full stop.  For with those words our salvation was accomplished.  With that last breath our sin was atoned for.  Our wickedness can condemn us no longer.  Our sin no longer has the last word—Jesus does!  And Jesus says, “It is finished.”  Jesus, the Lamb of God, has taken away the sin of the world.

          If we were telling the story of Good Friday, we would probably end it right there:  It is finished.  Full stop.  And fast forward to Sunday morning.  But we believe that Jesus was crucified, died, and was buried. And there’s good news in that burial.

          God’s plan (foretold by Isaiah) was that Jesus would be buried “with a rich man in his death.”  Joseph of Arimathea was that rich man—a prominent Jewish man who had been a behind-the-scenes follower of Jesus.  All four of the gospel writers go out of their way to tell us about Joseph of Arimathea and the beautiful thing he did for his Savior.

          Every burial carries with it a sense of finality—even futility.  We’ve all been there—to the cemetery, to the graveside.  It is a reminder that earthly life has ended—that the wages of sin is death—that the last enemy to be destroyed is death.  And there we await the resurrection.  But the death of Jesus changes everything.  Even as Jesus cried out, “It is finished,” something new was beginning.  Something was starting.  Something wonderful and beautiful was getting underway.  The death of Jesus changed everything; and we see that change first of all in that gentle soul named Joseph—Joseph of Arimathea. 

          Before the death of Jesus, Joseph had kept quiet about his faith.  Joseph had stayed on the sidelines.  Did he fear for his reputation?  Did he fear for his safety?  Did he fear losing his status and respect as a member of the Jewish council?  Did he fear what others would think?  We don’t know.  But what we do know is this:  The death of Jesus changed everything. 

          The death of Jesus changed Joseph!  Quiet, careful, cautious Joseph suddenly took a bold and courageous step.  He boldly went before Pontius Pilate himself to

request the body of Jesus.  Joseph risked everything—including his very life—so that he could undertake something kind and wonderful for his Savior.  Joseph would oversee the entombment of God’s own Son.  Joseph would now be the boss of the burial.  Joseph went from fearful to faithful, from silence to action, from doing nothing to boldly doing what was good, right, and salutary.  Out of love—out of love for Jesus who had taken his place on the cross, Joseph wanted Jesus to take his place in his costly new tomb.  Into this virgin tomb was laid the Virgin’s Son.  It was a rich burial—a beautiful burial of honor and dignity.  It was an act of kindness for the Christ.  On a day when the worst wickedness of the world was hurled at Jesus—on that day when the full fury of hell was unleashed upon Jesus—on that day when He was tortured to death for our sins—Joseph did something beautiful for Jesus.  Because the death of Jesus changes everything.

          It changes everything for you.  You are forgiven and freed to love as you are loved.  You cannot leave here tonight unchanged—unmoved.  You can step from fear to faith.  You can move from silence to action.  You can do what is good and right without the slightest care or concern about what others may think.  You can give of yourself freely and fully to others—because Jesus Christ gave Himself fully and freely for you. 

          Two hundred ninety-five years ago tonight the first ever performance of Johann Sebastian Bach’s St. Matthew Passion was nearing its conclusion.  At the St. Thomas Church in Leipzig, for more than two hours, the faithful had listened to the Passion of our Lord told in some of the most beautiful music ever composed.  And near the end, just at that point when Joseph takes possession of the body of Jesus, comes a beautiful aria—a prayer really.  It was a prayer that Joseph could have prayed.  And Bach clearly intended it as a prayer for all those gathered together on that Good Friday.  In English it’s quite simple:  Make yourself pure, my heart, I want to bury Jesus myself.  For from now on he shall have in me, forever and ever, his sweet rest.  World, get out, let Jesus in!  “Let Jesus in.”  The death of Jesus changed everything.  It changed everything in heaven and on earth and under the earth.  It changed everything in the heart of Joseph of Arimathea.  It your heart, too, it can change everything.  Let the prayer of your heart tonight be drawn from the aria you are about to hear:  World, get out, let Jesus in!

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