Kyrie Eleison

Jesu Juva

Matt. 20:29-34                                                              

November 30, 2022

Advent Midweek 1                                     

Dear saints of our Savior~

          What’s the right way to “kyrie?”  How many ways can you “kyrie?”  “Lord, have mercy” is perhaps the most ubiquitous phrase in the liturgies of Christian worship.  It’s everywhere!  It’s always there.  It’s like the wallpaper of the liturgy.  Whichever service—whichever setting—morning, noon, and night: there it is.  How many ways can you kyrie? (sung . . .) Lord, have mercy (F-G-A-G-F), Lord, have mercy (A-G-F-E-D), Lord, have mercy upon us (F-G-A . . .), Lord, have mercy (DS4), Lord, have mercy (Matins).  And as you will sing it later on in this service:  Lord, have mercy (F-G-E-F).

          This prayer—this petition—is everywhere in the Lord’s liturgy because it’s everywhere in the Word of the Lord.  The mercy of the Lord is like a golden thread that weaves its way through the entire Bible.  It goes back at least as far as the Lord’s revelation of Himself to Moses, which we heard a few minutes ago.  Moses wanted to catch a glimpse of the glory of the Lord.  But what he got instead was a drive-by glimpse of mercy, not glory.  As the Lord passed by, He said:  The Lord, the Lord, a God merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love and faithfulness.

          Like Moses, we, too, long for those glimpses of glory.  We’ll gladly pray for awesome demonstrations of raw divine power and majesty.  But what the Lord wants us to see—what the Lord wants to reveal about Himself—what He wants us to pray for—is most often mercy.

          In the New Testament we get a clearer idea of what it means to pray, “Lord, have mercy.”  For that prayer seemed to follow Jesus wherever He went.  There was that time when ten lepers—diseased and quarantined—cried out to Jesus from a distance:  Lord, have mercy.  There was that time when a Canaanite woman—a Gentile, an outsider, a nuisance—came to Jesus on behalf of her demon-possessed daughter, and she just kept crying out:  Lord, have mercy.  And then there was that time we heard about tonight, when two blind men by the roadside in Jericho cried out to Jesus:  Lord, have mercy.

          These accounts show us that “Lord, have mercy” is a prayer of faith—great faith.  Every person who prayed those words was helpless.  They were hurting.  They were desperate.  They were overwhelmed, to be sure.  But in the midst of their helplessness, they believed—they trusted that Jesus could help them in their helplessness.  And so they were unafraid and unashamed to pray:  Lord, have mercy.

          What triggers your helplessness on this final night of November?  What weighs on your heart so heavily that it threatens to break that heart?  Everybody has something—something that points to your utter powerlessness.  Some loss, some disability, some sickness of body or mind, some wayward child, some severed relationship—something that almost pulls you to the point of despair.  And despair is a dangerous point to be pulled to.  In his Small Catechism, Luther famously grouped despair right along with “false belief . . . and other great shame and vice.”  To pray, “Lord, have mercy,” does not signal despair, but just the opposite: It exudes hope and expectation and faith.

          Some of us have been rendered helpless by certain burdens for so long that it just becomes like the wallpaper of our lives.  We just learn to live with it.  It’s always there—always surrounding you, coloring your outlook on life; but you just live with it.  You accept it.  You don’t dare get your hopes up that anything will ever change.  And sadly, sometimes, we stop praying about it.  And that’s a crying shame.

          I suspect those two blind men were kind of like the wallpaper of Jericho.  They were probably well-known fixtures in that town.  They did the only thing blind men could do in those days—they begged for a living, right there by the side of a busy road.  Just like the homeless in Milwaukee sometimes camp out at the same corner each day.  They were just part of the Jericho landscape, mostly unseen and ignored by their townspeople.  Nothing about their situation was ever going to change.  Everybody knew that their disability was irreversible.  And this is probably why, when they cried out to Jesus, “Lord, have mercy,” everybody rebuked them and told them in no uncertain terms to shut up, because they and their disability were not worth praying about (In fact, they probably had done something to deserve it!). 

          But in faith, those two just kept praying.  They cried out all the more, “Lord, have mercy on us.”  They couldn’t see Jesus the way others could see Him—they were blind!  But they trusted Him—and believed in Him—in a way others could not.  For them, faith had come by hearing.  They walked by faith, not by sight.  And that faith meant that they could not help but keep on praying, “Lord, have mercy.”

          And there on the outskirts of Jericho Jesus did again what He had done so often for so many.  He heard their cry for mercy.  He stopped.  He spoke.  He came near and touched their eyes.  He showed them mercy and restored their sight.  Beloved in the Lord, that’s the way you do it.  Here we see the way to “kyrie.”  It’s not a cry of despair, but a cry of hope and faith.  To pray, “Lord, have mercy” is not giving up, but rather, giving it all up—giving over all of our helplessness to the God who is an ever-present help in time of trouble.

          The Jesus we worship—the Jesus to whom we pray—He is God’s mercy

made manifest.  He is God’s mercy in the flesh—God’s mercy in our flesh.  When the manger makes its appearance this Christmas, remember:  There’s mercy in that manger.  Because Jesus was an infant, He knows what it is to be helpless.  He was made helpless like us so that He could bless us with His mercy.  He was tempted just like you, but without sin.  He identifies with you in your helplessness. 

          The two blind men Jesus healed in Jericho followed Him in faith up to Jerusalem—followed Him through a parade of palms to a dark day of execution.  This Jesus who delights to show mercy—He was treated mercilessly on Good Friday.  No mercy for Jesus—only thorns, nails, and spear.  He was deprived of all mercy, so that goodness and mercy shall follow you all the days of your life.  He became helpless to help you in ways you could never help yourself.  He redeems you.  Ransoms you.  Forgives you.  He seeks and saves sinners so that He can be gracious and merciful to us.  In Jesus there is peace for us—peace to trust Him with what we cannot fix or understand.  Through Jesus there is peace on earth and mercy mild—God and sinners reconciled.

          All of our prayers for mercy will one day be answered.  The days and nights of praying kyrie eleison will come to an end soon enough.  All things will become clear when meet our merciful Maker face-to-face.  Until then, you know.  You know the way to “kyrie.” 

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