And Peter!

 Jesu Juva

St. Mark 16:1-8                                               

March 31, 2024

Easter B      

 Dear saints of our Savior~

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

        Wow.  After forty days of bewailing and bemoaning—lamenting and repenting—it sure feels good to let rip a few dozen alleluias.  Praise the Lord!  Jesus has done it!  He has risen, never to die again.  He is living with life to the full—with life for you and you and you.

        But Easter starts in the cemetery.  We’ve all been there.  We know the well-worn path the women took that Sunday morning.  They certainly weren’t shouting “alleluia” as they made their way to the tomb.  They were going back to give their Lord a proper burial.  Late Friday there had barely been time to toss Jesus in the tomb—before the sunset signaled the start of the Sabbath.  Their hearts were heavy.  Their eyes were blurry with tears.  Death had claimed another victim.  We know the grief those women carried.  We’ve shared their sorrow.  We know what death can do.

        But as they approached the tomb, even their tear-filled eyes couldn’t miss the fact that death’s stone had been rolled away.  And as they stepped inside, an angel greeted them with good news—the best news ever:  You seek Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified.  He has risen; he is not here.  The same Jesus who was crucified, died, and was buried—that Jesus—was now risen and living.  And nothing would ever be the same again.

        All four gospel-writers report the resurrection of Jesus, each evangelist providing a unique accent to his own account.  We heard St. Mark’s Easter account today.  And, as you might recall from last Sunday, Mark’s narrative is always tight and compact—everything happens immediately in Mark.  So if Mark dangles some unique detail before his readers, then those readers should sit up and take notice.

        If you are a careful connoisseur of Easter, then you may have already caught the exclusive bit of good news that only Saint Mark includes.  You won’t find this anywhere else in the Bible.  It’s found in the marching orders the angel gave to the women:  But go, tell his disciples and Peter that He is going before you to Galilee.  Did you catch it?  Tell His disciples . . . AND PETER.  Wait, what?  Isn’t that a little redundant?  I thought Peter was one of the disciples.  Why single him out?  Why tell something to the disciples . . . and Peter?

        Well, Peter had pretty much vanished by the first day of the week.  You really have to hit the “rewind” button in Mark to pinpoint where Peter last popped up.  Prior to this, the last thing we heard about Peter was two chapters back.  There it says:  And He broke down and wept (14:72).  That was late Thursday night.  And if your performance had been like Peter’s, you too would have broken down and wept. 

        You remember what happened.  Jesus predicted that Peter would deny him.  But Peter proudly professed:  Even if I must die with you, I will not deny you.  A little bit later in the Garden, Jesus asked Peter simply to stay awake and watch and pray.  Jesus prayed; while Peter all but passed out.  When Judas showed up with soldiers, Peter started swinging his sword—severing a servant’s ear—but only to be reprimanded by Jesus.  Peter then fled the scene, following Jesus from a distance to the High Priest’s house.  He tried to keep a low profile and blend in.  But when the questions started coming, all Peter could do was deny, deny, deny.  He cursed and he swore:  I do not know this man of whom you speak!  And then . . . the rooster crowed.  And Peter dissolved into a puddle of tears.

        Now you know why.  Now you know why the angel told the women to tell His disciples AND PETER that Jesus was alive and was going before them.  Peter, especially, needed to know.  Peter was still numbered among the disciples of Jesus.  Yes, Peter had taken the exit ramp that leads to hell.  Yes, Peter had denied his Lord.  Yes, Peter had been faithless as Jesus had forewarned.  Yes, Peter was guilty of all that and more.  But Jesus—Jesus is faithful and forgiving!  Jesus said what He would do, and then He did it.  Jesus soaked up the sins of the whole world—took those sins to the cross and to the tomb—and saved His people from their sins. 

        And among those people was a man named Peter.  The angel said, “Go, tell His disciples and Peter.  Be sure to tell Peter!  Make sure Peter hears the good news that Christ is risen!  Let Peter know that Jesus is alive—that He is risen and Jesus wants to see [Peter].”  The good news of the resurrection was especially for Peter.  Peter needed to know.

        And so do you.  The good news of the resurrection is especially for you.  For how often have you charged off down that exit ramp that leads you away from your Savior—away from the faith—down that broad and easy road that leads to destruction?  How often have you simply tried to blend into the crowd—keeping your faith a secret—cursing and swearing your way right out of the faith?  How often have you secretly admired yourself—concluding that Jesus is lucky to have you on His team—praying with pride: I thank Thee, Lord, that I’m not like other men?  The fact is, you are a sinner just like other men, including Peter—the man who didn’t deserve to be a disciple.  With Peter, you can weep all you want.  Shed bitter and shameful tears.  But those tears change nothing.

        What changes everything is the resurrection.  What changes everything is that Christ has risen.  Death could not hold Him.  The sacrifice He made on the cross for your sins has been accepted.  We have failed; but Jesus has succeeded.  We have been faithless; but Jesus is faithful.  We who are lost in sin, are loved by Jesus, the Son of God, who gave Himself for us.  He was raised again on the third day; and your day of resurrection is coming soon.

        Tell His disciples . . . and Peter.  Tell them what?  Tell them this: Jesus is going before you to Galilee.  There you will see Him, just as He told you.  The plan was for Jesus to reunite with His disciples (and Peter!) in Galilee.  And, eventually, Peter and the gang did reunite with Jesus up north, in Galilee.  But the Bible plainly says that the disciples actually met up with the Risen Lord much sooner than that.  Already on that day, on the First Day of the Week, in Jerusalem (and on the road to Emmaus) the disciples of Jesus would see Jesus.  They would hear His Words and see His wounds.  And they would know the peace of sin forgiven and death defeated forever.

        So what happened?  Did Mark’s angel get the message wrong about the get-together in Galilee?  Angels are “messengers.”  That’s an angel’s main job.  Did someone forget to tell Jesus—such that Jesus jumped the gun for a Jerusalem reunion, instead of a get-together in Galilee?  Or, did Jesus already want His disciples to start learning that every Sunday is an Easter feast?  Did He want them to begin to realize that on the Lord’s Day—on the First day of the week—that they would see Him then and there?

        Perhaps Saint Mark wants you to know, dear disciple, that Jesus is going before you—not to Galilee, or even to Jerusalem—but here.  Here you will see Him.  Here you will experience the power of His promises, and the relief of His forgiveness.  Here you will know Him in the bread that is His body and the wine that is His blood.  Here you will know the joy that Peter knew when he heard his name from the lips of an angel. 

        I’m no angel; but I am a messenger of the Lord.  I’m here to tell every disciple—every believer—including you and you and you and you:  Jesus Christ has gone before you, from death to resurrection life.  He restores us and forgives us.  And one day in the not too distant future—all the Lord’s disciples—and you—and you—and you!—you will see Him, just as He told you.

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

Thy Grievous Sin Bemoan

 Jesu Juva

Isaiah 53:4-5                                                    

March 29, 2024

Good Friday                         

 Dear saints of our Savior~

        The Prophet Isaiah wrote:  Surely He has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows; yet we esteemed Him stricken, smitten by God, and afflicted.  But He was wounded for our transgressions; He was crushed for our iniquities . . . and by His wounds we are healed.

        Someone has said that Good Friday is not a funeral for Jesus.  And that’s correct.  We shouldn’t weep for Jesus.  We shouldn’t lament for our Lord as we would for some poor soul cut down in the prime of life.  The Christ is no longer a corpse on a cross.  Even in the darkness of Good Friday, we know and believe that Christ is risen, never to die again.  Jesus lives!  The victory’s won!  We shouldn’t pretend otherwise.

        Good Friday is not a funeral for Jesus; but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t mourn and weep.  Some of you are old enough to remember when shops and businesses would close for the day on Good Friday.  Schools would be closed too.  All this to make sure that people could do what you’re doing right now—namely, go to church.

        Good Friday is no funeral; but if it’s not a funeral, then what is it?  To answer that, let me take you back 300 years to Leipzig, in Germany.  At that time, Leipzig was a lovely Lutheran city.  On Good Friday, in Leipzig, the city gates were shut tight.  No traffic.  No commerce.  No school.  Only the solemn church services of Good Friday. And those churches would be full—full for services which probably lasted anywhere from three to four hours or longer.  And what did they do in church for all those hours?  They did what Lutherans do:  They sang and made music to the Lord.

        One hymn in particular was sung every Good Friday.  O Man, Thy Grievous Sin Bemoan.  Over the course of twenty-three stanzas (!), this hymn recounted the entire Passion of our Lord.  The Leipzigers loved this hymn; and they sang all 23 verses with gusto.  But it’s the first phrase of the first stanza that guides our observance of this dark day:  O man, thy grievous sin bemoan.  The verb “bemoan” in German is “bewein.”  It can be translated as “bewail,” “bemoan,” “lament,” or simply “cry over.”

        That hymn phrase teaches something important about Good Friday.  It’s not a funeral for Jesus—not at all.  But it is a day for weeping and mourning—a day for bemoaning, bewailing, lamenting, and crying over our great and grievous sins.  The word of the day is “bemoan.”  So significant is this word that when Bach composed an arrangement of this hymn for his choir in the St. Matthew Passion, the choir sang through ten different musical notes for this two-syllable word.  When you listen, it sounds like the choir is crying, bemoaning, and bewailing.

        Our sin is a crying shame.  Yet most days we give little to no thought to our sin.  We can’t—and shouldn’t—dwell on it every day, after all.  But neither should we casually dismiss our sin as no big deal.  No use crying over spilled milk, we say.  What’s done is done—water under the bridge.  The past is the past.  I once attempted to admonish someone concerning a particular sin, only to hear in response, “Well, Pastor, it is what it is.”  Sin happens.  Whatcha gonna do? 

        Yet the sin we so casually dismiss with a shrug of the shoulders, tonight—on Good Friday—we remember and recall. Tonight we bemoan and bewail that sin.  Tonight it’s appropriate to see our sin with repentance and regret, with remorse and sorrow.  Because tonight we see it all with clarity—monstrously magnified on the man who bears it all away.

        The Evangelists Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John all spilled vast amounts of ink to tell us what happened on Good Friday.  They each give us the facts on which our faith is founded—the facts of what happened and what was said.  Who?  What? When? And where?  And our faith rests firmly and securely on those facts:  Jesus suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died, and was buried.  But the gospel writers don’t interpret Good Friday.  By and large, they don’t tell us what it all means.

        But the Prophet Isaiah, seven centuries before Good Friday—He saw what would happen.  He explains and interprets.  He tells us what it all means for me and you.  Isaiah tells us the facts too—the fact that the Messiah would be despised and rejected by men, a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief.  He tells of the Messiah’s appearance being marred.  Our Lord’s death was bloody, brutal, and cruel beyond compare.  With deep furrows in His flesh, thorns crowning His head, and nails piercing His hands and feet, His dying appearance was marred indeed, beyond human semblance.  O sacred head, now wounded.

        The enduring question is:  Why? Why must the Lord’s servant suffer so horribly?  Why was Jesus numbered with the transgressors when He Himself was without transgression?  Why does the sinless Son of God suffer as a sinner?  Isaiah gives the answer—the answer that grieves the Christian soul:  Why?  Because of our sin.  With brutal clarity Isaiah gives us plenty to bemoan:  Surely, He has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows . . . . He was wounded for our transgressions; He was crushed for our iniquities.  Do you hear what I hear?  Our griefs.  Our sorrows.  Our transgressions.  Our iniquities.  Our sins.  All the crushing weight of our sin came crashing down on the Christ.  All of it was laid upon God’s Son, our Savior.

        What did Jesus do to deserve that?  Nothing.  Jesus gave life to the dead.  Jesus healed all the sick and suffering.  Jesus welcomed little children.  Jesus fed the hungry and gave sight to the blind.  Jesus loved us.  What did He do to deserve such anguish and pain?  Nothing.

        But what about you?  What have you done to deserve it?  You know. . .  I know. . .  Each one of us knows with bitter sorrow exactly what we have done, and exactly what we have left undone—idolatries and adulteries—hate and pride—sins for which our Savior was stricken, smitten, and afflicted.  And even worse, we’ve done it all with smug self-satisfaction—counting on cheap grace to carry us through. 

        This is why.  Our Lord suffers in your place.  Our Lord goes to the cross in your place.  Our Lord goes to the grave in your place.  And what He earns for you is not cheap grace, but costly and lavish undeserved love.  What He earns for you is not piecemeal pardon, but full and free forgiveness for the totality of your transgressions.  It is finished.

        No, this is no funeral for Jesus.  But do see your sin on Jesus.  Watch with wonder as He shoulders it all to save you.  For 364 days of the year you can indeed confess your sin and receive absolution, and get on with life you’ve been given.  But, on this one, single, solitary Friday we call “good,” do this:  O man, thy grievous sin bemoan. 

The Savior of Spectators

 

Jesu Juva

Mark 14:51-52                                                 

March 24, 2024

Palm Sunday             

 Dear saints of our Savior~

        This morning we heard a big chunk of our Lord’s passion according to Saint Mark.  Mark’s Passion account reads like the rest of his gospel.  It’s brief. It’s direct.  It’s the good news of Jesus Christ to be sure, but it’s packaged very economically.  We don’t get a ton of new information from Mark.  So, when something unique and unusual does turn up in Mark’s gospel, it’s definitely worth taking a look.

        Today I’d like to consider one interesting detail of our Lord’s passion—a detail only Mark records.  He adds something unique—two strange sentences that you won’t find in Matthew, Luke, or John.  As Jesus is arrested in the garden of Gethsemane, Mark tells us this: And a young man followed him, with nothing but a linen cloth about his body.  And they seized him, but he left the linen cloth and ran away naked.

        Who was this young man who was so determined to save his own skin that he ended up streaking right out of the Garden—making a break for it in his birthday suit?  Some have surmised (and it’s a plausible suggestion) that the young man is St. Mark himself—the evangelist—the human author of this gospel.  By including this account about himself, St. Mark is, in effect, placing his own “signature” within the very gospel text that flowed from his pen. 

        But if this is the case, then Mark is recording his own shame—sharing with us one of the worst moments of his life—how he, too, abandoned his Lord—turned his back on the Christ—left the Savior stranded and surrounded by enemies and executioners.

        Mark isn’t the only Biblical writer to do this—to share his shame with his readers.  Paul did it—tells us how he persecuted the church.  Matthew did it—tells of his life of greed spent at the tax collector’s booth.  They share their worst with us so that we might know that our worst—that our shame—our sin—can be erased forever by the forgiving love of God in Jesus the Christ. 

        Mark dangles these details about himself fleeing Gethsemane naked as a jaybird for our sake—for our learning—for our comfort—so that we poor sinners might also come to know the amazing grace and the incredible forgiveness that can only come from Jesus of Nazareth.

        Mark began to learn something important on that terrible night.  He had likely followed Jesus and His disciples from the Upper Room out to the Garden of Gethsemane.  He wanted to look on.  He wanted to listen in.  He wanted to see what would happen.  He was curious.  But what he learned is that you can’t be a spectator of the Lord Jesus Christ.  You can’t just follow Jesus from a distance. 

        No, as soon as you encounter Jesus, you are involved, one way or another.  Jesus tolerates no spectators.  (Just ask Simon of Cyrene, or Zacchaeus.)  You are either for Him, or you are against Him.  You are either with Him—participating in His life and receiving His gifts—or you are on the road to hell.  Either Jesus saves you, or you must save yourself (which never quite works out).

        Jesus doesn’t want spectators; but, oh, how we love the life of a spectator.  It’s so easy and comfortable.  Later today I’m headed down to Symphony Hall to be a spectator.  I’ll be taking in the final, grand performance of Bach’s birthday week.  I’ll hear high-caliber instrumentalists and virtuoso voices, surrounded by opulence and spectacular acoustics.  It’ll be heaven on earth, I hope.  And all I have to do is be a spectator.  Just show up and soak it in.  Those are the privileges and perks of being just a spectator.

        But what if there were no mere spectators at the Symphony Center?  What if every attendee was expected to participate in the performance—sing along with the sopranos, belt it out with the baritones?  What if you were expected to bring your instrument along—to be tuned up and ready to walk out on stage?  Or what if you could be called upon to conduct the whole performance, directing some of the greatest music ever composed? That would change everything, wouldn’t it?  You wouldn’t be late.  You’d be practicing and tuning up like there was no tomorrow.  You wouldn’t dare leave your seat for the snack bar, because you’re no spectator; you will be participating—actively witnessing the wonders of Bach. 

        In His church the Lord Jesus wants witnesses; not spectators.  And being a witness for Jesus—actively receiving His holy gifts—begins right here and right now.  Here in the Divine Service, are you just a spectator, or are you a witness of the living Christ?  When you hear the words, “In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit,” do you say to yourself, “Well, here we go again?” Or do you say, “Amen,” remembering that you are baptized into that holy name?  Do you merely recite the confession of sins, or do you lay bare the cold, hard, naked facts of your disobedience before Almighty God—that you are loveless, selfish, guilty, and deserving of eternal punishment?  Do you mumble your way through the Creed, or do you confess the beating heart of all your hope in Jesus who was crucified under Pontius Pilate and who was raised again on the third day—do you join your voice with saints of every time and place who look for—who expect—the resurrection of the dead and the life of the world to come?  Which are you: spectator or witness?

        Because if we can’t be more than spectators here, where heaven touches earth, then how can we live as witnesses to Jesus at home with our families, at school, at work, among our friends and neighbors?  If you’re only a spectator, then you can leave here the same way you came—unchanged, unmoved, and living life on your terms.  But if you are a witness of the Lord Jesus Christ, you leave here changed and forgiven, bearing and sharing the glorious truth that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners.

        Beloved in the Lord, this is the first day of Holy Week.  Don’t go through this week as a spectator, attending services when it’s convenient, sampling the music and smelling the lilies.  No, come here this week because the Jesus of the Upper Room is here for you, giving you that precious gift of His body and blood for the forgiveness of sins.  Come here this week because the Jesus of Gethsemane is here for you, praying for you just as He did on the night when He was betrayed.

        I may have “Bach on the brain” this week; but I remember once waiting for a performance of Bach’s St. Matthew Passion to begin.  Of course, I was just a spectator, along with hundreds of others, in a big Neo-gothic church in Leipzig.  The program was set to start with a big ensemble of instruments and a double choir.  But as the lights dimmed, and as the orchestra began to play the first notes of that opening chorus, the choir was nowhere to be seen.  The singers should have been up front; but they weren’t.  Where were they I wondered?  Only as they began to sing the first notes did I realize—the singers were seated with the spectators.  The choirs were scattered among the audience.  In fact, the woman seated to my left stood up to sing.  And she looked at me as she sang the first word of the entire Passion:  Komm!  “Komm,” they sang, as they left behind their seats among the spectators, and made their way to participate in the Passion of our Lord.    

        That same invitation still rings out right here.  Come!  Leave behind the spectator’s easy life.  Stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the disciples.  Carry the cross with Simon of Cyrene.  Weep bitterly with Peter.  See Saint Mark streaking in fear for his life. We have all run away and fled when we should have stood firm in faith.  We all share in the sin of the disciples.  But we also share their faith in Jesus, the Savior of sinners.  He became the sin-bearing servant of all.  He humbled Himself and became obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross.

        He now lives and reigns in glory, working all things for your eternal good.  Before Jesus you don’t have to stand naked, ashamed and fearful.  For He has clothed you with His perfect righteousness.  His sinless life counts for you and for all who follow Him in faith. We can confess our sins because they are all forgiven in Jesus.  We can confess our faith because it is the beating heart of all our hope—it’s true!  We can sing our “hosannas” because the same Jesus who entered Jerusalem on a humble donkey comes here to save us through humble words, through water, bread and wine.

        You are no mere spectator.  For you are baptized.  Jesus has made you His witness for the life of the world.  This is the Christian life:  It’s never easy.  It’s never convenient.  It never quite goes the way we plan.  You just might lose the shirt off your back.  But in Jesus we know that the ending of the story is a joyful ending—a resurrection ending—a life-that-has-no-end ending.  Holy week has begun.  Come.  Together let’s witness the wonder of God’s love for us in His Son, Jesus, our Savior. 

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

The Sound of Silence

 

Jesu Juva

St. Matt. 15:21-28                                                 

March 20, 2024

Lent Midweek 5                

 Dear saints of our Savior~

        This is the final sermon in a Lenten series on suffering.  Tonight we consider the suffering of a Canaanite woman—a mother whose daughter was demonized.  Was she a single mom?  We don’t know.  But no husband or father is mentioned.  What’s certain here is yet another instance of a suffering parent.  There are a lot of suffering parents in the gospels—multiple mothers and fathers who come to Jesus on behalf of troubled children—children who are afflicted and assaulted by the devil—children who are sick and suffering—children who are disabled or even dying.  And all of these suffering parents brought their troubles to Jesus.  As parents, it’s what we do. 

        The mother in tonight’s text was a Canaanite.  That fact is important.  She wasn’t Jewish.  She wasn’t a child of Abraham.  In religious terms she was an outsider.  But she was also desperate.  Her daughter was oppressed by a demon.  Parents, imagine this mother’s anguish.  There was no pediatrician—no medicine—no psychiatrist—no therapy of any kind to stop this demon from doing diabolical things to her daughter.

        And so this mother did the very thing that all of us would do.  She went to Jesus for help.  And she expresses her need to Jesus perfectly, with just the right words:  Have mercy on me, O Lord, Son of David.  She calls Him “Lord,” which is how Jesus’ disciples address Him.  And she also calls Jesus the “Son of David.”  With that title she’s saying that Jesus is the Christ, the Messiah of Israel.  Not even Shakespeare could have crafted a better opening line for this desperate mother to gain the Savior’s helpful attention. 

But Jesus—He didn’t answer her a word—didn’t even acknowledge her presence or tell her to take a number and wait her turn.  The only response this woman got was the sound of silence.  Jesus ignores her.  But she just won’t let up.  She keeps on pleading.  The disciples beg Jesus at least to send her away.  Jesus reminds them that He was sent “only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel.”  At that, the woman falls on her knees, and lays her heart wide open, “Lord, help me.”

        Finally, Jesus turns and gives her a direct answer (and it’s not very nice):  It’s not right to take the children’s bread and throw it to the dogs.  Ouch!  She’s literally down on the ground and Jesus gives her a verbal kick.  Jesus appears to be cruel, heartless, and unfeeling.  He calls her a “dog.”  In the ears of a First-Century Canaanite that would be heard and understood as an ethnic slur.

        What would you have done if you were this woman?  Leave in a huff?  Find a different Savior?  Tell Him off?  But seriously, what do you do when Jesus appears to give you the cold shoulder?  When He seems distant and unconcerned?  What do you do when Jesus treats you like a dog?  What’s so striking about this Canaanite woman is that she has absolutely no sense of entitlement.  Her fur doesn’t get ruffled just because Jesus calls her a dog and treats her like an unclean sinner.  She knows she’s entitled to absolutely nothing; yet she freely asks for everything.

We, on the other hand, we are the insiders.  We have an oversized sense of entitlement.  We feel entitled to almost everything.  We think God owes us just for showing up and trying hard.  We think God owes us just for choosing church instead of an evening of screen time. We’re pretty good about saying that we are poor, miserable sinners.  And yet, the minute someone points out our sin to us, or rebukes us for our sin, we get all defensive:  “How dare you call me a sinner!”  The same thing happens when God seems to treat us like the sinners we claim to be:  “How dare He ignore my prayers!  What did I do to deserve this?!  Why is He withholding the blessings I’m entitled to?  Why are my calls on the hotline to heaven going to voice mail?”

But this suffering mother didn’t do anything of the sort.  Instead, she listened.  She listened to what Jesus said; and she heard something that faith could latch onto.  Jesus said something to her and she saw an opportunity to hold Him to it.  It was in that deeply insulting word, “dog.”  That which sounds so humiliating and disgraceful to our ears, didn’t sound that way at all to this woman of great faith.  For in the word “dog” she found a hidden blessing:  “Yes, Lord.  I am a dog indeed.  And what do dogs do?  They eat up the crumbs that fall from their masters’ table.”  She holds Jesus to His own words and will not let Him go.  She latches onto that word “dog,” like a lab latches on to a soup bone.  Even when His words seem to scream out a “no,” she found a “yes” hidden inside the “no.”  (She sniffed out that “yes” like a bloodhound.)

As for His part, Jesus can’t contain His pleasure.  He honors the woman He just dissed as a dog.  One minute He gives her the silent treatment; and the next minute He says, “O woman, great is your faith!  Be it done for you as you desire.”  And her daughter was healed instantly.  That’s the picture of faith, my friends, dogged faith that can only be worked by the Holy Spirit.  And take notice, please, that it is the outsider, the Canaanite “dog” who has such great faith.  Not the Israelite.  Not the disciple.  The despised Canaanite.  It is all by grace—it’s all undeserved kindness.

Let’s not forget that this woman was also a mother—a mother with a demon-possessed daughter.  And from that very hour, her daughter was healed.  Her prayer was answered.  The demons are no match for Jesus.  Just a word from the Savior’s mouth is all it takes.  Jesus had come to do battle with the devil and the power of demonic darkness.  He came to deal a decisive blow at the cross.  There on His crucifixion cross, Jesus would take your place.  Jesus would experience what it means to be forsaken, abandoned, and ignored by God.  Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani?  My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? 

Jesus Himself suffered the sound of silence—the deafening silence of God.  That’s the hell we deserve.  That separation from God is the only thing we are truly “entitled to” as sinners.  But Jesus stepped in to receive the horror to which you are entitled; and (in exchange) He gives you all that He’s entitled to as the holy Son of God.  You can trust this Jesus—even when He seems silent or unconcerned about your troubles.  By faith, you know otherwise.

The healing of this woman’s daughter is as much for us as for her.  Jesus is training us and teaching us about what great faith looks like.  It looks like a desperate mother who doggedly pursues the hidden promises of Jesus.  Jesus is teaching us to hang onto His words and to trust those words and to look for the promise in those words—and not to trust our feelings or even to gage things by how God seems to be treating us.  Cling to Jesus’ words and run with them.  Cling to those words like a collie catches a Frisbee.  If Jesus says you’re a dog, then embrace your inner terrier and wag your tail and run straight to His table, for the richest of crumbs fall from this table.

Here the Master calls you by name to come to His Table.  Here even the crumbs prove to be the richest of fare—the Savior’s body and blood, for the forgiveness of sins—nourishment for eternal life—strength for each day in a dog-eat-dog world.  These pews are, in fact, occupied by poor, miserable pooches.  And Jesus, our Master, well, He’s the Lord of the Dogs—the Messiah of mangy mutts like us.  We know His voice.  And when He calls us in our suffering, we come running. 

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