Victory for the Evicted

Jesu Juva

Isaiah 35:1-10                                            

December 14, 2025

Advent 3A                

 Dear saints of our Savior~

        Chicago is a tough town.  There’s no doubt about it.  All you have to do is listen to their sports radio stations or drive on their freeways (correction: drive on their TOLLWAYS).  It’s brutal in Chicago.  Even advertising is bare knuckles in The Windy City.  In Chicago I once heard an ad for a law firm that specializes—not divorces or DWIs—but in evictions.  They promised “quality, affordable evictions.”  They were proud to have been meeting the eviction needs of Chicago area landlords since 1983, or so.  They are your eviction experts, giving terrible tenants the boot so that you don’t have to.

        To be evicted, of course, is a terrible trauma.  When things get to that point, it’s a pretty good indication that there are no other options.  No other remedies.  It’s three strikes and you’re out.  Eviction is the last drastic resort in the landlord’s toolbox.  I remember getting a phone call one afternoon many years ago from someone who was about to be evicted.  She was desperately working her way through the phone book, calling church after church, hoping for a miracle.  If it’s happened to you, then you likely look back on it now as one of the rock-bottom, low points of life.  (But don’t be so sure it hasn’t happened to you.)

        Eviction goes back to the earliest days of human history—the earliest chapters of Scripture.  When Adam and Eve decided to live by their own rules, it wasn’t enough that they blushed for shame and made a fashion statement with fig leaves.  It wasn’t enough that they were interrogated and rebuked by the Almighty.  It wasn’t enough that they heard gut-wrenching curses pronounced upon their future crop-raising and child-birthing.  It wasn’t enough that at that very hour they started down a slippery slope that would eventually deposit them six feet under.  There was more!  As a final, necessary action, their Landlord (the Lord) kicked them out.  They were evicted from Eden!  And so it was for our not-so-great grandparents.

        But you know what they say: The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.  Like father, like son.  Like Adam, like Eve—like you, like me.  The eviction notice first issued to our not-so-great grandparents also includes their not-so-great grandchildren, as in you and me.  And believe it or not, the whole human family has been homeless ever since.  We’ve been on the move.  We’ve clawed our way through thickets of lies.  We’ve scaled mountains of pride.  We’ve ventured down deep into valleys of depravity and debauchery.  We’ve stampeded over anyone who dares to get in our way.  We’ve come a long way, alright—a long way from home.  Our eviction from Paradise has landed us in a lifeless desert—a desert of sin and shame and death.  That’s where we are.

        Say what you will about the mysterious beauty of the desert.  The truth is that the desert doesn’t really have much going for it, especially if your canteen is bone dry.  Isaiah articulates some of the desert’s most notable features:  Burning sand, thirsty ground, jackals, scorpions and prickly vegetation.  This is where evicted sinners like us eke out an existence.  It’s tough sledding.  It matters not that you may live only blocks from one of the world’s largest freshwater lakes, or that snowflakes coat the landscape.  The world in which we live is a desert drear compared to the Paradise from which we’ve been evicted—the Paradise that was originally designed for you.  Our knees are feeble.  Our hearts are fearful.  Our hands are dirty from grave-digging.

        But there’s a preacher out here in the desert—a fella named Isaiah.  And the gospel according to Isaiah has the power to transform our sin-scarred landscape—to change our arid, cursed climate.  “Get ready,” says Isaiah, because change is coming—climate change on a cosmic scale.  Waters shall break forth in the wilderness and streams in the desert.  The burning sand shall become a pool, and the thirsty ground springs of water.  Deserts will become like the Everglades, with reeds and rushes and palms. 

Isaiah is not predicting man-made climate change, but climate change by divine design.  Why will everything change like this?  Because the One who evicted Adam and Eve is coming—coming in flesh and blood.  The Lord Himself is coming.  The Creator becomes a creature like you.  And He’s coming to bring you back home to that perfect place called Paradise.

        In Jesus Christ the Landlord comes for you—to claim you, to redeem you, to pay your debt in full.  All you can do is repent.  Prepare the way.  That’s Advent in a nutshell.  And everywhere Jesus goes, everything shifts into reverse.  Jesus undoes the curse of Eden by becoming a curse for us.  In today’s gospel, when John sent his disciples to ask Jesus if He was the expected Messiah, Jesus didn’t say, “Yes, I am.”  Jesus quoted Isaiah.  The blind see.  The deaf hear.  The mute tongue sings for joy.  The lame man leaps like a deer.  Deserts become like the water parks in Wisconsin Dells!  Everything shifts into reverse. 

Jesus comes not to indict you—not to convict you or evict you—but to save you.  In His bloody death your eviction from Eden is rendered null and void.  His crucifixion undoes your eviction.  His resurrection is your invitation—your welcome back home to Eden.  You’ve got a new lease—a new lease on life—life that lasts forever.  This return to Paradise is what Isaiah was describing when he wrote that the ransomed of the Lord shall return . . . “everlasting joy shall be upon their heads; they shall obtain gladness and joy, and sorrow and sighing shall flee away.”

        The promise of all this is right now; the fulfillment is not yet.  But make no mistake, change is coming.  It’s already begun.  Here in the desert the agent of change is always water.  In the desert there can only be life where there’s water.  Here in the church—guess what!—there’s water and there’s life.  They go together.  It’s not mirage.  Here there’s water—together with the Word—applied to your mortal body in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit.  We call it baptism—water that works forgiveness of sins, rescues from death and the devil, and gives eternal salvation to all who believe.  Here in the church of Jesus Christ there’s water, there’s life, AND there’s food and drink—provisions from Paradise—the life-giving body and blood of Jesus for the forgiveness of sins.

        And one last thing:  Isaiah says that the way back home to Paradise has been paved for you and me.  He says there’s a highway to get you there.  Only it’s not a highway made of concrete or asphalt.  This royal highway to Paradise is constructed with the flesh and blood of Jesus, the one Mediator between God and men.  He is the way back home to Eden—to Paradise.  Through faith in Jesus, He gives victory to the evicted.  He is the Savior of sinners.  He is the Lord—the Grand Landlord of Paradise, who seeks and saves tenants like us, and brings us Home. 

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

 

Advent Escape

Jesu Juva

St. Matthew 3:1-12                                     

 December 7, 2025

Advent 2A                                         

 Dear Saints of Our Savior~

        Well, here we are—situated on Santa Monica Blvd.  The saints of Our Savior have been located here since 1948.  We originally worshiped in a school building on Silver Spring.  We did some digging this past year and discovered that this building was almost built on Silver Spring.  Only at the last minute did the congregation purchase this property and decide to build here.  The reasons why are still something of a mystery.  Can you imagine if this church had been built on Silver Spring?  Sendiks, Stone Creek, Starbucks, Our Savior.  You know what they say: Location, location, location.

        On this Second Sunday in Advent John the Baptizer always seems to find us.  He’s quite a character: a little eccentric, somewhat uncivilized, kind of quirky.  He’s unemployed.  He’s unmarried.  He’s unkempt—long hair, weird diet, 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 back country 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, 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.  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 5G network 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. To stand coram Deo requires you to empty your pockets, your purse, your hands.  You must 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 much we love 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.  In the wilderness, Coram Deo, pride evaporates, hands are emptied, hearts are broken, and parched voices can only pray, “God, be merciful to me, a sinner.”  All you can do is repent.

        Welcome to the wilderness—your Advent escape.  It’s actually 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 be wearing much leather today; but I am 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 differently than we arrived.  To stand coram Deo always changes us.  Our broken hearts are now full—full of faith and hope and love.  Our grasping hands now emptied are set to love and serve and render to the Lord for all His benefits to us. Our ears have heard the truth proclaimed and the devil’s lies exposed.  Now we know where we stand.  Now we have clarity and comfort—and the confidence that we are in Christ’s keeping—that our location is with Him—(and His location is with us)—now and forever.

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