Jesu Juva
Jeremiah 31:34
April 17, 2025
Maundy Thursday C
Dear saints of our Savior~
Thus says the Lord: I will forgive their iniquity, and I will remember their sin no more.
Your God forgives and forgets. He forgives our iniquity. He remembers our sin no more. That is the marvel and the mystery of what we celebrate tonight. The Judge of all—the One who could condemn us—who could destroy both soul and body in hell—He forgives. The God from whom no secrets can be kept—He chooses to remember our sin no more. He forgives and forgets.
We, however, are a different story. We are reluctant to forgive and even less inclined to forget. We hold grudges. We keep score on one another—so that we can settle the score. We remember the hurt feelings, the sharp words, every unjust act done to us. We dwell on it, savor it like fine wine, walk it around like the dog. We claim that all we want is justice. And our idea of justice is quid pro quo—this for that. You hurt me; I hurt you. Forget what you did? I don’t think so.
Forgiveness isn’t really our thing either. To forgive is to let something go—to go on as though it hadn’t even happened. Like the waiting father who welcomed home his prodigal son with hugs and kisses, a ring and a robe, without so much as a scolding. It’s like the Prophet Hosea, who seeks out his adulterous wife and courts her, and wants to take her back. It’s like the Lord with Israel, forgiving and forgetting, making a new covenant with the very same people who broke the old one.
We sometimes try to have it both ways: “Okay, I’ll forgive, but I can’t forget.” Which sometimes means, “I’ll forgive, but I won’t forget.” Just in case I need to introduce it as evidence later on. Or in case I need to justify my own sin. So we file it away on the hard drive. Put it into storage like a bottle of Cabernet. Let it age for a while. Forgive maybe, but never forget what was forgiven.
But forgiveness without forgetting is not forgiveness at all. These two things run parallel. To forgive is to forget—not to forget as in a case of amnesia, but as in refusing to call it to mind—instead of filing it away for future use, running it through the shredder so the pieces can’t be put back together again, even if we wanted to.
Imagine what our lives would be like if we forgave and forgot—if children and parents could forgive and forget their sins against each other—if husbands and wives forgave and forgot what they had done to hurt each other. Counselors and therapists would all unemployed. Imagine congregations where, instead of dwelling on each other’s sins and shortcomings, forgiving them, setting them aside, and refusing to recall them or retaliate.
But forgiving and forgetting is not our thing, is it? We may as well confess that. Forgiving and forgetting comes about as naturally as does breathing underwater or flapping our arms to fly. It’s just not in our sinful nature to forgive and forget. Why? Because we want to be like little gods, judging and damning those who dare sin against us. How dare you treat me that way? I’ll show you . . .
Because we don’t know the first thing about forgiving and forgetting, we have a hard time imagining God that way. So we subtly try to fashion God in our own unforgiving, unforgetting image. At the heart of every man-made religion is the notion that God neither forgives nor forgets. Instead, He’s making a list, He’s checking it twice, and He already knows who’s naughty and nice. That kind of religion appeals to our sense of fairness and reason. We expect God to reward the do-gooders and punish the bad guys. But forgive the bad guys? Why would God want to do that? And forget what they’ve done? Come on, get serious. This is God we’re talking about here—omniscient, omnipotent, omnipresent, holy and just to the nth degree.
But on this holy night, forgiving and forgetting is what it’s all about. If we lose this, we’ve lost everything. Forgiving and forgetting is what separates the faith you confess from every other religion out there. It’s what distinguishes the New Covenant from the Old Covenant. The Old Covenant with its commandments was a good gift from God. But commandments alone don’t work because we can’t keep the commandments. God did everything for His Old Covenant people: Delivered them from slavery in Egypt through the blood of the Lamb and through the Red Sea waters. God made them into a nation and established them under Moses with a covenant. And what did they do? They messed it all up. They broke the covenant. A covenant based on commandment–keeping simply won’t work with a bunch of natural born sinners.
It takes a new covenant. One in which the Word of God is implanted in the heart—not just inscribed on stone. And not just rules to live by, but Gospel good news that God forgives your iniquity and remembers your sin no more. It’s a new way of knowing the Lord—not simply God on the mountain—God on the throne—God holding the scales of justice and judgment—but God in the flesh. God in Jesus—bone of our bone and flesh of our flesh. The Word made flesh dwelling right here among us.
Every covenant calls for blood. The old covenant called for the blood of bulls, goats, and sheep, which, on its own, could do nothing—nothing except point ahead to the future, to the blood that would one day be shed by the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world. The new covenant is sealed by the blood of Jesus, the Son of God—a blood poured out for you at the cross, and tonight poured into a chalice for you to drink. Jesus calls it “the new covenant in my blood.” As we eat His body and drink His blood, we remember Jesus, Jesus remembers us, forgives us, and remembers our sin no more. In this blessed sacrament, our Lord forgives and our Lord forgets.
To be on the receiving end of such radical forgiveness brings freedom—freedom from the past with all its sin and shame and regret. And, living in this new freedom, you can set others free by speaking three little words that change everything: I forgive you.
This is the marvel and the mystery of it all: Jesus is your righteousness. His blood answers for all your sin. He applies that blood to you in Holy Baptism, in Holy Absolution, in Holy Communion—telling you in so many ways this one, wonderful, needful thing: You are loved by God, not because of what you do, but because of what Jesus has done for you. And that is everything. And on His account you are free. Because of His perfect life and sacrificial death, God forgives your iniquity and He remembers your sin no more. Go in peace.
In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
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