The Magnificent Seven

In Nomine Iesu
Acts 6:1-9; 7:2a, 51-60
May 22, 2011
Easter 5A

Dear brothers and sisters in Christ Jesus~

When it comes to your New Testament knowledge, I’m sure you know something about Peter and Paul. You probably know about James and John. You might even be able to say a bit about Andrew or Thomas. But do you know about Nicanor (nai-KAY-nor) and Nicolas? What can you tell me about Timon (TAI-mon) and Philip? Would you be pleased to report on Procorus and Parmenas (PAHR-mee-nas)? I think it’s safe to say that these are not household names for most of us. Even veteran Sunday school teachers might be left scratching there heads over these names. But you—all of us—should know these names! For these six men together with Stephen made up (what I call) the “Magnificent Seven.” In fact, it was only because of these magnificent seven laymen that the New Testament church was able to survive its infancy and eventually spread to the ends of the earth.

When we left off last Sunday, in Acts chapter two, things were going fairly well for the first Christians. Three thousand had been added to their number on the Day of Pentecost. The believers were devoting themselves to the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, to the breaking of bread and the prayers. Everything in the church was new and fresh. They sold their possessions and belongings so that they could care for the poor and needy. Every day the Lord was adding to their number. And for a lot of people—even today—this is the image they have of the early church—where seldom was heard a discouraging word and the skies were not cloudy all day.

But guess what? Even in those idyllic early days of the New Testament, there were problems in the church. That first congregation in Jerusalem was not comprised of perfect people with halos hovering above their heads. Nope, it was made up of people who were frail and fragile, people who were sometimes grumpy and thin-skinned and insecure, people who were quick to assign blame and slow to accept it, people like us—sinners in need of a Savior.

The specific issue that erupted in that first Christian congregation is exactly the kind of issue that eventually erupts in nearly every Christian congregation. This was a congregation that cared for its members—especially the widows who, in those days, had no social security, no Medicare, no Individual Retirement Account from which to live out their senior years. So the church started up a kind of “meals on wheels” program, distributing food to these widows on a daily basis—just the kind of merciful care you would expect from the followers of Jesus.

But then something happened—probably nothing more than an oversight or a failure to communicate, a molehill that quickly got made into a mountain. Somebody’s Greek grandmother apparently didn’t get her fair share of tater tots and Jell-o one Tuesday afternoon. Meanwhile, some other Greek widow apparently got chocolate milk when she had specifically requested regular milk. Coincidence? Some thin-skinned conspiracy theorist apparently didn’t think so. No, this was nothing less than a coordinated effort to deprive the Greek widows so that the Hebrew widows could get more. Phone calls were made, e-mails were exchanged, and before long the entire congregation was engulfed in anger, threats, accusations, reprisals and recriminations.

Full disclosure here: I hope you’ve gathered that I’m embellishing some of the details here. And I’ve done that because, while the details change from congregation to congregation, this basic scenario gets repeated over and over again in congregation after congregation. An innocent mistake, a perceived slight, a misinterpreted comment, a simple oversight—is seized upon by someone, is ramped-up, exaggerated, magnified, and gossiped about. Like gasoline thrown on a tiny flame, a molehill is made into a mountain and the body of Christ suffers.

And this is where the Magnificent Seven rides to the rescue. And the Magnificent Seven specializes in shrinkage—shrinking mountains back down into molehills. The Twelve apostles wisely concluded that their vocation was to preach and teach the Word of God. The fair distribution of tater tots and jell-o was simply not their strong suit. So seven magnificent men were chosen—laymen not so different from any of you—men full of faith and the Holy Spirit who were unafraid to step up and do what needed to be done. They didn’t hesitate to ask, “What needs to be done? What can I do to help? How can we solve this problem? Allow me to handle this for you.”

These seven men were the very first lay leaders of the New Testament. If you’ve ever served on a church board or committee, if you’ve served as an officer or elder, if you’ve taught Sunday school or sung in the choir or helped with the altar guild or organized a Lenten supper or any of the other unsung tasks that someone absolutely has to do—well then, you are an honorary member of the magnificent seven. You are numbered together with Nicanor and Niclolas, Philip, Procorus, Timon, Parmenas, and Stephen. Without your willingness to step up—without your Spirit-led stewardship of money and energy and time—this congregation would quickly grind its way into gridlock. What you do—the sacrifices you make—for the good of our life together here at Our Savior—it matters today and it matters for all eternity.

No one may stand up and applaud for you. No one may even say thank you. No one may long remember how you tactfully defused a brewing conflict—how you always put the best construction on the motives and actions and words of your fellow members. Practically no one will ever know about the generous gifts and offerings you have given to the Lord. In fact, when you step up and make a difference in the church, you’ll probably wind up getting asked to do even more, to take on more responsibility, to attend more meetings and volunteer more hours.

So why bother? You hear that sentiment sometimes from people who’ve gotten burned in the life of a congregation—people who have tried to do the right thing only to have things backfire. These are the walking wounded, the disillusioned, people who distance themselves from the “institutional church” because of all the problems and conflicts. They sometimes float around from church to church, looking for the perfect church, or else they give up all together.

But the Magnificent Seven teach us that there is no perfect church (no perfect apostles, no perfect pastors either); there is only a perfect Savior. There has always been—and there will always be—problems in the church. These magnificent men teach us that you in the pew matter just as much as me in the pulpit. I can’t do it without you; and you can’t do it without a man standing here in vestments, serving you the gifts of life and forgiveness that Jesus Christ has earned for you.

So why bother? Why press on together through thick and thin? Because one day we will see what Stephen saw. You could say that Stephen was the leader of the Magnificent Seven. He too was a layman—not an apostle, not a called and ordained servant. But Stephen knew the Apostles’ doctrine as well as the apostles themselves. And Stephen was unafraid to bear witness to that doctrine about Jesus anywhere, anytime, with anyone. This is what got Stephen into terrible trouble. Time doesn’t allow us to take a detailed look at Stephen’s speech before the Sanhedrin, before they killed him. But the truth for which Stephen was willing to die can be aptly summarized with the words of Jesus from today’s Holy Gospel—that Jesus Christ is the way, the truth and the life—that no one comes to the Father except through Him. He could have watered down His witness, but He didn’t. What Stephen believed about Jesus mattered too much. At his words, the seventy furious men of the Sanhedrin gnashed their teeth and dragged Stephen out of the city and began to stone him. But before he died, this magnificent man said, “Look! I see heaven open and the Son of Man standing at the right hand of God.”

Beloved in the Lord, one day you will see what Stephen saw. You will see heaven open and the Lord Jesus standing at the right hand of God the Father almighty. You will one day take your place in the Father’s house—a place that Jesus Himself has prepared for you by His dying and rising. For you are just like every other member of Christ’s church—frail, fragile, thin-skinned and sinful to the core. But to that list we must also add that you are forgiven of all sin, loved by God, and equipped by Him to be a witness like Stephen—to carry out your vocations and callings in this life with integrity and courage. Incidentally, the Greek word for witness is martyr. Stephen was the first of many martyrs. But as the stones rained down upon him, Stephen could pray with confidence, “Lord Jesus, receive my spirit.”

That same confidence can be yours. For in Jesus your guilt is taken away. Your sin is atoned for. You will live forever with Jesus. Meanwhile, you are not alone. You are a part of the holy Christian church. You are a chosen people, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people belonging to God, that you may declare the praises of Him who called you out of darkness into his wonderful light. Through faith in Jesus Christ you stand shoulder to shoulder with Stephen, with Philip, Procorus, Nicanor, Timon, Parmenas and Nicolas. Like them, you are magnificent and more—holy, forgiven and loved. And as a called and ordained servant of the word I just have to say this to all of you laypeople who work and sacrifice and labor and toil to make this congregation so very magnificent: Thank you. Amen.

Salt and Light

In Nomine Iesu
St. Matthew 5:13-16
February 6, 2011
Epiphany 5A

Dear brothers and sisters in Christ Jesus~

Regardless of what the final score of today’s game ends up being—regardless of who wins and who loses—at the end of the game a select number of players will be described as “difference-makers.” In football, the “difference-makers” are those who are in the right place at the right time. They make a key tackle, execute the perfect block, snag the interception, pounce on the fumble, toss the touchdown pass. The difference-makers regularly change the game’s trajectory and re-shape the outcome. And they accomplish all this simply by doing their jobs to the very best of their abilities—by playing their assigned positions with smarts and strength and skill. They are the difference-makers.

Today, from the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus is also describing difference-makers—difference-makers of a different kind. They are salt and they are light, He says. They are men and women called by Jesus to follow Him in faith. They are always in the right place at the right time precisely because they are following Jesus. By their words and by their deeds—by living out their assigned positions in this life to the very best of their ability—they change the world. They do the ordinary work of their callings; but they do that work extraordinarily well. And on that last day when the fourth quarter finally expires for planet earth—only then will it be fully revealed how these difference-makers changed the trajectory of history and brought life to a dying world. Today Jesus declares that you are one of these elect, select, difference-makers.

These difference-makers are the disciples of Jesus—those who follow Him in faith. These difference-makers are distinct from all the other players on planet earth. There are plenty of nice, friendly folks in this world, but not all are difference-makers for the Lord. For when Jesus said, “You are the salt of the earth” and “You are the light of the world,” He wasn’t addressing those words to the entire crowd that had gathered on the mountainside, but only to the select group of disciples whom He had called. They (and only they) are blessed (we heard last week). They (and only they) are salt and light.

Those are the two simple, yet powerful metaphors Jesus uses to describe difference-makers like you. You are the salt of the earth, and you are the light of the world. Salt and light are difference-makers. Salt is used for flavor. Salt is a preservative. Salt melts snow and ice. Salt is a necessary nutrient. If you do any cooking at all, then you know the importance of salt. Rarely does a recipe call for more than just a teaspoon of salt; but if you forget to add the salt you’ll realize it when you take your first bite. And light—light is indispensable. Light brings safety and security. One night this past week I drove from Whitefish Bay (a community with the good sense to install street lights) into a small municipality just north of here—a municipality which I will not name because it does not have the good sense to install street lights. Let me tell you, driving from this village to that village—from light into darkness—was not a good feeling. The difference on that dark night was astonishing. Why? Because light—and salt—are difference-makers.

Jesus says you are salt. You are light. You are a difference-maker in this world. And please notice the present tense. It’s a done deal. You are salt; you are light. This is not due to any decision that you make. It’s no achievement on your part. Jesus isn’t saying that you should aspire to be a difference-maker the way high school football players aspire to be like Aaron Rodgers or Charles Woodson. It would be absurd to think that a handful of uneducated fishermen from Galilee could be difference-makers for the whole world because of their own efforts and skill. No, they—and you—are difference makers because Jesus declares it. Jesus makes it so: “You—you who follow me in faith—you are the salt of the earth. You are the light of the world—a city set on a hill—a brightly-burning lamp.”

And your marching orders—the way that you will make a difference as a disciple—is simple and straightforward: “Let your light shine before men, that they may see your good deeds and praise your Father in heaven.” That God-given light inside of you is shining for the sake of others. Your good deeds are to be done, not just to be nice and helpful, but so that others may see and hear your good and gracious God, and possibly become difference-makers themselves.

These words of Jesus are ultimately about good works. Good works are the whole reason that we are here. Of course, God doesn’t need our good works; but other people do—our family, our neighbors, our fellow believers. Good works from God’s perspective are anything a child of God says or does in faith, for the glory of God or for the good of your neighbor. And based on that definition, you are doing good works all the time.

But there’s something peculiar about these good works that we do. On the one hand, they are supposed to be noticeable. Our good works are obviously supposed to be public and visible and audible. We are supposed to let our light shine before men so that they may see your good deeds. But notice that it doesn’t say, “see your good deeds and praise you.” It’s “see your good deeds and praise your Father in heaven.” The good works we do in faith—the truth that we speak—the seasoning and light we give to this tasteless, dying world—is not to put the spotlight on us, but on the gracious God who has called sinners like us to follow in faith. A little later on in the Sermon on the Mount Jesus makes clear that those who do good works only to be seen and praised by men have already received their reward in full.

We are called to let our light shine—to be difference-makers in this dying world—to act in mercy and to speak the truth in love. But the great temptation for the Christian church is to hide that light—to blend in and conform to the world around us—to water down the truth that we are called to bring to the world. For instance, churches that cannot speak clearly about God’s gift of life and the sin of abortion have ceased to be salt and light. Churches that cannot speak clearly about God’s gifts of sex and marriage and about the intrinsic sinfulness of pornography and adultery and homosexual acts—those churches have ceased to be salt and light. Churches that do not proclaim Jesus Christ crucified for our transgressions and raised again for our justification—there is no salt and no light. Rather than making a difference in the world, those churches are taking their cues from the world—adopting whatever fads and trends the world is offering.

For each of us as individuals, as well, there is the danger of conformity to the world, of blending in, of keeping and holding our faith so private that we are indistinguishable from unbelievers. We do good works—we let our lights shine—we are difference-makers in the callings that God has given us—within the family, within the church, on the job, and in the neighborhood. In those ordinary vocations you are called to do extraordinary things. Parents, are you raising your children any differently than the un-believing parents down the street? Are you difference-makers? Teenagers, do you go about your work as a student any differently than your fellow students who are unbelievers? Is your attitude/behavior any different than theirs? Are you difference-makers? With friends and co-workers and neighbors, do you offer something more than idle chit-chat? Are you a difference-maker in the lives of those around you?

I’m here to tell you: YOU ARE! Jesus says so. You are salt. You are light. You have something that this dying world needs more than anything, and that something is a someone. You have Jesus. Or rather, Jesus has you. You are not your own. You are bought, purchased and paid for by the Lord Jesus, who gave His life for your life. He has called you and made you His disciple in the cleansing splash of your baptism. In word and in deed Jesus made it clear that He wants you to be His own.

You have the power to be difference-makers in this world—right here and now in the simple good works that you do in faith every day. And you have this power to be difference-makers because your life has been claimed and cleansed by Jesus—and He makes all the difference. Jesus’ death for your sins as your substitute makes all the difference between heaven and hell. Jesus is the difference-maker who makes the difference between eternal punishment and eternal life, the difference between death and resurrection life, the difference between punishment and forgiveness, the difference between losing everything and being handed a victory that no one can ever take away from you. Whether the Packers will win or lose today I do not know. But this I do know: You are more than conquerors through Him who loves you (Rom. 8:37). Thanks be to God who gives us victory over death through our Lord Jesus Christ (1 Cor. 15:57).

Jesus is the difference-maker that matters on this day and every day. Your baptism into Christ makes all the difference, for that baptism has brought you salvation. In His Word, preached and proclaimed Jesus is making a difference in your life, equipping you for a life that is filled with brightly-shining words and deeds. In the bread that is His body and in the wine that is His blood, Jesus is making a difference in you, forgiving your sins, placing His life in your dying body, so that you will live forever with Him.

Jesus Christ is the difference-maker who declares that you are salt and you are light. The words you speak and the deeds you do have sacred importance for the people that you meet and greet and work with each day. When Jesus spoke of a city set on a hill, His listeners would have thought of Jerusalem—that high and holy city where the temple was located—the place in which God blessed His people. Today you have come to that city set on a hill. The church is now that holy place, where the grace of God brightly shines—the place in which God has promised to bless and forgive His people. God grant that in our good works—that in our offerings and in our service to others—people would not see us, but see the Savior who loves us and gave Himself for us. He makes all the difference—for your life—on this Super Sunday and forever. Amen.

Blessed Disciples

In Nomine Iesu
St. Matthew 5:1-12
January 30, 2011
Epiphany 4A

Dear brothers and sisters in Christ Jesus~

Last Sunday we heard about how Jesus began His public ministry. We heard Jesus call His first disciples. “Come, follow me,” He said, “and I will make you fishers of men.” Those disciples, for their part, walked away from everything they knew best—left behind comfortable careers and steady work as fishermen—gave up paychecks and pensions and a predictable plan for life. And if you don’t find that astounding, then consider what it would take to get you to leave behind your salary, your security, your predictable plan for life. The first disciples left it all behind for the sake of Jesus.

Did they know what they were getting into? Did they understand entirely who Jesus really was? No, they really didn’t. These men were disciples of Jesus; but they had no idea what it meant to be disciples of Jesus. Thankfully, they didn’t have to wait long to begin learning about discipleship.

For that’s what today’s Holy Gospel begins to unpack for us—what it means to be a disciple of Jesus. In Matthew chapter four Jesus called disciples to follow Him in faith. In Matthew chapter five (today) Jesus begins to preach and proclaim just what it looks like when men and women follow Him in faith. Jesus speaks nine beatitudes—nine statements of blessing. Crowds had gathered around, but please note that Jesus was speaking these words of blessing to those whom He had called—His disciples. These beatitudes served two purposes: They are, first of all, an introduction to the entire Sermon on the Mount (which we will be hearing in weeks to come). But secondly, these beatitudes give us a glimpse into the life of discipleship. Want to know what a disciple is and how a disciple lives? Then listen to the beatitudes.

The beatitudes show how disciples face the challenges of the present while living in the confident expectation of what the future will bring. They teach us how to live in difficulty of “now” while never losing the joy of the “not yet.” Here’s the best way I can explain it: To really get the beatitudes you need to recall what it was like on the last day of school, back in second or third grade. On that last day of school, you were still in school. There were still rules and expectations and report cards. But I always had a smile on my face on that last day of school because I already had one foot firmly planted in summer vacation. Baseball and swimming and sleeping late hadn’t yet begun; but in my mind, I was already there. I was living the present in the confident expectation of the future. My “now” was being heavily influenced by my “not yet.” In a manner of speaking, you could say that for the disciples of Jesus, every day is the last day of school.

“Blessed are the poor in spirit,” Jesus said, “for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” This first beatitude functions like an introduction—a summary, really—of all the rest. Jesus’ disciples mourn. They are meek, they hunger and thirst for righteousness, they are persecuted peace-makers. But at the top of the list, Jesus says, they are poor—poor in spirit.

To be poor in spirit is more than just being humble. And it has nothing to do with how big or how small our paychecks may be. To be poor in spirit is to be a beggar before God. In our affluent culture we don’t know much about begging and beggars. After all, we have county hospitals, social security, food pantries and homeless shelters to keep people from having to beg. Beggars are those who have absolutely nothing—those who are completely dependent upon the goodness and generosity of others for their very existence.

To be poor in spirit, then—to be a beggar before God—is to stand before God empty-handed—completely dependent upon Him for life and salvation and everything! No merit of our own. No goodness in us. No snazzy resume full of spiritual feats and accomplishments. No credit for attending long church meetings. No receipts for offerings given. No gold stars for church attendance. No tally sheets for how many times you shared the faith with someone else. None of that. The poor in spirit—the disciples of Jesus—are beggars. They don’t say, “I thank You, God, that I’m not like other men.” But in their emptiness they pray, “God, be merciful to me, a sinner.”

St. Augustine once expressed it this way. He wrote this sentence: “God gives into empty hands.” Disciples with full hands are not disciples at all. Hands that are full—full of self, full of pride, hands tightly wrapped around money and entertainment and pleasure and sin and shame and vice—those are not the hands of the poor in spirit. Those hands are not “blessed” by Jesus. Those hands will never be the hands into which God can give Himself and His mercy and forgiveness and salvation. And be forewarned that Jesus (in His drastic mercy) sometimes takes it upon Himself to empty our hands for us.

Beloved in the Lord, disciples of Jesus, open your hands. Unclench your fists. Admit your spiritual poverty. Jesus has a word for people like that. He calls such poor, spiritual beggars “blessed.” “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of God.” It is precisely when you have nothing that Jesus gives you everything. Into your empty hand Jesus has placed His nail-scarred hand. And that is everything—faith, forgiveness, mercy, purity, peace and joy. Those are the goods Jesus gives away to His poor, empty-handed disciples. Yours is the kingdom of heaven, not because you’ve achieved it—not because you’ve earned it—but only because Jesus has given it into your hands as a gift. Jesus achieved it. Jesus earned it. Jesus emptied Himself and became obedient to death—even death on a cross. His poverty makes you rich. His poverty makes you blessed.

To be blessed is to be saved—to be safely secured—to be anchored to the grace of God through faith in Jesus. Blessed are you, Jesus says. But you should also know that to be a blessed disciple of Jesus doesn’t mean a happy, care-free life in this world. To borrow from my earlier analogy, you’re still “in school.” Playground bullies threaten to pummel you. Homework and expectations and evaluations threaten to overwhelm you. Temptations of every kind swirl around you minute by minute. While the rest of the world rejoices over recess, the disciples of Jesus are mourning over sin and its effects in this dying world. While the rest of the world adopts an aggressive, me-first attitude, the disciples of Jesus live under the cross in meekness. While the rest of the world gorges itself in gluttony, the disciples of Jesus hunger and thirst for righteousness. They are merciful. They are pure in heart. They don’t stir up conflict, but work to make peace. And they are persecuted, because this world cannot long tolerate these who are blessed by Jesus.

It isn’t easy being a disciple of Jesus. But Jesus calls you blessed. He invites you to live in the troubles of today with the promises of tomorrow in mind. And what are those promises? You will be comforted. You will inherit the earth. You will be filled with righteousness. You will be shown mercy. You will see God and be called sons and daughters of God. The kingdom of heaven is yours. It doesn’t get any better than that.

The last day of school was a day of joy and gladness because you knew what was ahead. In the same way, Jesus says, “Rejoice and be glad, because great is your reward in heaven.” Already in Holy Baptism you were joined to Jesus. You will go where He has gone. Already today in Holy Communion you will receive a foretaste of the heavenly feast to come. Today in the Divine Service, heaven breaks in, heaven spills into time and space, the “not yet” works its way into the “here and now.”

Now is where you are. And where is that? Well, now you are blessed. Now you can rejoice and be glad. Now you are an empty-handed disciple of Jesus—poor in spirit but rich in grace. Now you can live in the absolute confidence that school is almost over—that an eternal summer of joy and feasting and happy reunions is about to begin—for the sake of Jesus Christ our Savior, who gave Himself for you. Amen.

Christmas Detour

In Nomine Iesu
St. Matthew 2:1-12
January 6, 2011
The Epiphany of Our Lord

Dear brothers and sisters in Christ Jesus~

The twelve days of Christmas have come and gone; but there is one final holy day that draws us back to Bethlehem. On this Epiphany we worship with the wise men—we rejoice with great joy that One has been born who is king of the Jews . . . and Gentiles too.

I’m especially glad to be preaching on this Epiphany at Luther Memorial Chapel, here in the 3800 block of North Maryland Avenue in Shorewood. I’m glad not for pastoral or personal reasons, but for reasons of proclamation and preaching. You see, all of you hearers tonight—especially you Shorewoodians (or is it Shorewoodites?) all of you have agonized for most of the past year over the construction on Capitol Drive. You’ve been relentlessly rerouted, detoured and delayed. You’ve been inconvenienced and frustrated because a familiar pathway for travel and commerce has been an absolute mess. On this Epiphany I suspect most of you are rejoicing exceedingly because the work is largely done and all lanes are open.

But the detouring and re-routing caused by Capitol Drive construction is a good reminder--a reminder of how the entire Christmas account is really comprised of a series of detours and re-routes. We hear the good news of Jesus’ birth so often that we mistakenly hear it as little more than a smooth sequence of carefully planned events. In fact, it was anything but a smooth sequence of events. It was one detour after another. The betrothal of Mary and Joseph began with an unplanned, unprecedented pregnancy. Then came the decree that a census should be taken—a decree that meant Mary would have to leave behind the comforts of home and the birthing center of Nazareth for the backwater, low-tech town of Bethlehem. Not a move that even modern mothers would tolerate. Joseph was probably muttering about politicians and intrusive government and high taxes the whole way from Nazareth to Bethlehem. Their best laid plans had been disrupted and detoured.

The wise men, as well, were detoured in Jerusalem. Jerusalem seemed like the natural place for the “king of the Jews” to be born. How disappointing to travel all that way—through field and fountain, moor and mountain, following yonder star—only to have things grind to a halt in Jerusalem. Only after the local clergy dug out and dusted off the scroll of the prophet Micah—only after the Word of God was proclaimed and heard—did the wise men learn that the Christ was to be born in Bethlehem of Judea. They heard the Word. They followed the star, they found the Christ, they fell on their faces and gave their gifts. But even the departure of these wise men was marked by—you guessed it—another detour. “And being warned in a dream not to return to Herod, they departed to their own country by another way.”

Detoured, re-routed, re-directed—the birth of the Son of God in human flesh has that effect on the world. It should also have that effect on us who claim the Christ child as our Savior from sin and death. Christmas comes and Christmas goes—and no one is ever the same again. Stinky shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God, making known to all what the angel had told them about the child. Mary treasured it all and pondered those words in her heart. Joseph named the child “Jesus” on the 8th day and claimed Jesus as his Savior from sin. Saintly Simeon sang that he was ready to depart this life in peace. And Gentile wise men from the Middle East knelt down to worship the king of the Jews.

God and man are united in Jesus the Christ and things are never the same again. It must also be that way for us. Jesus came not only to save us from our sins, but also to detour and derail our sinful nature. As we leave another Christmas behind and head back into the comfortable routines of a New Year, we need to be detoured—we need to be re-routed from the sinful patterns we find so easy to follow. St. Paul expressed the detouring effect of Jesus’ birth with these words to Titus: “For the grace of God that brings salvation has appeared to all men. It teaches us to say ‘No’ to ungodliness and worldly passions, and to live self-controlled, upright and godly lives in this present age, while we wait for the blessed hope—the glorious appearing of our great God and Savior, Jesus Christ, who gave himself for us” (Titus 2:11-14).

Christ has come to detour us and to re-route us and re-direct us. The birth of Jesus teaches us to say “no” to the pride and passions that are furiously at work in us with sinful special effects. Our sin likens us to a bunch of little King Herods. You might not like being grouped together with Herod, but we all want to be king. We all want to be in charge of our world, in control, calling the shots. We can excuse and justify our every sin just as if we were answerable to no one—just as if we were kings. We need to be detoured. We need to be re-routed. We need to say “No” to all of that.

We need to say “no” to the selfishness, the greed, the covetousness that characterizes our attitudes toward the wealth we call our own. We may not have much in the way of gold, frankincense or myrrh. But with Herod-like efficiency we gather and grab and grasp for more. When what we need is a detour with the wise men to kneel before the true King with open hearts and open hands and bended knees—to give our best to Him who gave Himself for us. Like the wise men, we need to return home tonight—we need to depart Bethlehem—by a different way—the way of repentance and forgiveness.

And even though our Christmas pilgrimage must be one of detours and u-turns and contrition and repentance, we walk this difficult path with the great joy of the wise men. We have this joy tonight because Jesus our Savior was not detoured. The One who came to save His people from their sins—He was not re-routed. Nothing could deter Him from His mission to make you His own. Neither the applause of the crowds nor the temptations of Satan could derail His mission of mercy. “Nails, spear shall pierce Him through, the cross be borne for me, for you.”

In fact, the Word of God makes a direct connection between the events of the Epiphany and the events of Good Friday. There is a straight linguistic line between His birth and His death. For the wise men came wandering into Jerusalem asking this question: “Where is He who has been born king of the Jews?” In the three decades that followed, Jesus would be addressed with many different titles: such as “Christ” and “Rabbi” and “Lord” and “Son of David.” But that title, “King of the Jews,” would not be heard again until that dark day when His only crown was of thorns and His only throne was a cross. That day the soldiers mocked Him, “Hail, King of the Jews.” Pilate likewise had a notice placed above Jesus’ head on the cross: “Jesus of Nazareth,” it read, “the King of the Jews.” Where is He who has been born king of the Jews? He is the man on the center cross who gave Himself for you. That is why He was born.

After a three day detour Jesus was re-routed to resurrection life. The living Christ still gives Himself for you today. Just as Jesus’ divinity and glory was hidden from the wise men, yet they worshipped Him with joy. So also will we kneel tonight, to worship the same Jesus who is both concealed and revealed for us in the preaching and proclamation of His Word—in the cleansing splash of holy baptism—in the bread that is His body and the wine that is His blood. And we will trust as the wise men trusted—that God is true to His Word—that He always keeps His promises—that He is Emmanuel, God with us.

Whatever the detours may be that stand in your path tonight—the unplanned, uncomfortable, aggravating detours in your life. Know that God will use them for your eternal good. Not every detour is what we would call a good thing. But God does work all things for the good of those who love Him, those whom He has called. That’s you! God Himself has called you in your baptism. He is at work in you for eternity. Between now and the end of your earthly journey, things will not go as planned. Detours lie ahead. It will not be smooth sailing. “Earth’s deep sadness may perplex us and distress us.” But the Lord we love is first and last, the end and the beginning. Our life’s journeys are all begun in Him and ended in Him—the bright morning star. The King of the Jews. Our Savior. Happy Epiphany. Amen.

The Manger and the Martyr

In Nomine Iesu
Acts 6-7
December 26, 2010
St. Stephen, Martyr

Dear brothers and sisters in Christ Jesus~

It seems horribly wrong. Or at least it’s a case of bad judgment. It seems so out of place that the tragic death—the murder—of a faithful Christian man should be remembered so close to Christmas. It’s such a harsh and jarring transition: White paraments and festive joy yesterday to the blood-red paraments of the martyrs today. It’s the second day of Christmas, after all—two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree. Caroling and mistletoing and ho-ho-ho-ing are still in the air.

But celebrating the feast of St. Stephen on December 26th is a tradition as old as Christmas itself. The one, holy, Christian and apostolic Church has observed the martyrdom of Saint Stephen for just as long as she has observed Christmas. Sometime back in the Fourth Century, December 25th was officially designated as the date on which the birth of Jesus would be celebrated. And sometime back in that same century, December 26th was appointed as the date on which the first martyr would be commemorated.

This was no accident. Placing Christmas and the martyrdom of Stephen right next to each other on the calendar was the church’s way of ensuring that Christmas wouldn’t simply be romanticized into a cute story about a little baby born to a poor couple surrounded by barnyard animals beneath a starry sky. Remembering the death of Stephen today, December 26th, shows the direct connection between the birth of the Christ and the death of His saints. It’s intentional. It’s by design. The manger and the martyr go together.

St. Stephen has much to teach us about Christmas—about what it means for us that the Word became flesh and dwelt among us. Stephen’s death shows us, first of all, that the birth of Jesus did not occur to magically erase all of life’s burdens and problems. Jesus wasn’t born to win us a life on earth that’s free from the distressing and depressing troubles of life.

Stephen was a member of the very first Christian congregation in Jerusalem. Jesus had ascended into heaven only a short time earlier. Everything was new and fresh in the life of the church. The Holy Spirit had come at Pentecost and three thousand souls were baptized and brought to faith in Jesus the Christ. Every day the Christians in Jerusalem were meeting together to hear the Apostles’ doctrine, to pray, and to receive the body and blood of Jesus in the Lord’s Supper. The Apostles were preaching the Word of God with great boldness, and the Lord was adding daily to their number.

Yet, even then there were problems in the church. There was conflict among the first Christians. Every day food was distributed to those who were needy. But complaints arose because some of the widows didn’t think they were getting their fair share. And so a special voters’ meeting was called to address the problem. The result was that seven deacons were chosen, including Stephen, whose main task was to oversee the daily distribution of food. To use the jargon of our congregation, we would consider these men to be the very first board of social ministry.

But please note this important point: Stephen was a layman—not an apostle or a pastor. He was full of faith and the Holy Spirit. He went to work for the church because there were problems in the church—and Stephen wanted to be part of the solution. Stephen gave generously of his time, his talent, and his treasure so that the apostles could focus on the work of preaching and baptizing and feeding God’s people with Jesus’ body and blood. Without dedicated, faithful laypeople like Stephen—without all of you in the pews this morning—without your sacrifice, your commitment, your deep desire to solve problems and make peace—things in this church would quickly grind to a halt. There have always been and there will always be problems in the church—for the church is made up of poor, miserable sinners. I thank God for you men and women who, like Stephen, realize that what God has given us in this congregation is worth preserving, and worth all the sacrifices that you make for our life together.

What ultimately got Stephen into trouble was what He confessed about Jesus. Stephen was a layman, yes, but that didn’t stop him from speaking the truth in love about the Savior. It’s worth noting that the Greek word “martyr” means simply “witness.” Stephen was a witness for the Lord—in life and in death. On trial before the Sanhedrin, Stephen showed that Christmas is about God blessing us with His real presence in Christ. On trial, Stephen recounted much of Israel’s history—how God’s presence had always been linked to a certain place—first to Sinai, then to the tabernacle, then to the temple in Jerusalem.

But Stephen’s main point was that now—since Christmas—since the Word became flesh—God’s presence was not to be found in a certain place, but in a certain Person. God’s presence was now located in the flesh-and-blood person of Jesus the Christ. “The Most High,” Stephen testified, “does not dwell in houses made by human hands” (7:48). Stephen testified that the real temple was now to be found wherever Jesus gives Himself to us. Jesus Himself expressed that same point in today’s Holy Gospel when He lamented, “O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, you who kill the prophets and stone those sent to you, how often I have longed to gather you together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings, but you were not willing. Look,” Jesus said, “your house is left to you desolate.” And without the Christ, the temple of the Jews was indeed desolate.

The members of the Sanhedrin resisted the Holy Spirit and sought to kill Stephen for the truth he spoke. Sadly, we too are tempted to work against the truth that Stephen spoke—the truth of God’s presence in our lives. Even among us—those of us like Stephen redeemed by Christ the crucified and washed clean in the splash of Holy Baptism—IN US ALL there are dark and terrible things that masquerade through our lives with sinful special effects—things that seek to push away the Christ and His saving presence—things like human relationships, human pleasures, human pride and suffering. Satan can and does use all of those things to get us to gnash our teeth at the truth of God’s Word and the gift of His presence. Our sin is his success.

But Christmas is God’s great answer to our self-inflicted sin and its heart-wrenching wages. For Stephen, this is what Christmas meant: It meant that at the moment of his death, he was welcomed into the presence of Jesus for all eternity. The angry lies were told for only a short time. The angry shouts were heard for an even briefer time. The bruising stones rained down upon him for just a brief moment. But for Stephen, the presence of Jesus was to be enjoyed forever and ever. “Look,” he said, “I see heaven open and the Son of Man standing at the right hand of God.”

“I see heaven open.” The mission that began at the manger—the mission that was finished at the cross—that mission is fulfilled in each of us when we see what Stephen saw—an open heaven and a waiting Savior. This is why we are now engaged in a twelve-day-long celebration. Jesus was born to destroy death—to bring life and light to Stephen, to you and me, and to all those dear ones you remember at Christmas who have already departed this life in peace and who are already with Christ. Even as our eyes close in death someday, we will surely see what they now see: the Son of Man in human flesh at the right hand of God. Even stone-throwing, teeth-gnashing, stiff-necked sinners like us will see that beautiful sight by grace, through faith in Jesus Christ.

All of our caroling and “merry-Christmas-ing” cannot begin to compare with the voice from heaven which cries out, “Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord from now on” (Rev. 14:13). Shepherd costumes and Christmas sweaters and neckties cannot begin to compare with those who are wearing white robes: “These are they who have come out of the great tribulation; they have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb” (Rev. 7:14). Christmas is the presence of Christ. And there is no greater Christmas than seeing Him face to face. God grant us like Stephen to fall asleep in Jesus with this certainty in our hearts: By His manger and by His holy cross, Jesus has opened heaven for us. Amen.

A Blessed Family Portrait

In Nomine Iesu
Revelation 7:9-17
November 7, 2010
All Saints’ Sunday

Dear brothers and sisters in Christ Jesus~

Did you hear what I just called you? You might have missed it, since I address you in the same way as I begin nearly every sermon. I called you “brothers and sisters” in Christ. Now, to be brothers and sisters is to be family. And on this All Saints’ Sunday we are able to catch a glimpse of just how big and how diverse and how blessed this Christian family of ours really is. “How great is the love the Father has lavished on us,” writes St. John, “that we should be called children of God! And that is what we are.”

What we learn about our Christian family today is similar to what I used to learn in the family gatherings of my youth. My immediate Henrichs relatives were a small group indeed. Not a clan or a tribe by any stretch of the imagination. Even today I have but two sisters and four first cousins. But every so often in my childhood there would be a family reunion—at which all manner of Henrichses would seemingly emerge from the woodwork—people I had never met or seen or heard of before—people to whom I was related. Suddenly, I felt strength in those numbers. My puny, little family had hope—a lively history and an ongoing future. My only question was, “Who are all these Henrichses; and where did they come from?”

That question is not unlike the question that will be asked at the end of time when all the people of God, from the greatest to the least, are gathered together around the throne of God. “These in white robes—who are they, and where did they come from?” Today’s reading from Revelation chapter seven is a beautiful, hope-filled reminder that we are—each of us—on our way to a grand and glorious family reunion. And the sense of wonder and amazement that we sometimes feel at our earthly family reunions will pale in comparison when all the family of faith gathers around the throne of God in heaven. Then, the central question of today’s reading will be on your lips and mine: “These in white robes—who are they, and where did they come from?”

St John describes them as a great multitude that no one can count, from every nation, tribe, people and language, standing before the throne and in front of the Lamb. They are wearing white robes and holding palm branches in their hands. And this family is not a quiet family, but in a loud voice this multitude declares, “Salvation belongs to our God, who sits on the throne, and to the Lamb.” Those in white robes are also joined by all the angels and archangels in worship of God, lifting their voices to proclaim, “Praise and glory and wisdom and thanks and honor and power and strength be to our God forever and ever. Amen.”

Beloved in the Lord, my brothers and my sisters, this is your family being described. This is the family reunion to which you are being drawn—and in which you are already a participant every time you gather around this altar. Who is this host arrayed in white? “These are they,” John says, “who have come out of the great tribulation; they have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb. . . . Never again will they hunger; never again will they thirst. The sun will not beat upon them, nor any scorching heat. For the Lamb . . . will be their shepherd . . . and God will wipe away every tear from their eyes.”

It sounds too good to be true; but it is true and better than good. You might think of these words as a kind of family portrait. Most of you have probably had a family portrait taken at some point. My little family of four posed in front of the camera a few weeks ago. Clothing was carefully coordinated. Hair was parted perfectly. Smiling faces were huddled together as if all was perfectly blissful between us and never was heard a discouraging word and the sky was not cloudy all day. It’s a beautiful family portrait that somehow manages to bring out the very best in us.

But I have to tell you, it’s almost too good to be true. It is true in that it is us; and we weren’t photo-shopped. But we don’t always look like that. Our hair is mostly messy and we’re probably better at snarling than we are at smiling. But a good family portrait brings out the best. And there’s no better family portrait than the one in which all of us are dressed in white robes, with palm branches in our hands, with eyes that weep no more, and voices that sing for joy. That’s the family portrait—that’s the family reunion—which is not too good to be true. It’s our family. It’s our reunion. And all this is thanks to our Savior, Jesus the Christ.

It’s Jesus who makes it possible for sinners like us to stand among the white-robed saints of God. The beatitudes that Jesus spoke in today’s holy gospel are first and foremost descriptions of Himself—the perfect life He lived as our substitute. We are anything but meek, merciful, pure-hearted peacemakers. Not by nature. Not in and of ourselves. Jesus alone is all of this. He embodies these beatitudes perfectly. Jesus is poor in spirit. Though He was rich, He became poor so that by His poverty you are rich. Jesus mourns. He weeps over our sin as He did over Jerusalem; and He weeps over our death as He did at the tomb of Lazarus. But by that mourning He brings us comfort and joy. Jesus hungers and thirsts for our righteousness, and out of His hunger you are fed. Jesus is merciful, pure-hearted, peace-making. He showed mercy by laying down His life for the sin of the world. He made peace by the blood He shed. He offered His pure and holy life as the sacrifice for your sins. He was persecuted, insulted, and falsely convicted. But by that conviction you have been acquitted, justified, declared righteous before God. On the cross Jesus hung bloody in nakedness and shame. But by that blood you have been washed. You have been cleansed. You have been forgiven.

In addition to those formal family portraits, most families also have photo albums filled with candid, casual snapshots which tell the family story in a more informal way. These candid snapshots capture us the way we really are at a given moment in time. Sometimes it’s not too pretty. This is also true for the family of God here and now. For us who walk as yet by faith, there is hunger and thirst and tears and the ongoing struggle with temptation and sin and death. The wages of sin is death, and there can be no denying that. Death is the consequence of sin. But today and every Sunday we celebrate the fact that Jesus has done something remarkable with death. He has taken this feared and dreaded enemy, and He has made it into the gateway of eternal life in heaven. This is why it also says in Revelation, “Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord from now on.”

Yes, you heard correctly, “Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord.” The Lord Jesus has gone the way ahead of them. He Himself has gone to death and the grave, and those who follow Him, trusting Him in faith, are called “blessed” in their death. They are blessed because those who die in the Lord are with the Lord. There’s no waiting around at the pearly gates—no standing in line. There’s no joking around with St. Peter. There’s no soul sleep. No, when you close your eyes for the final time in this world you will immediately open them in paradise with Jesus. Blessed are those who die in the Lord.

Our numbers here today are small. It will take our ushers a mere matter of minutes to total up the attendance here today. But let’s not forget the family portrait that tells the whole story for all the people of God on this day. That portrait depicts a great multitude that no one can count. Our numbers here today are not too diverse. I see a lot of white people of European descent. But don’t forget the family portrait that tells the whole story for all the people of God on this day. That portrait depicts people from every nation, tribe, people and language. Our numbers here today make a joyful sound with their singing. But don’t forget the family portrait in which all the saints who are alive forevermore in Christ, join their voices to sing “Worthy is the Lamb who was slain, to receive power and wealth and wisdom and strength and honor and glory and praise.” It will be the grandest hymn festival you will ever hear.

And you will be there, with all the family of God, dressed in white, standing shoulder to shoulder with the very people next to you now—and with that multitude that no one can even begin to number—a multitude that now includes Susan Kautz, Kaethe Scholz, and Charles Dittmar. Today we feebly struggle; they in glory shine. To say that you will be happy when you join them would be an understatement. “Blessed” would be more accurate. Blessed are you, my brothers and my sisters, fellow children of God, blessed are you in Jesus, now and forever. Amen.

The Reformation of Zacchaeus

In Nomine Iesu
St. Luke 19:1-10
October 31, 2010
Reformation Day

Dear brothers and sisters in Christ Jesus~

My very earliest recollections of attending Sunday school as a little boy are of Zacchaeus. Still too young to read or write, I was not too young to sing. And that song is still with me all these years later: Zacchaeus was a wee, little man—a wee, little man was he. He climbed up in a sycamore tree for the Lord he wanted to see. And as the Savior passed that way he looked up in the tree. And he said, “Zacchaeus, you come down, for I’m going to your house today . . .”

As I got a little older—and as I got a lot taller—it seemed that I had less and less in common with Zacchaeus. You see, I was always the tallest kid in the class. Whenever there was a group photo to be taken, I automatically knew that my place was in the center of the back row. “Wee” and “little” were two adjectives that were never used to describe me.

But in more recent years I’ve come to realize that Zacchaeus isn’t defined by his diminutive stature any more than I’m defined by my above-average height. No, the life of Zacchaeus is defined by the grace of God in Jesus Christ, and by the repentance that flowed from that grace. Grace and repentance are the themes of this Reformation Day. And so I invite you to consider with me this morning the reformation of Zacchaeus.

Zacchaeus was a tax collector; and there was perhaps no better place to be a tax collector than in Jericho. Jericho was (and is) the oldest city in the world. It was a prime spot for collecting customs, levies, surcharges, fees, tariffs and all other manner of taxes on goods and produce being shipped east and west. Mind you, Zacchaeus was a chief tax collector. That probably meant that Zacchaeus’ line of work wasn’t all that different from the typical mafia crime boss of today. Graft, corruption, kick-backs, money laundering, bribes, extortion—it was all in a day’s work when you worked as the chief tax collector in Jericho.

Then, one day the word on the streets of Jericho was that Jesus of Nazareth was coming to town. What Zacchaeus had heard about Jesus we don’t know, but it was evidently enough to trigger his curiosity. So Zacchaeus set out that day to be a spectator. He simply sought to catch a glimpse of the Savior as he passed that way. But being small of stature, he would have to perch himself above the crowd in the branches of a sycamore tree. From there he could take it all in as a spectator. But as the Savior passed that way He looked up in the tree—looked up at one little fan sitting in the stands. And Jesus did what every spectator in Wisconsin dreams about—did what can almost be described as a “Lambeau Leap,” only better!

Imagine it! Jesus hurtles a verbal volley directly up at Zacchaeus—draws him down from his safe and secure perch above the fray—announces that He MUST go to the house of Zacchaeus immediately. (Even Donald Driver wouldn’t dare to do that!) St. Luke tells us that Zacchaeus came down immediately and welcomed Jesus gladly into his home.

And as a result of this surprise visit, Zacchaeus—greedy Zacchaeus, organized crime boss Zacchaeus, unclean, sinful Zacchaeus—he is made a new man, transformed by the amazing grace of God. He repents of his crimes, renounces his shameful ways, and promises restitution to those he has wronged above and beyond what the Law of God required. And Jesus gets the last word, declaring Zacchaeus to be a “son of Abraham,” saved by grace through faith alone.

Zacchaeus teaches us that Christianity is not a spectator sport. Zacchaeus would have been content to be just a spectator that day—perhaps to see Jesus from afar, perhaps to overhear a parable, or possibly even witness a miracle. But at the end of the day, Zacchaeus the spectator would have returned to being Zacchaeus the tax collector on the road to hell. And nothing would have changed. Filthy rich Zacchaeus would have continued on living in spiritual poverty.

Every Sunday the Savior passes right this way, here among us; and every Sunday we are tempted to see ourselves simply as spectators. We love being spectators. We pay good money to be spectators of sports and the arts in all kinds of beautiful venues. But this place is no place for spectators. What do I mean? Well, spectators come here hoping to glean a little good news, to be inspired, to hear beautiful music, to connect with friends—but doing all this with no serious thought about what needs to change in their lives.

It would have been unthinkable that Jesus should personally visit the home of Zacchaeus, only for Zacchaeus to go right back to his life of crime afterward. There was a part of Zachaeus that needed to be changed—that needed reformation. More accurately, there was a part of Zacchaeus that needed to be put to death. He was a lover of money who lined his pockets with all his ill-gotten gain. That pocket lining could no longer continue. It had to be stopped. It had to be put to death.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer, a Lutheran pastor executed by the Nazis, put it more succinctly than I ever could. Bonhoeffer famously wrote, “When Christ calls a man He bids him to come and die.” That striking sentence sounds a lot like the very first of those 95 Theses that Martin Luther nailed to the Castle Church doors at Wittenburg exactly 493 years ago today. Luther wrote, “1. When our Lord and Master, Jesus Christ, said ‘Repent’, He called for the entire life of believers to be one of repentance.” The grace of God leads to this repentance. The grace of God leads us to put to death in us whatever will not conform to the Lordship of Jesus Christ, the Son of God.

The account of Zacchaeus leaves us with but two choices—you can go on being a spectator, enjoying your carefully crafted complacency, living at ease with the normalcy of your sin—OR you can welcome the presence and power of Jesus into your life and radically reform your life through repentance. What is there in your life that needs to die? Where does your Old Adam express himself best? Is it your constant need to be in control, to call the shots, to be the boss? Is it the simmering anger that boils over far too often? Is it your love of money that causes you to be stingy and tight fisted—even toward God? What needs to die in you? Your gift for gossip? Your refusal to flee from sexual immorality?

Saying goodbye to the comfort of old sinful ways is never easy, but your help comes from the Lord—an ever present help in time of trouble. You can’t do it alone. Zacchaeus couldn’t do it alone. It takes the power and presence of Jesus to root out the rot for a meaningful reformation of life. You see, the parts of your life that need to be put to death have already been died for by Jesus. As we heard today in Romans 3, “All have sinned and fall short of the glory of God, and are justified freely by his grace through the redemption that came by Christ Jesus.” The blood that Jesus shed on the cross—that blood means that your scarlet sins can be made snow-white. In Jesus you are forgiven. In Jesus you are a son of Abraham. In Jesus you are justified.

Today what happened to Zacchaeus can happen to you. You may have come here today simply to be a spectator or simply out of habit. But your motive doesn’t matter now. What matters is that Jesus Himself is passing this way. Think of your padded pews as being big branches of a sycamore tree. And here and now today, Jesus does a Lambeau leap into your life. He engages the spectators, drawing them in, connecting His life to their life. In the waters of your baptism. In the comforting cadence of Holy Absolution. In the preaching and proclamation of His Word. In the bread that is His body and the wine that is His blood—Jesus Christ is here FOR YOU. You are not just one of the crowd—not just a spectator in the nosebleed seats. You have a one-on-one encounter today with Jesus the Christ. He comes to our house today. He transforms sleepy spectators into saints who lead holy lives of service. He seeks out sinners. He eats with sinners. He forgives sinners. The sinners gathered in this house will one day be welcomed into His heavenly house.

Don’t think you can have this forgiveness without repentance. You can’t. Don’t think you have this grace while remaining a mere coffee-sipping, donut-munching spectator of the Christian faith. You can’t. Don’t think that Jesus’ forgiveness is permission to go on living the same old sinful patterns. It doesn’t work that way. “When Christ calls a man He bids him come and die.” The Christian life is one of repentance and cross-bearing. Just ask Zacchaeus. His net worth dropped like a stone after his encounter with Jesus.

His net worth dropped, but His Grinch-like heart grew three sizes that day. He was a wee, little man, but Jesus made him a giant in the faith. He went looking for Jesus, but Jesus found him and called him and loved him and saved him. And today, He is doing the same for you. Happy Reformation Day. Amen.