Scarlet Sins

In Nomine Iesu
Isaiah 1:10-18
October 30, 2016
Reformation/Proper 26

Dear brothers and sisters in Christ Jesus~

The snowy scene pictured on today’s bulletin cover is not a welcome sight for many of you, I know. Recent warm weather has made it easy to be in denial about what’s coming. But you might as well come to terms with the fact that the flakes will soon be

flying. The National Weather Service came out with their long-term winter forecast last week. Apparently, the odds are good that we in Milwaukee will see normal temperatures and above normal precipitation. Time will tell just how many inches that will translate into.

Snow does not figure prominently in the Scriptures, which is kind of unfortunate for us. You have to admit that the gospels would be a whole lot more meaningful for us Wisconsinites if Jesus’ miracles had included the stilling of a snowstorm, or the healing of a frostbitten hand, or the resurrection of a snow-blower that had breathed its last. Contrary to what you might think, it does occasionally snow in Israel, especially in the higher elevations. Snow was not unknown to the prophets and the apostles. The Prophet Isaiah had a particular fondness for precipitation—including the frozen variety. And from his pen we hear these words from the Lord on this Reformation Sunday: Come now, let us reason together, says the Lord: though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.

That bit about scarlet sins becoming snowy white is the beautiful, good news that concludes today’s reading from Isaiah. But you may have noticed how that good news was preceded by a scorching indictment by Lord against His very own people. In this the first of Isaiah’s 66 chapters, the Lord begins to lay out the case against His people. Like the opening statement of a prosecuting attorney, the Lord details the crimes His people are committing, the sins in which they have grown comfortable and complacent, and the blood on their hands. He addresses His people as though they were residents of Sodom and Gomorrah—those notoriously sinful cities of old.

The Lord’s displeasure with His people is summed up nicely in this simple sentence: I cannot endure iniquity AND solemn assembly. The people were gathering for worship—for solemn assemblies. Outwardly, they were doing all the right things. They were offering sacrifices and burning incense and spreading out their hands in prayer. They were offering the Lord their outward works of worship; but the Lord doesn’t want outward works of worship from His people. He wants faith. The people were showing up for worship, offering sacrifices, in the hopes that they could butter God up for a blessing. It was an outward show of piety, designed to cover up what was really going on: the iniquity in their hearts. In their solemn assemblies they were pretending to be pious—without concern for the sin and iniquity that shaped their every thought, word, and deed.

Four hundred ninety-nine years ago tomorrow, an obscure Augustinian monk began to make a similar case against the church of his day. The 99 Theses which Martin Luther nailed to the door of the Castle Church in Wittenberg were a call for repentance—not unlike the call for repentance in Isaiah chapter one. The church of Luther’s day also thought that God was to be worshipped with works—that sinners had the power within themselves to make things right with God—through their offerings and indulgences, through their prayers and fasting, by the adoration of holy relics, by pilgrimages to holy sites, or especially by a life lived in a cloistered convent or monastery. The church was telling people to offer God their works—to find security in their works—to earn God’s forgiveness by their works.

But God didn’t want their works. God doesn’t want your works. God desires from you only faith. The just shall live by faith. That’s what Martin Luther read in His Bible. It’s what you heard today from Romans: We hold that one is justified by faith apart from the works of the law. God wants your faith, not your works. Good works are not for God. God doesn’t need your good works. But someone does! And that someone is your neighbor. Good works are for the sake of those around you. We are to serve God with faith; and we are to serve our neighbor with works. That was but one of Luther’s great discoveries.

But what Luther figured out 500 years ago we still can’t keep straight today. God desires your faith—all of it. Yet, what do we do with our faith? We place our faith in human beings, in human institutions, in human government. Case in point: there’s an election coming up soon. And, if nothing else, this election affords us Christians the opportunity to test whether our faith is really in God, or not. If you think that your life and well-being depend on any one candidate being elected, then you need to remember who it is that gives your life and promises to sustain it for all eternity. If you are fiercely partisan because you believe our only hope is in the election of this or that candidate, then you need to remember who alone can forgive your sins and offer you the sure and certain hope of eternal life. Or, on the other hand, if this election has reduced you to a quivering pile of despair and hopelessness—if you believe that all is lost—then you have forgotten who gives you this day your daily bread. You have forgotten who it is that works all things for your eternal good. You have forgotten Him who did not spare His own Son for you. God wants your faith. Why won’t you give it to Him? Without faith it is impossible to please Him. Without faith, you’re just going through the motions in this solemn assembly. And God won’t tolerate that kind of iniquity.

There’s nothing wrong with campaigning and politicking and voting. In fact, those are good works in God’s eyes. We are serving our neighbor by honestly engaging in those good works. We Christians are to stand up and advocate for those who cannot speak for themselves, including the disabled and the unborn, widows and orphans. We are to speak the truth in love and let our light shine before others so that they may see our good works and give glory to our Father in heaven. A world full of people needs your good works. But God alone deserves your faith. God alone will order your days and your deeds in His peace—no matter who the temporary leaders of this world may be.

We need to repent. We have not reserved our faith for God alone. We do not trust in Him as we should. Our sins are like scarlet—red like crimson. What we need is more than a few flurries of forgiveness. What we need is a blizzard of mercy—a thick, white blanket of absolution. We need grace piled up high, drifting into every crevice of our lives. This is what the Lord promises: Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow. Though your guilt runs blood-red, the pure, snowy-white innocence of Jesus can be yours by faith.

You have to admit that there’s something divinely beautiful about freshly-fallen deep snow. We Wisconsinites don’t see that beauty sometimes. When a big snowstorm comes we immediately think of how it will lengthen our commute and make our paths treacherous. But deep snow is something God alone can create. Deep snow covers everything. Everything that’s brown and dead and dirty is covered completely by a brilliant blanket white flakes. After a good snowfall, even the dirtiest, poorest, most litter-strewn, rundown neighborhood in north Milwaukee looks like a magical scene from the paintbrush of Norman Rockwell.

That’s how it is with the love and mercy of God in Jesus Christ. No matter how dirty, rundown, and sin-strewn your life may be, God can make it clean and pure. No sin is too big. No sinner is too bad. No one is excluded. Jesus is the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the whole world. God was reconciling the whole world to himself in Christ, not counting our trespasses against us. He wants all people to be saved and come to the knowledge of the truth. In Holy Baptism God covers us completely with a snowy white robe of righteousness—a gift that Jesus earned for us, which we receive though faith.

One question still remains: Why does God describe our sins as being “like scarlet” and “like crimson?” Why are they red? Why not a dirty black or a muddy brown? Luther suggested that black denotes sadness. But red—red denotes blood. That’s the bad news—and that’s the good news—for this day. That’s the Law and the Gospel for this Reformation Sunday. Our sins are so serious, so deadly, so damnable—that the shedding of blood is necessary for them to be forgiven. That’s why our sins are like scarlet. That’s also why our Savior from sin shed His blood on the cross and gave up His life as your sacred substitute. His life in exchange for yours. His blood poured out in exchange for yours. He takes the bloody mess of your sins upon Himself, and you get His snowy, white robe of righteousness through faith in Him. He gives you His forgiveness in, with, and under the bread that is His body and the wine that is His blood.

Next Sunday is All Saints’ Sunday—when we remember those who rest from their labors with angels and arch angels and all the company of heaven. And regarding those departed saints who are with Christ, we will hear this mysterious sentence: They have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb. The stain of our sin is scarlet; it is a stain we cannot remove. But in the blood of the Lamb, Jesus Christ, you have cleansing. You have forgiveness. You have a sure and certain hope in Jesus the Christ. Remember that when the snows come this winter. Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.

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

Pesky, Persistent Prayer

In Nomine Iesu
St. Luke 18:1-8
October 16, 2016
Proper 24C

Dear brothers and sisters in Christ Jesus~

Jesus told them a parable to the effect that they ought always to pray and not lose heart. Some of Jesus’ parables

leave us scratching our heads, asking, “What does this mean?” Other parables of Jesus are so ripe with possible meanings and interpretations that a hundred sermons couldn’t begin to unpack it all. But with the parable of the unjust judge, St. Luke does us a huge favor. He just tells us what it means. He gives us the conclusions we ought to draw from it, not as a conclusion, but as an introduction. Before we hear even one word from the mouth of Jesus, St. Luke gives us the takeaway: Jesus told them a parable to the effect that they ought always to pray . . . and not lose heart.

Are you losing heart? To lose heart feels a lot like despair and hopelessness. But the Greek word for losing heart also has a more specific meaning. To lose heart can also mean “to give in to evil.” It means to buckle beneath the weight of evil—to give up the fight—to throw in the towel—to conclude, “There is nothing I can do.” And now more than ever, Christians are being tempted to do just that—to give in to evil—to surrender, to retreat, to simply lose heart. There are plenty of reasons today for Christians to be losing heart. Allow me to share a few with you:

One is abortion, the murder of the unborn. Tens of millions of tiny, helpless human beings have been denied their first breath. And these evil acts aren’t just happening in some far-removed, distant location. Abortion happens three miles south of where you are sitting right now—on Mondays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays. And do you remember when those undercover videos from Planned Parenthood were released a year ago, in which they discussed selling the body parts of aborted babies while laughing and sipping chardonnay? Did anything come of that expose? Well, the people who made the videos—the people who exposed the evil—they got harassed and were dragged into court for months of expensive litigation. But your tax dollars are still flowing to Planned Parenthood. Abortion “is settled law—the law of the land,” we hear. It’s enough to make a person lose heart.

And then there’s God’s good gift of marriage and sexuality. It used to be so simple and straight forward. In the beginning God created them male and female—males who became husbands and fathers—females who became wives and mothers. Such terms are now being outlawed—along with masculine and feminine pronouns, like “him” and “her.” God gave marriage as the fundamental building block of human life and society. Only our society has now made marriage meaningless. We’ve made sex meaningless. The LGTB movement desires nothing less than the destruction of the family. And right now there’s little standing in their way. It’s enough to make a person lose heart.

And then there are the scores of people who are abandoning the Christian faith, as we speak. Multitudes of believers across North America are simply turning their backs on the great good news of our Savior, Jesus Christ, and are walking away from His church. They care nothing for sound teaching or truth because their itching ears are only tuned-in to their own passions and desires. Sadly we see it right here at Our Savior—families and individuals drifting away—not to join other churches—just leaving the faith behind. Our young people head off to college and only a few will stay connected to this or any other church. It’s enough to make a person lose heart. It’s heart-breaking. It’s enough to ask along with Jesus, “When the Son of Man comes, will he find [the] faith on earth?”

This is why we need the pesky, persistent widow in today’s parable. She didn’t lose heart. She didn’t grow weary. She didn’t give up the fight against evil. It would have been so easy for her to do that—to simply resign herself to the facts that she was poor—that she had no standing or influence in the community—that it was almost laughable to think that she (of all people) could do battle against a corrupt and evil judge, and somehow, in the end, come out on top. All she could do was show up day after day in his courtroom, badgering him and battering him with her continual cries for justice. That’s all she could do. And she did it relentlessly. And right here is where the parable takes an unexpected turn. The crooked judge ends up giving the pesky widow what she wants—not on the merits of her case—but just to get her out of the courtroom and out of his hair. And if that’s how it is in the crooked courtrooms of this world—if arrogant and evil judges can occasionally do the right thing—will not God give justice to His elect—to His children—to you who cry out day and night? Yes. Yes He will.

But before you can walk in the ways of that widow, you must leave behind the ways of the unjust judge. For we live more like the judge than the widow in this parable. He carried out his work with no fear of God. “I neither fear God nor respect man,” he confessed. That should be our confession too. We don’t fear God. We do fear what others may think of us. We do fear what our friends may think of us—especially if we were to speak out in defense of the unborn. We do fear what might happen to us if we were to relentlessly promote marriage as the lifelong union of one man and one woman, and to lovingly reprove and correct those who have been deceived. We do fear alienating our college-age/twenty-something children by telling them to lead a sexually pure and decent life and by persistently urging them to receive God’s gifts in the Divine Service. Those are the kinds of things we fear—much more than we fear God.

And what that means is that, in God’s courtroom, we don’t have a legal leg to stand on. We are just as corrupt and crooked as the unjust judge. Under God’s law we are guilty. Our adversary, the devil, has an open-and-shut case against us. We neither fear God nor respect our neighbors. We are sinful and unclean. It’s enough to make a person lose heart.

But take heart. For you stand before a Judge who is gracious and merciful. You stand in faith before a Judge like none other. Jesus is the one who will judge the living and the dead—including you. Jesus is the judge in whose name all our prayers are prayed. Jesus is the judge who will always rule in your favor. Jesus is the judge who bears such love and concern for you that He stood in your stead and took your guilt and punishment upon Himself. Your sin—including your sins of despair and hopelessness—your failure to pray, praise, and give thanks—those sins can no longer condemn you. For Judge Jesus has made peace with the Father. Judge Jesus became the convicted criminal—Judge Jesus went to death row—so that sinners might be justified, declared righteous, and hear this sentence handed down: “Not guilty.”

This is why you are afforded the chance always to pray—to pray like that pesky, persistent widow. You pray not so much because you have a case to make, but because the case against you has been dismissed. You pray not based on your merits, but on the merits and in the name of Jesus—who is also praying with you and for you. You can boldly claim the right to be heard because you have been baptized in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit.

Beloved in the Lord, don’t lose heart. Even when God appears absent, silent, or uncaring. Remember how your Savior did not lose heart, even during those agonizing hours when He hung from the cross. Even then He prayed: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” Even then He continued to pray with persistence to His Father: “Into your hands I commit my spirit.” When your prayers seemingly go unanswered, remember that your God is no crooked judge; He is your gracious and loving Father in heaven. And remember that you are so much more than a nuisance to Him; you are His child. Go ahead and bother Him with your prayers. Be shameless about it. Be pesky and persistent.

Jesus concluded this parable with a reference to the Last Day—to the day when He returns to judge the living and the dead. When the Son of Man comes, will he find the faith on earth? What does the Last Day have to do with your prayers this day? Well, on the last day it will all become clear. It will become clear just how tenderly Jesus has carried us along through all those dark times in life—those times when we were losing heart—those times when every syllable of prayer was a struggle—those times when our lives seemed so widowed and worthless. On the Last Day it will become clear how God’s apparent slowness is really only part of His wanting our eternal good—how by it He is building your faith and teaching you to rely completely on His grace, His mercy, and His love.

When the Son of Man comes, will He find the faith on earth? Yes. Yes He will. In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Let Them Hear

In Nomine Iesu
St. Luke 16:19-31
September 25, 2016
Proper 21C

Dear brothers and sisters in Christ Jesus~

Poor Lazarus. Poor Lazarus was poor and poverty-stricken beyond what any of us can imagine. He lived out his days lying

at the gate of a very rich man—kept alive by the crumbs and scraps that fell from the rich man’s table. The only medical care poor Lazarus received was when dogs came a licked his sores—dogs not like the noble, well-groomed pooches on the cover of the bulletin, but more likely mangy, flea-bitten, malnourished mutts—scavengers who lived on the streets. Poor Lazarus.

The day came when both men died—the rich man and poor Lazarus. Everybody dies, rich and poor alike. But then comes the big surprise. In death, everything gets turned upside down for both men. The rich man loses everything; the poor man gains everything. The rich man becomes the beggar; and the poor man becomes the rich man. The one who appeared to be blessed is now cursed; and the one who appeared to be cursed is now blessed.

And then things get really interesting. This is surely one of the most provocative parables Jesus ever told. It’s downright fascinating. The curtain that keeps heaven and hell hidden from us 24/7 is temporarily pulled opened; and we get something of a sneak peek. But this parable isn’t primarily about the sweet joys of heaven or about the horrors of hell. In fact, it’s not even about the dangers of wealth or the nobility of poverty. No, the real key to understanding this parable comes in the conversation between the rich man in Hades and Father Abraham in heaven.

In the torments of Hades, the rich man finally sees the futility of his faithless life. In Hades, all of his unbelief is gone. In hell, there are no atheists—not one. In endless anguish, the man’s thoughts turn to his five living brothers. They are at risk for ending up in agony like him. They must be warned. And who better to warn them than poor Lazarus? Surely a messenger from the dead would be the perfect solution—a spooky spirit to scare straight those five brothers—a word of warning from beyond the grave (and just in time for Halloween, we might add). But the key to understanding this whole scene comes in Abraham’s response to this proposal. What Abraham says—and what he doesn’t say—unlocks everything for us.

What Abraham says concerning the rich man’s five brothers traveling the wide road that leads to destruction is this: “They have Moses and the Prophets; let them hear them.” Moses and the prophets was simply a shorthand way of describing the entire Old Testament from Genesis to Malachi. In other words, Abraham tells the rich man, “Your five brothers—the ones you’re so worried about—they’ve got God’s Word—they’ve got the Holy Scriptures preached and proclaimed every Sabbath day in the synagogue. Let them hear those Scriptures. Let them hear Moses and the Prophets—all of whom testify and bear witness to the Son of God, Jesus the Christ.” And to “hear” them in this context means to hear them in faith—to hear them and take them to heart—to order your life around the good news that flows from God’s Word, the Bible. Hold it sacred; gladly hear and learn it.

Now, to some people, those words might sound a little harsh. I mean, for once—perhaps for the first time ever—the singed and smoldering rich man is finally thinking of someone other than himself. He’s concerned about souls rather than shekels. He’s not asking anything for himself. He’s asking for whatever it takes to save his brothers. And isn’t it true that God wants all people to be saved and come to the knowledge of the truth? So why not go along with his request to send Lazarus to warn them?

In fact, let’s imagine what Abraham could have said, but didn’t. Let’s ponder the possibilities. I for one am really glad that when the man expressed his concern for his brothers that Abraham didn’t say this: “I’m so sorry, but those five guys are already predestined to join you in the flames of Hades. It’s too late for them.” I for one am also really glad that Abraham didn’t say this: “Don’t worry about your brothers; as long as they just do their best and try their hardest to be good people, they’ll earn their way to heaven eventually.” And I’m especially glad that Abraham didn’t say this: “That’s a great idea! I’ll be happy to send Lazarus from the dead to warn your five brothers. After all, the Lord loves to communicate with people through supernatural signs, spirits, séances, apparitions, ghosts, and other assorted figments of the imagination.”

What Abraham did say was this: “They have Moses and the Prophets, let them hear them.” It wasn’t riches that brought the rich man to hell; and it wasn’t poverty that brought poor Lazarus to heaven. It was, rather, that poor Lazarus listened—and the rich man did not. Poor Lazarus listened and heard and took to heart the Word of God—the simple, plain, unadulterated, centuries-old Word of God. And through those words, the Lord was at work to save poor Lazarus and make him rich—by grace alone, through faith alone, and not by works, but solely through the merits of Jesus Christ, the Son of God. It’s not theoretical astro-physics or rocket science. It’s the Gospel! And it’s so simple that even little children can express it every time they sing, “Jesus loves me this I know, for the Bible tells me so.”

Someday what happened to the rich man and Lazarus will happen to you. On a day known only to the Lord, you will leave this world to tread the crossroads of heaven and hell. And the path down which you will be ushered will depend completely on what God has revealed to you in His Word—and whether you have heard that word in faith. Between now and then, there will be no one appearing from the dead to scare you straight. Nor will you be given apparitions, visions, and special revelations to propel you along the narrow path that leads to life. For you already have all that you will ever need to depart this life in peace and joy, in the sure and certain hope of the resurrection of the body and the life everlasting. You have Moses and the Prophets. You have the inspired Word of God. And you have Jesus and the apostles and the evangelists—two testaments, old and new.

This is why the rich man’s proposal regarding his brothers was met by Abraham with a resounding “no.” This is why his request was denied outright. It was completely unnecessary. Everything that the Lord could possibly do to save you He has already done—and He is doing it right now in the Divine Service as the Word of the Lord pierces the darkness of our hearts with the glorious gospel that Jesus Christ has destroyed death and has brought life and immortality to light through the gospel. All of God’s power to love you—His power to save you—His power to deliver you from sin and death is found in the preaching and proclamation of His Word. “Faith,” we hear in Romans 10, “Faith comes by hearing, and hearing through the Word of Christ” (v.17).

Are you hearing? Can you hear me now? Are you taking the Word of God to heart right now, or are you just taking up space and thinking about more important things? When did you last read the Scriptures at home? When did you last participate in a Bible class? When was the last time you shared something from the Word of God with someone in dire straits—with some poor, desperate person not unlike poor Lazarus in the parable?

The Word of God takes us to the crossroads of heaven and hell. And what you find standing there at the crossroads is Christ the crucified. His holy cross is the sure and certain sign that the way to eternal life has been opened for you—that your sins have all been forgiven in the cleansing blood of Jesus. Your heavenly Father loves you for Jesus’ sake. And He is waiting for you to take your place with all the other beggars—beggars now wearing white robes—beggars now gathered around the throne—beggars now fully satisfied, who have been given life to the full.

That full life comes to you in Holy Baptism, where God lovingly washed and healed all the stinging sores of your sin. That full life comes to you this morning—not as mere crumbs from the Master’s table—but in the bread that is Jesus’ body and in the wine that is Jesus’ blood. These good gifts—these sacraments—are referred to as the “visible word” in our Lutheran Confessions. Here the Word comes to us not only in audible ways, but in visible ways. In short, you lack nothing. You’ve been given everything you need to join with Lazarus at the Savior’s side in glory yet to be revealed.

But for now, “we are all beggars.” That’s what Martin Luther famously said as he himself was about to depart this life to be with Christ. We are all beggars. We are all Lazaruses—each of us—begging, hungry, helpless, sick, and sore. But Jesus Himself has joined us. That’s where you find him—among the beggars, the dogs, the outcasts, the losers. Jesus became a beggar to save the beggars—to make the beggars rich with His grace and forgiveness. You can hear all about it in the Word of God. So hear what Moses and the Prophets say. Hear what the Apostles and Evangelists are telling the church: Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are those who hear the Word of God and keep it. Blessed are you who are in Christ, for your sins are forgiven. Your death is undone. And hell has no power over you. Amen.

Managers of a Merciful Master

In Nomine Iesu
St. Luke 16:1-15
September 18, 2016
Proper 20C

Dear brothers and sisters in Christ Jesus~

You’re fired! Have those words ever been directed at you? Have you ever been terminated? Let go? Dismissed? Have you ever accepted an invitation into your boss’s office or into HR, only to learn that you’re being canned? Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred dollars. Just clean out your desk, turn in your keys, and vacate the premises. If it’s happened to you, you remember it, I’m sure. Particularly for people who are my age—people with a monthly mortgage and kids in college—few things in life are more terrifying or traumatic than to hear the words, “You’re fired.”

That was the precise predicament of the man in the parable we heard earlier from Luke 16. As the parable picks up, this man was about to join the ranks of the unemployed. He had been working as a manager of his master’s money. But apparently, when he should have been keeping an eye on the NASDAQ and on the S&P 500, he was otherwise occupied playing Pokemon Go (or something along those lines). In other words, he was wasting his master’s possessions. He wasn’t doing his job. He wasn’t managing the money that had been entrusted to him, and now, because of his mismanagement and malfeasance, he was being sacked—terminated with cause.

But then things take a surprising turn. For precisely when he should have been cleaning out his desk and consulting the “help wanted” ads, he makes a rather bold decision. Before word gets out about his being fired, he calls in his master’s debtors and starts giving them generous discounts. He knocks off 50 percent here and 20 percent there, collecting what he can at a deep discount. It’s an incredibly shrewd move. The man’s boss is cornered. If he chooses to overrule his rogue manager, and rejects the deals he made, then he’ll look like a scrooge to all his business associates. But if he takes the deals hammered out by his shrewd manager, then the shrewd manager looks good and wins a lot of new friends. In the end, the master commended his dishonest manager for his shrewdness.

That’s what makes this parable so strange. Doesn’t it seem just a bit odd when a dishonest, wasteful crook ends up saving the day and coming out on top? It’s not the ending you would expect. And that’s where we come in. For we too are managers, stewards of all the wealth that our heavenly Father has placed into our hands. The money and possessions we so casually call our own, aren’t really ours at all. It’s only on loan to us for the brief span of time we spend in this world. And this parable would seem to indicate that we should use the money entrusted to us shrewdly and wisely. To be sure, what you do with your money cannot get you into heaven; but how you regard your money certainly does have the potential to keep you out of heaven.

Or course, what gets us into those eternal dwellings is faith—faith in Jesus. But it’s also true that you can tell a lot about your faith by how you handle the wealth God has entrusted to you. Jesus famously said, “Where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” If you want to see where your heart is, then follow the money. Look at your checkbook register. Read carefully through your credit card statement. What are your financial priorities? How do you like to splurge and indulge? What are your idols? What are your gods? On what have you set your heart, your hope for years to come?

When we conduct an honest audit of our finances it starts to make more sense why Jesus would tell a parable about a dishonest, wasteful steward. For we’re all guilty of trying to serve both God and money. Like the Israelites of Amos’s day, we do put in our “God time.” We do go through the routine of placing something in the offering plate. But from there it’s back to business as usual—where shekels and sales and income and dividends and profits become the center of life—where money makes the rules—where money orders our days and our deeds—where money promises everything but delivers nothing—just like every other idol.

Jesus nailed the Pharisees that day for their love of money: “You justify yourselves before men,” He told them, “but God knows your hearts.” God knows our hearts too. He knows. He knows what we fear, love and trust. He knows that our management has been miserable, and our stewardship a shambles. If God were to carefully audit our performance in matters of money and stewardship, then what we would most deserve to hear would be simply, “You’re fired.”

So thank God for the dishonest manager. Thank God for the shrewd steward of today’s parable. For if even this shady, shifty, lazy manager—who seemed to be operating from purely selfish motives—if even he could double down and ultimately earn the praise of his master—then how much more should we be the best money managers ever? How much more should we who have been purchased—not with gold or silver, but with the holy, precious blood of Jesus—absolutely excel at managing the wealth we have been given? How much more should we who are blood-bought, died-for, and redeemed from sin and death be ever motivated and moved to manage the good things God has entrusted to us with wisdom, with care, with precision and devotion? How much more should we who have nothing to lose as children of the heavenly Father be empowered to make bold moves with our money—to be generous for Jesus’ sake? For we know that in Him there is no condemnation—that by faith we have been promoted to the highest rank as brothers and sisters of the Lord Jesus Christ.

Thank God for the dishonest manager—the shrewd steward who shows the way for all stewards. Think about it: When was this fellow—with all of his flaws—when was he most productive and effective at what he was doing? It was right after he was fired. For it was right at that moment that he realized he had nothing to lose. Then he lets loose with his “Hail Mary” pass to the end zone. That day was probably the most productive day of his entire career. If he’d worked that hard earlier, he might never have been fired. But it’s only when he is fired—it’s only when his name is “mud,” it’s only when his guilt and sin are exposed before all, it’s only when he doesn’t have a single good work with which to justify himself—that he becomes the manager he was meant to be.

Beloved in the Lord, when it comes to money and possessions, you have nothing to lose. You have nothing to lose because Jesus Christ has given you everything—His love, His forgiveness, His righteousness, His resurrection life. Now money is not your master, Jesus is. And Jesus is a merciful Master. In Him you can live free, with nothing to lose. The kingdom of heaven belongs to you. The new you in Christ is not a slave to money, but a master of money. You can order it around. You can tell it what to do. You can tell Misters Washington, Lincoln, Hamilton, Jackson, Grant and Franklin to get to work helping the poor and unemployed, supporting the mission of the church to seek and save the lost.

Everything hinges on the fact that you have a merciful Master in Jesus Christ. He seeks out the wasteful and the dishonest, the shrewd and the savvy. He receives sinners. He rescues them from sin and death by His dying and rising. He baptizes sinners. Through water and the Word (as we saw this morning with little William) He mercifully receives sinners and makes them children of God. He works forgiveness of sins, rescues from death and the devil and gives eternal salvation. Money can’t do any of that! Money can’t bring lasting peace or happiness. Money can’t wash away sin or give you a clean conscience. But Jesus does all of that and more—does it for you out of pure, 24 karat, 200 proof grace. That’s why you have nothing to lose. For you have a merciful Master. Amen.

When Angels Rejoice

In Nomine Iesu
St. Luke 15:1-10
September 11, 2016
Proper 19C

Dear brothers and sisters in Christ Jesus~

“This man receives sinners and eats with them.” The Pharisees and the scribes didn’t have any trouble finding things about

Jesus they didn’t like. They didn’t like His methods or His message. They didn’t like the way He sometimes broke the rules. Nor did they like the loyal following Jesus was creating for Himself. But what really got under their skin—what really annoyed them about Jesus of Nazareth—wasn’t His preaching or His parables. It was the company that He kept. “This man receives sinners and eats with them.”

Jesus had a habit of hanging out with sinners—with people who hadn’t darkened the door of a synagogue for a very long time—people whose situation in life virtually disqualified them from participating in the religious life of God’s people. You know the type—tax collectors and prostitutes—the unclean, the impure, the unholy. But Jesus knew who needed Him the most. Jesus knew that God’s grace doesn’t automatically exclude anybody—no matter how flimsy their religious resume might have been. That’s why this man “receives sinners and eats with them.”

Still today, folks can get uncomfortable when the wrong sort of people start to associate with Jesus. And very often, the people who get the most upset about this are people who never come to church. How often have you heard someone say that they don’t belong to a church because the church is full of hypocrites—because they know the type of people who show up at church on Sunday morning and, it turns out, they’re sinners!—sinners in need of a Savior.

Can you guess what part of the Divine Service is the biggest stumbling block to visitors? What gets people grumbling? What do they have a hard time swallowing and saying? “I, a poor, miserable sinner, confess unto You all my sins and iniquities.” Nothing kills a good religious buzz like admitting the worst about yourself. A lot of people don’t like that. They feel pretty good about themselves. They may sin; but not nearly as much as most other people do. Why go negative with all this “sin talk” when you can accentuate the power of the positive? They don’t need to repent; but they know plenty of other people who do.

Beloved in the Lord, if Jesus receives sinners and eats with sinners, then confessing yourself to be a poor, miserable sinner just might have some merit—and more than a little truth—to it. The Augsburg Confession—already in Article 2—lays out the bad news of original sin—that “all people are full of evil lust and inclinations from their mothers’ wombs and are unable by nature to have true fear of God and true faith in God.” (Stick around for Bible class today to learn more about the Augsburg Confession.)

Or, if the Augsburg Confession doesn’t convince you, then at least take to heart the words of the Apostle Paul in today’s epistle: “The saying is trustworthy and deserving of full acceptance, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners, of whom I am the foremost.” No less than Saint Paul identifies himself as the chief of sinners. And notice that he wrote in the present tense: “sinners, of whom I AM the foremost.” It’s not that he WAS the chief of sinners, back when his name was Saul and he was doing really bad things. No, he, Paul, IS the chief of sinners. And this isn’t some kind of pious humility talking here. For unless you, dear Christian, view yourself as numero uno in the line-up of sinners, you will have no use for the Savior of sinners. It’s as simple as that. But see yourself as the “chief” of sinners and you will enjoy the good company of Jesus. For, you know what they say about Jesus, “This man receives sinners and eats with them.”

Today’s two quick parables begin to express the joy that Jesus derives from seeking sinners, finding sinners, and forgiving sinners. That sounds strange, doesn’t it? In fact, it’s almost as strange as when a shepherd with a hundred sheep loses one, and then leaves the ninety-nine in the open country to go after the one that’s lost until he finds it. Are you kidding me? Who in their right mind leaves ninety-nine valuable sheep to fend for themselves against a pasture full of predators to go off and look for one lost sheep which doesn’t have the good sense to stay with the flock and the shepherd? And then, finding that lost sheep, hoists it on his shoulders, gives it a free ride home, and then throws a party for all his friends and neighbors? Who does that?!

Jesus does that. Jesus gives us a glimpse into heaven: “Just so, I tell you, there will be more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who need no repentance.” You know, heaven, as I understand it, is already a place filled to the brim with joy. But the decibel level of that joy gets jacked up significantly when one sinner recognizes her sinfulness and confesses, “I, a poor, miserable sinner.” There’s more joy over someone who simply says, “God, be merciful to me, a sinner,” than over ninety-nine self-righteous, tee-totaling, tattoo-free do-gooders who think they don’t need to repent.

Or how about this one: A woman has ten silver coins and loses one. She turns on the lights, sweeps the whole house, looks under all the couch cushions, moves all the furniture, spends the whole day looking diligently for that one lost coin. And when she finds it she throws a party—a party that probably cost even more than that one lost coin was worth. Who does that? Who drops everything to spend an entire day to look for one lost coin and, after finding it, throws a party for all her friends and neighbors? Who does that?!

Jesus does. And once again He gives us a sneak peak into heaven where angels rejoice over one sinner who repents—one sinner who realizes how lost he is and trusts in Jesus Christ to save him. You once were lost, but now you’ve been found. In fact, I suspect that’s why many of you are here this morning—because God in Christ has found you. He has lifted you up on His shoulders and given you the gift of faith and made you a member of His flock. It happened in Holy Baptism. There at the font the Lord of love picked you up in His gracious arms—up onto His shoulders where there is nothing but safety and security and contentment. The wolf cannot get you there. Death and hell cannot reach you when you’re riding on the shoulders of your shepherd.

You were born into this world a lost sinner. Do you know what it means to be lost? I don’t think people today get lost as much as they used to. If you have a smart phone and a strong enough signal, it’s hard to get completely lost. But it does happen. Several years ago my family flew to Tampa for vacation. Our flight was delayed and it was late at night when we arrived. It got later and darker as we waited and waited for our rental car. We were stressed and weary as we accelerated out of the airport and onto the expressway. The lady in my phone told me to “keep right,” when what she really meant was “exit right.” I didn’t do that. And just like that, we were lost—completely disoriented. We didn’t know what road we were on or what direction we were going, in utter darkness—all while hurtling forward at 70 miles per hour. At least we knew we were lost; but think of all the lost people you know who don’t realize their predicament—who have never even heard the phrase, “I, a poor, miserable sinner.”

For a world full of lost people—for a world of wayward, wandering sheep—Jesus Christ endured the cross, scorning its shame. You were lost in sin and death. So Jesus took your miserable sin—all of it—upon Himself. On the cross, Jesus became the foremost sinner who ever lived—the chief of sinners—the sacrificial lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world. Jesus died and was buried. He was “lost,” we might say; in the same way we say we have “lost” someone when they die. Jesus was lost; He died; He was never coming back. Only He did—on the third day He rose again. And He still lives. And He still takes great joy in seeking and saving lost sinners.

The day will come for you, my friends, when you will begin to feel hopelessly lost—when the wisest doctors and the finest medical care will not be able to rescue you. You will feel yourself slipping away from loved ones and from all that has given you your bearings in this earthly life. But as you close your eyes and breathe your last, you will again know the joy of being found. For the Lord Jesus and His holy angels will come to you. And they will bear you home. How can you be sure? Because Jesus receives sinners and eats with them. Amen.

The High Cost of Discipleship

In Nomine Iesu
St. Luke 14:25-35
September 4, 2016
Proper 18C

Dear brothers and sisters in Christ Jesus~

Could somebody please tell me what happened to Jesus? Because the teacher doing all the talking in today’s Holy Gospel

doesn’t sound at all like the Jesus we know and love. Perhaps the Savior got up on the wrong side of the bed. Or perhaps an imposter has stepped into the Savior’s sandals. Instead of inviting us, He repels us. Instead of kindling the fire of faith in our hearts, He pours cold water on us. Instead of, “Come, follow me,” He warns us to reconsider jumping on the Jesus bandwagon.

Could somebody please tell me what happened to Jesus? The great crowds who were swarming around the Savior must have wondered the same thing. Who is this guy? They were looking for celebrity Jesus—popular Jesus—the kind of Jesus we all want to follow—fun Jesus—the Jesus who gives us what we want when we want it. Healing? You got it! All you can eat bread and fish? No problem! Raise your child from the dead? As easy as waking her up! Wine for your wedding reception? Just ask Jesus to be the bartender and watch the magic happen! Now there’s a Jesus we can all get behind!

But as Jesus moved into the final phase of His earthly ministry—as He set His face toward Jerusalem and Calvary—there’s a tremendous change in tone: “If anyone comes to me and does not hate his own father and mother and wife and children and brothers and sisters, yes, and even his own life, he cannot be my disciple.” Excuse me? Hate? Aren’t we supposed to love our families and honor our mother and father? How can the God who tells husbands to love their wives, now speak of hatred for wife and children and brothers and sisters? What’s more important than family? What’s more important than marriage? What’s more important than children and brothers and sisters? Jesus, here, seems to be saying, “I am. I am more important than all of these.”

And that’s really the point of this pointed language: When it comes to the actions we take and the choices we make—everyone else—every other relationship—takes a backseat to following Jesus. Jesus had to know that His word choice here would be controversial. This is the classic “hard saying” of Jesus. There’s probably an element of hyperbole here—Jesus exaggerating to make an important point. Hate, as Jesus uses it, is not an emotion. Jesus isn’t saying that we should have negative feelings—or wish the worst—for our family members. We shouldn’t be plotting against them with a seething rage. But in the grand scheme of our priorities, Jesus always takes first place, while everyone and everything else must be a distant second. Get your priorities mixed up, and you cannot follow Jesus for long. You cannot be His disciple.

A simple way to check your priorities is to ask, when you’re not here on Sunday morning—when you’re not hearing the Word or being fed with the body and blood of Jesus for the forgiveness of sins—when you’re not engaged in the primary activity of discipleship that goes on here—then where are you? What keeps you from being here? Is it soccer, swimming, baseball, football, or foosball? Is it dance or drama or music rehearsal? Is it the cabin up north or the 18-hole golf course? Or did you simply stay out too late on Saturday night? Or do you have house guests who aren’t all that religious (maybe even family members) and staying home allows you to avoid having to talk about your faith? What would the Savior say to you about your priorities? And if you are here every Sunday, how well do you put your discipleship into practice Monday through Saturday? How well do your words and actions and choices reflect who you are as a baptized child of God?

Right about now we could all use some good news from Jesus. Unfortunately, the Jesus we hear from today doesn’t have it. In fact, He turns up the heat: “Whoever does not bear his own cross and come after me cannot be my disciple.” There’s some debate about exactly what Jesus means when He tells us to take up our “cross.” Crosses are not just the pesky little problems that vex us, like a car that won’t start or getting overcharged at Trader Joe’s. Crosses have but one purpose—like electric chairs have one purpose. Crosses kill. Crosses are instruments of suffering and death. To take up your cross then is to follow Jesus through suffering, persecution, loss, and finally death. To take up your cross and follow Jesus is to travel the road of death and resurrection—with Him. Suddenly, following Jesus doesn’t sound like much fun anymore, does it?

So, it only makes sense to count the cost. Do the accounting. Check the assets and expenses. It’s what you do before you start any big construction project. It’s what world leaders do before they head off to war. So what will it cost to be a disciple of Jesus? What will it cost you to follow Him? Everything. All you have. Following Jesus is going to cost you far more than the ten percent you toss in the offering plate. Following Jesus is going to cost you much more than the precious 90 minutes of your schedule you block out to be here on Sunday morning. It will cost you everything. And unless you hate everything that competes and gets in the way and hinders your discipleship—whether family, friend, or favorite pastime—then you cannot be a disciple of Jesus.

Beloved in the Lord, if this is a hard sermon to hear, let me tell you it’s also a hard sermon to preach. If it sounds like a lot of law to you, you’re absolutely right. Jesus wants to take away everything that prevents us from following Him in true discipleship. But know this: Whenever Jesus takes anything away from you, He does that only because He wants to give you more. In fact, Jesus wants to give you everything—the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, the life everlasting, the peace that passes understanding, joy that has no limit, and comfort that carries you through every dark and lonely place.

Jesus knows about dark and lonely places. Jesus knows about counting the cost. As Jesus spoke the difficult words we’ve heard today, He was headed to Jerusalem, to His very own cross, to His atoning death as the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world. Jesus had counted the cost. Jesus had crunched the numbers in collaboration with the Father and the Holy Spirit. Jesus was going to take up His cross . . . and die on it for you—to redeem us all from sin, death and hell. Jesus considered the high cost of your salvation and He concluded: You are worth it!

We should indeed consider the cost of discipleship . . . because Jesus Himself bears that cost. He lays down His life to save the world. He becomes the world’s sin. He dies our death. He went to battle against sin, death and the devil—not with an army of thousands to back Him up—but entirely alone and completely forsaken. And He concluded that it was worth every drop of His holy, precious blood to save you.

Here’s an important point to consider: If our discipleship depended entirely on us, then Jesus would have no disciples. If following Jesus was solely a feat of our spiritual strength, then Jesus would have no followers. It’s true! Jesus is the one who creates disciples and followers for Himself—by baptizing them in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. It’s so important to remember: He chose you. He baptized you. He called you by His Spirit. You were dead and He made you alive with faith. You didn’t choose Him to be your Savior; He chose you and loved you and gave Himself for you. And even when you are here—regularly—for all the right reasons—even then you are here, ultimately, because you have been called, gathered, enlightened, and sanctified by the Holy Spirit. Jesus has counted the cost of giving you eternal joy in His presence; and it has pleased Him to pay that price in full.

If the hard sayings of Jesus today caused you to wonder, what happened to Jesus? Know that Jesus is here, where He has promised to be, giving you faith and forgiveness. He will not leave you behind. He desperately wants you to be His disciple. And His fervent hope is that you will follow Him through death to life that lasts forever. Amen.

The Feast for the Least

In Nomine Iesu
St. Luke 14:1-14
August 28, 2016
Proper 17C

Dear brothers and sisters in Christ Jesus~

This morning we get two party parables from Jesus. The party parables help to dispel all the lame ideas we have about the life of the world to come—such as, heaven being populated by a

bunch of chubby cherubs sitting around on fluffy clouds strumming harps for all eternity. I honestly don’t know anyone who would look forward to something like that, especially in the younger generation. Some teenagers area actually afraid that heaven will be little more than a Precious Moments collection with really bad music playing in the background. But the party parables invite us to picture heaven as a big dinner party—a wedding feast of fine wines and rich foods. Eating and drinking are the main activities. Eating without the weight gain and drinking without the drunkenness.

Jesus regularly engaged in such eating and drinking, so much so that his enemies labeled Him as a glutton and a drunkard. Jesus regularly sat down to eat and drink with tax collectors, sinners, and others rejected by the ruling religious elites. Jesus would even go so far as to invite His followers to proclaim His death through their participation in a holy meal of bread and wine—bread that is His body and wine that is His blood. The eating and drinking we do in this sacrament of the altar is a foretaste of the feast—a preview of the party—to come.

Jesus told these party parables while He was eating and drinking at the home of a Pharisee, along with other Pharisees and lawyers. It was a Sabbath day. Mix together Jesus with a few Pharisees on a Sabbath day and there’s sure to be fireworks. They were watching Jesus carefully, waiting for Him to slip up somehow. Sure enough, as if on cue, a man with dropsy crashes the dinner party. Jesus heals him and sends him on his way. And while the host is trying to get things back in order, Jesus decides to teach a few things about etiquette in the kingdom of God. And what we get are two party parables about the feast for the least.

Jesus had noticed how all the dinner guests scrambled and elbowed each other to get the best seats next to the host. But Jesus warned them that when you presume to take the place of honor, someone more honorable—more distinguished than you—may show up. And then you get booted out. It’s kind of like at Miller Park when those guys with tickets for the bleachers decide to try and slip into unoccupied seats behind home plate. I’ve never tried that, of course, because it’s a good bet that the ushers will humble you and eject you from your place of pride behind home plate.

That’s what happens when we presume upon God’s mercy—when we act as if God owes us one—when we’re convinced that we belong in the place of honor because of what we’ve done. Far better, says Jesus, to be humble—to start out in the back row—out in the bleachers—among the least and the lowly—and then be honored with an invitation from the host to step on up to one of the luxury boxes. Better to start out in the back row and be invited by grace to move on up.

Now contrary to what most of you Lutherans think, this parable has nothing to do with where you should sit in church—as though snagging one of the back pews makes you more humble and lowly—at least compared to the proud, pretentious types who always gravitate toward the front row like some über-religious version of Bob Eucker in those old commercials, always assuming a spot “in the front row.”

The party parables have nothing to do with pew selection, but everything to do with how we should come into the presence of the living God. We should come here into God’s presence not thoughtlessly or carelessly or casually, but lamenting our sin—like the tax collector in the temple who hung his head and beat his breast, barely able to breathe out a prayer of repentance, “Lord, have mercy on me, a sinner.” We should come here into God’s presence in the footsteps of St. Paul, who wrote to Timothy, “Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners—of whom I am the worst.” Beloved in the Lord, it’s in that last seat in the back row marked “chief of sinners” that you will find God’s mercy—God’s inviting grace and forgiveness which pulls you onward and upward saying, “Friend, move up higher; come unto me, and I will give you rest.”

Here in the church of Jesus Christ, no one has a right—no one is entitled to anything—not to baptism, not to absolution, not to the body and blood of Jesus, not to eternal life. None of us deserves any of that. Because all of it is a gift—a precious and priceless gift, purchased and won for us by Jesus hanging dead on a cross. The cross is where all talk of what we deserve comes to a screeching halt—and where all talk of grace and gifts and mercies begins. In Philippians chapter two Paul writes that all the baptized have been given the “mind of Christ.” To have the mind of Christ means that we consider others better than ourselves. Having the mind of Christ means that we don’t look down on anyone, no matter how weak or how broken they might be. We are nothing, and Christ is everything.

Jesus is the one who humbled Himself—who did not consider equality with God something to be grasped—but made Himself nothing, taking the very nature of a slave. He humbled Himself and became obedient to death—even death on a cross. In Jesus, the Lord of all creation rolled up His sleeves and became a foot-washing, cross-bearing slave for you. He was executed as your sacred, sin-bearing substitute. It was our sinful pride that pounded the nails that pierced His hands and feet. But as an unmistakable sign of the success of that sacrifice, God the Father exalted Him—highly exalted Him. He approved of His work. He raised Him from the dead, so that one day Jesus might raise you and all those laid low by sin and death.

When you live by faith in Jesus—when by His grace you take up your cross daily and follow Him—you will be humbled. If it hasn’t happened yet, it will. We will be humbled. Our pedestals will be pushed over, our thrones toppled, our egos deflated, our sinful natures crucified. We will be humbled by the Law of God. That Law exposes how helpless we are to save ourselves from the sinful messes we’ve made. That Law drives us down to the grave. There’s nothing more humbling than the grave. Death is the great equalizer: the rich, the poor, the good, the bad—it’s the same for all of us. The wages of sin is death and that’s a payday that none of us can dodge for long.

But God humbles us for our good. He has His reasons. God puts sinners like us in our place . . . precisely so that He might call you up to a better place—right up to the front row of resurrection glory. What a day that will be when Jesus calls you from your grave to join Him on the 50-yardline of the feast for the least—when He says to you, “Friend, move up higher. Come up to the place I have prepared for you since the foundation of the world.”

The second little party parable Jesus tells has to do with the guest list—with who gets invited and welcomed to the feast for the least. Jesus invites us to reflect His generosity by how we select others to serve in His name. The next time you host a luncheon or a backyard barbeque or a dinner party, don’t invite your friends. Don’t invite your relatives. Don’t invite your clients or your rich neighbors to schmooze with. Don’t invite those who will reciprocate quid pro quo. Instead, invite those who will never have the means to repay you—those who can’t give you a thing: the poor, the crippled, the lame, the blind, the disabled. Serve and love those who cannot serve and love you back. That is the mind of Christ, to be sure.

The same thing holds true for this feast we call the Divine Service. Jesus is telling us who we should invite to join us here in the presence of Jesus. And it isn’t just that nice, neat, North Shore family with the above average everything. Who ought we invite to this place? It’s every single person—but especially those who won’t add much to the bottom line, those who won’t pull their own weight, those who might just make things uncomfortable and inconvenient (like that man afflicted with dropsy who crashed a Pharisee’s dinner party seeking the Savior). But the church—like her Lord—never asks what she’s going to get in return. All we do is dish out the invitations to the party, and then wait to see who shows up. When was the last time you invited someone to join you here? In the long history of the church, most converts converted because someone cared enough to invite them to come to church—to come to the feast, to move on up to this holy place where Jesus serves as the Host with the most in this feast for the least.

That’s always how it is with Jesus. Jesus invites and serves those who can’t repay Him. Jesus invites you to hear His Word, to receive His holy meal—to live it up in His lavish grace—knowing full well there’s nothing you can offer Him in return. In the grand scheme of things, we are all beggars, it’s true. Fully aware of that, Jesus invites you anyway. He gives you a front row seat, in the luxury box of His love, and a place of honor at His altar. Amen.