Remember Lot's Wife

In Nomine Iesu
Philippians 3:4b-14
October 8, 2017
Proper 22A

Dear brothers and sisters in Christ Jesus~

Do you remember Lot’s wife? You should. You’re supposed to. Jesus says exactly that in Luke 17: Remember Lot’s wife. But just in case you’ve forgotten Lot’s wife, let me remind you. Things didn’t end well for her. Lot and his family were citizens of Sodom. Sodom and Gomorrah were terrible twin cities. The wickedness of those cities was so great that the Lord decided to destroy them

both. Two angels told Lot not to linger—but to get out fast—and not to look back. But as fire and brimstone rained down from heaven—as Sodom and Gomorrah were being consumed by God’s righteous wrath—Lot’s wife—she looked back. And she became a pillar of salt. Remember Lot’s wife.

Why did she look back? Why did she disobey those clear instructions? As a little boy, this story always bothered me. I worried that I would have looked back too. Like most boys, I was very fascinated by fire and fireworks. Who could resist looking at such a fantastic display of fire and Sulphur? I hoped never to be in the same situation for fear that I, too, would look back.

But the older I get, the more I realize that I remembered Lot’s wife for the wrong reason. Her looking back had more to do with her heart than with her eyes. For even as the Lord was practically dragging her and her family to safety and deliverance and salvation, her heart ached for what she left behind. As citizens of Sodom, Lot’s family had enjoyed status and success, fame and fortune—a big house, lots of livestock, and acres and acres of lush green pasture. They had a good life in Sodom and Gomorrah—a life of achievements and accolades. And Lot’s wife couldn’t bear to leave it all behind—couldn’t bring herself to believe that the Lord would provide. Her faith was faulty. She loved her life and lost it. She turned back. She became a statue of sodium. And, so, we remember Lot’s wife.

We’re tempted to look back, too—to find our security in past success—to draw comfort from competitions we won. At some level, we love our trophies, our ribbons, our medals. They’re little symbols of our achievements and accomplishments. I know some pastors who have four or more framed diplomas hanging on their office wall. Do you really need to know that I earned a Bachelor of Arts degree in 1991 before you’ll receive pastoral care from me? Now, there’s nothing wrong with a case full of trophies and medals and diplomas. These things are part of our history. They show how God has gifted us in various ways.

But the problem is that our sinful nature always wants to translate our earthly success into heavenly merit. At some level, our plaques and awards make a pretty good case for why God should love us, accept us, and just be grateful that we’re on His team. This kind of thinking is nothing new. Meriting God’s grace was at the heart of the religious system under which Luther grew up—a system in which your religious resume—your assortment of good accomplishments—had to counterbalance your sins on God’s scale of justice.

In today’s epistle from Philippians three, the Apostle Paul engages in some serious boasting as he looked back over his life: If anyone else thinks he has reason for confidence in the flesh, I have more: circumcised on the eighth day, of the people of Israel, of the tribe of Benjamin, a Hebrew of Hebrews; as to the law, a Pharisee; as to zeal, a persecutor of the church; as to righteousness under the law, blameless. Those are some serious credentials. An Israelite with the papers to prove it. The top of his class—listed on page one of Who’s Who Among the Jews. He would have gone far, except for a fateful encounter with the risen Christ on the road to Damascus—an encounter that changed everything for Saul (including his name).

Never again would Paul look back. Never again would Paul look back to keep score on his achievements or to beef up his religious resume. He writes, “Whatever gain I had, I counted as loss for the sake of Christ. Indeed, I count everything as loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord.” Now, as he looked back at his past in Judaism, all he saw was loss, rubbish, garbage. All those trophies, those merit badges and medals? They’re worthless in comparison to knowing Christ and being found in Christ.

Those two words, “in Christ,” are the key to understanding Paul. To be “in Christ” is to be a new creation—the old has gone and the new has come. To be “in Christ” is to have a righteousness before God that is not your own. It’s not about your works, your merits and achievements. Before other people, yes, those things can have some importance. People can’t see your faith; they can only see your works. But before God there is only one thing that holds—only one way that a sinner can stand before God justified, and that’s through faith in Christ, to be found in Christ, to be clothed with the righteousness of Christ—to believe that His death atones for your sins.

Paul suffered for this faith. And yet he considered his own suffering to be a share in the sufferings of Christ. He considered it a privilege to suffer and become like Jesus in His death, so that He might be like Jesus in His resurrection. The goal for Paul—the finish line—the end of the race—was resurrection. Paul’s goal wasn’t a good life or even a good death, but resurrection from the dead. That is the Christian hope. That’s why Paul pressed on, forgetting what was behind and straining toward what was ahead. Like the marathon runners who ran through our neighborhood last Sunday, there was no looking back. There was only forward progress toward the finish line—which, for us, is the resurrection.

Now even if marathons aren’t your thing, your baptism entered you into the race of faith. You were clothed with Christ, born again of water and the Spirit. Now, no race is fun while you’re running it. It can be painful, exhausting, and demanding. Did you see any of the runners’ faces last Sunday? They didn’t look too joyful. They weren’t very relaxed. So, too, you and I shouldn’t expect the baptized life to be easy or pain-free—a series of open doors and easy paved roads. No, it’s all uphill—with the devil, the world and our own sinful nature actively working against us every mile. But for those who follow Jesus, the joy comes at the finish line, where all the pain pays off, where suffering gives way to eternal joys.

And as you are running this race of faith, remember Lot’s wife. Remember the Apostle Paul. Don’t look back. Runners with a habit of looking back will inevitably stumble and fall. Don’t look back on your past successes; and don’t look back on your past sins. Christ bore your burden of sin to death on His cross. He bears it all away so that you can run unencumbered and forgiven. A fifty pound bag of guilt and shame will get you nowhere fast. Christ bore that on the cross so that you don’t have to. He bears your sins away even today in His holy meal, where the bread is His body and the wine is His blood.

Remember Lot’s wife. Don’t look back. Forget what lies behind and press on toward what is ahead—the resurrection of the body and the life of the world to come. The only hardware that matters is a crown of righteousness. There’s one of those waiting for you at the finish line. You haven’t earned it. But it’s yours by grace, through faith, for the sake of Jesus’ own death and resurrection.

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

A Matter of Authority

In Nomine Iesu
St. Matthew 21:23-27
October 1, 2017
Proper 21A

Dear brothers and sisters in Christ Jesus~
An intruder entered our house this past Monday morning—unwelcomed, uninvited, unannounced. It was our own fault, I suppose, for not locking the back door. I have to tell you, it was, frankly, a little bit scary. My wife was the one who discovered him as he was ripping insulation out of our walls. He seemed to have a bit of a personality disorder, the way he obsessed over our electrical wiring, dickered with our ductwork, and pondered our plumbing.

Well, long story short, it turns out that this intruder was the village building inspector, just doing his job—trying to find faults on a molecular level with our kitchen remodeling job. This man had the authority—authority to enter our house. He had the authority to stick his little flashlight into every crack, crevice, and floor joist in the parsonage. Now, if anybody else had walked into our kitchen on a Monday morning and started doing what he was doing, we would have called in a few squads of Whitefish Bay’s finest. But the village building inspector—he had full authority to do what he was doing.

“By what authority are you doing these things, and who gave you the authority?” That was the question that the Chief Priests and the elders posed to Jesus in this morning’s holy gospel. They were challenging His authority. Who did Jesus think He was? He had just ridden into Jerusalem like some kind of Messiah—with palm branches and “hosannas” lining His path. From there He had marched into the temple as if He owned the place—like some kind of religious building inspector, turning the tables of the money changers, putting pigeons to flight, and referring to the temple as “His” house (which was supposed to be a house of prayer). Where did Jesus get the authority to do these things?

As you’ve probably figured out by now, the word of the day is “authority.” We often confuse authority with power. You can exert your power—you can make a power play—even when you have no authority. But authority is always a matter of permission—permission granted by someone greater to say and do certain things. The President is authorized by the voters to act as the chief executive officer of the nation. Our judges are authorized to try cases.

My authority is indicated by the stole I wear. When I forgive sins in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, I do so in the stead, by the command, and under the authority of my Lord Jesus Christ. He has authorized me to absolve repentant sinners. He approves of it. He delights in it. He recognizes it. He stands behind it. He gives this special authority to forgive sins to the church; and when you called me to be your pastor, you authorized me to exercise that authority publicly on your behalf. Authority is a big deal.

And for some time now in Matthew’s gospel, the religious superstars of Jerusalem had noticed that their authority was slipping away. First it was John the Baptist who had drawn crowds of thousands, and had referred to the religious elites as a brood of vipers. And then, Jesus came along. He taught the people as one who had authority in Himself—who had no need to sprinkle His sermons with quotes from other rabbis. What’s more, Jesus demonstrated His authority—healing the sick, casting out demons, stilling storms, walking on water, raising the dead. Only someone authorized by God could do such things.

By the time Palm Sunday rolled around, there was no one in Jerusalem who hadn’t heard about the astounding authority of Jesus. Today’s challenge to Jesus’ authority happened during holy week—just days before Jesus would die on the cross and rise again. It was late in the season—almost time for the playoffs. Jesus’ authority had been on the table for nearly three years, going back to when He was baptized by John, and the Spirit descended, and the Father declared, “This is my beloved Son with whom I am well pleased.” Authority granted.

But the religious establishment would have none of it. As the authority of Jesus increased, their authority shriveled and shrank down to nothing. Their questioning of Jesus’ authority was a last ditch attempt to trap Him—to make Him stumble—to make Him say something that could and would be used against Him in a court of law. As usual, Jesus turned the tables on them, requiring them to give a “thumbs up” or a “thumbs down” on the baptizing John had done. It was a question they couldn’t and wouldn’t answer—and their authority sank to new levels of shrinkage.

There’s no middle ground where the authority of Jesus is concerned. Either He is the Son of God or He isn’t. Either His Word is the truth or it isn’t. Either all authority in heaven and earth has been given to Him or it hasn’t. And you would think that, among baptized believers, the authority of Jesus would not be up for debate. After all, we recognize His authority. We honor His authority—at least, when it suits us, and when it agrees with our savvy sensibilities.

The sad truth is that our sinful nature delights in chipping away at the authority of Jesus—carving out a few exceptions to the Law—looking for some loophole which will allow us to live as we please—to subtly shrink the authority of Jesus down to a more manageable size.

How easy it would be, for instance, to jump on the LGTBQ bandwagon—to align ourselves with celebrities and professional athletes—to have praises rain down upon us for re-defining marriage and human sexuality—to encourage people to choose their own sex regardless of the body God has given—to concede that the concept having both a mother and a father has gone the way of phone booths and dial-up modems.

Sex and marriage aren’t topics that appear in our text today. But sex and marriage—just like life and death—fall under the authority of Jesus. Homosexuality and transgenderism are two culturally approved ways to negate Jesus—to neutralize Jesus—to amputate His authority in your life. No human being has the authority to redefine marriage; because marriage rests on the authority of Jesus—who said, “for this reason a man shall leave his father and mother and be united to his wife; and the two shall be one; and what God has joined together let not man separate.” No human being has the authority to do away with fathers and mothers—and, ultimately, the family. No human being has the authority to reject the body God has given—be that body male or female.

These things don’t represent a new kind of freedom, or even a loving approach to life. These things are an assault on the authority of Jesus—the author of life and the Savior of sinners. And when we begin to think that we know better than Him—or that we can just work our way through the faith “cafeteria style,” picking and choosing what we like and leaving behind what we don’t like, we are ultimately rejecting Jesus and rejecting His authority.

Beloved in the Lord, we need to repent. We need to turn back to Jesus and confess that all authority in heaven and earth has been given to Him (and not to us). We need to return to the font of Holy Baptism, where Jesus used His authority to wash us and cleanse us and claim us for Himself. We need to return to the regular hearing of God’s Words and promises; for Jesus says that those who hear the Word of God and keep it are blessed. We need to return to the Supper of Jesus’ body and blood, to find strength and forgiveness to live as lights in this dark world—to light the way for others who are lost and confused.

Life under the authority of Jesus is never easy. Doubts and temptations and fears will still find you. But you can know this for a certain fact: Jesus Christ died for you, rose for you, reigns for you over heaven and earth, and is working all things for your eternal good. Nothing in this life can separate you from the love of God in Christ Jesus. God has claimed you as His own in your Baptism. He has justified you in Jesus, His Son, whom He sent with divine authority to love you, to be your Savior, and to take away the sin of the world. He is authorized by His Father to save you; and He has done it.

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

Doing Angels' Work

In Nomine Iesu
Ps. 103:20-22
September 28, 2017
Eve of St. Michael & All Angels

Dear brothers and sisters in Christ Jesus~

The catechism teaches us to pray—both in the morning when we get up, and in the evening when we go to bed. And both that morning prayer and that evening prayer contain this mysterious sentence: Let Your holy angel be with me, that the evil foe may have no power

over me. For most of us that sounds nice. Beginning the day and ending the day accompanied by one of God’s holy angels is certainly a good thing.

But if we’re being honest, it also sounds a bit quaint—a little old-fashioned. Our worldview really doesn’t have a place for angels. Oh, sure, the Catechism, the liturgy, the Bible itself—they’re all replete with angels and archangels. Whereas, our daily lives have been scoured clean of even the remotest thought or trace concerning angels.

And the trouble isn’t merely that we live in a God-forsaking, secular culture; the trouble we have with reckoning and recognizing angels begins with us and our sin. As sinners, we always aim to restrict God’s power and reduce the scope of God’s activity. We fence God in according to our designs. We go to visit God once or twice a week at church, kind of like we go to the zoo to view strange and exotic creatures, all carefully caged-in for our entertainment and viewing pleasure.

If nothing else, Luther’s morning and evening prayers should remind us to repent of our unbelief concerning things we can’t see and our attempts to box God in according to our limited view of reality. Let your holy angel be with me, that the evil foe may have no power over me.

Angels are mysterious—and, most of the time, unseen. Angels aren’t people; they are spirits; neither male nor female. Yet, Scripture speaks of them as persons—unique, individual persons such as St. Michael and St. Gabriel. Those two are the five-star generals of the angel armies. The existence of angels shouldn’t surprise us at all. God delights in creating. He never has enough creatures to love. There’s a dazzling array of creatures that have yet to be discovered, in fact, in the deepest depths of the ocean and in the remotest rain forests. What’s so unbelievable about angels?

The angels do excel in strength. They have powers that we do not. They can do things we can’t even imagine. And in Psalm 103 tonight we are told exactly what the angels do: Bless the Lord, O you his angels, you mighty ones who do his word, obeying the voice of his word! Bless the Lord, all his hosts, his ministers, who do his will! There you have it. The angels do the Lord’s bidding. They obey His voice. They do His will.

And you are never closer to the angels—you are never nearer to the angels—than when your work is aligned with their work—when you join the angels in what they are doing. When we do the Lord’s bidding—when we obey His voice—when we sync ourselves with the good and gracious will of God—well, right then and there we are working side-by-side with angels.

This happens most often and most naturally when we engage in the work of our God-given vocations—when fathers do the work of fathers and mothers do the work of mothers, and children and neighbors, and students, and citizens do what the angels do: namely, doing the will of God. Luther points out that angels most often appear to people in the Bible when they are engaged in the work of their vocations—doing the routine stuff of life (that’s what gets the angels rejoicing).

The other time when we team-up with the angels is right here in this sacred space. The highest joy of the angels is in their Divine Service—their worship. Tonight we join with them. They join with us. Together we say, “Glory to God in the Highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.” And in just a few minutes we will join with angels and archangels and all the company of heaven in saying “Holy, Holy, Holy Lord God of Sabaoth.” This is the song the angels sing in the presence of God. “Sabaoth” means “host,” or “army.” God is the God of the angel armies of heaven. And He is our God too. One of my favorite features of the chapel at Concordia University are the angel figures etched into the marble on both sides of the chancel—a reminder that there are far more worshippers here tonight than you may think there are.

Do you have a guardian angel? An angel assigned specifically to you? The Scriptures don’t give us a definite answer about that. A few minutes ago we heard Jesus say this: See that you do not despise one of these little ones. For I tell you that in heaven their angels always see the face of my Father who is in heaven. It’s not surprising that Jesus should connect the angels with “little ones.” The little ones of Matthew 18 include not just children, but all believers whose faith is weak—struggling Christians whose hope is depleted, and for whom temptations to sin loom large. God’s good and gracious will is that not one of them should be lost. And the angels, too, align themselves with accomplishing that good and gracious will of God.

You are better than the angels—superior to them. The Son of God did not become an angel, but a human being like you. What wondrous love is this that God should become man to die a bloody death for sinful rebels like us? That same wondrous love is at work for us tonight in the Word and in the Sacrament. Here God does for us what He has not done for angels. He gives us His body and blood to cleanse us from our sins, and so draw us into a closer fellowship with the angels—so that our work and their work might become more and more difficult to distinguish.

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

Not Fair, But Gracious

In Nomine Iesu
St. Matthew 20:1-16
September 24, 2017
Proper 20A

Dear brothers and sisters in Christ Jesus~

An hour’s pay for an hour’s work. You reap what you sow. You get out of it what you put into it. A day’s work equals a day’s wage. Those are the rules. And we expect God to operate by those same rules. We expect God to be fair—to recognize and reward our work.

But today we learn that God is not fair. He’s just. He’s gracious. But God is not fair. And that’s good because grace isn’t fair. Fair is the Law; grace is the Gospel. If it’s fair, that means the first come in first, the last come in last, survival to the fittest, and the kingdom to those who achieve it. But if it’s grace, then the first are last, and the kingdom goes to the least of all. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s go to the parable, shall we?

A man had a vineyard and needed laborers to pick his grapes. He went to the union hall at 6AM and negotiated with the union boss

for some laborers at a denarius a day—about $120—and off they went. At 9AM he noticed he was still shorthanded. So he went to Home Depot and found some day laborers looking for work. He told them, “You go work in the vineyard too, and whatever is right I will give you.” (Note that: Whatever is right. Whatever is just. Not whatever is fair.)

He did exactly the same thing at noon and at 3PM—found some idlers hanging around and hired them for some unspecified, just wage. At 5PM the sun was beginning to set and there was still work to do, and he needed more help. So he went to the local tavern where some deadbeat losers had been hanging out all day, quaffing beers, because no one would hire them—understandably. “You go into my vineyard too,” he says, not even promising to pay them a dime. But they’re running low on funds for booze and weed, so off they go to work for one hour. How hard can it be?

Finally, at 6PM it’s Miller Time as they say in Milwaukee. The vineyard workers all head to the foreman to receive their wages. The owner has them line up in reverse order, from last-hired to first-hired, from the eleventh hour losers to the crack of dawn Grape Pickers Local 101. The first girl in line (one of the deadbeats from the tavern) opens her envelope expecting ten dollars at the most. But what’s she find instead? Six crisp twenties. And so it continues.

Pretty soon word filters back to the end of the line—back to the union guys hired first—that those who worked only one hour got $120. So they’re thinking, $120 per hour times 12 hours, that comes to $1,440. Cha-ching! Cha-ching! And so, one by one, they step up to the table, expecting the biggest payday of their grape-picking lives.

But in all their calculations they hadn’t figured on one thing. The payout from the vineyard owner is all based on his goodness and his promises, and not on their work. And in his infinite goodness, this guy gives out six crisp twenties to every single worker, regardless of how much or how little they worked. Each worker gets a denarius. “Not fair,” declare the sweaty, exhausted union guys who worked all day long. But the owner reminds them that he didn’t promise to be fair, but only to pay them a denarius. Promise kept. End of parable.

One of the toughest pills for religious superstars to swallow is the idea that God justifies the ungodly; and that our salvation at the world’s final Miller Time is not based on our works, our achievements and accomplishments, but on the sheer grace of God in Jesus Christ who doles out a denarius of salvation to all who believe, whether a lifelong Lutheran or a deathbed convert to Christ. The labor unions of religion howl in protest. It’s unfair to Commandment Keepers Local 101. But then grace wouldn’t be grace, would it? It would be bookkeeping. And if the world could have been saved by bookkeeping, it would have been saved by Moses with his commandments, and not by Jesus with His bloody cross.

A day’s wages for a day’s work. That’s fair. And that’s what we expect in this world, and that’s right. This world operates by the rule of law. That’s good and there’s no way around that. But Isaiah reminds us that God’s thoughts are not our thoughts. His ways are not ours. He deals with us not according to what’s fair, but according to His grace and His goodness. If you want God to be fair—to deal with you according to your works and your accomplishments—then you will be damned. That’s fair. That’s the Law. Hell is the one place where everybody gets what they deserve.

Many of us, in a sense, are like the workers hired first, or at least earlier in the day. We were baptized as babies. We grew up in the church. There’s never really been a conscious moment in our lives when we didn’t know Jesus as our Savior. We’ve worked in His vineyard our entire lives. We’re not quite sure what to make of those eleventh hour converts who benefit from everyone else’s hard work—those who “got away” with never tithing, never serving on a committee, never attending a long church meeting, never having to get up early on Sunday.

Whatever you make of them, for the love of God, don’t be jealous of them. But see God’s generosity in them and praise Jesus that it really is by grace alone, through faith alone, for the sake of Jesus Christ alone that sinners are made righteous. Praise be to Jesus, because if there’s room enough in the kingdom for eleventh hour losers and deadbeats—for hookers, and tax collectors, and all manner of notorious sinners—well, then, there is surely enough room in the kingdom for you and me.

Then again, let’s not overstate our position in the kingdom. We really aren’t the first workers hired, are we? Others have believed before us. Others have suffered before us—and much, much more than us. There have been workers in this vineyard for two thousand years: St. Matthew and St. Paul, St. Mary and St. Elizabeth, St. Polycarp and St. Augustine, Luther and Bach. There were countless, nameless believers who bore the heat of persecution, who defended the faith, who suffered and died trusting in Jesus, who have now departed this life to be with Christ (which is far better).

And now, in these last days, at the eleventh hour with the sun setting, with the fields still ripe and waiting for harvest, the Lord of the vineyard has been so kind and gracious to call YOU to work in this same vineyard. We are, really, the last and the least. We come to the scene when much of the work is already done. Yet, you get the same denarius—not six crisp twenties, but the same forgiveness of sins, the same salvation, the same resurrection life in Jesus. It’s not fair at all; but it’s oh, so gracious.

While we were yet sinners, Christ died for us. While we were still ungodly, He justified us. Before you so much as lifted a finger to work in His vineyard, He prepared an envelope with your name on it, containing “your” denarius. And even the work you’re doing now—the good you do each and every day out of love for your neighbor—it’s all really God’s doing in you and through you. And all this is what we call the “gospel.” Good news. Grace, not works. Gift given, not wages earned.

It’s outrageous! There’s no denying that. Whether first or last—whether we have worked hard, or little, or barely at all—there’s a generous payday coming. It was won for each of us by the death and resurrection of Jesus. He got the wages we deserve for our sins. We get His free gift of eternal life. That’s not fair . . . because God isn’t fair. But He is good. And He is gracious. Thanks be to God.

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

The Sinners' Hospital

In Nomine Iesu
St. Matthew 9:9-13
September 21, 2017
St. Matthew, Apostle & Evangelist

Dear brothers and sisters in Christ Jesus~

Do you ever dream about the ideal church? Or wish that your church could at least be more ideal? When I dream about the ideal church, I dream that all the members always attend every service—and that those faithful members always bring along with them some unchurched friends and neighbors. In the ideal church the Bible studies would always be well-attended, lively affairs that dig down deep into the Word of God. The people are super-friendly, caring, always praying for one another and serving one another. The services are reverent and meaningful, with music that always touches the heart. And, of course, when you dream of the ideal church, it always has an ideal pastor—a young man, of course, yet with 40 years of ministry experience under his belt. And children, too—lots and lots of children in the ideal church. It’s okay to dream, right?

Well, actually, no, it’s not. It’s wrong. It’s wrong to dream about the ideal church because it leads us to despise the real

church—the actual church—the church that Jesus Christ founded—and the church that St. Matthew wrote about and proclaimed. God hates our dreaming about the ideal church. For such dreaming either makes us despondent and discouraged, or else it makes us proud and pretentious and judgmental—demanding that everybody else get their act together and get in line with my concept of the ideal church.

The Pharisees dreamed about and demanded a perfect religious community—an exclusive community of respectable commandment-keepers. Tax collectors and prostitutes and others who failed to keep the Law in spectacular ways—well, they need not apply.

Tax collectors like Matthew were considered the worst of the worst—notoriously dishonest and greedy. Bribery, extortion, money-laundering, and outright theft were all part of the typical tax collector’s tool box. And there’s no reason to presume that Matthew was any different from all the rest. Matthew was a sinner—the ideal sinner—who had no place in the ideal religious community of the Pharisees.

But as it turns out, Matthew did have a place with Jesus, and in the church Jesus came to build. And this church—to which you yourselves also belong—it isn’t built around some ideal concept of perfection. No, the church of Jesus begins with two little words: “Follow me.” Notice that Matthew didn’t record for us a single one of his own words. If Matthew gave some speech about leaving behind the tax collectors’ booth and pledging his sacred honor to following the Savior, he left us no record of that. Because it doesn’t matter. What mattered was the grace-filled invitation spoken by the Savior: “Follow me.” Those same words were spoken to you—combined with the water of your baptism. Jesus wants you—along with Matthew—to follow Him in faith.

And then—then we learn just what kind of a church the church really is. It happened at a meal at Matthew’s house, where Jesus and his disciples were on the guest list, along with a bunch of other tax collectors and sinners. The Pharisees, of course, objected to this less-than-ideal gathering: Why does your teacher eat with tax collectors and sinners? Jesus Himself provides the answer. And in His answer we learn that His church is not some ideal religious community. But rather, it’s a community of sinners, a hospital for those in need of healing for their sin-infected souls. Jesus said, “Those who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are sick. . . . I came not to call the righteous, but sinners.”

This means that the church is, properly speaking, a hospital—a hospital for people who are sick with sin—a place where diagnoses are made and where healing is applied. Now, I get to hospitals with some regularity as part of my job. And the kind of people you find in hospitals are—how shall I put this—less-than-ideal. They are hurting. They are scared. They are angry sometimes. They are confused. Their carefully crafted routine has come crashing down around them and they are helpless—utterly helpless to do anything about it—completely dependent on others. It’s not ideal.

Welcome to the church—the real church—the church Jesus Christ came to build and the church about which Matthew wrote. There is no ideal church. There’s just a place for people who recognize their need and their helplessness—for patients (if you will) whose lives are diseased and disordered by sin. In the church of Jesus—in this hospital for sinners—you’ll find people who are hurting, scared, angry and helpless—sinners with messy, conflicted lives who know that the wages of sin is death.

This is the church—a hospital for sinners—and only for sinners. Here we have the physician—the Great Physician, Jesus, who suffered and died so that you might have healing. By His wounds we are healed. And even at a simplified, streamlined service like this, we have the healing medicine that Jesus Christ died to secure for you. Tonight, here in this hospital, you get to receive medicine that money can’t buy—that insurance will not cover—medicine that heals you in body and soul. In fact, in the early church, the Lord’s Supper was known as the medicine of immortality—food and drink for this life, and for the life of the world to come.

Don’t dream about an ideal church; give thanks for the real church—the church into which Jesus has called you—the church that welcomes sinners and provides the healing of Jesus in Word and Sacrament. It’s all here for you. Amen.

Forgiven and Forgiving

In Nomine Iesu
St. Matthew 18:21-35
September 17, 2017
Proper 19A

Dear brothers and sisters in Christ Jesus~

‘Tis the season for sneezing, and some folks have been doing a lot of it lately. Sneezes are the body’s way of expelling things that you’re better off without—things like dust and pollen and mold. Did you know that the air you expel when you sneeze is traveling more than 100 miles per hour? Those are “category 2” hurricane force winds! It may just be an old wives’ tale, but some people believe that holding in your sneezes can be harmful. Why keep in the bad things that your body wants to get out?

Holding in a sneeze may or may not be harmful; but holding in forgiveness—refusing to share forgiveness with those who sin

against you—that will definitely do you more harm than good. Refusing to forgive is like a cancer on the soul. It isolates and eats away at the one who refuses to let it go—to forgive. If hell is the place where no sins are ever forgiven, then refusing to forgive is truly hell on earth. Jesus comes today to rescue us from this hellish prison.

Last week we heard from earlier in Matthew 18 that sin—even among brothers and sisters in Christ—is unavoidable and inevitable. It is to be expected. We also learned that confronting sin is an act of love—that we should go to the one who sins against us with the goal of reconciliation. We should go to every length possible to forgive. We are to set no limits when it comes to forgiveness.

Peter, today, was looking for limits—and loopholes. We all do it. “Lord, how many times shall I forgive my brother when he sins against me?” How about seven times? When is enough enough? The rabbis of Jesus’ day said three times was enough. Peter’s suggestion of lucky number seven had a nice Biblical ring to it.

But just for a minute, imagine if Jesus had said, “Yes, the limit on forgiveness is seven times.” How many of our marriages would have ended long ago if Jesus had set the forgiveness quota at seven? How full would the pews be this morning if in this fellowship of believers we only had to extend forgiveness to one another seven times? Wouldn’t we all eventually be estranged from one another—brother against sister, husband against wife, elders against ushers, choir against organist? I imagine if someone sinned against you six times, you’d almost be hoping for just one more time so that you could be done with forgiving that person.

Forgiveness with limits is not real forgiveness. Forgiveness, the way Jesus defines it, has no limits, no tally sheets, no boundaries. Forgiveness “Jesus’ style” is outlandish and outrageous. “I tell you, not seven times, but seventy-seven times,” says the Savior. Jesus sees Peter’s seven and raises him seventy. And just about the time you start to lose count, you’re beginning to learn what it means to live under the Gospel instead of the Law.

To forgive literally means to “let go” of the sin committed against you; or to “send away” the offense to some other place where it’s no longer on your radar. To forgive means to go on as though the thing hadn’t happened. The sin has no power over you because you’ve let it go. You’ve sent it away—no ifs, ands, or buts, no contingencies and no quid pro quos. To forgive is to step into freedom—the freedom that is yours as a blood-bought child of God.

Forgiveness is so important that Jesus devotes an entire parable to it. A servant owed the king an astronomical amount of money. His house was probably mortgaged three times over, credit cards maxed out, dealing with the neighborhood loan shark, a chapter 13 nightmare. He begs for mercy from the king, tries to cut a deal: “Be patient with me and I will pay back everything.” Yeah, right. The king could have tossed this deadbeat into debtor’s prison—could have liquidated his every possession. But he didn’t. The king did an outrageous, crazy, reckless, insanely gospel thing. He forgave the entire debt. Let it go. Sent it away. Told the accountants to get out their erasers. And the servant walked away free and clear.

That forgiven servant went out in his freedom and found a fellow servant who owed him, basically, pocket change. But instead of forgiving him, he wrung his neck, began to choke him, and demanded payment on the spot. His fellow servant pleaded for leniency with the very same words the first servant had used with the king. But instead of forgiving him, he had the man thrown into prison. When the king heard about it, he threw a fit, called the servant back in and asked, “Shouldn’t you have had mercy on your fellow servant just as I had on you?” In anger the king handed the man over to the jailers to be tortured until he paid back his astronomical debt. There was hell to pay for his refusal to forgive as he had been forgiven.

When we refuse to forgive as we have been forgiven, we put ourselves in prison, we torture ourselves, and the King isn’t happy. Few things anger Him as much as our refusal to forgive as we have been forgiven. How many of us are already living in a kind of self-inflicted torture because we refuse to “let go” of all the slights and all the sins and all the insults and all the pain and abuse that people (and sometimes people we love) have inflicted upon us over the course of a lifetime? And don’t try to tell me that dragging around that load of filth every day is enjoyable or that it gives you pleasure. It’s a kind of torture and it’s killing you.

One thing’s for sure, that’s not the way of Jesus. That’s definitely not the kind of life that Jesus Christ hung on the cross to win for you. He’s the Lamb of God come to take away the sin of the whole world. Every sin committed against you is atoned for in His death. Every sinner is reconciled to God by His blood. When you look at that person who sinned against you—see that person as one for whom Jesus died. See that person as someone who is reconciled to God in the death of Jesus. Does he know that? Will he know that from you? He’ll never know it from you if you’ve got your hands wrapped around his neck. He’ll never know it from you if you keep throwing his sins right back in his face. But he may yet come to know it with your hands on his shoulder and with the words, “I forgive you.” When was the last time you said those three little words? I forgive you. Nothing is harder. Nothing is more powerful.

As for you, you leave here this morning debt free. Your sins are as far from you as the east is from the west. The books are closed. The debt is paid in full. The slate is wiped clean. All this thanks to Jesus who paid the debt, “not with gold or silver, but with His holy, precious blood and His innocent suffering and death.” You are forgiven. You are free. You are forgiven and forgiving.

That phrase, forgiven and forgiving, appears on the banner that you see pictured on the front of the bulletin today. That banner has hung right out here at the top of the stairs for as long as I can recall. I never paid much attention to it until one day many years ago when the lift was being installed. I was sitting in my office thinking deep thoughts one afternoon when a man who was working on the lift began swearing loudly. And I don’t mean one or two naughty words; he was letting the expletives fly. Now, I could’ve just let it go, but quite frankly I was concerned the man might’ve just severed his arm given the volume of profanity that was still echoing up to my office.

So I walked out of my office to the top of the stairs out here where the man’s blue streak was still continuing. “Are you okay?” I asked. Well, immediately the swearing stopped and the man sheepishly told me how he had removed a ceiling tile that he shouldn’t have removed. And then the man suddenly paused as if struck by an awful realization: “You’re not the pastor, are you?” he asked. Well, a ceaseless stream of profuse apologies began to come out of his mouth. The man truly felt lower than a snake’s belly at that point, and I was trying to comfort him when he spotted something on the wall behind me. It was that banner with a cross and the word “forgiven” in capital letters. Pointing at the banner he said, “I guess that’s me.” “Not just you,” I said. “That’s all of us—forgiven and forgiving.”

We forgive others—not to be forgiven by God—but because we already are forgiven by God in Christ. Whenever you forgive someone you—in a very real sense—become like Jesus. You become like Joseph who forgave his brothers the evil they had done, but with tears in his eyes said, “You meant it for evil, but God intended it for good.” Even when you get shafted by someone, God makes sure that everything works for your eternal good. You’re already ahead of the game. So why not let it go and forgive from the heart? Don’t pooh-pooh the power of forgiveness. It’s nothing to sneeze at. It’s Jesus Christ at work in you and through you. Amen.

The Christ & The Cross

In Nomine Iesu
St. Matt. 16:21-28
September 3, 2017
Proper 17A

Dear brothers and sisters in Christ Jesus~

Jesus said, “If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow me.” There you have it. The theme of the day: Cross-bearing and Self-denial. Well, this is going to be a tough sell. We don’t naturally want to go down the road of

cross-bearing and self-denial. Our natural inclination is to do just what our first parents did in the beginning, in the Garden: Adam and Eve denied themselves nothing, seized what wasn’t given to them, and bit down hard on the notion that they knew better than God.

And we are the living proof that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Self-denial isn’t just a tough sell; it’s a foreign concept to most Americans today. Self-denial? You must be joking. Our entire culture revolves around self-indulgence, self-absorption, self-gratification, self-glorification, not to mention selfies and selfie sticks. Narcissism is the name of the game.

But Jesus says, “Deny yourself. Take up your cross.” What Jesus says in this text is a major inconvenience to our aspirations of grandeur. So, naturally, we look for a way around what Jesus says in this text. Maybe all this talk about crosses and self-denial is only figurative or metaphorical or spiritual. Maybe Jesus is just exaggerating; He did that once in a while, you know. Maybe Jesus just has in mind Sunday mornings. You know? Carry on business as usual Monday through Saturday; but just deny yourself a little sleep on Sunday morning, show up for this sweet hour of prayer, then suffer through longs lines at the all-you-can-eat brunch buffet, and call it good. Self-denied; cross carried; boom! If you think that’s what Jesus means then ask yourself this: Where would we be if Jesus Himself had only taken up a figurative cross—a metaphorical cross—or a spiritual cross—instead of a real, wooden cross with nails? We wouldn’t be here—that’s for sure.

Today’s Holy Gospel is a turning point in Matthew. It records the moment when Jesus begins to make His decisive turn toward Jerusalem—and Calvary. Up to this point in our Lord’s earthly ministry, it’s been kind of fun to follow along—watching Him slap those demons around, healing scores of sick people, feeding thousands, stilling storms, walking on water, running circles around the scribes and Pharisees. Who wouldn’t want to follow Jesus? The crowds flocked to Jesus, and we would have been right there with them.

But no sooner had Peter proclaimed that Jesus was the Christ, the Son of the living God—than Jesus began to take a different tone. From that time Jesus began to show his disciples that he must go to Jerusalem, suffer, be killed, and rise again. From that time, Jesus explicitly began to tell them just what it meant that He was the Christ—the Son of God in human flesh. In a word: the cross.

Peter objected—immediately, forcefully, predictably. God forbid it, Lord. This shall never happen to you! Oh, Peter. There but for the grace of God go I . . . and you. One minute Peter could confess the divinely revealed truth about Jesus, and in the very next breath try to derail His death and resurrection. One minute Jesus could commend Peter, saying, “Blessed are you, Simon.” But in the next minute Jesus would rebuke Peter, saying, “Get behind me, Satan. You are a hindrance to me. You have in mind the things of man.” One minute Peter spoke divine truth. The next minute he was a spokesman for Satan. And Peter had no idea which was which.

Peter had no idea; and neither do we. So sneaky and slippery is our sinful nature that one minute we’re holding fast to what is good, but the next minute we’ve indulged ourselves in evil. One minute we’re generously donating to help anonymous hurricane victims, but the next minute we’re doing our best sloth impersonations when we ought to be serving and helping the members of our own family. With our lips we say, “I forgive you,” while in our hearts we plot and plan our carefully crafted vengeance. We’re jealous of those who rejoice and make a wide detour around those who weep. It’s a crying shame. With our tongues we bless . . . and we curse; we proclaim the truth . . . and we whisper demonic lies. And, most of the time, we don’t know which is which.

This is why the Christ and the cross go together. This is why Jesus said it was necessary—why Jesus said that He must go to Jerusalem, suffer many things, be killed and on the third day be raised. It wasn’t optional—not if our sin and death were to be definitively dealt with, once and for all. The cross was critical and crucial. The cross would be how God’s self-denying, self-giving, self-sacrificing love would be shown to the whole world.

This is why Satan tried to subvert the cross. The cross is the one thing the devil really fears. The cross is the devil’s downfall. The devil knew that the sacrifice of Jesus’ perfect human life on the cross would satisfy the demands of the Law. He knew that the death of the Son of God would cover the world’s sin completely—that sinners like us would be able to stand before God forgiven, righteous, and holy because Jesus would die and rise as our sacred, sin-bearing substitute. The devil knew that his accusations would be silenced, that sin would be atoned for, that death would be defeated, that his domain would be vanquished.

The Christ and the cross go together. This is why our Jewish neighbors are particularly offended by the cross. It’s why our Muslim neighbors are particularly offended by the cross. This is why, still today, the devil wants to distance you from the cross of Christ. He couldn’t stop Jesus, but maybe he can mess with you a little bit—get you to think that you have to earn your forgiveness—get you to think that your baptism means very little for your messed-up life—cleverly convince you that the Lord’s Supper is nothing more than a sentimental, symbolic reminder of what Jesus did on a hill far away. He’d love to get your eyes off of this crucifix so that you can focus more clearly on your own needs and narcissism.

Separating yourself from the cross is the first step toward gaining the whole world—and losing your own life. That’s dumb. Yet people do it all the time. If you’re doing it right now, stop. Repent! Set your mind on the things of God instead. Deny yourself as you do the work of your vocations with diligence and determination. Follow Jesus right here to where He shares the benefits and blessings of His holy cross with all who gather in faith around His blessed Word and His Holy Supper.

Jesus asked, “What shall a man give in exchange for his life?” The answer is nothing. You have nothing to give. We are all beggars. But here’s the glory of the cross: Jesus gave His life in exchange for your life. In fact, He gave His life in exchange for the life of the world. One holy, perfect, sinless, spotless life—for you, in your place. You are died for. You are loved.

Keep that in mind when the crosses you bear are heavy and painful. Keep that in mind when persecution comes your way. With the eyes of faith we can see right past our present sufferings to the resurrection glory that far outweighs them all. With faith in Jesus you literally have nothing to lose—nothing except your sin, your guilt, and your shame. That’s the way of the cross—the way on which Jesus invites you, simply saying, “Follow me.”

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