In Nomine Iesu
St. Luke 6:17-26
February 17, 2019
Epiphany 6C
Dear Saints of Our Savior~
Healing and hearing are on the menu for today. Jesus heals every disease and casts out every demon He encounters. And He also has words for His disciples—words of blessing and words of woe—words also intended for our hearing and our healing.
Today’s Gospel begins with Jesus coming down from a mountain where He had just appointed His inner circle of Twelve, His apostles. Jesus and the Twelve came down to a flat, level place where a great multitude met them. They came to hear Jesus and be healed; and Jesus did not disappoint. He healed everyone. Every disease—every demon was dealt with. St. Luke summarizes: Power came out from Him and healed them all.
Diseases and demons remind us that the whole creation has been corrupted by sin. The disruption created by sin is much more than just a spiritual problem. From the sicknesses that affect our bodies to the cruel extremes of our climate—the whole creation groans. The curse of sin infects every dimension of our lives until we all eventually land six feet under. The miracles of healing performed by Jesus are more than just attention-grabbing special effects. Those miracles of healing point us ahead to the ultimate healing that awaits all of us on the Day of Resurrection. As St. Paul reminded us this morning: Christ is the firstfruits of those who have fallen asleep.
The healings Jesus performed that day must have generated great joy; but I suspect that what Jesus preached that day garnered only mixed reviews. His sermon serves as a good reminder that, while Jesus often pleased the crowds, He was no crowd-pleaser. He wouldn’t have enjoyed much success as an after-dinner speaker. I mean, imagine it: Woe to you who are full now. Woe to you who laugh now. Woe to you when all people speak well of you. Provocative? Yes, but not entertaining. There’s nothing entertaining about the Kingdom of God. Satisfying? Yes! Life-giving? Yes! But entertaining? Nope. Jesus doesn’t come to entertain us or make us feel good.
He does come to bless us, right? I mean, we often thank the Lord for His blessings. We pray for His blessings. We sing about the blessing of His love and care for us. But what Jesus preaches today about being “blessed” ought to make us sit up and take notice. It’s a reminder to be careful what you pray for.
Jesus’ Sermon on the Plain employs a simple, two-part structure: Words of blessing followed by words of woe. Jesus’ words of blessing speak to what we don’t have—to what we lack—to our impoverishment—to the empty-handed poverty that puts us in a good position to receive everything as an undeserved gift. Jesus speaks woe to the fullness of our lives: our bursting bank accounts, our belching bellies, the compliments and admiration of those around us. When you’ve got all that going for you, you don’t really need God, do you? From that kind of fullness Jesus wants to rescue us.
Jesus said: Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God. Notice that this is different from His Sermon on the Mount where He blesses the “poor in spirit.” Today Jesus speaks about the pure poverty of an empty wallet—the blessing of a drained bank account—a total depletion of assets. The corresponding “woe” is to those who are rich—who have everything they want here and now (or just one click away on Amazon). The rich have nothing to look forward to because they’ve got it all now.
Most of the time we’ve got it wrong when we say we are “blessed.” We’ve got it backwards and upside down. We say those people are blessed who are financially comfortable, who can afford nice homes, who have rich food on their tables, who sleep securely at night. And we say “woe” to those who have little to nothing. They really screwed up somehow.
Jesus wants us to see how hard it is to look forward to His “kingdom” when you already live in a castle of your own creating. It’s hard to fall down on your knees and pray, “Lord, have mercy,” when you yourself are a Lord. Treasure in heaven really doesn’t hold that much appeal when you’re up to your eyeballs in earthly treasures. I would dare to say that this is probably one big reason why—in a place like Whitefish Bay—the number of people who regularly attend church is dropping like a rock. Unless you swung by Brueggers Bagels on your way here I doubt that you encountered much traffic at all this morning.
But make sure you’re hearing what Jesus is really saying. It’s not that the poor go to heaven because of their poverty, or that the rich go to hell because of their wealth. Not so! Jesus is telling His disciples, “Don’t count yourself blessed because you are rich; and don’t conclude that you are cursed because you are poor.” No, flip it around for a change. Consider your poverty a blessing in light of the heavenly kingdom you are inheriting through faith in Jesus. And view your wealth as a woe—a potential stumbling block to faith and a dangerous distraction from the life of the world to come.
Jesus also blesses His disciples in their hunger; and He pronounces woe on those who are full now. The hungry beggar is the image of faith before God. Hunger equals need and dependency. And the disciples of Jesus need and depend on every word that comes from the mouth of the Lord. Years ago I recall someone telling me about a visit they had made to an elderly relative in the former East Germany, behind the Iron Curtain in the days of Communism. What amazed the American guests was how their elderly German relative did not leave a single speck of food to remain on the plate after the meal. Her plate required no rinsing. Why? Because she had—years earlier—known hunger—real hunger—rib-revealing hunger bordering on starvation. And because of that, no calorie was ever taken for granted.
That kind of hunger is another picture of what it means to have faith. We should live for the next meal. The blessings our Lord serves up for us in the preaching of His Word and in the meal of His most holy body and blood—that’s a banquet of blessings for starving sinners like us. Faith just can’t get enough of God’s gifts. We need every calorie and every crumb of our Lord’s forgiveness. Every gram of grace. When bread from heaven is on the menu, we will be there—at the table, at mealtime, with a healthy appetite in tow.
And then there’s the matter of laughter and tears. Blessed are you who weep, for you shall laugh. . . . [But] Woe to you who laugh now, for you shall weep and mourn. Laughter regularly rings through the halls of this building. They say that laughter is good for you, and it is surely a gift from God. But the laughs of this life are temporary. Laughs are few and far between when we consider the reality of our sin and death. There’s nothing funny about our sinful condition. Jesus wants you to know that the purpose of this life is not to be happy. It is to be faithful. And to be faithful to Christ and His Word is sometimes—often—a recipe for grief and tears and sadness.
Finally, Jesus blesses His disciples in their persecution. Blessed are you when people hate you and when they exclude you and revile you and spurn your name as evil, on account of the Son of Man. Faithful prophets are never as popular as false prophets. False prophets know how to massage the lie to scratch the itching ears. They know what sells. And right now what “sells” in our culture is the supremacy of the self. Take a public stand that deviates from that, and watch your popularity plunge into persecution. And so it goes.
But take heart: There is some good news today. Jesus Himself is all the things He describes as blessed—poor, hungry, mourning, reviled and persecuted. Jesus was rich with the riches of heaven, but for our sake He became poor so that in Him we might become rich with the treasures of heaven. Jesus was filled with the good things of heaven at the right hand of His Father. But Jesus emptied Himself and made Himself nothing. Jesus knew the joys of heaven, but left it all behind to join us in the sorrow and suffering of this sin-filled world. He suffered pain and persecution as our sin-bearing substitute. He wept with us, endured pain with us. He came to seek and save the lost, and yet was rejected by all. Yet for the joy set before Him He endured the cross, scorning its shame. He became a curse on the tree of the cross, rejected by God and man so that we might be accepted by God—and loved by God—in spite of our sins.
Today our Lord reminds us that things are not as they seem. God works in unexpected ways—ways that seem upside down and backward. In heaven things will be right side up again. Until then, we wait, confident and full of hope. We trust the Word preached in Jesus’ name and we are filled and strengthened with His life-giving body and blood. Blessed are you.
In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
Monday, February 18, 2019
Monday, February 11, 2019
At the Word of Jesus
In Nomine Iesu
St. Luke 5:1-11
February 10, 2019
Epiphany 5C
Dear Saints of Our Savior~
It’s probably not the kind of art that you would hang on your living room wall, but the little sketch on the cover of this morning’s bulletin is a real gem. Grab a bulletin and take a look with me. It’s a snapshot of a moment recorded in today’s holy Gospel. It’s the call of Saint Peter; and Peter is at the center of the sketch. That’s Jesus on the left and a fellow fisherman on the right—perhaps Andrew, James or John.
Let’s start with the fisherman on the right. His face is darkened and downcast. He looks slightly stooped over and fatigued.
That’s because they had been out fishing all night, but hadn’t caught a single slimy fish. You can probably identify with that experience in your own vocations. You work like crazy—put in double overtime—drive through a snowy polar vortex to get there—but at the end of the day you’ve got nothing to show for all your hard work.
Now look at Jesus on the left. Jesus has just ordered Peter to get back in his boat, head out to the deep water, and let down the nets for a catch. Look at the Lord’s face: humble, gentle, earnest. The eyes of Jesus seem like a window to His soul; and they’re looking directly at Peter. It’s interesting that Jesus has placed His hands on Peter. St. Luke doesn’t give us that detail. But if you’ve been following along in recent weeks, then you know the type of people Jesus did make a habit of touching—the sick, the fevered, all those in need of healing. Just a few verses earlier Luke wrote, “He laid His hands on every one of them and healed them” (4:40). Perhaps the artist wants us to see Peter’s transition from unbelief to faith as a kind of healing.
Finally, look at Peter in the center. Look at the look He’s giving Jesus. What would you call that look? The stink eye? The skunk eye? Extreme skepticism? The annoyance of someone who hasn’t slept in 24 hours but has nothing to show for it? “You want me to do what?” It’s probably the same look you would give me if I showed up where you work and started telling you how to do your job. Peter is a professional fisherman—a card-carrying member of fisherman’s local #448. Jesus is a rabbi—a teacher—who might have some carpentry skills from earlier in life, but who doesn’t know the first thing about the fine art of fishing on the Sea of Galilee.
“Master, we toiled all night and took nothing!” Peter knew that night time was the right time to catch fish on the Sea of Galilee, and that venturing into the deep water in the middle of the day was a complete waste of time. But Peter also knows this: When Jesus says something, it pays to listen. Peter has listened to Jesus rebuke demons and send them scurrying. Peter has seen his own mother-in-law healed by Jesus—as well as scores of sick people in his own front yard in Capernaum. “Master, we toiled all night and took nothing! But at your word I will let down the nets.” Because you say so, I will do what you say.” This is the key to the whole episode. This is the faith point—the point of the miracle that follows: Trust the Word of Jesus.
Will we? Will we trust Jesus, and take Him at His Word, even when He asks the illogical thing—the unreasonable thing—the thing that makes no sense based upon our own personal experience and intelligence?
Jesus works this kind of trust-building in us all the time. Will you do what Peter did? Will you take Jesus at His Word? Do you believe that God is for you, even when it feels like He’s working against you? Do you believe that you are valuable and precious even though you feel depressed and worthless? Will you speak a word of forgiveness to that person who has hurt you, even though every cell in your body screams out for revenge and retribution? Will you treat your spouse and marriage as something holy and sacred—as a union created by God—or will you dishonor and despise that gift by your words and actions? Will you believe Jesus? Will you trust Him? Will you do what He says? Will you follow His Word even when it feels like a huge waste of time—or worse?
That’s what Peter did. Peter let down the nets in deep water, in broad daylight—and the result was a net-busting, boat-sinking load of fish! In fact, it took two boats to haul in the schools of fish that apparently swam to their ultimate demise at the command of Jesus.
But for Peter, the thrill and the euphoria of the ultimate catch quickly gave way to fear and guilt. Peter falls down at Jesus’ feet and declares, “Depart from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man.” And this, too, is the voice of faith. Faith recognizes when we stand in the presence of the holy God. Faith recognizes that in Jesus the holy God has become one of us and stands in our midst—that He is the Lord of creation whom the wind and the waves (and even the fish) obey.
Faith leads us to know and confess our sinfulness. Can you, together with Peter, confess that you are a sinful man or woman? That your problem isn’t just a curse word here and a little bickering there and an occasional moment of lust or greed or whatever? Can you ‘fess up that you are by nature—down to your core—sinful and unclean?
Peter sounds a lot like Isaiah did when he came face to face with the Lord in today’s OT reading. Isaiah knew what it meant for someone like Him to be standing before the holy God: Woe is me! For I am lost. I am a man of unclean lips, and I dwell in the midst of a people of unclean lips. But Isaiah quickly learns that the God who is “Holy, Holy, Holy” is also gracious and merciful, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love. A burning coal from the altar is applied to Isaiah’s lips and Isaiah is purified: Your guilt is taken away, and your sin atoned for.
This is how sinners can stand in the presence of the Holy, Almighty God and live: Your guilt must be taken away. You sin must be atoned for. Your debt must be paid for you. That Jesus standing on the lakeshore—that humble, gentle man with His hand on Simon Peter’s shoulder—He’s the one. He’s the atoning sacrifice. He’s the guilt-bearer. He’s the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world, and washes you white as snow in His bright red blood.
Like Peter—like Isaiah—we are people of unclean lips and lives—sinful down to our DNA, sinful from when we were conceived. And when it comes to that sin, all we can do is follow the lead of Isaiah and Peter: admit it, own it, confess it. Don’t pretend it ain’t so. Don’t say, “Well, I’m not so bad.” You know it’s not right with you—whether on your lips or in your life. And no matter how hard you try, you can’t make it right.
What happened to Isaiah in the temple happens to you here today. Isaiah’s sinful life and lips were purified by a burning coal taken from the altar. And from this altar the Lord Jesus purifies your lips and life with His body given into death to save you, and with His blood, shed for you as the atoning sacrifice for your sins. Through the lips of His called and ordained servant, He puts the forgiving words of absolution into your ears and heart: Do not be afraid. Your guilt is taken away. Your sin is atoned for. I forgive you all your sins in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.
Peter and his fishing buddies received a whole new vocation that day: “Don’t be afraid,” Jesus said, “from now on you will be catching men.” They used to catch fish in nets, but now they will catch men and women in the nets of Jesus’ death and resurrection. In fact, if I could persuade you to take just one more look at the sketch on the bulletin cover, notice that there are no fish to be found in the sketch. But look at the net. Are Peter and his crew-mate merely holding onto the net? Or is the net rising up to catch them? Are they about to be caught by Jesus? Either way, Jesus was at work to snag Himself some new disciples, creating faith in the hearts of crusty, skeptical, stink-eyed fishermen.
We too have been caught in the net of Jesus—baptized in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. But unlike the thousands of fish who lost their lives that day in the Sea of Galilee, to be caught like us in the net of Jesus—is actually to live forever in Him. To live is Christ; to die is gain. Whoever loses his live for Jesus’s sake will certainly find it. In your baptism you were caught—you died a watery death to sin. And then you were dragged out of the depths of that sin and right into the boat of Jesus—this boat we call the church. You’ve been caught by Jesus. And that’s the best of news on this 5th Sunday after the Epiphany in the year of our Lord 2019.
In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
St. Luke 5:1-11
February 10, 2019
Epiphany 5C
Dear Saints of Our Savior~
It’s probably not the kind of art that you would hang on your living room wall, but the little sketch on the cover of this morning’s bulletin is a real gem. Grab a bulletin and take a look with me. It’s a snapshot of a moment recorded in today’s holy Gospel. It’s the call of Saint Peter; and Peter is at the center of the sketch. That’s Jesus on the left and a fellow fisherman on the right—perhaps Andrew, James or John.
Let’s start with the fisherman on the right. His face is darkened and downcast. He looks slightly stooped over and fatigued.
Now look at Jesus on the left. Jesus has just ordered Peter to get back in his boat, head out to the deep water, and let down the nets for a catch. Look at the Lord’s face: humble, gentle, earnest. The eyes of Jesus seem like a window to His soul; and they’re looking directly at Peter. It’s interesting that Jesus has placed His hands on Peter. St. Luke doesn’t give us that detail. But if you’ve been following along in recent weeks, then you know the type of people Jesus did make a habit of touching—the sick, the fevered, all those in need of healing. Just a few verses earlier Luke wrote, “He laid His hands on every one of them and healed them” (4:40). Perhaps the artist wants us to see Peter’s transition from unbelief to faith as a kind of healing.
Finally, look at Peter in the center. Look at the look He’s giving Jesus. What would you call that look? The stink eye? The skunk eye? Extreme skepticism? The annoyance of someone who hasn’t slept in 24 hours but has nothing to show for it? “You want me to do what?” It’s probably the same look you would give me if I showed up where you work and started telling you how to do your job. Peter is a professional fisherman—a card-carrying member of fisherman’s local #448. Jesus is a rabbi—a teacher—who might have some carpentry skills from earlier in life, but who doesn’t know the first thing about the fine art of fishing on the Sea of Galilee.
“Master, we toiled all night and took nothing!” Peter knew that night time was the right time to catch fish on the Sea of Galilee, and that venturing into the deep water in the middle of the day was a complete waste of time. But Peter also knows this: When Jesus says something, it pays to listen. Peter has listened to Jesus rebuke demons and send them scurrying. Peter has seen his own mother-in-law healed by Jesus—as well as scores of sick people in his own front yard in Capernaum. “Master, we toiled all night and took nothing! But at your word I will let down the nets.” Because you say so, I will do what you say.” This is the key to the whole episode. This is the faith point—the point of the miracle that follows: Trust the Word of Jesus.
Will we? Will we trust Jesus, and take Him at His Word, even when He asks the illogical thing—the unreasonable thing—the thing that makes no sense based upon our own personal experience and intelligence?
Jesus works this kind of trust-building in us all the time. Will you do what Peter did? Will you take Jesus at His Word? Do you believe that God is for you, even when it feels like He’s working against you? Do you believe that you are valuable and precious even though you feel depressed and worthless? Will you speak a word of forgiveness to that person who has hurt you, even though every cell in your body screams out for revenge and retribution? Will you treat your spouse and marriage as something holy and sacred—as a union created by God—or will you dishonor and despise that gift by your words and actions? Will you believe Jesus? Will you trust Him? Will you do what He says? Will you follow His Word even when it feels like a huge waste of time—or worse?
That’s what Peter did. Peter let down the nets in deep water, in broad daylight—and the result was a net-busting, boat-sinking load of fish! In fact, it took two boats to haul in the schools of fish that apparently swam to their ultimate demise at the command of Jesus.
But for Peter, the thrill and the euphoria of the ultimate catch quickly gave way to fear and guilt. Peter falls down at Jesus’ feet and declares, “Depart from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man.” And this, too, is the voice of faith. Faith recognizes when we stand in the presence of the holy God. Faith recognizes that in Jesus the holy God has become one of us and stands in our midst—that He is the Lord of creation whom the wind and the waves (and even the fish) obey.
Faith leads us to know and confess our sinfulness. Can you, together with Peter, confess that you are a sinful man or woman? That your problem isn’t just a curse word here and a little bickering there and an occasional moment of lust or greed or whatever? Can you ‘fess up that you are by nature—down to your core—sinful and unclean?
Peter sounds a lot like Isaiah did when he came face to face with the Lord in today’s OT reading. Isaiah knew what it meant for someone like Him to be standing before the holy God: Woe is me! For I am lost. I am a man of unclean lips, and I dwell in the midst of a people of unclean lips. But Isaiah quickly learns that the God who is “Holy, Holy, Holy” is also gracious and merciful, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love. A burning coal from the altar is applied to Isaiah’s lips and Isaiah is purified: Your guilt is taken away, and your sin atoned for.
This is how sinners can stand in the presence of the Holy, Almighty God and live: Your guilt must be taken away. You sin must be atoned for. Your debt must be paid for you. That Jesus standing on the lakeshore—that humble, gentle man with His hand on Simon Peter’s shoulder—He’s the one. He’s the atoning sacrifice. He’s the guilt-bearer. He’s the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world, and washes you white as snow in His bright red blood.
Like Peter—like Isaiah—we are people of unclean lips and lives—sinful down to our DNA, sinful from when we were conceived. And when it comes to that sin, all we can do is follow the lead of Isaiah and Peter: admit it, own it, confess it. Don’t pretend it ain’t so. Don’t say, “Well, I’m not so bad.” You know it’s not right with you—whether on your lips or in your life. And no matter how hard you try, you can’t make it right.
What happened to Isaiah in the temple happens to you here today. Isaiah’s sinful life and lips were purified by a burning coal taken from the altar. And from this altar the Lord Jesus purifies your lips and life with His body given into death to save you, and with His blood, shed for you as the atoning sacrifice for your sins. Through the lips of His called and ordained servant, He puts the forgiving words of absolution into your ears and heart: Do not be afraid. Your guilt is taken away. Your sin is atoned for. I forgive you all your sins in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.
Peter and his fishing buddies received a whole new vocation that day: “Don’t be afraid,” Jesus said, “from now on you will be catching men.” They used to catch fish in nets, but now they will catch men and women in the nets of Jesus’ death and resurrection. In fact, if I could persuade you to take just one more look at the sketch on the bulletin cover, notice that there are no fish to be found in the sketch. But look at the net. Are Peter and his crew-mate merely holding onto the net? Or is the net rising up to catch them? Are they about to be caught by Jesus? Either way, Jesus was at work to snag Himself some new disciples, creating faith in the hearts of crusty, skeptical, stink-eyed fishermen.
We too have been caught in the net of Jesus—baptized in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. But unlike the thousands of fish who lost their lives that day in the Sea of Galilee, to be caught like us in the net of Jesus—is actually to live forever in Him. To live is Christ; to die is gain. Whoever loses his live for Jesus’s sake will certainly find it. In your baptism you were caught—you died a watery death to sin. And then you were dragged out of the depths of that sin and right into the boat of Jesus—this boat we call the church. You’ve been caught by Jesus. And that’s the best of news on this 5th Sunday after the Epiphany in the year of our Lord 2019.
In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
Monday, February 4, 2019
Love, Corinthian Style
In Nomine Iesu
1 Cor. 12-13
February 3, 2019
Epiphany 4C
Dear Saints of Our Savior~
We’ve been hearing bits and pieces from 1 Corinthians over the past few Sundays. And 1 Corinthians is always a good place for any congregation to spend time. Last week’s reading from 1 Corinthians included this rather remarkable statement: “Now you are the body of Christ and individually members of it.” And please notice that St. Paul does not say that you symbolize the body of Christ, or that you represent the body of Christ, or even that you correspond to the body of Christ. No, Paul’s words are unambiguous: You are the body of Christ, and each one of you is a part of it.
Paul used a lot of ink explaining to the Corinthians how each part of the body of Christ is a vital part. Paul compared individual Christians with individual body parts: Feet and hands, eyes and ears, God has arranged all these many parts into one body. Each part serves a purpose. Each part is valuable. Each part is connected to all the other parts.
It’s kind of a fun exercise to speculate about which part you are. Which part are you? The beating heart of the congregation? A bicep or quadricep, providing power and muscle for all the heavy lifting? Are you the “brains” of the operation, always making thoughtful
contribution to our work together? Or do you see yourself in more of a smaller part—more like a wisdom tooth, a tonsil or a toenail?
One thing’s for sure: we are all very different. As you look around at the members of the body of Christ gathered here this morning, it doesn’t take long to notice the differences. We’ve got introverts and extroverts, republicans and democrats, young and old. There are great differences in education and income and interests. We’re as different from one another as tonsils are different from toenails—each with different roles and responsibilities and gifts for our life together as the body of Christ. The miracle is how the Holy Spirit takes this diverse rag-tag mishmash of quirky people, and incorporates it into the body of Christ—into the one, holy, Christian and apostolic church.
The congregation at Corinth was even more diverse than we are. They had rich members and poor members, slaves and free, Jews and Gentile converts. Many of them had received special gifts from the Holy Spirit—gifts for teaching, for working miracles, for healing, for administration, for speaking in tongues. Few congregations have ever been on the receiving end of such a rich variety of spiritual gifts.
But wherever God richly blesses His church, the devil puts in overtime. Or as Martin Luther once put it, “Where God builds a church, the devil builds a chapel.” The rich diversity of spiritual gifts among the Corinthians—which should have been a source of blessing and thanksgiving—became a cause of division between them. It’s so predictable! There really is nothing new under the sun.
The body became divided. Some members developed an inferiority complex; while others developed a superiority complex. “Well, I can’t work any miracles and I can’t speak in tongues. So I guess that means I’m just a callous on the foot of the body of Christ. I don’t matter.” Meanwhile, the members with the more spectacular gifts concluded that they were more important than everyone else—that they were both the brains and the brawn of the body of Christ and that everybody else should just step aside and get out the way and watch the magic happen. This is why Paul wrote, “You—all of you—are the body of Christ and individually members of it.”
This is also why the Holy Spirit led Paul to devote an entire section of His letter to the topic of love. For love is the lifeblood of the body of Christ. Love is the lifeblood of this and every Christian congregation. If we don’t have love among all the parts of the body of Christ, then, Paul says, we are nothing. We may possess powers of prophecy, we may possess faith that moves mountains, we may possess knowledge and understanding and insight—we may know our catechisms forward and backward—but if we don’t have this love for one another, then nothing else matters. Love makes the body of Christ function smoothly and efficiently.
This love, of course, is agape. Agape is unlike every modern notion of what love is. Agape love has nothing to do with my feelings or my emotions. This love isn’t just a sentimental feeling. No, this love is a sacrificial love—a self-giving love. It’s a love that takes action in the form of words and deeds.
And this love is absolutely necessary between ALL the members of the body of Christ. It’s a love that says, “You matter more than me. What can I do for you? How can I help you?” It’s a love that gets shared between all the members of the body—not just the members you know and like, not just the members who are similar to you, but also those who are different, those you don’t know, those who can sometimes be cantankerous. We should love the toenails and the tonsils as much as we love the brains and the brawn. Or, if I could put it another way, every person in this body of Christ should matter to you. When they are hurting, it should be as if your own body is injured. When they are honored, your own heart should swell with pride.
Now, it’s right here that I, as a preacher, must recognize the limits of my power. I can’t create this kind of love at Our Savior. I can’t force you to be patient and kind, not to envy or to boast or to insist on your own way. I can’t even create this kind of love in my own life, so I certainly can’t create it among all of you. Nor can I expect you—even with all your good intentions—to extend this kind of amazing love to all the other members of the body of Christ. I can’t inspire you or teach you to love like this.
Love like this—agape love—can only be given to you. The ability to love like Jesus . . . can only come . . . from Jesus. And from Jesus it does come—to you and you and you. “For in one Spirit we were all baptized into [this] one body.” Whether you are a nose or an ear or a finger in the body of Christ—you are a vital part of the body because you are baptized. You are washed. You are cleansed. You are chosen by God. You become a vessel of this agape love on a daily basis, when the Holy Spirit who lives in you drowns the Old Adam so that the “Jesus” in you can arise to love God and to love your neighbor.
Today’s epistle reading is sometimes referred to as the great “love chapter” of the Bible. Here Paul lays out the kind of serving, sacrificial love that God gives between us as members of Christ’s body. But today’s epistle also shows us the love of Jesus—the kind of love that Jesus Christ has for you personally. In other words, it’s not merely about the love we should have, but the love that Jesus already has for us. St. John wrote: “This is how we know what love is: Jesus Christ laid down His life for us.” God so loved you and me that He sent His one and only Son to die for all the loveless thoughts, words, and deeds of sinners like you and me. It’s there on the cross that we see love in action. There on the cross we see self-giving love—sacrificial love. In Jesus we have a love that keeps no record of sins. Jesus is love in human flesh. And this love is for you, no matter which part you are in the body of Christ.
Today once again the body of Christ gathers to be nourished. And Jesus has nothing but the best for you: His own body and blood for the forgiveness of sins. Do you feel like your faith is weak? Do you feel like your hope is fading? Does it seem like your love has grown cold? Then come to the Supper of Jesus’ body and blood where faith is strengthened, where hope is renewed and where love is given in abundance. Now we see in a mirror dimly; we struggle to make sense of it all. But the day is coming when we won’t need faith any longer. And we won’t need hope any longer. For we will be face to face with Jesus, embraced in His love which never ends.
You are the body of Christ. It matters not what part you are—kneecap or knuckle, ankle or eyebrow—you have a place and you have a purpose in the body of Christ. Don’t feel inferior. Don’t feel superior. For no one is more loved by the Lord than you are. You are the body of Christ.
In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
1 Cor. 12-13
February 3, 2019
Epiphany 4C
Dear Saints of Our Savior~
We’ve been hearing bits and pieces from 1 Corinthians over the past few Sundays. And 1 Corinthians is always a good place for any congregation to spend time. Last week’s reading from 1 Corinthians included this rather remarkable statement: “Now you are the body of Christ and individually members of it.” And please notice that St. Paul does not say that you symbolize the body of Christ, or that you represent the body of Christ, or even that you correspond to the body of Christ. No, Paul’s words are unambiguous: You are the body of Christ, and each one of you is a part of it.
Paul used a lot of ink explaining to the Corinthians how each part of the body of Christ is a vital part. Paul compared individual Christians with individual body parts: Feet and hands, eyes and ears, God has arranged all these many parts into one body. Each part serves a purpose. Each part is valuable. Each part is connected to all the other parts.
It’s kind of a fun exercise to speculate about which part you are. Which part are you? The beating heart of the congregation? A bicep or quadricep, providing power and muscle for all the heavy lifting? Are you the “brains” of the operation, always making thoughtful
One thing’s for sure: we are all very different. As you look around at the members of the body of Christ gathered here this morning, it doesn’t take long to notice the differences. We’ve got introverts and extroverts, republicans and democrats, young and old. There are great differences in education and income and interests. We’re as different from one another as tonsils are different from toenails—each with different roles and responsibilities and gifts for our life together as the body of Christ. The miracle is how the Holy Spirit takes this diverse rag-tag mishmash of quirky people, and incorporates it into the body of Christ—into the one, holy, Christian and apostolic church.
The congregation at Corinth was even more diverse than we are. They had rich members and poor members, slaves and free, Jews and Gentile converts. Many of them had received special gifts from the Holy Spirit—gifts for teaching, for working miracles, for healing, for administration, for speaking in tongues. Few congregations have ever been on the receiving end of such a rich variety of spiritual gifts.
But wherever God richly blesses His church, the devil puts in overtime. Or as Martin Luther once put it, “Where God builds a church, the devil builds a chapel.” The rich diversity of spiritual gifts among the Corinthians—which should have been a source of blessing and thanksgiving—became a cause of division between them. It’s so predictable! There really is nothing new under the sun.
The body became divided. Some members developed an inferiority complex; while others developed a superiority complex. “Well, I can’t work any miracles and I can’t speak in tongues. So I guess that means I’m just a callous on the foot of the body of Christ. I don’t matter.” Meanwhile, the members with the more spectacular gifts concluded that they were more important than everyone else—that they were both the brains and the brawn of the body of Christ and that everybody else should just step aside and get out the way and watch the magic happen. This is why Paul wrote, “You—all of you—are the body of Christ and individually members of it.”
This is also why the Holy Spirit led Paul to devote an entire section of His letter to the topic of love. For love is the lifeblood of the body of Christ. Love is the lifeblood of this and every Christian congregation. If we don’t have love among all the parts of the body of Christ, then, Paul says, we are nothing. We may possess powers of prophecy, we may possess faith that moves mountains, we may possess knowledge and understanding and insight—we may know our catechisms forward and backward—but if we don’t have this love for one another, then nothing else matters. Love makes the body of Christ function smoothly and efficiently.
This love, of course, is agape. Agape is unlike every modern notion of what love is. Agape love has nothing to do with my feelings or my emotions. This love isn’t just a sentimental feeling. No, this love is a sacrificial love—a self-giving love. It’s a love that takes action in the form of words and deeds.
And this love is absolutely necessary between ALL the members of the body of Christ. It’s a love that says, “You matter more than me. What can I do for you? How can I help you?” It’s a love that gets shared between all the members of the body—not just the members you know and like, not just the members who are similar to you, but also those who are different, those you don’t know, those who can sometimes be cantankerous. We should love the toenails and the tonsils as much as we love the brains and the brawn. Or, if I could put it another way, every person in this body of Christ should matter to you. When they are hurting, it should be as if your own body is injured. When they are honored, your own heart should swell with pride.
Now, it’s right here that I, as a preacher, must recognize the limits of my power. I can’t create this kind of love at Our Savior. I can’t force you to be patient and kind, not to envy or to boast or to insist on your own way. I can’t even create this kind of love in my own life, so I certainly can’t create it among all of you. Nor can I expect you—even with all your good intentions—to extend this kind of amazing love to all the other members of the body of Christ. I can’t inspire you or teach you to love like this.
Love like this—agape love—can only be given to you. The ability to love like Jesus . . . can only come . . . from Jesus. And from Jesus it does come—to you and you and you. “For in one Spirit we were all baptized into [this] one body.” Whether you are a nose or an ear or a finger in the body of Christ—you are a vital part of the body because you are baptized. You are washed. You are cleansed. You are chosen by God. You become a vessel of this agape love on a daily basis, when the Holy Spirit who lives in you drowns the Old Adam so that the “Jesus” in you can arise to love God and to love your neighbor.
Today’s epistle reading is sometimes referred to as the great “love chapter” of the Bible. Here Paul lays out the kind of serving, sacrificial love that God gives between us as members of Christ’s body. But today’s epistle also shows us the love of Jesus—the kind of love that Jesus Christ has for you personally. In other words, it’s not merely about the love we should have, but the love that Jesus already has for us. St. John wrote: “This is how we know what love is: Jesus Christ laid down His life for us.” God so loved you and me that He sent His one and only Son to die for all the loveless thoughts, words, and deeds of sinners like you and me. It’s there on the cross that we see love in action. There on the cross we see self-giving love—sacrificial love. In Jesus we have a love that keeps no record of sins. Jesus is love in human flesh. And this love is for you, no matter which part you are in the body of Christ.
Today once again the body of Christ gathers to be nourished. And Jesus has nothing but the best for you: His own body and blood for the forgiveness of sins. Do you feel like your faith is weak? Do you feel like your hope is fading? Does it seem like your love has grown cold? Then come to the Supper of Jesus’ body and blood where faith is strengthened, where hope is renewed and where love is given in abundance. Now we see in a mirror dimly; we struggle to make sense of it all. But the day is coming when we won’t need faith any longer. And we won’t need hope any longer. For we will be face to face with Jesus, embraced in His love which never ends.
You are the body of Christ. It matters not what part you are—kneecap or knuckle, ankle or eyebrow—you have a place and you have a purpose in the body of Christ. Don’t feel inferior. Don’t feel superior. For no one is more loved by the Lord than you are. You are the body of Christ.
In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
Monday, January 21, 2019
Savoring the First Sign
In Nomine Iesu
St. John 2:1-11
January 20, 2019
Epiphany 2C
Dear Saints of Our Savior~
Do you know what a sommelier is? A sommelier is a wine expert—a wine steward—a trained and knowledgeable wine professional. Whereas most of us take a sip of wine and think, “This tastes like fermented grapes,” a sommelier is someone who sniffs the cork, lets the wine breathe, twirls the glass, takes a sip, and detects hints of sage, oak, and butterscotch—and knows with one sip that the grapes came from a hidden river valley deep in the far southern regions of Tuscany. Few of us will ever be able to extract and savor the flavors of vino like a sommelier.
But with the help of the Holy Spirit, you can be a sommelier of the Scriptures. You can read, mark, learn, inwardly digest, and savor what God gives us in His Word; and detect subtle hints of Law and Gospel—the bitter taste of judgment, and the sweet, smooth flavor of God’s amazing grace in Jesus Christ. The more you taste of the Scriptures, the more you can discern truth from error and the joy that comes from Jesus.
There are few moments in our Lord’s earthly ministry that are as ripe and flavorful as the wedding at Cana. It’s our Lord’s first miracle—the changing of water into wine. It’s full of surprises and bursting with joy. St. John invites us to really savor this moment
when he describes this miracle as a “sign,” the first of Jesus’ signs. That word “sign” tells us that there’s more here than meets the eye. If to you this account simply means that Jesus saved the father of the bride a trip to the liquor store, then please hang with me as we explore the full array of flavors this account has to offer.
Wine is all natural. Wine is the natural, normal way for grapes to be used. Fermentation is a natural, God-given chemical reaction. Now, notice if you will, the setting for Jesus’ first “sign.” Where did Jesus first show His miraculous wine-making ability? It’s a wedding feast. A groom and a bride—a man and a woman—have been joined together in holy matrimony. Marriage, like wine, is natural, normal, and God-given. At the very least, our Lord’s attendance at these nuptials shows that marriage matters to Jesus. Marriage is His gift. It’s the foundation on which all of human life is based. Children need both a mother and a father. God’s focus is always on the family.
The recent attempts of our culture to redefine marriage in unnatural and abnormal ways are sort of like trying to extract wine from potatoes instead of grapes. It doesn’t work. The end result of same-sex unions is not marriage, but a shallow imitation of marriage. Same-sex unions are unnatural and abnormal because everyone knows that the normal, natural result of marriage is babies, children, offspring. It takes two sexes to make a baby—male and female.
Marriage is natural; and children are the natural result of marriage. On this Life Sunday it needs to be said that when human beings despise and reject what is basic, normal and natural in God’s creation—we are rejecting God Himself. When we pretend that unborn children are somehow less than human—when we do not protect those little ones, but allow their lives to be ended in the most violent and painful ways—we do great harm. There is nothing more unnatural and abnormal than abortion. And there is nothing more beautiful and precious than the birth of a baby.
We just recently spent twelve days celebrating the birth of a baby. How many stamps—how many Christmas cards did you get with a mother and a baby—the Madonna and Child—depicted? In today’s Gospel that child and His blessed mother are together again. Coincidence? I don’t think so. The interaction between Jesus and Mary in Cana is yet another subtle flavor in this complex vintage we’re sampling from John chapter two.
It’s Mary who first informs Jesus that the wine had run out. At first, Jesus doesn’t seem very eager to do anything about it. Woman, what does this have to do with me? He asks. And then Jesus lets loose with one of those rich, profound, pregnant phrases: My hour has not yet come. Jesus’ “hour” refers to the moment of His glory—the moment when He brings glory to His Father—when He brings life to us—by hanging dead on a cross for the sins of the world. Jesus seems to be telling Mary that His miracles aren’t intended to be cute little parlor tricks cooked up to dazzle the guests at weddings and bar mitzvahs. Jesus’ miracles are “signs” that point the way to the cross—signs that lead us to believe in Him.
But Mary is a model of faith; and she forges ahead in faith, confident that Jesus will act. Mary said to the servants, “Do whatever He tells you.” Those happen to be the last recorded words of Mary in the Scriptures. And we really can’t go wrong by taking those words to heart: “Do whatever [my Son] tells you.” That’s pretty good advice from the mother of our Lord. After all, He’s the one who died on the cross and rose from the dead to save you. So if Jesus says to love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, then we should do it. If He says to forgive those who trespass against us, then we should do it. Do whatever He tells you.
There’s so much to savor in this story. For instance, Jesus has the servants fill six stone jars with water. John tells us that these water jars were used for Jewish rites of purification. And that’s important. Jesus’ Jewish contemporaries washed in this water for reasons of godliness, not cleanliness—thought this washing could make them more acceptable to God.
Well, you know what happens next. The master of the feast takes a sip of the new wine and immediately calls the groom over. “Listen,” he says. “Someone’s made a mistake here. You’re supposed to serve the fine wine first. Then, after everyone’s senses are a little dulled, you slip in the cheap stuff from CVS. But,” says the sommelier, “you have kept the good wine until now.” You have saved the best for last!
Now, remember, this text is like fine wine. Let’s savor what’s going on here. When Mary said, “They have no more wine,” she might just as well have been talking about the Jews of the Old Covenant. Their time was just about up. A new covenant was on the horizon. But they were hopelessly mired in the law—in keeping man-made rules, regulations and ceremonies—with nothing to show for it but six jars of water. That’s about as far as the Law of God can take you. At best, it can give you clean hands; but it can’t purify the heart of a sinner. And that’s a problem.
So savor this good news. Drink deeply of the joy Jesus brings. In Jesus, the old is gone and the new creation has come. In Jesus, Old Testament bathwater becomes New Testament wedding wine. Jesus fulfills the commandments of Moses with His own perfect obedience. That’s why He came—to fulfill the Law of God and then to die an innocent death on the cross—to pour out His blood like fine wine from heaven, to make glad every heart with the joy of His forgiveness, life, and salvation.
Jesus’ coming spells the end of all attempts to clean ourselves up and impress God with our good behavior. You can’t do it no matter how hard you scrub. You’ll never be pure enough by your own efforts to make things right. But Jesus does it for you in His death and resurrection. He takes your sin and gives you His purity. All who believe in Him are completely cleansed and purified—by grace, through faith. And that’s something worth celebrating. And, I’m sorry, but grape juice just doesn’t cut it. In Jesus you have a place at the wedding feast of the Lamb in His kingdom, where the meat is richly marbled and the wine never runs out.
Have we made too much of this first sign of Jesus at Cana? No way. In fact, there are a few drops more of this text left to enjoy. We can’t quit until you recognize this: that what goes on right here at Our Savior every Sunday is more marvelous and more meaningful than what happened at the wedding at Cana. Here Jesus takes water and makes water a sign—a baptism—a sacrament of His death and resurrection life, which is given to you in the splash of your own baptism. Here Jesus takes bread and gives it as His body; here Jesus takes wine and gives it to you as His blood. Right here every Sunday we have a wedding feast where Jesus is the groom, Jesus is bartender, Jesus is even the food and drink. And best of all, you are His honored guests. You get to savor it all like a world-class sommelier.
God has saved the best for last, and the best always comes with Jesus.
In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
St. John 2:1-11
January 20, 2019
Epiphany 2C
Dear Saints of Our Savior~
Do you know what a sommelier is? A sommelier is a wine expert—a wine steward—a trained and knowledgeable wine professional. Whereas most of us take a sip of wine and think, “This tastes like fermented grapes,” a sommelier is someone who sniffs the cork, lets the wine breathe, twirls the glass, takes a sip, and detects hints of sage, oak, and butterscotch—and knows with one sip that the grapes came from a hidden river valley deep in the far southern regions of Tuscany. Few of us will ever be able to extract and savor the flavors of vino like a sommelier.
But with the help of the Holy Spirit, you can be a sommelier of the Scriptures. You can read, mark, learn, inwardly digest, and savor what God gives us in His Word; and detect subtle hints of Law and Gospel—the bitter taste of judgment, and the sweet, smooth flavor of God’s amazing grace in Jesus Christ. The more you taste of the Scriptures, the more you can discern truth from error and the joy that comes from Jesus.
There are few moments in our Lord’s earthly ministry that are as ripe and flavorful as the wedding at Cana. It’s our Lord’s first miracle—the changing of water into wine. It’s full of surprises and bursting with joy. St. John invites us to really savor this moment
Wine is all natural. Wine is the natural, normal way for grapes to be used. Fermentation is a natural, God-given chemical reaction. Now, notice if you will, the setting for Jesus’ first “sign.” Where did Jesus first show His miraculous wine-making ability? It’s a wedding feast. A groom and a bride—a man and a woman—have been joined together in holy matrimony. Marriage, like wine, is natural, normal, and God-given. At the very least, our Lord’s attendance at these nuptials shows that marriage matters to Jesus. Marriage is His gift. It’s the foundation on which all of human life is based. Children need both a mother and a father. God’s focus is always on the family.
The recent attempts of our culture to redefine marriage in unnatural and abnormal ways are sort of like trying to extract wine from potatoes instead of grapes. It doesn’t work. The end result of same-sex unions is not marriage, but a shallow imitation of marriage. Same-sex unions are unnatural and abnormal because everyone knows that the normal, natural result of marriage is babies, children, offspring. It takes two sexes to make a baby—male and female.
Marriage is natural; and children are the natural result of marriage. On this Life Sunday it needs to be said that when human beings despise and reject what is basic, normal and natural in God’s creation—we are rejecting God Himself. When we pretend that unborn children are somehow less than human—when we do not protect those little ones, but allow their lives to be ended in the most violent and painful ways—we do great harm. There is nothing more unnatural and abnormal than abortion. And there is nothing more beautiful and precious than the birth of a baby.
We just recently spent twelve days celebrating the birth of a baby. How many stamps—how many Christmas cards did you get with a mother and a baby—the Madonna and Child—depicted? In today’s Gospel that child and His blessed mother are together again. Coincidence? I don’t think so. The interaction between Jesus and Mary in Cana is yet another subtle flavor in this complex vintage we’re sampling from John chapter two.
It’s Mary who first informs Jesus that the wine had run out. At first, Jesus doesn’t seem very eager to do anything about it. Woman, what does this have to do with me? He asks. And then Jesus lets loose with one of those rich, profound, pregnant phrases: My hour has not yet come. Jesus’ “hour” refers to the moment of His glory—the moment when He brings glory to His Father—when He brings life to us—by hanging dead on a cross for the sins of the world. Jesus seems to be telling Mary that His miracles aren’t intended to be cute little parlor tricks cooked up to dazzle the guests at weddings and bar mitzvahs. Jesus’ miracles are “signs” that point the way to the cross—signs that lead us to believe in Him.
But Mary is a model of faith; and she forges ahead in faith, confident that Jesus will act. Mary said to the servants, “Do whatever He tells you.” Those happen to be the last recorded words of Mary in the Scriptures. And we really can’t go wrong by taking those words to heart: “Do whatever [my Son] tells you.” That’s pretty good advice from the mother of our Lord. After all, He’s the one who died on the cross and rose from the dead to save you. So if Jesus says to love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, then we should do it. If He says to forgive those who trespass against us, then we should do it. Do whatever He tells you.
There’s so much to savor in this story. For instance, Jesus has the servants fill six stone jars with water. John tells us that these water jars were used for Jewish rites of purification. And that’s important. Jesus’ Jewish contemporaries washed in this water for reasons of godliness, not cleanliness—thought this washing could make them more acceptable to God.
Well, you know what happens next. The master of the feast takes a sip of the new wine and immediately calls the groom over. “Listen,” he says. “Someone’s made a mistake here. You’re supposed to serve the fine wine first. Then, after everyone’s senses are a little dulled, you slip in the cheap stuff from CVS. But,” says the sommelier, “you have kept the good wine until now.” You have saved the best for last!
Now, remember, this text is like fine wine. Let’s savor what’s going on here. When Mary said, “They have no more wine,” she might just as well have been talking about the Jews of the Old Covenant. Their time was just about up. A new covenant was on the horizon. But they were hopelessly mired in the law—in keeping man-made rules, regulations and ceremonies—with nothing to show for it but six jars of water. That’s about as far as the Law of God can take you. At best, it can give you clean hands; but it can’t purify the heart of a sinner. And that’s a problem.
So savor this good news. Drink deeply of the joy Jesus brings. In Jesus, the old is gone and the new creation has come. In Jesus, Old Testament bathwater becomes New Testament wedding wine. Jesus fulfills the commandments of Moses with His own perfect obedience. That’s why He came—to fulfill the Law of God and then to die an innocent death on the cross—to pour out His blood like fine wine from heaven, to make glad every heart with the joy of His forgiveness, life, and salvation.
Jesus’ coming spells the end of all attempts to clean ourselves up and impress God with our good behavior. You can’t do it no matter how hard you scrub. You’ll never be pure enough by your own efforts to make things right. But Jesus does it for you in His death and resurrection. He takes your sin and gives you His purity. All who believe in Him are completely cleansed and purified—by grace, through faith. And that’s something worth celebrating. And, I’m sorry, but grape juice just doesn’t cut it. In Jesus you have a place at the wedding feast of the Lamb in His kingdom, where the meat is richly marbled and the wine never runs out.
Have we made too much of this first sign of Jesus at Cana? No way. In fact, there are a few drops more of this text left to enjoy. We can’t quit until you recognize this: that what goes on right here at Our Savior every Sunday is more marvelous and more meaningful than what happened at the wedding at Cana. Here Jesus takes water and makes water a sign—a baptism—a sacrament of His death and resurrection life, which is given to you in the splash of your own baptism. Here Jesus takes bread and gives it as His body; here Jesus takes wine and gives it to you as His blood. Right here every Sunday we have a wedding feast where Jesus is the groom, Jesus is bartender, Jesus is even the food and drink. And best of all, you are His honored guests. You get to savor it all like a world-class sommelier.
God has saved the best for last, and the best always comes with Jesus.
In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
Monday, January 14, 2019
The Buck Stops with Baptism
In Nomine Iesu
St. Luke 3:15-22
January 13, 2019
The Baptism of Our Lord-C
Dear Saints of Our Savior~
If you visit the Harry S. Truman Presidential Library in Independence, Missouri, one of the many interesting things you’ll see is an exact replica of the Oval Office—just as it looked during the Truman presidency. And sitting there on President Truman’s desk is a carved, wooden, sign which reads: The buck stops here. Passing the buck—shifting the blame—is a good summary of what happens in our nation’s capital day in and day out. With his famous sign, President Truman seemed to be saying that—whatever the dilemma—whatever the problem—he would address it. He would fix it. He would make it right. And if not, then he alone would bear the blame.
With His baptism in the Jordan River, Jesus assumed a similar position. The buck would now stop with Jesus—the buck of human sin. The shame, the blame, the guilt, the lies, the finger-pointing—it will all now come to rest in, with, and under Jesus. He Himself will now assume the blame and fix the problem. He Himself will make all things right—including the dilemma of our sin and death. The buck will stop with Jesus, the Christ.
The Baptism of our Lord is a profound and significant moment in His earthly ministry. Some have described it as Jesus’ public
inauguration into office. We understand how that works. President Truman couldn’t be the buck-stopping president until he was inaugurated. In Wisconsin, we inaugurated a new governor last week (although you may have missed it since the Packers hired a new head coach on the same day). We do it with pastors when they are ordained. You could say that God the Father was publicly ordaining Jesus and visibly anointing Jesus with the Holy Spirit so that He could begin His holy work in earnest. For three decades or so He’d been laying low up north in Nazareth. But now, the Son was going public. The buck would now stop with Jesus, the Christ.
Jesus’ baptism was quite a spectacle. All three persons of the Trinity are made manifest. If you had been there, you would never forget it. That public baptism was to set Jesus apart. It marked and identified Him as the one and only Son of God. For no one else did the heavens open wide. On no one else did the Spirit descend like a dove. For no other human being did the Father testify from heaven, “You are my beloved Son; with you I am well pleased.”
One of the unique details St. Luke provides about the baptism of Jesus is that our Lord was praying as He was baptized. And as He prayed the heavens were opened. Only Jesus can do that. No one else can open heaven with their prayers. The original sin we inherited from our first parents—and those actual sins of ours that ruin everything everyday—that sin has shut heaven tight. No amount of praying or pleading on our part can change that. Adam passed the buck and blamed Eve. Eve passed the buck and blamed the serpent. And you and I have often imitated their talent for passing the buck and shifting the blame and justifying ourselves. But who do we think we’re fooling?
The buck stops with Jesus. The redemption of the world—the forgiveness of our sins—the resurrection of our bodies—it all hinges on Him. He’s the Son sent by the Father. The Father is pleased with him—well pleased, in fact. Apart from Jesus, the Father would never be pleased with you or me. There’s nothing “pleasing” about us—no matter how good we try to be, no matter how religious we think we are, no matter how much other people may admire us. Apart from faith in Jesus and His salvation, we are displeasing and unacceptable to God.
But the Baptism of Our Lord brings some very good news: Jesus is God’s beloved Son and, in Jesus, you are beloved by God. Jesus is precious, honored, and loved by God. And, in Jesus, so are you. His baptism spells it out for us—reveals that Jesus is your stand-in substitute—the Lamb of God come to take away your sin in His death. St. Luke points out that Jesus was baptized together “with all the people.” Jesus wades into the water, shoulder-to-shoulder with sinners, expressing solidarity with sinners, linking Himself to the likes of you and me.
But the baptism of Jesus is different from all the rest. Everyone else came to have their sins washed away; but Jesus is baptized so that your sins might be applied to Him. In fact, He comes to be our sin. There’s a movie called “The Green Mile,” and it’s a parable of this very thing. I caught some of it on television recently. In the movie a man is wrongly convicted and is sent to death row. But this man possesses a miraculous ability to heal other people. But there’s a catch. He heals others by taking their sicknesses into his body. Cancer cells, viruses, infections—he draws them all into Himself.
This is what Jesus comes to do with your sin. At His baptism He takes a bath in your sin—immerses Himself in your death. And then, wonder of wonders, He turns that putrid, polluted water into the sweet, pure, cleansing splash of your Baptism. Does it by the power of His death and resurrection. The buck stops with Jesus.
Luther called this a “blessed exchange.” Others more recently refer to it as a “sweet swap.” Jesus takes our sin and swaps it for His sinless perfection. He became sin for us so that in Him we might become the righteousness of God. He stood in your place on Good Friday so that you might stand in His place on the Last Day—precious, honored, and loved. He soaks up every last drop of our evil and immorality and bears it to His crucifixion cross. Think of the worst you’ve done—of what you are most ashamed—of what causes you to deserve God’s judgment most of all. Now see it washed away by the cleansing blood of Jesus—who makes our scarlet sins snowy white.
It’s the sweet swap—the blessed exchange. Jesus becomes our sin, and we, baptized into Him, become His righteousness. What Jesus accomplished on the cross for the whole world now comes crashing and splashing onto you in your own baptism. He was baptized into your sin and death. You were baptized into His death and life. You have been buried with Him. You have been raised with Him.
St. Paul in Romans six tells us what this means: You are no longer enslaved to sin. In fact, you are dead to sin and alive to God in Christ Jesus. Shall you then continue in sin—carelessly, casually continuing in sin—coolly pre-planning your repentance and presuming God’s forgiveness? Shall you go on living your life as if your baptism was a meaningless custom? By no means! How can we who died to sin still live in it? You’ve been united with Christ. Your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit. Sin no longer has dominion over you. Your baptism means that the buck goes no further than you. You don’t need to blame others or make excuses. You can be the holy person your baptism has made you to be. Live in the love of God that flows from the font directly to you.
This past summer you may have heard the big story that water had been discovered on Mars. Supposedly, a vast underground lake of liquid water has now been detected by a radar instrument onboard an orbiting spacecraft. This is big news because water is the key, they say. Where there’s water, there’s life. That’s close, but not quite. On this day, when Baptism is front and center, let’s put it this way: Where there’s water and the Word there is life. There is forgiveness of sins, life, and salvation.
But wait, there’s more! In your baptism the heavens have been opened to you. The Spirit descends upon you. The Father declares your own adoption into His family by grace, as His own beloved child. With you God is well pleased—not because of what you do, but because of who you are in Jesus. The buck of your sin stops with Him; and your new life begins with Him—in the water and the Word of your own baptism.
In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
St. Luke 3:15-22
January 13, 2019
The Baptism of Our Lord-C
Dear Saints of Our Savior~
If you visit the Harry S. Truman Presidential Library in Independence, Missouri, one of the many interesting things you’ll see is an exact replica of the Oval Office—just as it looked during the Truman presidency. And sitting there on President Truman’s desk is a carved, wooden, sign which reads: The buck stops here. Passing the buck—shifting the blame—is a good summary of what happens in our nation’s capital day in and day out. With his famous sign, President Truman seemed to be saying that—whatever the dilemma—whatever the problem—he would address it. He would fix it. He would make it right. And if not, then he alone would bear the blame.
With His baptism in the Jordan River, Jesus assumed a similar position. The buck would now stop with Jesus—the buck of human sin. The shame, the blame, the guilt, the lies, the finger-pointing—it will all now come to rest in, with, and under Jesus. He Himself will now assume the blame and fix the problem. He Himself will make all things right—including the dilemma of our sin and death. The buck will stop with Jesus, the Christ.
The Baptism of our Lord is a profound and significant moment in His earthly ministry. Some have described it as Jesus’ public
Jesus’ baptism was quite a spectacle. All three persons of the Trinity are made manifest. If you had been there, you would never forget it. That public baptism was to set Jesus apart. It marked and identified Him as the one and only Son of God. For no one else did the heavens open wide. On no one else did the Spirit descend like a dove. For no other human being did the Father testify from heaven, “You are my beloved Son; with you I am well pleased.”
One of the unique details St. Luke provides about the baptism of Jesus is that our Lord was praying as He was baptized. And as He prayed the heavens were opened. Only Jesus can do that. No one else can open heaven with their prayers. The original sin we inherited from our first parents—and those actual sins of ours that ruin everything everyday—that sin has shut heaven tight. No amount of praying or pleading on our part can change that. Adam passed the buck and blamed Eve. Eve passed the buck and blamed the serpent. And you and I have often imitated their talent for passing the buck and shifting the blame and justifying ourselves. But who do we think we’re fooling?
The buck stops with Jesus. The redemption of the world—the forgiveness of our sins—the resurrection of our bodies—it all hinges on Him. He’s the Son sent by the Father. The Father is pleased with him—well pleased, in fact. Apart from Jesus, the Father would never be pleased with you or me. There’s nothing “pleasing” about us—no matter how good we try to be, no matter how religious we think we are, no matter how much other people may admire us. Apart from faith in Jesus and His salvation, we are displeasing and unacceptable to God.
But the Baptism of Our Lord brings some very good news: Jesus is God’s beloved Son and, in Jesus, you are beloved by God. Jesus is precious, honored, and loved by God. And, in Jesus, so are you. His baptism spells it out for us—reveals that Jesus is your stand-in substitute—the Lamb of God come to take away your sin in His death. St. Luke points out that Jesus was baptized together “with all the people.” Jesus wades into the water, shoulder-to-shoulder with sinners, expressing solidarity with sinners, linking Himself to the likes of you and me.
But the baptism of Jesus is different from all the rest. Everyone else came to have their sins washed away; but Jesus is baptized so that your sins might be applied to Him. In fact, He comes to be our sin. There’s a movie called “The Green Mile,” and it’s a parable of this very thing. I caught some of it on television recently. In the movie a man is wrongly convicted and is sent to death row. But this man possesses a miraculous ability to heal other people. But there’s a catch. He heals others by taking their sicknesses into his body. Cancer cells, viruses, infections—he draws them all into Himself.
This is what Jesus comes to do with your sin. At His baptism He takes a bath in your sin—immerses Himself in your death. And then, wonder of wonders, He turns that putrid, polluted water into the sweet, pure, cleansing splash of your Baptism. Does it by the power of His death and resurrection. The buck stops with Jesus.
Luther called this a “blessed exchange.” Others more recently refer to it as a “sweet swap.” Jesus takes our sin and swaps it for His sinless perfection. He became sin for us so that in Him we might become the righteousness of God. He stood in your place on Good Friday so that you might stand in His place on the Last Day—precious, honored, and loved. He soaks up every last drop of our evil and immorality and bears it to His crucifixion cross. Think of the worst you’ve done—of what you are most ashamed—of what causes you to deserve God’s judgment most of all. Now see it washed away by the cleansing blood of Jesus—who makes our scarlet sins snowy white.
It’s the sweet swap—the blessed exchange. Jesus becomes our sin, and we, baptized into Him, become His righteousness. What Jesus accomplished on the cross for the whole world now comes crashing and splashing onto you in your own baptism. He was baptized into your sin and death. You were baptized into His death and life. You have been buried with Him. You have been raised with Him.
St. Paul in Romans six tells us what this means: You are no longer enslaved to sin. In fact, you are dead to sin and alive to God in Christ Jesus. Shall you then continue in sin—carelessly, casually continuing in sin—coolly pre-planning your repentance and presuming God’s forgiveness? Shall you go on living your life as if your baptism was a meaningless custom? By no means! How can we who died to sin still live in it? You’ve been united with Christ. Your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit. Sin no longer has dominion over you. Your baptism means that the buck goes no further than you. You don’t need to blame others or make excuses. You can be the holy person your baptism has made you to be. Live in the love of God that flows from the font directly to you.
This past summer you may have heard the big story that water had been discovered on Mars. Supposedly, a vast underground lake of liquid water has now been detected by a radar instrument onboard an orbiting spacecraft. This is big news because water is the key, they say. Where there’s water, there’s life. That’s close, but not quite. On this day, when Baptism is front and center, let’s put it this way: Where there’s water and the Word there is life. There is forgiveness of sins, life, and salvation.
But wait, there’s more! In your baptism the heavens have been opened to you. The Spirit descends upon you. The Father declares your own adoption into His family by grace, as His own beloved child. With you God is well pleased—not because of what you do, but because of who you are in Jesus. The buck of your sin stops with Him; and your new life begins with Him—in the water and the Word of your own baptism.
In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
Wednesday, January 2, 2019
A Christmas Aria
In Nomine Iesu
Luke 2, Hebrews 1
December 25, 2018
Christmas Day
In many and various ways, God spoke to His people of old by the prophets, but now in these last days He has spoken to us by His Son.
Dear Saints of Our Savior,
In the world of music, classical compositions sometimes contain movements called “arias.” An aria often indicates a pause in the action—a chance for the listeners to catch their breath and reflect on the deeper meaning of what’s going on. For this important task, arias are usually composed for just a solo voice. There may be tenors and basses and sopranos and altos available, but in an aria most of the chorus goes mute. In the aria, one voice tells it like it is. One voice invites us to be like Mary—treasuring up all these things and pondering them in our hearts.
Christmas Day is the perfect day for an aria. If there’s ever a morning where we need to pause and ponder and reflect, this is it. Because this morning we celebrate and confess a deep, profound, and thrilling mystery: The Word became flesh and dwelt among
us. The Word who was with God. The Word who was God. The Word through whom the world was created. The eternal Word who upholds the entire universe by the Word of His power. The Word who spoke into being light and life. That Word, in the fullness of time, was conceived in the womb of the Blessed Virgin Mary and was born to dwell among us.
This is the breath-taking delight of Christmas. In the baby Jesus, heaven has come to earth. Time and eternity embrace. God and man are reconciled. The eternal deity is wearing diapers as He nurses at His mother’s breast. He is both infant holy, and infant lowly. It’s going to take an aria to help this sink in for us.
The aria was a relatively new musical form back in the days of Johann Sebastian Bach. But it was part of Bach’s musical genius that he was able to synthesize both the old forms and the new musical forms to create music that was (and remains) unique and unparalleled. And it needs to be said that Bach’s musical genius was closely intertwined with his Lutheran faith. He was nearly forty when he moved his family to Leipzig, where he would serve for the rest of his life. Leipzig during Bach’s tenure was a bastion of Lutheran piety and faith.
Within his first five years at Leipzig, Bach crafted, composed, and directed a monumental volume of church music—and by church music I don’t mean preludes and postludes. Sunday after Sunday, week after week, year after year, he composed Cantatas for every Sunday in the church year—large-scale liturgical works for instruments, chorus, and congregation—an effort Bach described as a “well-regulated church music,” all of it executed in a time without the convenience of copy machines and computers and e-mail. But little of Bach’s musical genius was fully appreciated until a century after his death.
By the time Bach’s fiftieth birthday was on the horizon, it was probably time for an aria—a time for Bach to pause, ponder, and reflect—to organize and catalogue what he had accomplished over five decades—and a time to ask what more remained to be done? What was left to do? How could he continue to glorify God through his musical gifts?
One stellar result of Bach’s middle-age aria is the grand work known as the Christmas Oratorio. It was first performed in Leipzig on Christmas Day of 1734. But this morning we get to hear only a tiny sliver—a single, solitary aria—from that monumental composition. The text is printed on the back of your bulletin, and you’ll want to keep that handy.
In this little aria heaven comes to earth. Royalty and deity draw near. Ponder the paradox in this aria: A great Lord, a mighty King, a Savior is coming! And not just any King, but the One who upholds and maintains the whole world—who created all its glory and adornment. But this mighty King is also the tiny baby who sleeps on a hard crib—who cries and wears diapers—whose only protection comes from swaddling clothes. As we heard from Hebrews chapter one: He is the radiance of the glory of God and the exact imprint of his nature, and he upholds the universe by the word of his power.
Bach’s aria announces the arrival of this baby-king with regal majesty. The original score features a trumpet part that’s so heavenly that no trumpeter in Milwaukee could be found to play it for us this morning. But the message of the aria is that heaven comes to earth in the baby who is a mighty King.
Heaven had to come to earth. It was the only way. You see, heaven and earth have been out of sync—and out of tune—for a long time now. A deadly dissonance developed between heaven and earth at the time when our first parents disobeyed God in paradise. Ever since then, earth has tended to go its own way, and march to the percussive beat of her own drummer—with very little thought given to the God of heaven.
As sons and daughters of Adam, we’ve each chosen our rebellious pathways too. God’s ways and our ways do not harmonize. Like our first parents, we tend to spend our days fleeing from God to hide our sin, or else pointing the finger of blame at everybody else around us. Our sin has dropped us all on a slippery slope—a descent that will eventually deposit each one of us six feet under.
What you need is a Redeemer who can reverse that downward, deathward slide. You don’t need a god who strokes your ego with applause from heaven every time you do something good. Nor do you need a deadbeat deity who’s so busy upholding the universe that you’re just an insignificant, unimportant speck of carbon. No, you need a Savior—One who can reunite heaven and earth—One who can reconcile God and man—One who is like you in every way, except without sin—one who knows what it is to sleep in a hard crib.
The cold, hard wood of the Savior’s crib would one day give way to the cold, hard wood of the cross. No trumpets would sound on that dark afternoon. The tempo would be simply set to the percussive sound of pounding nails. Our great Lord, our mighty King, our dearest Savior’s only crown would be of thorns. His throne a cross. And this is why heaven comes to earth—this is why Christ is born of Mary: to bear our sins and be our Savior. This is God’s greatest glory. This is what secures peace on earth, goodwill to men—as angels once declared to shepherds.
The angels aren’t just the supporting cast at Christmas. The angels—they also give us an aria. When we hear those angels singing, that music tells us that, in Jesus, God is restoring harmony between earth and heaven. The author of Hebrews makes a big point in this morning’s reading that Jesus is higher than the angels. But the enduring result of Christmas is that you are higher than the angels too. At Christmas God lowers Himself to raise you up. Christmas is both God-made-small and man-made-big. Jesus becomes what you are—a woman’s child—that He might make you what He is—a child of God. The Son of God becomes no less when He takes on our human flesh; but we—we become infinitely more in Him. Christmas is one small step for God, but one giant leap for mankind. Jesus comes down low to lift us on high with Him—to give us resurrection life that we might live forever as heaven’s most honored guests. Sinful sons and daughters of Adam are now superior to the angels.
I know, I know. That’s profound. It’s deep. It’s a lot to wrap your head around on this Christmas morning. Perhaps we should simply pause. Perhaps we should ponder along with Mary. What we need, I think, is an aria—an aria from the “Fifth Evangelist” to help it all sink in. Pause, ponder, reflect, celebrate: The Word became flesh and dwelt among us.
In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
Luke 2, Hebrews 1
December 25, 2018
Christmas Day
In many and various ways, God spoke to His people of old by the prophets, but now in these last days He has spoken to us by His Son.
Dear Saints of Our Savior,
In the world of music, classical compositions sometimes contain movements called “arias.” An aria often indicates a pause in the action—a chance for the listeners to catch their breath and reflect on the deeper meaning of what’s going on. For this important task, arias are usually composed for just a solo voice. There may be tenors and basses and sopranos and altos available, but in an aria most of the chorus goes mute. In the aria, one voice tells it like it is. One voice invites us to be like Mary—treasuring up all these things and pondering them in our hearts.
Christmas Day is the perfect day for an aria. If there’s ever a morning where we need to pause and ponder and reflect, this is it. Because this morning we celebrate and confess a deep, profound, and thrilling mystery: The Word became flesh and dwelt among
This is the breath-taking delight of Christmas. In the baby Jesus, heaven has come to earth. Time and eternity embrace. God and man are reconciled. The eternal deity is wearing diapers as He nurses at His mother’s breast. He is both infant holy, and infant lowly. It’s going to take an aria to help this sink in for us.
The aria was a relatively new musical form back in the days of Johann Sebastian Bach. But it was part of Bach’s musical genius that he was able to synthesize both the old forms and the new musical forms to create music that was (and remains) unique and unparalleled. And it needs to be said that Bach’s musical genius was closely intertwined with his Lutheran faith. He was nearly forty when he moved his family to Leipzig, where he would serve for the rest of his life. Leipzig during Bach’s tenure was a bastion of Lutheran piety and faith.
Within his first five years at Leipzig, Bach crafted, composed, and directed a monumental volume of church music—and by church music I don’t mean preludes and postludes. Sunday after Sunday, week after week, year after year, he composed Cantatas for every Sunday in the church year—large-scale liturgical works for instruments, chorus, and congregation—an effort Bach described as a “well-regulated church music,” all of it executed in a time without the convenience of copy machines and computers and e-mail. But little of Bach’s musical genius was fully appreciated until a century after his death.
By the time Bach’s fiftieth birthday was on the horizon, it was probably time for an aria—a time for Bach to pause, ponder, and reflect—to organize and catalogue what he had accomplished over five decades—and a time to ask what more remained to be done? What was left to do? How could he continue to glorify God through his musical gifts?
One stellar result of Bach’s middle-age aria is the grand work known as the Christmas Oratorio. It was first performed in Leipzig on Christmas Day of 1734. But this morning we get to hear only a tiny sliver—a single, solitary aria—from that monumental composition. The text is printed on the back of your bulletin, and you’ll want to keep that handy.
In this little aria heaven comes to earth. Royalty and deity draw near. Ponder the paradox in this aria: A great Lord, a mighty King, a Savior is coming! And not just any King, but the One who upholds and maintains the whole world—who created all its glory and adornment. But this mighty King is also the tiny baby who sleeps on a hard crib—who cries and wears diapers—whose only protection comes from swaddling clothes. As we heard from Hebrews chapter one: He is the radiance of the glory of God and the exact imprint of his nature, and he upholds the universe by the word of his power.
Bach’s aria announces the arrival of this baby-king with regal majesty. The original score features a trumpet part that’s so heavenly that no trumpeter in Milwaukee could be found to play it for us this morning. But the message of the aria is that heaven comes to earth in the baby who is a mighty King.
Heaven had to come to earth. It was the only way. You see, heaven and earth have been out of sync—and out of tune—for a long time now. A deadly dissonance developed between heaven and earth at the time when our first parents disobeyed God in paradise. Ever since then, earth has tended to go its own way, and march to the percussive beat of her own drummer—with very little thought given to the God of heaven.
As sons and daughters of Adam, we’ve each chosen our rebellious pathways too. God’s ways and our ways do not harmonize. Like our first parents, we tend to spend our days fleeing from God to hide our sin, or else pointing the finger of blame at everybody else around us. Our sin has dropped us all on a slippery slope—a descent that will eventually deposit each one of us six feet under.
What you need is a Redeemer who can reverse that downward, deathward slide. You don’t need a god who strokes your ego with applause from heaven every time you do something good. Nor do you need a deadbeat deity who’s so busy upholding the universe that you’re just an insignificant, unimportant speck of carbon. No, you need a Savior—One who can reunite heaven and earth—One who can reconcile God and man—One who is like you in every way, except without sin—one who knows what it is to sleep in a hard crib.
The cold, hard wood of the Savior’s crib would one day give way to the cold, hard wood of the cross. No trumpets would sound on that dark afternoon. The tempo would be simply set to the percussive sound of pounding nails. Our great Lord, our mighty King, our dearest Savior’s only crown would be of thorns. His throne a cross. And this is why heaven comes to earth—this is why Christ is born of Mary: to bear our sins and be our Savior. This is God’s greatest glory. This is what secures peace on earth, goodwill to men—as angels once declared to shepherds.
The angels aren’t just the supporting cast at Christmas. The angels—they also give us an aria. When we hear those angels singing, that music tells us that, in Jesus, God is restoring harmony between earth and heaven. The author of Hebrews makes a big point in this morning’s reading that Jesus is higher than the angels. But the enduring result of Christmas is that you are higher than the angels too. At Christmas God lowers Himself to raise you up. Christmas is both God-made-small and man-made-big. Jesus becomes what you are—a woman’s child—that He might make you what He is—a child of God. The Son of God becomes no less when He takes on our human flesh; but we—we become infinitely more in Him. Christmas is one small step for God, but one giant leap for mankind. Jesus comes down low to lift us on high with Him—to give us resurrection life that we might live forever as heaven’s most honored guests. Sinful sons and daughters of Adam are now superior to the angels.
I know, I know. That’s profound. It’s deep. It’s a lot to wrap your head around on this Christmas morning. Perhaps we should simply pause. Perhaps we should ponder along with Mary. What we need, I think, is an aria—an aria from the “Fifth Evangelist” to help it all sink in. Pause, ponder, reflect, celebrate: The Word became flesh and dwelt among us.
In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
Another Shore, A Greater Light
In Nomine Iesu
Luke 2:1-20
December 24, 2018
Christmas Eve
Dear Saints of Our Savior,
It’s Christmas Eve and you are exactly where you should be. You’ve aligned yourselves with the shepherds. Like them, you have heard the message of the angels. And with haste you have come here to Bethlehem to see this thing which is come to pass, which the Lord has made
known to us. You are exactly where you should be.
Many of you are aware that on this Christmas Eve 2018 there are two significant anniversaries. Two hundred years ago tonight in a little village near Salzburg, Austria, a new Christmas hymn was sung for the very first time: Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht. A broken pipe organ led Father Joseph Mohr and organist Franz Gruber to quickly collaborate on the lullaby hymn we know as Silent Night. It’s so simple, so profound, and so comforting. In a few minutes our choir will sing a stanza auf Deutsch—with a guitar accompaniment—just like it was done for the first time two hundred years ago tonight.
One hundred years ago marked a different kind of Christmas anniversary. Most of you know that World War One ended in 1918. On the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month the “Great War,” as it was called, ended. But it was “great” only in the sense of the staggering death toll. Seventeen million men died in the most horrific ways imaginable. Across the Christian world, almost an entire generation of young men had disappeared from the face of the earth. And as the Christian world gathered to celebrate the birth of Christ one hundred years ago tonight, in every town and village, in every home and family, and around every Christmas table and Christmas tree, there was an empty place. A brother, a son, a husband was gone. The collective pain that must have been felt by so many families one hundred years ago tonight—it’s almost too much to fathom.
But something else happened on Christmas Eve 1918. In Cambridge, England, at the King’s College Chapel, a so-called “Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols” was held for the very first time. Eric Milner-White, the newly appointed dean of King’s College, had also served as an army chaplain in the Great War. He knew what a significant moment Christmas Eve would be that year. He knew how people were hurting. He knew the pain they carried.
Our Lessons and Carols service tonight mirrors that first service a century ago. I doubt that there was a dry eye in the chapel one hundred years ago tonight when these words were prayed: Lastly let us remember before God all those who rejoice with us, but upon another shore and in a greater light, that multitude which no man can number, whose hope was in the Word made flesh, and with whom, in this Lord Jesus, we forevermore are one.
So far this sermon has centered on death and warfare. It’s probably not what you were expecting on Christmas Eve. After all, the Nativity account we heard from Luke chapter two is so placid and peaceful: Quaking shepherds, wooly sheep, mother and child, love’s pure light. But it’s this contrast that makes Christmas so profound and meaningful. It’s why we can talk about death and warfare in one sentence, and in the next sentence hear Peace on earth, goodwill to men. This Christmas contrast is what helps us to see in the darkness of this night the dawn of redeeming grace. A fitting title for this this sermon might have been, “War and Peace.” That highlights the contrast of Christmas, but I think someone else has already used that title.
War and Peace is the story of our lives. Not many of us have served in the armed forces. But that doesn’t mean that we aren’t veterans of combat. Christmas Eve is the time to remember that none of us are pure and innocent victims. Our first parents were the first ones to engage in combat, and the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. We are tactical wizards when it comes to warfare. We’ve weaponized our words to inflict mass casualties and maximum pain. We’ve detonated bombs of rage and anger. We’ve dug down deep into our trenches, stubbornly refusing to repent of our sins and be reconciled with our enemies. We’ve poisoned the air with our passive-aggressive mind games and our daily attempts to make everybody else surrender to our tyranny. This is our sin. It runs death deep. And there isn’t an army on earth that can save you from the horror and hell that you have orchestrated for yourself.
But on this Christmas Eve, in the year of our Lord 2018, you can go home tonight, and climb into your bed and you—you can sleep in heavenly peace. For an army of One has saved you from your sins. Jesus was born to do battle for you. This holy infant, so tender and mild, He grew up with one strategic goal—to save you from the power of sin and death. And so, He led a perfect life in your place. From His mother’s womb to His borrowed tomb, Jesus lived a sinless life. Where the first Adam faltered, fled, and surrendered, this Second Adam took the fight directly to the enemy. He did not quit. He did not waver. He did not surrender. Jesus carried His cross right into that no-man’s land called Golgotha—the place of the skull. Into no-man’s land staggered the God-man—wearing a barbed-wired crown of thorns, bearing your sin and its wages. Our Lord Jesus surrendered His life for yours. Greater love has no man than this, that He lay down His life for His friends (John 15:13).
Friends of Jesus—that’s what you are. For you He lived. For you He died. For you He rose again and shares with you His resurrection victory. Death is defeated. Your sin is atoned for. You are loved by the Lord Jesus. To look to Him in faith is to see love’s pure light. He is your Lord—your Brother—who will never die again. And one day before long, certainly before another century of Christmases come and go, He will lead you onward to that place of rejoicing, where every day is Armistice Day—upon another shore and in a greater light.
It’s Christmas Eve. And you are exactly where you should be. All is calm. All is bright. And right here where two or three are gathered together, the Lord comes among us. In the preaching of His promises, in the splash of our baptism, and in the Holy Supper of His body and blood, He comes. He comes to wipe away your tears, to forgive you, to breathe into your sad life the thrill of hope. He is Emmanuel—God with us. Pleased as man with man to dwell.
It’s Christmas Eve. And you are exactly where you should be. And if this Christmas there is an empty place at your home and in your heart, fear not. For behold I bring you good tidings of great joy. Those who depart this life in Christ—they are with Christ. They are with that multitude which no one can number, whose hope was in the Word made flesh. They are exactly where they should be. They are there . . . and we are here. But in the Lord Jesus, we forevermore are one.
In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
Luke 2:1-20
December 24, 2018
Christmas Eve
Dear Saints of Our Savior,
It’s Christmas Eve and you are exactly where you should be. You’ve aligned yourselves with the shepherds. Like them, you have heard the message of the angels. And with haste you have come here to Bethlehem to see this thing which is come to pass, which the Lord has made
Many of you are aware that on this Christmas Eve 2018 there are two significant anniversaries. Two hundred years ago tonight in a little village near Salzburg, Austria, a new Christmas hymn was sung for the very first time: Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht. A broken pipe organ led Father Joseph Mohr and organist Franz Gruber to quickly collaborate on the lullaby hymn we know as Silent Night. It’s so simple, so profound, and so comforting. In a few minutes our choir will sing a stanza auf Deutsch—with a guitar accompaniment—just like it was done for the first time two hundred years ago tonight.
One hundred years ago marked a different kind of Christmas anniversary. Most of you know that World War One ended in 1918. On the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month the “Great War,” as it was called, ended. But it was “great” only in the sense of the staggering death toll. Seventeen million men died in the most horrific ways imaginable. Across the Christian world, almost an entire generation of young men had disappeared from the face of the earth. And as the Christian world gathered to celebrate the birth of Christ one hundred years ago tonight, in every town and village, in every home and family, and around every Christmas table and Christmas tree, there was an empty place. A brother, a son, a husband was gone. The collective pain that must have been felt by so many families one hundred years ago tonight—it’s almost too much to fathom.
But something else happened on Christmas Eve 1918. In Cambridge, England, at the King’s College Chapel, a so-called “Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols” was held for the very first time. Eric Milner-White, the newly appointed dean of King’s College, had also served as an army chaplain in the Great War. He knew what a significant moment Christmas Eve would be that year. He knew how people were hurting. He knew the pain they carried.
Our Lessons and Carols service tonight mirrors that first service a century ago. I doubt that there was a dry eye in the chapel one hundred years ago tonight when these words were prayed: Lastly let us remember before God all those who rejoice with us, but upon another shore and in a greater light, that multitude which no man can number, whose hope was in the Word made flesh, and with whom, in this Lord Jesus, we forevermore are one.
So far this sermon has centered on death and warfare. It’s probably not what you were expecting on Christmas Eve. After all, the Nativity account we heard from Luke chapter two is so placid and peaceful: Quaking shepherds, wooly sheep, mother and child, love’s pure light. But it’s this contrast that makes Christmas so profound and meaningful. It’s why we can talk about death and warfare in one sentence, and in the next sentence hear Peace on earth, goodwill to men. This Christmas contrast is what helps us to see in the darkness of this night the dawn of redeeming grace. A fitting title for this this sermon might have been, “War and Peace.” That highlights the contrast of Christmas, but I think someone else has already used that title.
War and Peace is the story of our lives. Not many of us have served in the armed forces. But that doesn’t mean that we aren’t veterans of combat. Christmas Eve is the time to remember that none of us are pure and innocent victims. Our first parents were the first ones to engage in combat, and the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. We are tactical wizards when it comes to warfare. We’ve weaponized our words to inflict mass casualties and maximum pain. We’ve detonated bombs of rage and anger. We’ve dug down deep into our trenches, stubbornly refusing to repent of our sins and be reconciled with our enemies. We’ve poisoned the air with our passive-aggressive mind games and our daily attempts to make everybody else surrender to our tyranny. This is our sin. It runs death deep. And there isn’t an army on earth that can save you from the horror and hell that you have orchestrated for yourself.
But on this Christmas Eve, in the year of our Lord 2018, you can go home tonight, and climb into your bed and you—you can sleep in heavenly peace. For an army of One has saved you from your sins. Jesus was born to do battle for you. This holy infant, so tender and mild, He grew up with one strategic goal—to save you from the power of sin and death. And so, He led a perfect life in your place. From His mother’s womb to His borrowed tomb, Jesus lived a sinless life. Where the first Adam faltered, fled, and surrendered, this Second Adam took the fight directly to the enemy. He did not quit. He did not waver. He did not surrender. Jesus carried His cross right into that no-man’s land called Golgotha—the place of the skull. Into no-man’s land staggered the God-man—wearing a barbed-wired crown of thorns, bearing your sin and its wages. Our Lord Jesus surrendered His life for yours. Greater love has no man than this, that He lay down His life for His friends (John 15:13).
Friends of Jesus—that’s what you are. For you He lived. For you He died. For you He rose again and shares with you His resurrection victory. Death is defeated. Your sin is atoned for. You are loved by the Lord Jesus. To look to Him in faith is to see love’s pure light. He is your Lord—your Brother—who will never die again. And one day before long, certainly before another century of Christmases come and go, He will lead you onward to that place of rejoicing, where every day is Armistice Day—upon another shore and in a greater light.
It’s Christmas Eve. And you are exactly where you should be. All is calm. All is bright. And right here where two or three are gathered together, the Lord comes among us. In the preaching of His promises, in the splash of our baptism, and in the Holy Supper of His body and blood, He comes. He comes to wipe away your tears, to forgive you, to breathe into your sad life the thrill of hope. He is Emmanuel—God with us. Pleased as man with man to dwell.
It’s Christmas Eve. And you are exactly where you should be. And if this Christmas there is an empty place at your home and in your heart, fear not. For behold I bring you good tidings of great joy. Those who depart this life in Christ—they are with Christ. They are with that multitude which no one can number, whose hope was in the Word made flesh. They are exactly where they should be. They are there . . . and we are here. But in the Lord Jesus, we forevermore are one.
In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
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