Jesus, Remember Me

 Jesu Juva

Luke 23:39-43                                                         

April 18, 2025

Good Friday                               

  One of the criminals . . . railed at [Jesus], saying, “Are you not the Christ?  Save yourself and us!”  But the other rebuked him, saying, “Do you not fear God, since you are under the same sentence of condemnation?  And we indeed justly, for we are receiving the due reward of our deeds; but this man has done nothing wrong.  And he said, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.”  And he said to him, “Truly, I say to you, today you will be with me in Paradise.”

 Dear saints of our Savior~

        In this crucifixion conversation, we have the entire Christian faith telescoped into one beautiful scene. What happens in this simple, earthly scene is full of heavenly meaning.  A prayer is exhaled in faith; and that prayer is immediately answered with a response of sheer grace.  All this as the sinless Son of God hangs from a tree between two men who are guilty as sin.

        Both of these “criminals” were guilty as charged.  That’s important.  Both men are guilty.  They are receiving the due reward of their deeds.  They are receiving the punishment they deserve.  Although a critical difference will emerge between these two men; yet they are equally guilty. 

        And you, too, are equally guilty.  You may be a child of God.  You may have the promise of Paradise.  But you stand shoulder-to-shoulder with these criminals.  Their guilt is your guilt.  There’s no distinction at all.  All have sinned.  All fall short of the glory of God.  All are condemned under the Law of God.  If you can’t see yourself on the cross there next to Jesus, then you think far too highly of yourself.

        One of those criminals railed against Jesus in unbelief.  “Save yourself!  Save us!  What kind of a Messiah are you?”  He shows that you either love Jesus in faith, or you hate Jesus in unbelief.  This man mocks the only Savior he has.  Even as death draws near, he uses his final few breaths to join his voice with those who mock and revile Jesus.  His salvation hangs right next to him.  But he refuses to see it or believe it or confess it.  It’s so tragic and so sad.  Unbelief is always that way.

        Later traditions would assign names to these criminals; but they are nameless in the Bible.  Luke calls them simply, “criminals,” or more literally, “evildoers.”  That term, evildoer, is broad enough to include not just those who have broken the laws of men, but also those who have broken the laws of God.  You may not qualify technically as a “criminal,” but you do qualify as an “evildoer.”  We all do.  You and I stand guilty of insurrection against God:  idolatry, immorality, hatred, greed.  We have knowingly, willingly, and with precise pre-meditation done what is evil in God’s sight.  So, my fellow evildoers, see yourself there, next to Jesus.

        But one of these evildoers sees the situation accurately.  In fact, he preaches—he preaches both Law and Gospel to his partner in crime.  First the Law:  We are receiving the due reward of our deeds.  We deserve this.  He might just as well have said the wages of sin is death.  We deserve this.  You deserve this.  We all do.  No one escapes this.  But then comes the gospel:  But this man—the one who hangs between us—He has done nothing wrong.  With these words he confesses the Christ.  He bears witness to Jesus—that He is innocent—that He is sinless.

        And yet in the sacred mystery of Good Friday, God made the innocent, sinless Jesus to be sin for us.  Jesus is the criminal.  Jesus is the idolater, the adulterer, the murderer.  He became our sin—the sin of the world—so that in Him we might become righteous.  Although this Man has done nothing wrong, yet this Man dies as one who has done everything wrong—and is thus forsaken by God—stricken, smitten, and afflicted—abandoned, condemned, persecuted, mocked, ridiculed, and damned.  He gets what every evildoer deserves . . . .

        Having now confessed Christ—having preached both Law and Gospel—this evildoer turns from preaching to prayer.  He speaks to the One in whom He believes:  Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.  Beloved in the Lord, this is what faith sounds like.  This is how faith speaks and prays.  Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom. 

        Do you hear and see how utterly absurd this is?  Do you understand how ridiculous this request is?  This condemned evildoer—this all-star sinner—is in no position to be asking favors of anyone.  He doesn’t have a leg to stand on.  But having nothing, he asks for everything.  And having no one, he lifts up his eyes to Jesus, whence cometh his help.  There is no regret.  No guilt or shame or fear.  There is only faith.  All that mattered to Him was Jesus:  Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.

        This dying man was in no position to be asking favors; and Jesus seems to be in no position to grant any favors.  Remember me when you come into your kingdom?!  By all appearances the crucified Christ has no kingdom! He has no power!  He has no glory!  His kingdom is not of this world.  His crown is of thorns.  He throne a cross.  He is covered in His own bloody sweat and with the spit of His enemies.  But He—this weak, impotent, bleeding, dying man—He holds the key to Paradise:  Truly, I say to you, today you will be with me in Paradise.

        Oh, to hear those words!  Oh, to have that promise:  with Jesus, in Paradise.  Hear those words and believe them.  This is what your baptism has done for you.  It places you right there at the right hand of the crucified Son of God.  Through baptism you have been crucified with Christ.  You no longer live; Christ lives in you.  You, dear evildoer, you have the same promise from the Savior’s lips.  One day you, too, will be with Jesus in Paradise.  Because by faith we know:  His is the power.  His is the glory.  His is the Kingdom, forever and ever.

        A guilty evildoer is pardoned before God.  He is justified for Jesus’ sake.  The gates of Paradise stand open to receive him.  Though the world found him guilty and sentenced him to die for his deeds, the Son of God declared him to be not guilty.  Though he dies for his crimes, he receives forgiveness for every sin by the sinless Son of God who died right next to him.  By faith he receives the promise of Paradise. 

        Tonight you are in no position to be asking favors.  But faith asks anyway.  And the voice of faith is always heard by Jesus.  Though your sins are like scarlet, Jesus makes you white as snow.  In Jesus, you stand pardoned before God.  The world may judge you harshly and find you lacking.  Others may scold you and shame you.  But Jesus declares you holy and righteous—an heir of Paradise.

        Faith may seem absurd—even ridiculous at times.  But our Lord is always looking and listening for faith.  And the prayer of faith is always this:  Jesus, remember me.  And the Savior’s response is always the same:  You will be with me in Paradise.

Forgiven and Forgotten

 Jesu Juva

Jeremiah 31:34                                                  

April 17, 2025

Maundy Thursday C      

 

Dear saints of our Savior~

        Thus says the Lord:  I will forgive their iniquity, and I will remember their sin no more.

        Your God forgives and forgets.  He forgives our iniquity.  He remembers our sin no more.  That is the marvel and the mystery of what we celebrate tonight.  The Judge of all—the One who could condemn us—who could destroy both soul and body in hell—He forgives.    The God from whom no secrets can be kept—He chooses to remember our sin no more.  He forgives and forgets.

        We, however, are a different story.  We are reluctant to forgive and even less inclined to forget.  We hold grudges.  We keep score on one another—so that we can settle the score.  We remember the hurt feelings, the sharp words, every unjust act done to us.  We dwell on it, savor it like fine wine, walk it around like the dog.  We claim that all we want is justice.  And our idea of justice is quid pro quo—this for that.  You hurt me; I hurt you.  Forget what you did?  I don’t think so.

        Forgiveness isn’t really our thing either.  To forgive is to let something go—to go on as though it hadn’t even happened.  Like the waiting father who welcomed home his prodigal son with hugs and kisses, a ring and a robe, without so much as a scolding.  It’s like the Prophet Hosea, who seeks out his adulterous wife and courts her, and wants to take her back.  It’s like the Lord with Israel, forgiving and forgetting, making a new covenant with the very same people who broke the old one.

        We sometimes try to have it both ways:  “Okay, I’ll forgive, but I can’t forget.”  Which sometimes means, “I’ll forgive, but I won’t forget.”  Just in case I need to introduce it as evidence later on.  Or in case I need to justify my own sin.  So we file it away on the hard drive.  Put it into storage like a bottle of Cabernet.  Let it age for a while.  Forgive maybe, but never forget what was forgiven.

        But forgiveness without forgetting is not forgiveness at all.  These two things run parallel.  To forgive is to forget—not to forget as in a case of amnesia, but as in refusing to call it to mind—instead of filing it away for future use, running it through the shredder so the pieces can’t be put back together again, even if we wanted to.

        Imagine what our lives would be like if we forgave and forgot—if children and parents could forgive and forget their sins against each other—if husbands and wives forgave and forgot what they had done to hurt each other.  Counselors and therapists would all unemployed.  Imagine congregations where, instead of dwelling on each other’s sins and shortcomings, forgiving them, setting them aside, and refusing to recall them or retaliate.

        But forgiving and forgetting is not our thing, is it?  We may as well confess that.  Forgiving and forgetting comes about as naturally as does breathing underwater or flapping our arms to fly.  It’s just not in our sinful nature to forgive and forget.  Why?  Because we want to be like little gods, judging and damning those who dare sin against us.  How dare you treat me that way?  I’ll show you . . .

        Because we don’t know the first thing about forgiving and forgetting, we have a hard time imagining God that way.  So we subtly try to fashion God in our own unforgiving, unforgetting image.  At the heart of every man-made religion is the notion that God neither forgives nor forgets.  Instead, He’s making a list, He’s checking it twice, and He already knows who’s naughty and nice.  That kind of religion appeals to our sense of fairness and reason.  We expect God to reward the do-gooders and punish the bad guys.  But forgive the bad guys?  Why would God want to do that?  And forget what they’ve done?  Come on, get serious.  This is God we’re talking about here—omniscient, omnipotent, omnipresent, holy and just to the nth degree.

        But on this holy night, forgiving and forgetting is what it’s all about.  If we lose this, we’ve lost everything.  Forgiving and forgetting is what separates the faith you confess from every other religion out there.  It’s what distinguishes the New Covenant from the Old Covenant.  The Old Covenant with its commandments was a good gift from God.  But commandments alone don’t work because we can’t keep the commandments.  God did everything for His Old Covenant people:  Delivered them from slavery in Egypt through the blood of the Lamb and through the Red Sea waters.  God made them into a nation and established them under Moses with a covenant.  And what did they do?  They messed it all up.  They broke the covenant.  A covenant based on commandment–keeping simply won’t work with a bunch of natural born sinners.

        It takes a new covenant.  One in which the Word of God is implanted in the heart—not just inscribed on stone.  And not just rules to live by, but Gospel good news that God forgives your iniquity and remembers your sin no more.  It’s a new way of knowing the Lord—not simply God on the mountain—God on the throne—God holding the scales of justice and judgment—but God in the flesh.  God in Jesus—bone of our bone and flesh of our flesh.  The Word made flesh dwelling right here among us.

        Every covenant calls for blood.  The old covenant called for the blood of bulls, goats, and sheep, which, on its own, could do nothing—nothing except point ahead to the future, to the blood that would one day be shed by the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world.  The new covenant is sealed by the blood of Jesus, the Son of God—a blood poured out for you at the cross, and tonight poured into a chalice for you to drink.  Jesus calls it “the new covenant in my blood.”  As we eat His body and drink His blood, we remember Jesus, Jesus remembers us, forgives us, and remembers our sin no more.  In this blessed sacrament, our Lord forgives and our Lord forgets.

        To be on the receiving end of such radical forgiveness brings freedom—freedom from the past with all its sin and shame and regret.  And, living in this new freedom, you can set others free by speaking three little words that change everything:  I forgive you. 

        This is the marvel and the mystery of it all:  Jesus is your righteousness.  His blood answers for all your sin.  He applies that blood to you in Holy Baptism, in Holy Absolution, in Holy Communion—telling you in so many ways this one, wonderful, needful thing:  You are loved by God, not because of what you do, but because of what Jesus has done for you.  And that is everything.  And on His account you are free.  Because of His perfect life and sacrificial death, God forgives your iniquity and He remembers your sin no more.  Go in peace.

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

Peter Remembered

 Jesu Juva

Luke 22:54-62                                                     

April 2, 2025

Lent Midweek 4                          

 Dear saints of our Savior~

        It was perhaps just four hours earlier.  After the Passover meal late that Thursday night, Jesus spoke directly to Peter:  Simon, Simon, behold, Satan demanded to have you, that he might sift you like wheat, but I have prayed for you that your faith may not fail. . . . I tell you, Peter, the rooster will not crow this day, until you deny three times that you know me.

        At any other time, on any other night, a warning like this from Jesus would have shaken Peter to his core.  Satan had set his sights on Simon Peter.  Satan demanded to sift and shred Peter like grains of wheat.  And Jesus, our loving Lord, Jesus had gone so far as to pray—to pray specifically for Peter—to pray that his faith would not fail.  And all this followed by a terrifying prediction:  Before the rooster crows, you—Peter!—you will deny me three times. These words of Jesus should have caused a cold shiver to run down the spine of Simon Peter.  Wake up!  Watch out!  Be alert!

        But now fast-forward by perhaps four hours.  Jesus has been arrested and taken to the house of the High Priest.  Peter had followed at a distance; and found a spot in the courtyard.  The blood-red dawn of Friday morning was still a few hours away.  Did Peter still remember what Jesus had said to him earlier?  Were those words of warning still coursing through his memory?  Or had Peter taken that terrible prediction from Jesus and packed it away—pushed it to the back of his mind?  Could he have conveniently forgotten the warning from Jesus—that he had been targeted by Satan?

        We all do that.  Under far less intense circumstances—on our very private path through times of temptation—we fail to remember that we, too, have been targeted.  We ignore the vivid warnings from God’s word directed at us:  Your adversary the devil prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour.  Resist him!  Our approach is more casual—more compartmentalized.  Like Peter, we all follow Jesus—but sometimes at a distance—sometimes forgetting that the enemy has set his sights on us.

        Perhaps Peter hasn’t entirely forgotten.  There’s evidence of a war going on inside this disciple.  There’s a mighty struggle in Peter between good and evil—between saving his own life and loving the Lord Jesus.  None of the other disciples dared to do what Peter did—to set foot in the enemy camp and risk being arrested.  It took no small amount of courage for Peter just to be there, huddled by the fire, cautiously watching and waiting.  Doesn’t Peter know what will happen next?  We know; for Jesus predicted it.

        Three different people finger Simon Peter as one of the perpetrators.  First, a servant girl identifies Peter as if from a police line-up:  This man also was with him!  And Peter denied it.  Right there Peter has lied to save himself.  He has lied and denied.  But he had no other choice, did he?  And then once again:  You also are one of them!  And Peter lied and denied it.  Strike two.

        The war within Peter now escalates unbearably.  His desperation to save himself—that powerful drive for self-preservation—has kicked into high gear.  The lies and the denials are multiplying.  But still, he stays.  He doesn’t run.  He could have quietly exited the courtyard.  He could have proved Jesus wrong (only twice, not three times!).  But even now, as the danger mounts, his cover blown, Simon Peter sweats it out, and loves the Lord, and does not leave.

        Right now at this moment—after the second denial, but before the third—the forces warring in Peter’s soul seem terribly equal:  A tremendous, selfless love for Jesus keeps him there; while a consuming self-interest keeps him lying.  He denies himself to stay by his Lord.  He denies his Lord to save himself.  Peter is paralyzed between the good that he would . . . and the evil that he is.

        Dear disciples of Jesus, do you see this?  Do you understand this?  Do you recognize this?  The war inside of Peter rages also inside of you.  Peter’s paralysis between the good that he would and the evil that he is—that conflict also paralyzes you.  You have been in the courtyard with Peter.  You have watched from a distance.  You have lied and denied.  You have carelessly and casually surrendered yourself to sin.  Who will deliver us from this evil?  Who will rescue us from such a time of trial?

        For Peter, the tension can’t be sustained much longer.  Not another hour passes before Peter’s accent gives him away:  Certainly this man also was with him, for he too is a Galilean!  And for the third time, Peter says no.  Peter denies the Lord.  And immediately, on cue, as predicted, while Peter was still speaking, the rooster crowed. 

        In the seconds that follow, three things happen:  Jesus looked at Peter.  Peter remembered the saying of the Lord.  Peter went out and wept bitterly. 

        In that moment of satanic sifting—in that moment of damning denial—in that sin so predictable and predicted—Jesus offers help and healing.  The Lord looked at Peter.  It wasn’t a scowl of shame.  There was love in that look from Jesus.  The Savior’s gaze seems to say it all:  I will never leave you.  Even when you are at your worst and your guilt is unbearable, I will never turn away from you. Yes, you have denied me; but I will never deny you. 

        We see that same look of love directed at us from the cross.  There Jesus bears the weight of all our sin, all our evil—all our lying and denying.  Peter is not abandoned.  And neither are we.  We are not left alone in our sin.  But our Savior from sin looks on us in love from His holy cross. 

        With that one look from the Lord, St. Luke tells us, Peter remembered.  Peter remembered the saying of the Lord.  Peter remembered what Jesus had said—the warning our Lord had given—so personal, so specific, so loving.  Peter remembered his sin.  Peter loved his life and lost it.  And for what he had lost, Peter broke down and wept bitterly.

        God grant us each to weep with tears like those.  For Peter wept for reasons of repentance.  Peter remembered Jesus’ words—even when those words condemned him—and Peter repented of his sinful self-love.  This is what repentance looks like:  Peter remembered and repented.  Blessed tears!  Blessed remembrance!  Blessed repentance!         Peter remembered the Lord’s words; and in that blessed remembrance came rescue and deliverance.  We, too, remember the words of Jesus.  We, too, draw our life from those words.  Those words confront us and comfort us.  Those words drive us to tears and wash away the stain of our sin.  Those words absolve us:  Your guilt is taken away.  Your iniquity is pardoned.  Your debt is paid in full by Jesus.

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

Pigpen Perspective

 Jesu Juva

St. Luke 15:1-3, 11-32                                   

March 30, 2025

Lent 4C                               

 Dear Saints of Our Savior~

        On today’s menu it’s the parable of the prodigal son.  Or is it?  German theologian Helmut Thielicke turned this parable on its head seventy years ago.  He published a volume of sermons on the parables of Jesus, which he titled:  The Waiting Father.  It was a not so subtle suggestion that our Lord’s famous parable is not primarily about the son and his sins and his reckless living. It’s about the Father who waits and watches for his son’s return home. 

        This father endures everything—dishonor, disgrace, mistreatment, and shame—all at the hands of his children.  And yet this father never stops hoping, never stops enduring, never stops loving his wayward sons.  He never disowns them.  This waiting father rejoices in the return of his sons, is prodigal with his forgiveness, is quick to throw a party, and is outrageously lavish with his grace.

        It all begins with a scandal.  The younger son tells the old man to drop dead.  By requesting his inheritance early, the unspoken message is:  “Dad, I wish you were dead.”  Words that make the Fourth Commandment blush for shame.  But this father incredibly grants the request: He drops dead in a legal sense—divides his property between the boys—as should have happened only if he were six feet under.

        As you might imagine, it rarely goes well for young men who suddenly inherit large sums of money.  The younger son headed to a distant country with his newly acquired wealth and began to squander it in reckless living.  And “reckless living” does not mean that he invested in the wrong mutual funds or occasionally forgot to balance his checkbook.  No, as one wordsmith expressed it:  “He whored with the best of them.  He swore with the best of them.  He gambled with the best of them.  He drank with the best of them.”  All that he had been given by grace—the inheritance, a good name, a father’s love—all that he wagered and wasted and tossed out like trash.

        Hard times set in for the boy.  Destitute and hungry, he took a job working in a gentile’s pig pen.  I’m not sure where the closest pig pen is to Whitefish Bay.  But in my years in Kansas and South Dakota, I can tell you that there’s little doubt when you’re in the vicinity of one.  The smell and the flies are what start to give it away—especially after a rain on a hot afternoon.  Slopping hogs is as bad as it gets for a good Jewish boy—for whom pigs were considered unclean in every way.  When he started longing to eat what the pigs were eating, the young man finally came to his senses.

        The pig pen has a way of doing that—of slapping sinners across the face and awakening them from their downward spiral.  It should make us think of times in our own lives when we’ve found ourselves in the pig pen, so to speak—knee-deep in a sinful squalor of our own making—far away from our Father’s house and embrace. 

        But this is actually one of the best things about our heavenly Father:  He sometimes allows you to wallow in the mess you’ve made, until you come to your senses and repent.  Our sinful nature doesn’t much care for this kind of fathering.  We’d prefer to have Him swoop in and bail us out of every sinful situation we dive into.  In the pigpen you can either rail against your heavenly Father—blame Him for the mess you’ve gotten yourself into; OR you can just go home to your Father with a repentant heart.

        That moment of repentance is depicted on the cover of today’s bulletin.  The great Renaissance artist Albrecht Dürer shows us the

prodigal son in the pigpen.  Take a look at that engraving with me.  Notice that the son is literally down on one knee with his hands folded—the posture of repentance. It’s also true that the prodigal son bears a striking resemblance to the artist himself.  Might it be that Dürer has cast himself in the place of the prodigal?  Don’t we all need to see ourselves there? 

        Notice also that he’s looking off into the distance toward home—toward his father’s house.  And doesn’t his father’s house in the top right hand corner look remarkably like a church?  Don’t we all need to see this place—this church—as the Father’s house—the place where repentance leads us—the place where we are welcomed and forgiven and embraced?

        On his way home, the boy planned what he would say to his father: 

 Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you.

I am no longer worthy to be called your son.

Treat me like one of your servants . . .

 

That little speech is the way we expect the story to go.  It’s certainly what Jesus’ hearers expected.  They expected the young man to return home on his knees, groveling, begging, pleading for a second chance, and promising to make things right.

        But the last thing anyone would have expected is for the father to go running down the road, past the neighbors, to greet his wayward son.  The last thing anyone would have expected is for the father to throw his arms around the boy and shower his son with kisses.  The last thing anyone would have expected would be for the father to listen to the son’s confession of sin, but not even allow him to speak that third line about how he was going to make things right by becoming a servant.  Before he can even get to that line, his father places the robe and the ring of sonship on the boy.  He gives orders to kill the fattened calf and throw a party for this kid who was dead, but is now alive—who was lost, but now is found.

        The last thing the religions of this world expect is for God to be merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love.  The last thing the religions of this world expect is a God who justifies sinners—while they are still sinners.  The last thing the religions of this world expect is a God who shows undeserved kindness to sinners for Jesus’ sake. 

The son never gets to say that line about becoming a servant.  And this is important.  He never gets to make a deal with dear ol’ dad—to make things right by his works.  Our God doesn’t make deals.  He strikes no bargains.  Our God drops dead to save sinners.  This is the God who, in Jesus Christ, dies for His enemies, who seeks and saves the lost, who scans the horizon for sinners so that He can meet them at the gate and gather them up in His embrace.

Like the prodigal son, we too have an older brother.  His name is Jesus.  He is the Son of God who left His Father’s home to join us in the pigsty of our sin and misery and death.  Jesus did what the older brother in the parable did not do.  He went out to seek us and find us, to rescue us from the slop of our sin, and bring us back home to the Father.  Our older brother, Jesus, laid down His life as a ransom to save us, to buy us back.  God made Jesus to be sin who knew no sin, so that in Jesus we might become the righteousness of God.  He was executed as our sacred substitute, and reconciled us to the Father.

The older son in the parable, he behaves like a lot of firstborn sons.  He’s the rule-keeper—the serious, stressed-out, straight “A” son.  He can’t believe what a pushover his father is:  “Lo, these many years I have served you, never disobeyed, yet you never gave me so much as a goat.  But now this scumbag son of yours comes crawling back home after burning through your money with prostitutes and you roll out the red carpet.”  To which the father essentially says, grab a glass and join the party.  Your lost brother is found.  Your dead brother is alive.

        And there the parable ends.  We don’t know what the older brother ends up doing.  What will we do?  We’ve walked in this son’s footsteps too.  Will we get angry at the Father’s prodigal grace?  Will we become judgmental, looking down our noses at those who can’t seem to get it right, wanting them to be “good” like us before we permit them to join us?   OR will we grab a glass and celebrate?  Will we learn to laugh out loud at the grace of God who wants all of His children—the rule-keepers and the rebels, the first born and the last born—at His eternal party?  Will we come to Communion rejoicing that Jesus receives sinners and eats with them?  Will we “get it,” that grace that’s bargained-for and worked-for isn’t grace at all?  Will we draw strength each day from the fact that we who were dead in sin are now alive forevermore in Jesus?  Whatever happens, of this we can be certain:  Our Father is waiting to welcome us. 

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

Do Not Forget the Lord

 Jesu Juva

Deuteronomy 6:4-12                                              

March 26, 2025

Lent Midweek 3                          

Dear saints of our Savior~

        I still remember the very first sermon I preached from this pulpit back in 2003.  First sermons are easy.  First sermons are forward-looking and hopeful.  First sermons are aspirational and motivational.  But last sermons—final sermons—they tend to be a little more grounded—more practical and down-to-earth.  I haven’t given any thought whatsoever to my final sermon from this pulpit.  But then again, any sermon could be my farewell address.  You never know.

        But Moses—he knew.  The book of Deuteronomy is essentially a farewell sermon from Moses to the people of Israel.  It’s Moses’ swan song—his grand finale—and he knew it.  Moses was about to depart in peace; and the children of Israel were about to take possession of the Promised Land.  And Moses’ valedictory homily is every bit as down-to-earth as you might imagine.  A good example can be found in tonight’s text from chapter 6:  “Take care,” says Moses, “lest you forget the Lord.”  Do not forget the Lord.

        Forget the Lord?  How could the children of Israel forget the Lord?  The Lord had been their constant companion for forty years—ever since the day He delivered them from the land of Egypt, out of the house of slavery.  The plagues, the Passover, the parting of the Red Sea—it was all the Lord’s doing. How could Israel forget the Lord?  All they had to do was look up and see the pillar of cloud by day and the pillar of fire by night.  All they had to do was gather up that miraculous manna every morning and quail every evening.  There was water from a rock to drink.  And let’s not forget the Tent of Meeting—the Tabernacle—right in the middle of their campsite—the very place where Moses and the Lord met together face-to-face.  Why in the world would Moses feel the need to preach:  Do not forget the Lord?

        Moses knew what was next for God’s people.  The Promised Land meant great cities they did not build, and houses full of good things they did not fill, wells they didn’t dig, vineyards they didn’t plant, accoutrements and accessories aplenty.  Israel was movin’ on up to a deluxe life of plenty in the Land of Promise.  And Moses knew what that meant.  Moses knew that nothing makes people forget the Lord faster than a life of leisure and ease.  The influence of affluence makes it easy—so incredibly easy—to forget the Lord, (even though He is the Giver of every good and perfect gift).

        Who among us can deny the negative spiritual side effects of our affluence?  I don’t care what the numbers are on your tax return this year, we are collectively the richest, wealthiest people to ever walk the face of the earth.  We live in cities and homes we did not build.  Food we did not grow or gather—food from all over the world—fills our kitchens and pantries.  Our fridges and freezers are overflowing.  Our cup runneth over.  Like the rich fool of Jesus’ parable, our biggest problem is that we have to tear down our barns to build bigger barns so that we can store all our crops, all our grain, all our goods.  But as you eat, drink, and be merry, be mindful of this refrain from the mouth of Moses:  Take care lest you forget the Lord.  Be careful that you don’t forget the Lord.

        How do we do that?  What does it look like to remember the Lord while living in a land where we lack nothing?  In the Bible, “to remember” is much more than a mental activity.  “To remember” means to take action.  “To remember” is not just thinking, but doing.

        To remember the Lord in faith begins by hearing the Word of the Lord—by holding it sacred and gladly hearing and learning it.  Moses told the Israelites that God’s Words should be in their hearts:  Teach them diligently to your children.  Talk of them all day long.  Bind them on your hands; write them on your doorposts.  Or, as St. Paul wrote to the Colossians:  Let the Word of Christ dwell in you richly.  Hear the Word of the Lord; and so remember the Lord.

        There is also another way to remember the Lord.  And it’s particularly effective for those of us who enjoy the rich blessings of life in the Promised Land.  Keep in mind that “to remember” in the lexicon of the Bible means to act—to do something.  No act helps us better remember the Lord than what we are about to do in just a few minutes.  We call it the “offering;” but it is really your opportunity to remember the Lord in a very practical, tangible way.

        You remember the Lord whenever you take a portion—a percentage—of all your grain and your goods and your barns—and give those blessings back to the Lord.  From His gifts to you . . . you give to Him.  Take stock of all the stuff you so casually call your own; and give a portion back to the Lord—intentionally, thoughtfully, prayerfully.  Let it go.  Give it away to the God who gave His life to save you.  Being rich toward God is to remember Him.  Nothing focuses your faith—nothing puts your life into proper perspective more quickly—than pulling out your checkbook—than living and giving generously.  It’s a kind of discipline—a type of training—by which we live carefully and joyfully so as not to forget the Lord.

        Our sinful nature always surveys the scene and says:  You worked for it.  You earned it.  It’s yours.  But we who live in the Promised Land know otherwise.  We can’t help but remember that everything we have is from the Lord.  He has brought you to this place of plenty.  You may not have walked through the Red Sea on dry ground; but you have been born again in the cleansing waters of Holy Baptism.  You may not have been fed with manna from heaven; but you have been fed with the precious body and blood of Jesus in His Holy Supper.  None of us has lived a life of slavery; but you have been freed indeed from sin, death, and hell by the crucified and risen Savior.

        We love because He first loved us; and we remember because He first remembered us.  And if this should happen to be my final sermon, you can just forget about me—that’s fine.  But don’t forget the Lord who loved you and gave Himself for you.  Don’t forget the Lord who forgives all your sins.  Don’t forget the Lord who is leading you through years of tears and trouble to the true, eternal Promised Land.  That’s where Jesus has gone to prepare a place for you.  The cost of admission has already been paid by Him.  Don’t forget Jesus; for He will never forget you.

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

Remember Lot's Wife!

 Jesu Juva

Luke 17:32                                                      

March 19, 2025

Lent Midweek 2                        

 Dear saints of our Savior~

        Do you remember Lot’s wife?  You should.  You’re supposed to.  Jesus says exactly that:  Remember Lot’s wife.  She was from the city of Sodom.  Lot had taken her as his wife after Uncle Abraham had let him choose the land where he and his flocks would settle. 

        Later on, we learn that both Sodom and Gomorrah were terrible twin cities—notoriously evil.  The wickedness of those places was so great that the Lord decided to destroy them both.  Two angels told Lot not to linger.  Get out fast and don’t look back!  But as fire and brimstone rained down from heaven—as Sodom and Gomorrah were consumed by God’s righteous wrath—Lot’s wife—she looked back.  And she became a pillar of salt.

        Why did she look back?  And why should we remember her? 

        As a little boy this story always bothered me because I was a little pyromaniac.  I was very fascinated by fire and flames and fireworks.  I feared I would have been just like Lot’s wife—rubbernecking with eyes wide open to take in the divine pyrotechnics.  Who could keep from looking at a firebombing so fierce?

        Of course, now I know that I was remembering Lot’s wife for the wrong reason.  Her looking back had more to do with her heart than with her eyes.  Her heart was attached to the things of her past—to what she was leaving behind.  Her forward momentum halted because her faith was faulty. At some level, she loved her life; and lost it.  She became a statue of sodium—a pillar of salt.  Remember Lot’s wife!

        The lesson of Lot’s wife isn’t easily learned.  For in fact, we are all a lot like Lot’s wife.  It doesn’t seem likely that Lot’s wife was attracted to the vices and depravities of her doomed city.  Perhaps what led to her downfall was the powerful pull of home—a nostalgia for the comforts of the past.  She was likely leaving behind a nice house like yours.  Perhaps on some doorframe was inscribed the heights of their growing daughters at various stages and ages.  A table where birthdays and holy days had been celebrated with love and laughter.  A well-manicured garden with spices and produce and flowers, surrounded by an elegant wall of stones.  We all crave that kind of carefully crafted normalcy.  Who among us could just walk away as it all goes up in smoke . . . without looking back?

        The life of the Christian is always a life of forward momentum.  Jesus doesn’t say, “Stay put.”  He says, “Follow me.”  He teaches that His followers should always be prepared and ready to let go and get going.  Just as it was in the days of Noah.  Just as it was in the days of Lot.  We must be cautious about becoming too comfortable with the status quo.  We must be careful with our attachments to the things of this world (even when those things are good things).  We must practice the difficult discipline of not lingering too long.

        It’s no coincidence that the Christian life is likened to running a marathon in Paul’s epistles.  It’s no surprise that the author of Hebrews is at his most memorable when he writes:  Let’s run!  Let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, looking to Jesus, the founder and perfecter of our faith.  Are you ready to run?  Are you “good to go” with the life of faith you have been given?  Are you able to say together with St. Paul, “Forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead, I press on toward the goal?”  Are you ready to really remember Lot’s wife?

        Contentment is good; but contentment can quickly evolve into complacency.  Nostalgia for the comforts of the past can quickly crumble into the weary boredom of stagnation.  And that quest for comfort can quench the flame of faith.  Don’t stop and smell the roses!  (You heard me. Don’t do it!)  Don’t linger longer!  Don’t look back.  Let go and get moving!  Let go and get growing!  Follow where Jesus is leading!

        Where can you go?  Where can you grow?  Where is the Lord leading you?  In what ways are you called to lose your life so that you may keep it for eternal life?  Is it growth in giving?  Growth in service?  Growth in a life of prayer and Bible study?  Are you called to make big strides in your marriage, in your calling as husband or wife, son or daughter?  What steps can you take to be a better steward—to be generous toward God for all His benefits to you? 

        And just as importantly, what’s holding you back?  What sins are entangling you, keeping you from a deeper, richer life of discipleship?  What’s causing you to look back like Lot’s wife?  What do you need to lose—to leave—to let go of?  To remember Lot’s wife is to prepare our hearts to be painfully severed from even those things we hold near and dear.  Sometimes even blessings must be left behind.  And remember, you can never outrun temptation.  The further you go in running the race of faith, the more miles you put in the rear-view mirror—the more tempting it becomes to slow down—to stop—to look back.  Sadly, it’s never too late to turn into a pillar of salt.

        So see the Savior go and blaze the trail before you.  Watch Jesus just walk away from the kingdom, the power, and the glory that were His as the royal Son of God.  See Him humble Himself, to take on our flesh, to walk the way of humanity, surrounded by trials, temptations, and loss.  But Jesus never lingered long in any one place.  He was a man in motion.  He set His face to go to Jerusalem, to suffer many things and be rejected by His own people. 

        Nothing could deter Him from His rendezvous with the cross.  Not the applause of the crowds, not the distractions of demons, not the disappointing conduct of His own disciples.  His forward momentum never failed.  He never looked back.  He never stopped placing one foot in front of the other until those feet were nailed to the cross.  He came to save us from our sins by becoming sin for us.  He lost His life for us at Calvary so that He might share His life with you—in the water of your baptism, in the bread that is His body and the wine that is His blood.

        Seek to preserve your life, and conserve your life, and hang on to your life; and you will lose it.  But lose your life in Jesus—follow where He leads—and oh, the places you will go.  Tonight He extends His nail-scarred hands to you, to pull you ever forward, deeper into discipleship, closer to Him, through death to life everlasting.  And as you go on your way, remember Lot’s wife.

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