Living a Leper's Life

Jesu Juva
Luke 17:11-19
November 28, 2019
Thanksgiving Day

Dear Saints of Our Savior~

No matter how bad off a person may be—no matter how dire the circumstances—there’s one last shred of cold comfort that a lot of us hang onto: Somebody out there has it worse than me. You’d be surprised how often I hear that from people whose circumstances are rather grim. Maybe it’s not so much comfort or consolation they’re going for. Maybe it just helps to keep their own suffering in perspective. But rarely are things so bad for someone that they can’t at least say: Somebody out there has it worse than me.

Today we meet ten men who couldn’t say that—ten lepers whose lives were devoid of all comfort and all consolation. Leprosy itself was bad enough—an incurable skin disease which, in its worst forms, featured debilitating nerve pain, necrosis of the flesh, and even the prospect of a slow, painful death.

But leprosy was as much a social disease as a medical condition. It turned you into a pariah, an outcast. It isolated you from friends and family. You couldn’t come anywhere near the temple; you were cut off from worship. Nor could you keep your condition private. No HIPPA laws protected your medical history. There are two long chapters in Leviticus devoted to nothing but leprosy. Those chapters might be a dermatologist’s dream; but it’s rather tough sledding for the rest of us. Leviticus 13:45 describes the leper’s life this way: “The leprous person . . . shall wear torn clothing and let the hair of his head hang loose, and shall cover his upper lip and cry out, ‘Unclean, unclean.’ He shall remain unclean as long as he has the disease. . . . He shall live alone. His dwelling shall be outside the camp.” It’s hard to imagine a worse predicament or to think of someone with so little to be thankful for.

But things were about to change for the ten lepers in today’s text. Jesus was coming, on His way to Jerusalem to die and rise again for the life of the world. The lepers kept their distance from Jesus, but cried out in a loud voice. They didn’t cry out, “Unclean, unclean,” like they were supposed to. Their cry was, “Kyrie eleison.” Their prayer was, “Jesus, Master, have mercy on us.” “Lord, have mercy” is what you pray when your hands are empty and your heart is broken. “Lord, have mercy” is what you pray when your situation is so dire that only divine intervention can change things. Help and healing are what the lepers hoped for. They had been given reason to believe at least this much: that Jesus had the power to heal them and rescue them from the living hell of leprosy.

Leprosy is bad; but sin is even worse. The connection between leprosy and sin isn’t difficult to see. Sin is leprosy of the soul—a deep contamination and corruption of our humanity. Sin makes us unclean before God. It isolates us and divides us from other people. We all sounded a lot like lepers a few minutes ago when we cried out the leper’s mantra: unclean, unclean—sinful and unclean. Your sinful symptoms are manifold. You have the disease. You know it. You are as unclean as those ten lepers who pleaded with Jesus for mercy.

The miracle which then transpired in today’s text is very unusual. Typically, Jesus would touch the afflicted person, even if—especially if—that person was unclean. He typically touches the unclean and they become clean. But here Jesus doesn’t even cross the street. He simply shouts out His prescription: Go, show yourselves to the priests. That’s all He said. Leviticus explains how the priests served as health inspectors who would verify the healing and give the green light for a return to family and community and temple.

St. Luke doesn’t give us all the details about how this miracle happened. He simply states that, “As they went, they were healed.” At some point on their priestly pilgrimage, they began to notice that their leprosy was disappearing. They must have been thrilled and happy beyond all measure. Now they could go home. Now they could comb their hair and wear nice clothes because the Word of Jesus had made them clean. There would be celebrations with food and drink, perhaps not unlike the celebrations going on across our country on this fourth Thursday of November. Now they could head over the river and through the woods to grandmother’s house. Now they could go run that Turkey Trot/Drumstick Dash 5K. Now they could start to reassemble their wardrobe at some of those Black Friday sales.

But one of the ten stopped and turned around. One of the ten ran back to Jesus, threw himself at Jesus’ feet, and thanked Him. He worshipped. And at this point we learn that he was a Samaritan. Not only had he been a leper, he was one of those Samaritans—a double loser in the eyes of any self-respecting Israelite. But this loser—this foreigner—returned to give thanks to Jesus for the healing he had received. Ten out of ten were cleansed. But only one out of ten makes the Jesus connection and returns to worship and give thanks.

And it’s to this one that Jesus says, “Rise and go, your faith has saved you.” Not only had the Samaritan been healed, but something bigger and better was now going on. Now the Samaritan knew who to trust—not just with his health, but with his life, with his death, with everything. You might say that ten out of ten had faith to be healed; but only one out of ten had faith to be saved. That one knew at whose feet his salvation rested. Faith always returns to Jesus. Faith always gives thanks to Jesus.

And that’s why you are here today. Jesus didn’t linger for long with the lepers because He was on His way to Jerusalem where there was waiting for Him a cross with His name on it. There He took our place as one who was sinful, unclean, and cursed—so that you might be cleansed of every sinful stain. Today the risen Lord passes this way—here where His promises are preached—here where His holy body and blood are served up in the Sacrament as medicine for our souls—the medicine of immortality. Here we confess our uncleanness and cry out our kyrie eleison. Here we bend our knees as we pray, praise, and give thanks.

What Jesus did for that leper He has done for us. We have been cleansed of the leprosy of our sin. Jesus’ words have had their way with us. And like that leper, we keep coming back to Jesus where He has promised to meet us. We can trust Him with everything. We aren’t yet symptom-free, but the cure has been applied. Baptism now saves you. And one day—on the day of resurrection—your healing will finally be complete. The leprosy of sin will be a thing of the past. Nobody will have it better than you! And on that day you will again hear Jesus say these familiar words: Rise and go; your faith has saved you.

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

Faith's Vindication

Jesu Juva
Malachi 3; Luke 23
November 24, 2019
Last Sunday C

Dear Saints of Our Savior~

Today is the final Sunday of the Church Year. Next Sunday the Advent wreath and the blue paraments will trumpet the start of a new liturgical year. You probably didn’t realize it was the Last Sunday of the Church Year when you arrived this morning. The church calendar is always out of sync with the world’s calendar. While most Americans this week are focused on eating and traveling and shopping, today’s Scripture readings present a much more sobering subject matter.

It’s fitting that the Last Sunday of the Church Year should feature a reading from the Old Testament’s last book—Malachi. Unfortunately, if you’re looking for a grand finale or a real show-stopper, Malachi isn’t it. For all the glory and grandeur of the Old Testament—for all the promises and passion—Malachi’s main features are malaise and complacency and spiritual decay. With Malachi, the Old Testament ends, not with a bang, but with a whimper.

And here is Malachi’s main complaint: Faith appears to be a waste of time and energy. It is vain to serve God. What is the profit of our keeping his charge or of walking as in mourning before the Lord of hosts? And now we call the arrogant blessed. Evildoers?—they not only prosper but they put God to the test and they escape.

The prophet has a point. In this world and in this life, faith should count for something, shouldn’t it? Faith ought to make at least a small difference in the here and now. Believers ought to catch a break now and then, don’t you think? Those who trust in the God—they’re the ones whose lives should be “blessed” and prosperous. And those arrogant evildoers—they’re the ones who should be taking it on the chin. But in this upside-down world, faith appears to make very little difference.

The difference between the faithful and the unfaithful—between believers and unbelievers—that difference should be as plain as day. But it’s not. Of course, we believers shoulder some of the blame for that. We don’t always live as the “light of the world.” We don’t always shine the way we should. We’re not always witnessing about the wonders of our salvation in Jesus Christ. Nor do we always practice what we preach.

Things were especially bleak among the believers in Malachi’s day. A spirit of malaise and despair showed up in the stewardship of God’s people. Instead of offering the Lord their very best, the animals brought for sacrifice were sometimes blind or crippled or diseased. Those animals weren’t good enough for the marketplace, but they were good enough for the Lord. There was also malaise when it came to marriage. Immorality and divorce were on the rise. Oh, and as for the priests—the professional clergy—those who should have been calling God’s people to repentance and proclaiming God’s promises, those religious leaders were for the most part just a bunch of empty suits—faithless shepherds who were full of pride. The spirit of the times in Malachi’s day could be nicely summed up with the words, “Who cares?”

Sadly, shamefully, that could be our creed too. Laziness and complacency have come calling among us. Malaise and futility have infected us. And that sin of ours—even on our very best days—leaves us nearly indistinguishable from the unbelievers next door. Where’s faith when you need it? Your faith should make a difference in you! Why can’t we always see it? Is it vain to serve God?

On the Last Day it will all become clear. Faith in Christ will be vindicated. On that day you will see with your own two eyes the eternal difference faith makes. Malachi also says as much: Then . . . you shall see the distinction between the righteous and the wicked, between the one who serves God and the one who does not serve him. On that day—but not one day sooner—it will be patently obvious that through faith in Jesus Christ you have become the Lord’s treasured possession. That’s what you are right now; you just can’t see that right now.

If you want to see the difference that faith makes, then come with me to Calvary. That’s where today’s Holy Gospel takes us. There in the afternoon darkness is the crucified Christ. And please note the two criminals on either side of Jesus. To stand there and view the gruesome scene, both of those criminals appear the same. There’s no visible, tangible difference between them. Both were convicted of

crimes deserving crucifixion. Both men were dying. As bystanders, we’re hard-pressed to see any difference between those two evildoers.

Is there any difference? One of the criminals calls out to Jesus, “Aren’t you the Christ? Save yourself and us!” That almost sounds like faith. He calls Jesus the “Christ” and wants Jesus to save him as He saves Himself. But that’s precisely NOT how Jesus saves. Jesus saves others by NOT saving Himself. Jesus saves sinners by dying for them. He justifies the ungodly, not the godly. Jesus redeems the irredeemable.

The other criminal may look no different; but he sounds different. And the difference is faith. He confesses his sinfulness—that he’s getting what he deserves. But concerning Jesus, he says, “This man has done nothing wrong.” The crucifixion of this innocent man ignites a spark of faith and hope: Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom. He doesn’t ask to be spared his death sentence or to be saved from his suffering. All he wants is to be remembered by the crucified King who is dying next to him. And from the lips of that King comes this promise: Truly, I say to you, today you will be with me in Paradise.

Two criminals were executed that day with Jesus; but one died with the promise of life. One died with faith in a crucified King. And later on, that very same day, he was with Jesus in Paradise. That’s the same promise our Lord makes to you—to you who trust Him not only when times are good, but also in terrible times. Your faith makes an eternal difference. Your faith will be vindicated.

Through Malachi the Lord declared concerning His people: “I will spare them as a man spares his son who serves him.” God will spare His people as a father spares his son. But of course, we who are privileged to read beyond the book of Malachi know that God—our God—did NOT spare His one and only Son, but gave Him up for us all. We who breathe the grace-filled air of the New Testament, we know that God sent His Son to deliver us from the domain of darkness. And in that beloved Son we have everything, including redemption, the forgiveness of sins.

Behold the difference Jesus makes. Our sin means that we deserve nothing more than to be hanging next to Jesus with nails in our hands and feet. That’s what we deserve, but that’s not what we get. What you get instead is the grand and glorious promise of Jesus Christ that on the day you die—on that day, I tell you the truth—you will be with Jesus in Paradise. Jesus takes the nails. Jesus takes the sins. Jesus takes the shame that’s rightfully yours, but you—you get Paradise.

There no way to understand this or make sense of this good news. All you can do it believe it. All you do is trust it. That’s what we mean by faith. Faith doesn’t mean a life of success and victory; but it does mean a life of love for God and service to your neighbor. It means that you are free to love as you are loved by God—free to serve as you are served by Jesus. Your faith will be vindicated on the Last Day. For when that show-stopping grand finale finally comes, you will be with Jesus in Paradise.

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

Take This Job and Love It

Jesu Juva
2 Thessalonians 3:6-13
November 17, 2019
Proper 28C

Dear Saints of Our Savior~

The end is near. These final Sundays of the church year serve to remind us that this world, in its present form, is passing away. Today the Prophet Malachi warns us that the Last Day will burn “like an oven.” Jesus warns that earthquakes, famines and false Christs will increase as the Day draws near. “Heaven and earth will pass away,” He says, “but my words will not pass away.”

What would you do if you knew? Now, no one knows the day or the hour of Christ’s return. But for the sake of argument: If you knew the world would end tomorrow, what would you do today? How would your plans change? Where would you go? What would you do? And who would you do it with? Legend has it that when a similar question was posed to Martin Luther, he had a rather simple response. If the world was ending tomorrow, Luther said that he would plant a tree today.

What I especially like about Luther’s answer is that it involves working. Work is worthwhile and God-pleasing—even when the end is near. Planting a tree means getting up, going out, digging down, and getting your hands dirty.

The value of work—the spiritual significance of work—goes all the way back to the Garden of Eden. God placed Adam and Eve in the garden with the intent that they were “to work it and keep it” (Gen. 2:15). There was work to be done, even in paradise. We so often think that our work-a-day existence is a result of living in a sin-filled, God-forsaking world, but no! God gave work to our first parents even before the fall into sin. This means that work is intrinsically good and God-pleasing.

It’s not hard to imagine what this work in paradise might have looked like. There were likely fruits and vegetables to be harvested. Maybe there were cows that needed milking and cheese that needed making. And that beer wasn’t going to brew itself. (My version of paradise sounds a lot like Wisconsin.) But even in a perfect world there was work to be done.

But you and I live in a fallen world. And that fact makes our work much more difficult and far less rewarding. “Cursed is the ground because of you,” the Lord told Adam, “thorns and thistles it shall bring forth for you.” This is why work never works out the way you want it to. Screws get stripped. Batteries give out. Muscles get pulled. The tree you plant today can be taken down by the wind tomorrow. But none of this changes the fact that work is a good gift from God—that God has given all of us work to do.

Like us, the Christians at Thessalonica had been called by the Holy Spirit to trust in the saving work of Jesus Christ for their rescue and deliverance from this dying world. But some of them apparently thought that faith in Jesus was a good excuse to take early retirement and check out of working all together. They decided it was okay to take a permanent vacation from their God-given vocations. Their motto was, “Take this job and shove it!”

We don’t know whether these idle brothers were simply lazy deadbeats who were merely milking the charity of wealthy, well-to-do believers, OR whether they were so devout and so eagerly anticipating the return of Christ that they quit their jobs like lottery winners and engaged in a life of leisurely prayer as they awaited the coming of the Son of Man. But whatever their motivation, Paul makes it clear that their work-free lifestyle was contrary to the word and will of God. God is a working God; and God wills that His people work too. Paul was a tentmaker. Peter was a fisherman. Luke was a physician. The rule was this: “If a man will not work, he shall not eat. Get to work! Stop being busybodies and get busy!” Paul wrote.

Now it needs to be pointed out that there are times when people want to work, but can’t. Many of us know what it’s like to be unemployed or underemployed. You want to work; you want a job; but nothing comes your way. Others cannot work because of mental or physical disabilities or illness. Others of us know what it’s like to have your back go out. It’s nearly impossible to work when you don’t have a working back—when you have to rely on the kindness of others to simply tie your shoes. Paul is not addressing these situations in today’s epistle. There is no condemnation for those who want to work, but can’t. Regarding these brothers and sisters, Paul would remind us to bear one another’s burdens, and care for those who cannot care for themselves. “Whatever you do for the least of these,” Jesus says, “You have done it unto me.”

I can probably summarize the sermon up to this point in two sentences: Work is good. And work is hard. It’s difficult. We rarely get it right. When it comes to our God-given work and vocations, the temptations are always there to say, “That’s not my job. Let someone else do it.” The temptations are always there to cheat, to cut corners, to be lazy, to get complacent, to do as little as possible. And even when your attitude is good—when you know that your work matters—there’s the constant battle against discouragement and despair, when your work feels meaningless, when it seems that you’re just spinning your wheels. And the flip side of that is when work takes over everything else—when your work and career become the most important thing in your life—when you become a workaholic and neglect the people—the people God has given you to love and serve.

The problem concerning work at Thessalonica was primarily a congregational problem. It was a problem in the church. We know that because Paul warns them about any “brother” who is idle—brother being a word to denote a fellow believer. Apparently, there were plenty of “busybodies” in that congregation, people who were “busy” with gossip and meddling in other people’s business. I don’t think that “busybodies” are much of a problem among us at Our Savior. But I do think that God’s Word today should lead each and every one of us to ask: As a baptized child of God and a member of this congregation, am I doing everything I can—am I working with the energy and wisdom God supplies—to strengthen our life together, to build one another up, to never grow weary of doing good for these, my brothers and sisters in Christ?

Work is good. Work is hard. But your work has eternal value in Jesus. No one has ever worked harder, or more faithfully, than Jesus. No one has ever labored as lovingly as the Lord Jesus. Jesus was there at creation and all things were created by Him. But when sinful rebels needed redeeming—when a fallen world needed to be re-created—Jesus willingly took that job and loved it. He did not cheat. He did not cut corners. He came into this world and worked. He labored against all the frustrations that you and I face every day, amidst blood, sweat, and tears. For busy, hard-working sinners, and for idle, complacent sinners, Jesus took on the dirty job that no one else could do. He became the servant and slave of all. He humbled Himself and became obedient to death—even death on a cross.

Jesus quite literally worked Himself to death to save you. He labored and toiled beneath the weight of all our sins. He worked and worked until they nailed Him to the cross. There’s an old saying: Idle hands are the devil’s workshop. Lazy, labor-free hands are a prime opportunity for the devil to start giving directions. But if idle hands are the devil’s workshop, then the nail-scarred hands of Jesus spell the devil’s demise. For those hands are the hands that bless and forgive you. Those hands are the hands that will embrace you in love when you depart this life in peace, and finally find rest from all your labor.

Work is good. Work is hard. But the work you do today has eternal significance and value in Jesus. He magnifies your work and honors it. For Jesus Himself says that whatever you do for the least and the lowly, you are doing it unto Him. Ultimately, all of your work, all of your labor and toil on behalf of others, Jesus receives it all just as if you did it for Him. This means that your labor in the Lord is never in vain. The work of your vocations is wonderful work. God Himself uses it for the life of the world.

Our God is a working God, and our God is working hard yet today—equipping you for your work—forgiving your sins, increasing your faith, feeding you with the body and blood of His Son. He who began a good work in you in baptism is still working—and He will surely bring it all to completion on the Last Day—the day of our Lord Jesus Christ.

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

Savior of the Stained

Jesu Juva
Revelation 7:9-17
November 3, 2019
All Saints’ Sunday

Dear Saints of Our Savior~

This past week your pastor did something reckless and risky. Some would call it foolish and foolhardy. Others would say that he rolled the dice and took a big-time gamble. You see, this past week your pastor purchased a new, white dress shirt. It wasn’t cheap. How long do you think it will last? How many times will I get to wear it before a drop of ketchup or coffee comes into contact with the fabric? How long will it be before blood or grease or chocolate renders this expensive new shirt unwearable? I give this new shirt six months to live—tops.

The color white is, of course, the most stainable of all colors. And white is also the color for this day—All Saints’ Sunday. On this day we remember the saints who now rest from their labors—all those made holy through faith in Jesus, who are now with Jesus. You have known some of these saints. All Saints’ Day is the church’s Memorial Day. On this day we name our dead before the Lord with tear-filled eyes, but firmly believing what is declared about our dead in the book of Revelation: They are blessed. As our choir so beautifully sang, “Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord from now on.” And as our hymn of the day expressed it, “We feebly struggle; they in glory shine.”

The book of Revelation tells us about that shining glory. If you’ve spent much time reading the book of Revelation, then you know it can be a tough nut to crack. But the book of Revelation—just like all of Scripture—is breathed out by God and is useful. And Revelation is especially useful for us on this day because it gives us a sneak peek into heaven—because it gives us a glimpse of the glory which the dead in Christ now enjoy forevermore.

In today’s reading from Revelation 7, St. John lays out one detail after another: After this I looked, and behold, a great multitude that no one could number, from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and languages, standing before the throne and before the Lamb. The saints in heaven are speaking and singing and worshiping, along with angels and archangels and all the company of heaven, praising God and the Lamb—who is Jesus Christ.

But it’s what this heavenly host is wearing that caught my eye: They are wearing white robes. White—the most stainable color. In

case you haven’t noticed, I have some experience with wearing a white robe. And keeping a white robe white is a full-time job. Everything stains it: a drop of wine, a smudge of make-up from one of our huggable members, or worst of all—a drop of blood from my dry, chapped hands. Wearing a white robe is riskier than you might think.

But let’s take this talk about stains to a deeper level. Stained clothing is an unfortunate occurrence, and that’s all. Like spilt milk, there’s no use crying over stained clothing. But there is a different kind of stain which is a crying shame. I’m referring to the stain on our souls which results from our sin. No one can see a stained soul, but you know it’s there. You can feel it. Our idolatries leave a mark. Our adulteries leave a spot. Our lack of love for God and others leaves us impure and unclean. The hurt and the harm that we dish out leaves behind a noticeable area of discoloration. The gossip that we slop around in tarnishes and darkens our souls. Our sin contaminates, corrupts, pollutes and sullies our souls. It’s ironic that the most shameful stains we bear can’t even be seen.

The stains that sin leaves behind are the most stubborn of stains. Good luck getting rid of those stains. You can work and work and scrub and scrub. There’s no such thing as bleach for the soul. You can carry on pretending that those stains aren’t really there; but you’re only fooling yourself. And these stains carry consequences. A stained soul isn’t just a fashion faux pas. A soul stained by sin has the potential to separate you from God—has the potential to keep you on the outside of the pearly gates—which is a dreadful, hellish place to be.

So let’s take another look at those saints who dwell on the inside of the pearly gates—so that we soul-stained sinners might one day join them. Then one of the elders addressed me, saying, “Who are these, clothed in white robes, and from where have they come?” I said to him, “Sir, you know.” And he said to me, “These are the ones coming out of the great tribulation. They have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.

Every white-robed resident of heaven—every saint of our Savior—has come through what is called “the great tribulation.” Because it’s called “the great” tribulation, some are inclined to see that as a reference to the great and intense suffering to be endured by Christians who are still living on earth in the dark days leading up to Judgment Day. That will certainly be a “great tribulation.” But please notice that the elder who speaks is referring to all the white-robed residents of heaven when he declares that these have come out of the great tribulation. In other words, every saint of God in heaven has endured this “great tribulation.”

What is this great tribulation? It’s the battle you wage daily against sin. It is the persecution, the temptation, the suffering, the crosses you carry because you are one redeemed by Christ the crucified. This great tribulation often leaves you with a weary heart, and tear-filled eyes, and yes, inevitably, a sin-stained soul. But rejoice and be glad, because every white-robe-wearing resident of heaven has experienced it. This life can be filled with terrible tribulation—things that are unfair, unjust, and painful. This tribulation is real and unavoidable—as surely as your blood runs red.

This is why we celebrate All Saints’ Day. This is why we take a Spirit-led sneak peek behind the pearly gates every year on the first Sunday in November. Because we need to see how that great multitude gathered around the throne of God has gone through the great tribulation you are now enduring. Only they have come out. They have exited. They are finished with sin and death and tears. Why? How? Based on what? How did they get from here to there—from tribulation to jubilation? Sir, you know. Madame, you know. They have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.

Of course it sounds ridiculous that something could be made white through blood. In our experience, we know that blood creates stains; it doesn’t remove them. But not so with Jesus, the Lamb of God. For the blood of this red-blooded man was shed in sacrifice for you—for you and every soul-stained sinner. The blood of Jesus removes the stubborn stains that nothing else can erase. The blood of Jesus purifies and cleanses those hard-to-reach stains on the soul. So confess those stains. Repent of what blemishes your soul. Let the blood of Jesus shed on His crucifixion cross do its cleansing work on your soul. Let yourself be whitened and brightened in preparation for that day when you too will leave behind this great tribulation to shine like the sun in the kingdom prepared for you since before time began.

The blood of Jesus is THE stain remover when it comes to the Christian soul. Not even a trace of stain is left behind where the blood of Christ has carried out its cleansing work. His blood can make the foulest clean. And His cleansing blood isn’t something that you have to imagine or pretend. It is real. And we need the real thing because we have real sins. This is why Jesus invites you with these words: “Drink of it all of you. This cup is the New Testament in my blood, which is shed for you, for the forgiveness of sins.” The soul-cleansing, stain-removing blood of Jesus is offered to you this day in the Lord’s Supper. Real blood, for real sins, for real cleansing, and life that lasts forever. Here at this altar your soul is whitened and purified in the blood of the Lamb.

Blessed are you on this All Saints’ Day. Yours is the kingdom of heaven. Remember that as you leave here today. The next time a meatball ricochets off your plate and onto your white shirt—the next time the ketchup squirts its way onto your necktie—the next time you’re stuck trying to scrub out a stain in the laundry room—be comforted as you remember this: The very worst of your sinful stains have been lifted away in the cleansing blood of Jesus. Your time of tribulation is nearly over. Don’t let anyone tell you that white isn’t your color. You look good in white. Rejoice and be glad, because great is your reward in heaven.

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

"Sinners Only"

Jesu Juva
St. Luke 18:9-14
October 27, 2019
Reformation/Proper 25C

Dear Saints of Our Savior~

One of the first things they teach you in pre-school and kindergarten is how to line-up. And knowing how to line-up is a very useful skill to learn. The proper method for lining-up is one of those skills that you will definitely put to use your whole life long. In fact, if you’re especially good at lining up—if you have an aptitude for it—and if you have a knack for seeing to it that other people line up properly—well then, you, my friend, just might have what it takes to become part of that elite group here at Our Savior we call the “ushers.”

Lining up isn’t as easy as you might think, however. You have to be alert for those scoundrels who are always trying to cut in line. And then there’s the shame and embarrassment of getting in the wrong line. You get in the wrong line at the airport or the train station or going through customs or at the DMV—and things will not go well for you.

Getting in the wrong line actually happens more often than you might think. In coming here to the church, many people are actually getting into the wrong line. For instance, people occasionally show up here during the week asking for money. Not food or clothing, not prayers or counseling—just some cash, thank you very much. Essentially, I have to tell them, “You’ve come to the wrong place for cash. You got into the wrong line.”

And then there are those who line up here at church without really knowing the reason why. Their families originally put them in line here. They meet up with friends and family here. Lining up at church is a good habit—it’s what respectable people do—so they keep on doing it. But exactly why they’re lining up here, they’re not really too sure about that.

Others line up at church because they have an agenda to push and they want to enlist the church’s help. They think the church should take a stand on immigration, or impeachment, or that the church should push hard for certain political candidates, or that the church should champion the charge against global warming. But those who seek to harness the church for their own purposes are ultimately in the wrong line.

In the parable we heard from Jesus this morning, we’ve been given two examples of getting in line. The first was the Pharisee. And he right away strode up to the very front of the line. He deserved to be there. He had great credentials for being there. He didn’t need any help from anyone. He had a resume of accomplishments that was second to none. He trusted in himself—brimming with self-confidence. And just to be polite, he even thanked God: “I thank You, God, that I’m better than everyone else.”

The Pharisee was comfortable and content there at the front of the line because, as he looked down at those around him, there was nobody else like him. Looking down on others is always a satisfying exercise for most people. It makes us more pleased with ourselves. Because no matter how depraved and messed-up we might be, we can always find someone more depraved and more messed-up than we are. This is also why we gossip. This is why we take such delight in sinking our teeth into the reputations of other people: because it raises us up, reinforces our belief that we are better than everybody else.

But in many ways, this Pharisee really was better! He fasted twice a week while most ordinary people fasted but once, if at all. The Pharisees did this extra fasting to atone for the sins of the people. The common people were such horrible sinners that the Pharisees (who hardly had any sin to speak of) generously fasted for the sins of others. What a good thing to do! What’s more, the Pharisees tithed. The Law required a tenth of one’s income. But because so many of the common people failed to tithe, the Pharisees not only gave a tenth of their income, but also a tenth of every purchase they made. Imagine that! Tithing not only your income, but your expenses too! What a good thing to do!

So be careful not to despise the Pharisees. They lived clean, decent, useful lives. They did their utmost to fulfill the Law of God. Before we despise them, we should compare our conduct to theirs. How many of us are ready to give ten percent to the Lord not once, but twice? How many of us would be willing to go without food for a day for the spiritual good of our sinful neighbors?

Of course, I know what you Lutherans are thinking—that the Pharisees had only good works, but we have faith. Works don’t count, but faith counts. Lazy Lutherans like to look around and see others busily engaged in good works, and then comfort themselves with the message that faith alone saves, not works. We Lutherans thank thee, God, that we are not as others are: Roman Catholics who pray to Mary, anything-goes Anglicans, Methodists so concerned about social justice. Yes, we thank thee God that we’re so good at pointing out everybody else’s errors.

Beloved in the Lord, before you condemn the Pharisee in the parable, you need to recognize and condemn the Pharisee in here. This Pharisee is the hardest one of all to recognize because he’s always so busy—busy looking down on other people and seeing them as something less. The Pharisee in here always measures his own worth according to other people and, inevitably finds himself bigger, better, and more religious and spiritual than they. The danger faced by every Pharisee is that we become so busy looking down on others that we no longer look up to God—because, in fact, we’re so good that we don’t need God.

But there was also another man who lined up that day to pray—a tax collector. Unlike the Pharisee, the tax collector had led an outwardly evil life—a life of greed, graft and corruption. But unlike the Pharisee, the tax collector wasn’t looking around at everyone else, comparing himself to them. He had no religious resume—no spiritual credentials to present. He simply beat his breast and blurted out the God-awful truth: “God, be merciful to me, a sinner.”

Comparing yourself to other people will get you nowhere; doing that only feeds the Pharisee inside. It is, instead, when we stand in the presence of the holy God, that we recognize our sin and are shrunk back down to size. The tax collector was standing alone before God, as a sinner. When you stand before God there is no hope in trying to fool Him. He can’t be fooled. When you stand before God no references or recommendations will help you. And you cannot bribe Him.

The tax collector knew what the Pharisee did not—knew that he was a sinner—knew that He needed God. Only by the mercy of God could he stand. He places his future in God’s hands. The tax collector was standing in the correct line. The tax collector had lined up in the line designated for “sinners only.”

That line for “sinners only” at first seems like a line to avoid. Who wants to be in that line?! No one tried harder than Martin Luther to avoid the “sinners only” line. Back in his monastery days Luther did all that he could to rid his life of sin—praying for hours, confessing every infraction in excruciating detail, beating himself into submission. But the harder he tried, the more he hated himself, and the more he hated God.

But by the grace of God, Luther learned that the “sinners only” line is actually a very good place to be. Jesus Himself once went through that line, for He was numbered with the transgressors. He identified with the tax collectors. He stood shoulder-to-shoulder in solidarity with sinners. He who had no sin became sin for us so that we might become the righteousness of God. He Himself took your sin and shame to His crucifixion cross. He came to save His people from their sins.

It’s precisely when you get into the line for “sinners only” that Jesus joins you—joins you with what you need: with mercy, with faith, with forgiveness. It’s in the line specified for “sinners only” that you are washed in Baptism and fed with Jesus’ body and blood.

It’s not easy being in the line for “sinners only.” You have to honestly admit the worst about yourself. Sometimes you will be tempted to wander off, thinking that you must belong somewhere else. But do not be deceived. For in this line is grace. In this line is forgiveness and faith. In this line (for sinners) is the tender mercy of God; and apart from God’s mercy there is only hell. This is the line where we all belong. And after a time of waiting in this line, you will not be disappointed. For at the end of this line there is Jesus—the friend of sinners—the Savior of sinners. And you will be with Him forever.

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

Here Comes the Judge

Jesu Juva
St. Luke 18:1-8
October 20, 2019
Proper 24C

Dear Saints of Our Savior~

Sometimes the parables of Jesus leave us scratching our heads and asking, “What does this mean?” Other parables are so ripe with possible meanings that a dozen sermons couldn’t do them justice. But not today. Today we have a simple parable about a pesky widow and a corrupt judge. And just to make sure that we get the main point, St. Luke spells it out up front, right at the beginning: Jesus told them a parable to the effect that they ought always to pray and not lose heart.

Losing heart is what sometimes strangles the breath of prayer. Losing heart is what happens when you pray, and pray, and pray some more—sometimes praying about something or someone for months or even years—and nothing changes. Do you know someone who is losing heart—giving up—ceasing to pray instead of praying without ceasing?

It happens to all of us from time to time—we begin to lose heart. It happens even to those who ought to know better. We’ve all

been there. Each one of us, like Jacob, has wrestled with God in prayer, but only to feel like we’ve come out on the losing end.

So it ought to perk up our ears to hear that Jesus has a parable especially for us—a parable leading us always to pray and not lose heart. The praying protagonist is just an old widow, a nobody, a woman with no standing, no influence, no money. And even the little bit she has has apparently been ripped off. And this unlikely heroine is an icon of faith and prayer. She does not lose heart. She does not give up. She does not despair because faith is alive in her. This pesky widow keeps on showing up in the courtroom of a crooked, corrupt judge who doesn’t fear God or respect his fellow man. This judge is unjust; he couldn’t care less about justice—particularly for someone as insignificant as this widow.

And while this judge keeps on delaying and stonewalling, the widow refuses to give up. She continually pounds the judge with her claim. She bothers the judge. She beats the judge by her continual appearances before him. She grinds away at him with her persistent petitions. The corrupt judge eventually gives in and grants her justice, simply to get her off his back. And this, my friends, is the picture of faith expressing itself in persistent, patient prayer.

The corrupt judge in the parable should lead us to think about Jesus, who is indeed our Judge. The point of comparison is obviously from lesser to greater. Jesus is not an unrighteous judge, but the Righteous One whose judgments are pure and precise and grounded in mercy. If a corrupt, crooked judge can be persuaded by the persistent petitions of a pesky widow, then how much more will Jesus work for justice and relief for His elect—His chosen—His baptized—who cry out to Him in prayer? In fact, Jesus says that the justice He gives is always given “speedily.”

Really? Speedily? If I had been one of the disciples listening to this parable, I think I might have raised my hand at that point and asked, “Lord, could you define what you mean by ‘speedily?’” Our definitions of “speedily” are all skewed by the fact that we sinners are inherently impatient. This is often why we lose heart and fail to pray. It’s not so much that God is slow, as that we are terribly impatient. Our Old Adam says: It’s now or never. Have it my way in sixty seconds or less. Long lines, slow traffic, a sluggish WiFi connection, being told to take a number and wait—Don’t you know who I am?! This is an insult. You are wasting my time. I want it now. Instant gratification is what it’s all about for the Old Adam in us.

But prayer prompted by faith is always an exercise in patience. This could take a while. Faith shows itself in patient endurance, persistence in the face of hardship, and in long-suffering. The widow in the parable keeps coming back to the crooked judge with her petitions because she has no place else to go. Even though the guy is uncaring, unsympathetic, and waiting for a bribe, yet she keeps coming back, day and night, over and over again, because there is no one else who can grant her justice.

We lack her patience most of the time. When years go by it’s easy to lose heart and just give up. Our prayers become shallow, sporadic, undisciplined and anemic. It’s like someone who goes to the gym a few times, lifts a few weights, and then concludes that exercise doesn’t work because he can’t detect a hint of new muscle. But prayer is to be exercised over the long haul. Prayer is a marathon, not a sprint. It is good and beneficial even when we don’t immediately notice all the desired results. The important thing is not to lose heart—to keep at it.

In my neighborhood, I am reminded of an amazing woman of prayer every day. Although she was raised as a Christian, she married an unbeliever with a violent temper who was also an adulterer. Her mother-in-law hated her and made her life miserable. But this amazing woman attended church daily and she prayed just like the widow in today’s parable. Eventually, over many years, she won the favor of her mother-in-law, and her husband changed his ways and became a Christian.

But then there was her rebellious son. He shacked up with his girlfriend, had a child out of wedlock, and got caught up in a new age religion. And so she prayed for her son, year after year for ten years. Finally, her son, too, changed his ways and became a Christian. The name of her son was Augustine—who we now refer to as St. Augustine—a great theologian and bishop. And his mother, who so famously prayed for him, was named Monica—but who we now refer to as St. Monica—a woman you honor every time you say “Santa Monica Blvd.” She could be the patron saint for patient, persistent prayer.

But if I simply tell you to be more like Saint Monica—if I just tell you to be like the widow in the parable—I haven’t yet given you what you need so that you don’t lose heart. I need to direct you to the Judge. Not the corrupt judge in the parable, but the One who will come again to judge the living and the dead. He is the Judge in whose name all our prayers are expressed. He is the Judge who will rule in your favor. The unjust judge in the parable refused to be troubled or bothered by the widow. But your Judge, Jesus, is so troubled and so concerned for you that He went to Calvary for you.

Jesus is the Judge who stands in your stead and takes your guilt and sin and punishment upon Himself. Your sin, your impatience, your angry demands—they can no longer condemn you. There is no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus. The One who was crucified for you—the One who shed His blood for you—He alone will be your judge. He is the Son of Man who, when He returns, will find faith in you—faith that He has given, faith that He has nourished, faith that He has sustained and strengthened through decades of prayers and years of tears.

It’s strange the way Jesus ends this parable. It’s unexpected how He concludes with a question that doesn’t seem to fit with the parable: When the Son of Man comes, Jesus asks, will He find faith on earth? With that question Jesus takes our prayers, takes the deepest desires of our hearts, and He connects them to the day of His return. And it really makes perfectly good sense. For only then, on judgment day, will it be perfectly clear. When we stand before Jesus our Judge we will see things as they truly are. Then it will become clear how tenderly—how generously and lovingly—Jesus has carried us along through those dark times when everything went wrong, and our prayers went unanswered, and our lives seemed so widowed and worthless. Then it will become clear how God’s delaying—how His slowness and His seeming not to care—is really part of His wanting our good, preparing us for larger gifts, building our faith not on short term satisfactions and easy solutions, but teaching us to rely completely on His grace, His mercy, His love.

It’s that love that will keep you and me from losing heart. It’s that love of God that invites us to lives of prayer—patient, persistent prayer. It’s that love that comes to you this morning in the bread that is His body and the wine that is His blood. It’s that love that rings in your ears through the Words of this sermon. In these ways your faith is forged and fed. And where faith is forged and fed, there is always persistent, patient prayer. Don’t lose heart. For your Judge . . . is Jesus.

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

Remember Jesus Christ

Jesu Juva
2 Timothy 2:7-9
October 13, 2019
Proper 23C

Dear Saints of Our Savior,

It’s just a happy coincidence—nothing more. But on the very Sunday when we have our seminarian, Alex, home to assist with the service—on the very Sunday when we have a bona fide pastor-to-be sitting in the chancel, we also have a Scripture reading that is tailor-made for both pastors-to-be and pastors (not to mention all of you who are served by pastors).

Second Timothy is one of those New Testament epistles we call “pastoral epistles.” That’s primarily because the epistle’s first recipient was a young, rookie pastor named Timothy. This little letter is filled with admonitions, encouragement and instruction for Timothy as he discharged his duties as one of the undershepherds of the Good Shepherd, Jesus Christ.

The writer of this letter—the man whose Spirit-inspired words spilled out onto the scroll and into our Bibles—was the Apostle Paul. By the time he wrote 2 Timothy Paul was an old man. He could look back on a long and distinguished ministry. Only he wasn’t retiring as the senior pastor of some mega-church in a posh Roman suburb. He wasn’t being toasted, roasted, and lavished with praise from swarms of admiring saints. No, he was all alone.

Paul had been arrested and imprisoned by the notorious Roman Emperor, Nero. In contrast to his earlier imprisonment, which had been a kind of house arrest, he now languished in a cold dungeon, chained like a common criminal. He had no wife to comfort him—no children he could lean on—no children, that is, except for young pastor Timothy, whom he called his “true son in the faith.” Paul was alone. His execution was drawing near. Second Timothy was Paul’s very last letter and, in many ways, it is his last will and testament.

At the heart of this last will and testament is Paul’s dying hope for Timothy, for pastors and pastors-to-be, and for all who look in faith to the Lord Jesus Christ. Paul writes: Think over what I say, for the Lord will give you understanding in everything. Remember Jesus Christ, risen from the dead, the offspring of David, as preached in my gospel. It’s only two sentences; but in those two sentences Paul has given an outline for an entire sermon.

Take just that first phrase from Paul: Think over what I say. Paul is telling Timothy to apply his mind, his reason, his intellect to the inspired words Paul had written. When it comes to the Scriptures, Paul tells Timothy (and all of us): Use your brain! Study the Word. Ponder the Word. Give the Word your full attention. This is why we send our pastors to seminary. Sure, Alex could just be my acolyte and follow me around as I carry out the ministry among you each day. But how much better that he can fully apply his mind to the Word of God, study it in the original languages, while sitting at the feet of gifted scholars. This is also why you, dear saints of Our Savior, attend Bible studies and tune into sermons. Why? Because when it comes to the Word of God, we are all charged to “think it over,” to “apply our minds” to what God has written for our learning.

But there’s also a promise attached to that command. Did you catch it? Paul writes: Think over what I say, for the Lord will give you understanding in everything. He doesn’t say, “For you might gain a few insights here and there.” No, he says, “The Lord will give you understanding in everything—clarity instead of confusion, insight instead of ignorance. Use your God-given intelligence to study the Scriptures; and let God give you understanding in everything. A mind is indeed a terrible thing to waste; and you’re wasting it if you don’t apply it to God’s Word—where wisdom and understanding await you.

But at the heart of the Scriptures stands Jesus. Jesus is the key to understanding everything from Genesis to Malachi, from Matthew to Revelation. And to Jesus Paul directs us in his very next sentence: Remember Jesus Christ, risen from the dead, the offspring of David, preached in my gospel. Paul’s entire ministry could be summed up in that sentence: Remember Jesus Christ. In all of life’s busyness, in times of joy and times of sorrow, when fear overwhelms us, or when success surrounds us—remember Jesus Christ.

But remembering Jesus might not be exactly what you think it is. We often think of remembering as a merely mental activity—recalling special people and special times from the past. But to “remember” takes on added meaning in the Scriptures. To “remember” in the language of the Bible isn’t just a mental activity—not just thinking thoughts, but also doing deeds. To remember in the parlance of the Bible means to take action. To remember Jesus, therefore, is much more than just recalling old stories and saying, “Oh, remember when Jesus did that? Remember when Jesus promised that?” No, to “remember Jesus Christ” is to structure your whole life around Jesus—to receive His gifts in worship—and by those gifts to love and serve those whom Jesus has placed in your path.

You remember Jesus Christ when you come here to the Divine Service. You remember Jesus as you hear His Word and sing His praise. You remember Jesus as you confess the worst about yourself—the sins of which you are ashamed—and then receive absolution from the pastor, who speaks in the stead and by the command of Jesus Christ. You remember Jesus as you confess your faith—the faith once delivered to the saints. You remember Jesus when you kneel at this altar to receive Him—Him who comes to us in His body and blood.

Oh, and by the way, make sure you remember the right Jesus. Not just any Jesus will do. Paul makes this point with clarity: Remember Jesus Christ, (which Jesus? The Jesus who is) risen from the dead, the offspring of David, as preached in my gospel. Paul didn’t want us remembering a generic Jesus who was only some great moral teacher. No, Paul bids us remember the risen Jesus—the Jesus who walked out of His tomb very early on the first day of the week—the Jesus who is the firstfruits of them that sleep—who defeated death for us—the Jesus through whom God was reconciling the world to Himself, not counting men’s sins against them.

Paul also would have us remember the Jesus who is the “offspring of David,” (and a Moabitess named Ruth), David’s descendant who is fully human, just like us—the Jesus who was tempted in every way just as we are, yet without sin—the Jesus who was born of the blessed virgin Mary, who was laid in a manger and worshiped by stinky shepherds, the Jesus who hemorrhaged real blood on a real cross for our real sins of thought, word and deed.

This is the Jesus Christ we remember here today. This was Paul’s Jesus, the Jesus of the Scriptures, the Jesus of history, the Jesus of this hour. Don’t confuse the real Jesus with any modern substitutes. Don’t fall for the pseudo-savior who winks at your sin and says, “Live as you please.” But do remember the Jesus who takes all of your sins upon Himself, who died as your substitute on a Roman tool of torture. Don’t fall for the Jesus of the modern mass media about whom nothing is sure, nothing is certain, and nothing is sacred.

But do remember the Jesus who was born in real time—in real history—whose birth came to pass when Caesar Augustus issued a decree that all the world should be taxed—who died when Pontius Pilate was governor of Judea (exactly 1,996 years ago). Remember the Jesus who cleansed lepers and is the friend of sinners. This is Paul’s Jesus and the Jesus we confess here today. This is the Jesus who will one day lead you right through the valley of shadow of death so that you, together with Paul and Timothy, together with pastors and pastors-to-be and all who trust in the Lord Jesus Christ, can dwell in the house of the Lord forever. This is the Jesus we preach—and the Jesus in whom you believe. Remember Jesus Christ.

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