Salt and Light

Jesu Juva
St. Matthew 5:13-20
February 9, 2020
Epiphany 5A

Dear saints of Our Savior~

The sermon you are about to hear basically wrote itself. Sure, my fingers typed the words, and my voice is carrying those words into your ears; but everything else has been supplied by Jesus. He provided the colorful metaphors. He developed the relevant applications. He put the teeth into the Law and He put the comfort into the Gospel. It really, really made my job easy this week.

Maybe that’s because this sermon is a sermon . . . based on a sermon. I’m preaching today what somebody else has already preached. And that somebody was Jesus. Today’s text is from Matthew chapter five, which is smack-dab in the heart of what has come to be known as “the Sermon on the Mount.” It’s probably Jesus’ most famous sermon. I can hardly improve upon what Jesus has already proclaimed. So, if you don’t mind, in this sermon, I’m just going to take from Jesus and give to you.

Two majestic metaphors make up the heart of this sermon: You are the salt of the earth. And you are the light of the world.

You—dear baptized believer, faithful follower of Jesus—you are salt and you are light. What does this mean?

First of all, notice the present tense: You are salt; you are light. This isn’t a demand or a command to be something you’re not. It’s not an order to try harder. And it’s not that you should aspire to be salt and light. It’s what you already are through faith in Jesus Christ.

Jesus’ followers knew that salt was a valuable and useful substance. Salt seasons and preserves. And unless you’re eating one of those big, soft pretzels, salt usually does its work unnoticed and unseen. It blends in. And you don’t need much of it to make a big, big difference. A dash here, a pinch there. That’s you, my friends, the salt of the earth.

You’ve been shaken and scattered here and there to season the world with the good news of Jesus’ death and resurrection. You are the secret spice that makes this fallen world a better place—because you follow Jesus who died and rose again to redeem the whole world. On your head and heart you have received the sign of the holy cross, to mark you as one redeemed by Christ the crucified. For that reason you are destined to make a difference in this world. You are salt.

St. Paul knew what it meant to be the salt of the earth. He knew what his audiences wanted. They wanted either miraculous signs or impressive wisdom. But Paul gave them neither. He told the Corinthians, “For I decided to know nothing among you except Jesus Christ and Him crucified.” You can’t get more salty than that. You can’t season the world in a better way than to give the world Jesus Christ and Him crucified.

We should follow Paul’s salty example. Be careful of drawing attention to yourself. When you draw attention to yourself instead of to “Jesus Christ and Him crucified,” you are losing your saltiness. This is especially true here in the church. When pastors and personalities become the center of attention—when budgets and boards and programs and institutions are the main thing—then the church has lost her saltiness. The death and resurrection of Jesus have taken a back seat to something far less important. Don’t lose your God-given saltiness.

Not only are you salt; you are light—the light of the world. By virtue of your faith in Jesus Christ, you are a light shining in the darkness. Now, your light is like the light of the moon. Yours is a reflected light. It doesn’t originate in you; but you reflect Jesus who is the light of the world. You make a critical difference in how this world turns.

Now, unlike salt which is hidden, light is visible. Light is noticeable. It’s like the difference between one bright, sunshiny day after ten days of gray, cloudy skies. You can’t miss that kind of welcome light. The light you give the world is seen in your good works. Faith is known only to God. Only God can see faith in the heart of a sinner. But the world wants to see your works. In fact, the world needs your good works. That’s why Jesus says, “Let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.” Let your light shine. Let the good works fly—not so that you get the glory, but so that people see the light of Christ in you and give glory to your heavenly Father.

You let your light shine when you do the good works that God has called you to do. Don’t just be a dad—be an all-star dad—an all-star mom. Be the best brother—the best sister a sibling could hope for. Don’t just be an employee—be an excellent employee; not just a citizen—but a super citizen. Your good works matter so much.

Sometimes we forget about the importance of our works. We hear so much about faith alone, and grace alone and Christ alone. The most important teaching in the Christian faith is justification by grace, for Christ’s sake, through faith. There’s nothing about works in there. But don’t forget that all of that applies exclusively to your relationship with God (the vertical dimension of faith). It’s how you, a sinner, can be justified before God. And there, works have no role—none whatsoever.

But in the horizontal dimension of faith, good works are everything! Before other people, before family, before friends, neighbors, coworkers and classmates, let your good works shine. God doesn’t need your good works, but those people—they sure do. It’s faith alone before God; but it’s works alone before other people—because in those brightly shining good works others might just see a little more clearly your good and gracious Father in heaven who, in His Son, has reconciled the world to Himself, not counting their trespasses against them.

Your faith in Jesus Christ finds expression in the good works you do for others. You love others because you are loved in God’s beloved Son. You forgive others because all your sins have been forgiven in Christ. You have mercy on others because Jesus Christ has shown mercy to you, and laid down His life as a sacrifice for your sin. When we don’t love—when we don’t forgive—when we don’t serve and sacrifice for others—we are hiding our light under a basket. We are hiding what Christ is doing in us and through us. And that’s just plain stupid. Let your light shine.

All that you are and have is a gift from Jesus—who is God of God and light of light. Like you, Jesus had a job to do—a job no one else could ever do—one supremely good work. Jesus had to change the trajectory of the world—had to engineer a fourth-quarter comeback from twenty points down. If Jesus fumbled or failed, all would be lost, including you. For us and for our salvation He came down from heaven. For us and for our salvation He became man—was crucified, died and was buried. For us and for our salvation He lived a perfect life of obedience. His righteousness exceeded even that of the Scribes and Pharisees. He was the righteousness of God. He kept the Law of God perfectly—including every last iota.

And wonder of wonders, He gives away that perfect righteousness to you. He gives you the credit for what He did. He makes you the salt of the earth and the light of the world. It’s not by what you do; it’s by what He does—and still does—for you. As you eat and drink His body and blood, He puts His life into your life. You are baptized to live each day beneath the umbrella of God’s grace, through faith in Jesus. And in that grace, you will not fail.

Under that grace you can be the person you have been baptized to be—a person so valuable that God gave up His one and only Son to be crucified in your place, to save you from your sins. Be who you are in Christ. Live as the person you have been baptized to be. Let your light shine so that others can see the Savior and give glory to your Father in heaven.

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

In His Temple Now Behold Him

Jesu Juva
St. Luke 2:22-40
February 2, 2020
The Presentation of Our Lord

Dear Saints of Our Savior~

It’s rather interesting winter’s day today. For starters, today’s date forms a palindromic number. It’s 02022020. It works the same forwards and backwards—sleek and symmetrical. But even setting that fact aside, there’s also a very nice trifecta going on today: It is Groundhog Day (when a rodent in Pennsylvania predicts the weather). It is Super bowl Sunday (when clever commercials are aired). And, it is the Presentation of Our Lord (when Mary and Joseph carried their baby boy into His holy temple for the first time).

My guess is that two-thirds of that trifecta have been on your mind already this morning, while one-third (the part about the presentation of Jesus) hasn’t quite registered yet. But that’s also how it went down on that fateful day when the 40-day-old Jesus was

carried into the temple. Nobody cared. Nobody noticed. Nobody made a fuss. Only two senior citizens happened to be hanging out at the temple that day. Luther wrote: Is it not shocking that from more than twenty thousand men only Simeon should be present? The priests pocketed their [coins] and paid no more attention to the Child. Is it not shameful? Ought not half the town at least have come out to see the Lord of all the world? But only Simeon and Anna were there (ML Christmas Book, p.71).

It’s not much different today. The world will totally tune in for the prognostication of Punxatawney Phil. The world will totally tune in for football later today. But the world will little note nor long remember that today the Lord Jesus comes to love and serve His people in this holy temple and in others like it. The Lord of heaven and earth comes among us in His means of grace to bring faith and life and forgiveness—and only a few saints have eyes to see and ears to hear this wonderful reality.

Today is the Presentation of Our Lord. Why today? Because today we’re exactly forty days post-Christmas. On this day—the fortieth day—the Holy Family went up to the temple in Jerusalem to do what every pious Jewish couple did with every firstborn son: They presented Him to the Lord. And they offered a sacrifice, because every firstborn male was holy to the Lord—going all the way back to the Passover in Egypt. They had to be redeemed—had to be bought back, if you will—with the blood of sacrifice. By bringing their infant boy to the temple, Mary and Joseph were faithfully confessing that this little one belonged to God—even as they believed at some level that this little infant was God in human flesh.

But as the poor family from Bethlehem made their way through the temple courts, someone was watching and rejoicing. Simeon’s heart must have skipped a beat as the Holy Spirit revealed to him that this baby was the Messiah, the Christ. For Simeon had been told that he would not die until he had seen the Lord’s Christ.

How surprised Mary must have been when Simeon took the child in his arms and began praying: Lord, now lettest Thou thy servant depart in peace, according to Thy Word. For mine eyes have seen Thy salvation! Simeon’s eyes had now seen the Savior. His hands had held the Savior. Now he was ready to depart in peace—not ready to depart the temple and go home to watch the Super bowl, mind you—but ready to depart this life in peace.

You don’t often hear people saying things like that—that, in Christ, they are ready to depart this life in peace. Of course, I hear all of you singing those words quite regularly—right after receiving the Lord’s body and blood. I hear you singing Simeon’s song all the time—singing with faith that you have seen the Lord’s salvation—that you have tasted and seen that the Lord is good—that you are ready to depart in peace.

But Simeon does much more than prepare us for departure; he also preaches the cross. It’s the very first time the cross is alluded to in Luke’s gospel. Simeon says: Behold, this child is appointed for the fall and rising of many in Israel, and for a sign that is opposed (and a sword will pierce through your own soul also), so that thoughts from many hearts may be revealed. Jesus’ death and resurrection would mean the fall and rising of many in Israel—and in the whole world. You can’t be neutral toward this Child, even in the hidden humility of His infancy. He will either be your Savior and your life, or you will stumble over Him in unbelief and fall. Either He will bear your sins away, or your sins will remain on you—and define you and condemn you forever.

Simeon said that part of Jesus’ saving work would be “that thoughts from many hearts may be revealed.” Decades later, when Jesus would again visit His holy temple, the thoughts of the scribes and Pharisees would be revealed. In response to Jesus, they showed who they were (and whose they were). The thoughts of their hearts were revealed. And in their hearts they rejected Jesus. They had no use for a lowly, weak, beggarly Messiah.

It’s also true that when God deals with each of us in Jesus, the thoughts of our hearts are revealed. And that should make you deeply uncomfortable. The power and the pleasure we crave, our lust, our jealousies, our addictions and our idols, our refusals to forgive, the gossip and hate that we use like a sword to cut down and hurt those who stand in our way and try our patience. That and so much more of our sin is no secret. It is not hidden. It is all revealed. It is all known by God. If we cling to that sin and refuse to give it up, then there will only be falling for us—falling and judgment. But—if we are shown for what we are—if the thoughts of our hearts are revealed, and we come clean in repentance—then we receive the gifts of salvation, and we are raised up. Then we are raised by forgiveness—raised to new life in Christ.

When it comes to Jesus, there is either faith or unbelief. There is no middle ground—no neutral position when it comes to Him. You can’t refashion Him or reinvent Him or revise His message. You can’t claim Him as Savior while ignoring His words and staying complacent and comfortable in your sinning. You must receive Him as He is—the Savior of sinners—or you must reject Him in unbelief.

Jesus had His own falling and rising which He underwent for you—whatever the thoughts of your heart might be. He humbled Himself and became obedient to death—even death on a cross. That death on the cross was a sign—a sign of God’s love for you—a sign that your sins have been dealt with and paid for—a sign that God is for you and not against you—that nothing can separate you from His love. This Jesus is now risen from the dead. He lives and reigns to work all things for your eternal good. Jesus has been raised; and in Him you also will be raised.

If you believe that—if you desire that—then receive the Savior as dear Simeon once did. Simeon embraced the Savior who was a sign of his death and his salvation. And you can embrace the Savior as you receive Him in the Lord’s Supper. The very body and blood Simeon once held are here given to you under bread and wine. And in this meal is your rising—as you are joined even more closely to Jesus—to share in His life which lasts forever. And all this we confess every time we join to sing the song of Simeon: Lord, now you let your servant go in peace. In peace and joy I now depart.

Yes, it is a rather interesting winter’s day today. On this day Mary and Joseph held their Son and carried Him into His holy temple. On this day Simeon and Anna held and carried Jesus in their arms and proclaimed His redemption to Israel. And today, the Savior who was once held in humility—well, He’s now holding on to you. Jesus—your Brother and your Redeemer—He’s holding you in His arms before His Father. He’s presenting you to the Father, redeemed by His blood, and ready—ready to depart in peace.

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

Follow Me

Jesu Juva
St. Matthew 4:12-25
January 26, 2020
Epiphany 3A

Dear Saints of Our Savior~

There’s a lot going on in today’s holy gospel—so much, in fact, that it’s easy to overlook the ominous note that sounds in the very first sentence: “Now when Jesus heard that John had been arrested, he withdrew into Galilee.” John the Baptizer had been arrested. The voice of one crying in the wilderness had now been sequestered in Herod’s dungeon. And it wouldn’t be long before John’s severed head would be served up on a platter—and that voice would be silenced.

You may recall that what got John into trouble—what led to his arrest—was that he publicly criticized the morals of King Herod. Herod had taken up with his brother’s estranged wife, and John called him on it. Everybody knew it was wrong. Everybody still knows that adultery is wrong. Even if you were never taught the sixth commandment, yet the moral law, written on every human heart, screams out with absolute clarity that marriage is holy—that what God joins together man must not separate. Everybody knew it was wrong, but it was John who had the courage and the conviction to speak the truth publicly about Herod’s sin. And for speaking this truth John died a martyr’s death.

The truth—God’s truth—is rarely tolerated in this world. In our nation today it’s the truth about abortion that is so intolerable. Thank God for the thousands who marched in Washington on Friday. Those people are the conscience of our country. Everybody knows that murder is wrong. Everybody knows that taking the life of a helpless human being flies in the face of all that is good and right. Even if you were never taught the Fifth Commandment, yet the moral law, written on every human heart, screams out with absolute clarity that killing the living but unborn is an outrageous act of evil. Everybody knows it’s wrong.

That’s why those who advocate this this evil must resort to lying. They cannot speak openly and accurately about abortion, so they speak in terms of a woman’s “right to choose” and in terms of “women’s reproductive health,” and in terms of “planned parenthood.” That all sounds well and good. But we know the truth.

We know not only the tragic truth about abortion, but we know God’s glorious truth that every human life is sacred—that God loves life—that God sent His Son into this world (first) as a fetus in the womb of a virgin—a holy embryo—and then to die a sacrificial death as the Lamb of God for every precious human life. That’s the truth we are called to speak. But learn from John not to expect applause and accolades, but rejection and a cross. Speak the truth and you may even lose your head. But that’s how it goes for God’s kingdom in this world: It suffers violence. It appears vulnerable and weak. It always comes with a cross.

In today’s gospel the Kingdom of God is on the move and on the march. There’s a subtle but distinct shift underway in Matthew chapter 4. Jesus’ earthly ministry is getting underway. The Kingdom of God is establishing a beachhead from which the Gospel will eventually make its way to the ends of the earth. Jesus begins preaching. Jesus begins teaching. Jesus begins healing those afflicted by disease and tormented by demons. Epileptics, diabetics, and paralytics—Jesus brought hope and healing to them all.

As all this is going on, Jesus relocates. He moves from Nazareth to Capernaum on the Sea of Galilee. It’s in what used to be known as the northern kingdom—a region despised by the southerners in Jerusalem and Judea. The populous of Galilee was half-Gentile and half-Jewish. It was a backwoods kind of a place—not the location you and I would have chosen to start a movement much less a religion. But then again, we’re not in charge. The Kingdom of Heaven is flipped upside down compared to the kingdoms of this world. The last are first. Those who walk in darkness get to see the dawning light first. And so, Galilee becomes ground zero; and Capernaum, a little fishing village, becomes Central Command.

But as all this is going on, Jesus does something that gives away the whole plan. The strategic priority that will carry Jesus all the way to Calvary’s cross is plainly and boldly revealed. Jesus lays all his cards on the table. His strategic priority—what He’s really

after—what He will stop at nothing to acquire—is followers. Jesus just wants followers—wants people to follow Him in faith. As His first order of business—at the top of His agenda—Jesus says, “Follow Me.”

Jesus calls four fishermen to discipleship with that simple invitation, follow me. Peter and Andrew, James and John. With a word Jesus calls them away from their nets and their boats. “Follow me and I will make you fishers of men.” They used to catch fish in their nets. Now they would be sent to catch people for the kingdom in the net of Jesus’ death and resurrection, by making disciples, baptizing and teaching in His name. These four were not only the first disciples of Jesus, but the first apostles of Jesus. Not everyone is called to leave behind their line of work to become a disciple. Most didn’t. But these four did. They began a new calling, a new vocation.

Thus began three years with Jesus, listening to His teaching, watching the wonders He did. These men would see Jesus through His crucifixion and resurrection. They would see His physical presence disappear into the cloud at the Ascension. And they would go forth until they themselves followed Jesus into paradise, being fishers of men, gathering men and women into the church to confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father.

But as you back things up to that day on the lakeshore when Peter, Andrew, James and John left their nets behind to follow Jesus—do you think they knew what they were getting into? Did they know then how God’s plan for the salvation of the world would unfold? Did they have any idea what the months and years ahead would bring? How could they? Of course, we know all the twists and turns. We know how the story turns out. But don’t forget that these four men at that moment on the lakeshore—they had no idea what was coming. All they had was faith to trust Jesus—faith to follow where He led. And that is everything.

It’s not so different for you and me. For we too have heard and responded to that gracious invitation from Jesus, “Follow me.” We hear it echoing in every sermon, “Follow me.” We have felt it in the cleansing splash of our baptism, “Follow me.” We taste it each time we receive the bread that is His body and wine that is His blood, “Follow me.” What Jesus wants more than anything are people to follow Him in faith. What Jesus wants more than anything is you.

But do you know what you’re in for? Do you know just how God’s plan for your life is going to unfold? Do you know with any degree of accuracy what the months and years ahead will bring for you? How could you? Twists and turns, tears and triumphs, valleys and mountain peaks, drudgery and surprise, sin and grace. And through it all, the invitation echoes down to the depths of your soul: “Follow Me.” You have no idea what is coming. All you have is faith to trust Jesus—faith to follow where He leads. And that is everything.

You may wonder, sometimes, if you are of any use to God and His kingdom. (Or worse, there may be times when you don’t care—times when you don’t give a thought to God’s kingdom and your place in it.) You may think that you don’t have the skills, the aptitude, the personality. You may think that you don’t have the guts to speak the truth about abortion, about adultery, about life and death. When you begin to wonder such things, remember Peter and Andrew, James and John. They were fishermen. Theirs was a low-tech operation in a low-tech world. But God used them to change the world. God used them—used their preaching and their witness and their teaching—to make sure that you—and other fish like you—would be caught up in the net of God’s grace and mercy.

That’s right, think of yourselves not as fishers of men. Think of yourself as a fish. And don’t pretend for a minute that you’re some kind of a good, religious fish—that you’re so smart that you jumped right into Jesus’ net of grace. Doesn’t work that way! I’m no expert, but even in my limited fishing experience, I have never, ever, encountered a fish that wanted to be caught. No, against your natural will and instincts, you’ve been caught. And you’ve been cleaned—made holy through faith in Jesus—to go out and do holy things—not knowing where you go or what tomorrow may bring—but only that you are following Jesus, and that you will go where He has gone, that you will live and reign with Him forever.

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

Look and Listen to the Lamb

Jesu Juva
John 1:29ff
January 19, 2020
Epiphany 2A

Dear Saints of Our Savior~

The musical score on the front of the bulletin is from the hand of Johann Sebastian Bach—the great Lutheran kantor. The prelude

pictured there is based on the hymn we know as Lamb of God, Pure and Holy. (We will sing it as the first distribution hymn today.)

Bach’s prelude preaches a powerful, musical sermon; although it’s unlikely many of you have heard it before. It doesn’t have any of the flash and flair of Bach’s better-known organ works. Instead, this piece intimately reflects its subject: the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world. The hymn declares that this Lamb was slaughtered on the tree of the cross—even though this Lamb is innocent, patient, and uncomplaining.

Bach’s musical sermon has four voices: soprano, alto, tenor, and bass. The soprano and tenor lines work together to form the main motif, or theme. This motif is the main thing your ears would hear—slurred seconds which suggest sadness, mourning, and lamentation. But buried beneath all that, the melody of the hymn begins in the second measure, played by the pedal, or bass, line. But that melody is so quietly buried beneath the motif that you can barely follow it with your ear. And then, two beats later, the melody of the hymn begins to be played again—this time in the alto line, only one fifth higher than it’s being played in the bass.

It’s complicated and complex. I could play it for you; but you wouldn’t be able to hear that hymn melody being played in canon. It gets swallowed up by the mournful motif. Bach’s detractors were quick to criticize compositions like this. They called it augenmusik, or eye music because, they said, it appealed more to the eye than to the ear. Even as an organist, even with my eyes on the music and my fingers on the keys and my feet on the pedals, I can’t hear the hymn melody when it comes in with the alto voice, two beats behind the melody in the bass. When I complained to my organ teacher about my inability to hear the very melody my fingers were playing, he replied, “Yes, but God hears it.”

Somehow I suspect that answer would have pleased Bach very much. Bach’s prelude hides, disguises and downplays the hymn melody—even as that melody is plainly played by two different voices, separated by two beats and an interval of one fifth. It almost defies the laws of sound and hearing.

But remember that this hymn and Bach’s hymn prelude are all about the Lamb of God, Jesus Christ. And God’s Lamb did His sin-bearing work with no flash and no flair. From most people, His true identity as God’s Lamb was hidden and disguised. Plenty of people saw Him. Plenty of people heard Him. Plenty of people touched Him. And plenty of those same people concluded that this Jesus was nothing special. They downplayed His significance, doubted His promises, and decided to turn their backs on Him. He had no halo above His head. No angels accompanied Him. No trumpets announced Him. He was just an ordinary thirty-something from up north in Nazareth—the Fond du Lac of Israel, from where nothing good or spectacular ever came.

Behold the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world. He needs to be pointed out to us. He needs to be singled out to us. Otherwise, you and I would miss Him entirely—like the hymn melody in Bach’s prelude. It’s why the angel had to tell the shepherds that the baby in the manger was “a Savior who is Christ, the Lord.” It’s why at His baptism His Father had to declare from heaven, “This is my beloved Son.” It’s why the Spirit had to descend from heaven like a dove and land on Him. It’s why John had to point his wet, prophetic finger at Jesus and confess what we would never have guessed on our own: Behold, the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world.

This is also why God has called me to be your pastor—that in the midst of this world’s loud celebrations and lamentations—that you might never lose track of God’s Lamb—that you might hear His voice clearly, and trust Him, and learn to love this Lamb.

Today we think of lambs as cute little wooly white animals bounding around the barnyard or the petting zoo. But in the Bible, “lamb” meant but one thing: sacrifice. That’s what lambs were good for. Their throats were slit. Their blood was poured out on the altar. Their bodies were roasted and consumed. Remember when Abraham was taking his little boy, Isaac, to sacrifice him at God’s command? Remember little Isaac’s question as they walked along: Where’s the lamb? Where’s the lamb for the sacrifice? And remember Abraham’s response: The Lord Himself will provide the lamb. Jesus is the Lamb of the Lord’s providing. He is the Passover Lamb whose blood now marks our door.

The idea of blood sacrifice sounds a little “over the top” to modern ears. The notion that an animal had to be bled to death for a person to be right with God sounds downright offensive to many people. You certainly cannot say that no animals were harmed in the making of the Old Testament. But the real objection to blood sacrifice is that it shows our sin—just how deeply flawed we are—how by nature we are so bad that only the shedding of blood can make things right between us and God. The practice doesn’t continue today only because of Jesus, the Lamb of God, whose blood cleanses us from all sin.

Notice that this Lamb dies for the sin of the world. It’s “sin” in the singular; not plural. In the church we tend to focus a lot on our sins—all the thoughts, words and deeds of ours that are contrary to the Law of God. We Christians often focus on symptom management—trying to overcome specific besetting sins that really trouble us. But the bigger problem is the underlying condition—the original sin in which our mothers conceived us.

Behold the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world. Not sins. Sin. Jesus deals with the underlying condition. He goes for the source of the problem. Jesus doesn’t simply take up our sins; He Himself becomes the Sinner. Jesus becomes sin for us. This innocent, spotless, sinless Lamb of God takes up our sin. And He bears it all away.

Behold, the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world. Not only our sin, but the sin of the world. Not potentially, not theoretically, but actually. Not just for some, but for all. Christ didn’t come as God’s Lamb only to save the religious few, but to save the world. He is God’s Lamb for the whole world. Every person you meet has been died for by Jesus. There’s no room for talk of how Christ died for you if you do this or that. No, Christ died for you. Period. It is finished. Believe it. Receive it.

God’s Lamb is for the world. God wants the world to know about His Lamb—to trust in Him. For in this Lamb exclusively is forgiveness and resurrection life. You have all that in Jesus. And what Jesus does for you, He wants to do for all. We are called to be like John the Baptizer, pointing and proclaiming to the world that Jesus is the Lamb of God. We are called to be like Bach, using our talents, within our vocations, to sound out the hope that we have. That’s our purpose here at Our Savior—to tell the good news about Jesus just like Andrew did for Simon, like John did for his disciples. The world needs to hear it—is literally dying to hear it. The world needs to know that there’s no person so bad that the Lamb of God did not die for them. And there’s no one so good that they can do without the Lamb of God. Who do you know who needs to hear that? Who has God placed in your path so that you can invite them here—so that they can look and listen to the Lamb—and live?

You can get no closer to the Lamb of God than when you come to this altar for the Lord’s Supper. The liturgy teaches us to recognize the body and the blood of the Lamb. For centuries, Christians have sung to the Lamb of God (the Agnus Dei) right before the distribution. Why then and there? Because the Lamb of God is here in bread and wine to take away your sin—to have mercy on you—to grant you peace. The altar recalls Christ’s sacrifice—when He gave His life for yours—when He took your sin and made it His. The body of the Lamb and the blood of the Lamb are here for you.

Behold the Lamb of God who takes away your sin. And if He takes it away, it’s no longer yours, but His. In the Lamb, your sin is no longer your sin. Jesus has owned up to all of it. He has taken that sin away. You won’t hear that good news anywhere else. Here you hear in clearest strains what is hidden to the rest of the world. This is where you look and listen to God’s Lamb. His bearing of your sins is a mystery—submerged in the water of your baptism, hidden in the bread and wine, deposited into your ears and heart by the preaching of your pastor. Listen and look. Taste and see. Behold the Lamb of God.

You belong to Him. No matter how faint your voice may be—no matter how drowned out you feel by the loud dissonance of this dying world—God hears it. Whether the cry of your heart is one of sadness or joy, hope or fear, delight or despair—God hears it. Your prayers and pleadings, your tears and your trials—God hears them all, clearly and distinctly. A bruised reed He will not break. A smoldering wick He will not snuff out. Just look. Just listen to God’s Lamb.

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

Glory to God in the Lowest

Jesu Juva
John 1; Luke 2
December 25, 2019
Christmas Day

Dear Saints of Our Savior~

A very blessed Christmas Day to one and all. I think most of you would agree that, when it comes to music, no season can compete with Christmas. At what other time of the year is music so important—so meaningful and moving? I think my Christmas playlist on Spotify has over eighty songs now. I add a few more every year; and I never grow tired of listening to them.

Do you know what is the oldest song of this season—the very first Christmas carol? It’s from back before Bach. It was first sung long before Luther. It’s even older than old Saint Nicholas himself. Here’s a clue: It was sung for the very first time by angels.

Gloria in excelsis Deo. Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men. Beloved in the Lord, that is unquestionably the first and oldest of all Christmas hymns and carols.

But God’s greatest glory—the glory of this holy day—has nothing to do with the highest. This day is all about the lowest. The movement—the action—the trajectory of the Nativity—it’s all downward and descending. The Word became flesh and dwelt among us (down here on earth). The eternal Son of God by whom all things were made—for us men and for our salvation He came down from heaven and was incarnate by the Holy Spirit of the Virgin Mary and was made man. A steeper, more precipitous dive has never happened before or since. The God of heaven has burst and broken the bounds of eternity. The Son of God has left His heavenly throne and has taken the plunge to take His place as your Brother and your Savior. With Jesus, all that is good goes down. Glory to God . . . in the lowest.

Ever since our first parents fell into sin, this world has been marked by a marked decline. God’s perfect planet plummeted into chaos. And human beings—the crown of God’s good creation—have alternatively assaulted God as rebels, or fled from Him in guilt and fear. Sin has ruined everything. And we sinners truly excel at sinking to new lows, finding ever deeper and darker ways to express our depravities, idolatries and adulteries. Our usual strategy is to take down the competition so that we can be gods in the place of God. But for all of our selfish climbing and clawing to the top of the heap—there is waiting for each of us a final resting place about six feet beneath the surface. The wages of sin is death. We’ve made our own beds and dug our own graves; and one day we will lay down for the final time.

But on this Christmas Day I say: Glory to God in the lowest. For today we celebrate the one thing that outrushes, outruns, excels and exceeds the fall of man—and that is . . . the height of the fall of God.

Just how low can He go? Lower than you, that’s for sure! From His royal throne He descended to dwell as a holy embryo in the womb of the Blessed Virgin Mary. He spent His Nativity far from home. He was basically delivered in a barn. He slept in a feeding trough for livestock. Infant holy, infant lowly. And about the only people who took note of His birth were a rather rough handful of men from the lowest rung of society’s ladder who smelled strangely of sheep.

Just how low can Jesus go? See Him stepping down into the deep waters of the Jordan River to undergo a sinners’ baptism—to stand shoulder-to-shoulder, in solidarity with sinners. See Him bending down low to bless the little children, to reach out and touch the sick and the unclean, and to wash the stinking feet of His disciples.

But Jesus would go lower still. See Him bear our basest deeds, our deepest secrets, our worst and lowest sins of thought and word and deed. He came to His own, and His own people did not receive Him. His crown of thorns, His throne a cross—His subjects saw fit to spit and mock. Nails, spear, shall pierce Him through, the cross be borne for me, for you. Glory to God in the lowest.

But His downward trajectory has achieved eternal victory for every sinner, and forgiveness for every sin. He goes down low to raise you up. He sank down into this sinful world to lift you into a new life of faith. Christ is born of Mary to bear our sins and be our Savior. And this deep dive is what secures peace on earth, goodwill to men—as that very first Christmas carol of the angels expresses it. But even as you lift up your hearts with thanks and praise for this gift, don’t forget just how low Jesus had to go to achieve it. Glory to God in the lowest!

But the Christ of Christmas still comes down among us. He still humbles Himself to serve you, and lowers Himself to love you. How low can He go? You won’t find Him in swaddling clothes, but you will find Him mangered in the lowly bread and wine of the Holy Supper. You will hear His voice in the lowly words of your preacher and in the simple sentences of Holy Scripture. And in your baptism you were lowered into the water where you were united with the Christ. And now, nothing can separate you from His love—a love that lasts forever—a love that lifts you up on wings like eagles. Glory to God in the lowest!

As you head off this morning to celebrate, surrounded by the glorious sounds of this season, remember: God’s lowest always brings out your best. Who can exalt himself in pride when our Savior goes so low? Who dares to claw and climb their way to the top of the heap when, at the bottom of the heap—at the lowest level—beneath us all—is the Son of God—who was crucified for our offenses and raised for our justification? Who can raise up a fist in anger when God’s love comes rushing down into our lives? Who can hurl up hurt and harm—who can launch lies and curses—who can fire off volleys of violence—when all that is good goes down—when all that is good descends from heaven to earth—to you, to me?

The Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we—we have seen His glory, not by looking up, but by looking down. Glory to God in the lowest.

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

[Based upon the poem, “Gloria in Profundis,” by G. K. Chesterton]

Home for Christmas

Jesu Juva
Luke 2:1-20
December 24, 2019
Christmas Eve

Dear Saints of Our Savior~

The Christmas Eve crowd here at Our Savior is always an unusual mix of people. Many of our regulars are not here tonight. People who practically own their pew through decades of regular use are nowhere to be found on this night. But thankfully, in their absence, many people who are not here regularly have taken their place—college students, extended family members, and even a few strangers who simply decided on the spur of the moment that this place was the right place to be on this holy night. Welcome, one and all.

Of course, the unusual composition of tonight’s crowd can be rather easily explained: It’s the powerful pull of home. The regulars who aren’t here have, by and large, gone home. They have Christmas reservations with grandma and grandpa, with mom and dad, with family and friends, somewhere away from here. And as for the irregulars here tonight, this service simply syncs up with the area home to which they have traveled. The powerful pull of home is actually hardwired into our hearts and minds. And we feel it quite powerfully on December 24th.

It is precisely the lack of a home that provides one of the biggest plot twists surrounding the birth of our Lord Jesus Christ. That decree from Caesar Augustus meant that the newlyweds from Nazareth had to trek nearly ninety miles, all the way into Judaea,

unto the city of David, which is called Bethlehem. They had to leave home behind at a rather precarious time, as Mary was great with child. And the most notorious no-vacancy sign in history drove them out of the inn, depriving them of even a temporary home, eventually depositing them in a stinky stable beneath shaky timber, where only creatures with four legs felt at home.

Now, much has been made about the apparent homelessness of the Holy Family on that holy night—and rightly so. But please ignore those who would hijack the nativity to fit some modern political template on immigration policy or a humanitarian response to the refugee crisis. Mary and Joseph were not undocumented aliens. Nor were they refugees in the modern sense. They were simply being good citizens—respecting authority—obeying Caesar’s summons.

Jesus Christ was born away from home because that’s where we are. We’re the homeless ones. We’re the refugees. And since our Savior had to be like us in every way, His birth away from home was perfect. The sad truth is that we’ve been exiles—all of us—ever since Eden’s paradise was lost. We’ve been homeless ever since our first parents decided to be god in the place of God—and so got themselves evicted from the most perfect home ever created. That sinful slide began a precipitous fall through the downward drift of time—a fall that will eventually deposit every son and daughter of Adam six feet under.

But wait! Home is where the heart is, we like to say. We like to say it because it affords some consolation in the face of our sinful situation. But, actually, home isn’t where the heart is, for our hearts were lost long ago, swallowed up by sin. Our sinful hearts can only conjure up sad substitutes for home. This sin is why our earthly homes aren’t always happy places. Home—with all of its joys and memories—can also be a crime scene for conflict, a haven for hateful words, a launching pad for prodigal sons and daughters to spit in the face of our elders, demand our share of the inheritance, and head for the horizon.

Our earthly homes are just temporary shadows of our real home. This is why we sometimes feel homesick at home. It’s why going home at Christmas sometimes triggers more pain than pleasure. It’s why we feel like strangers under the sun. Every night when we go to bed, we lay our heads down in a foreign land, an alien place, far, far from home. We are refugees from Eden, wandering nomads, always longing for home, but never quite there.

Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For the Savior born this night—He too was a stranger under the sun. This land is our land—not His. He left His home on high to dwell among us. He lived like one of us, so that He could sympathize with us in every way, yet without sin. He was homeless so that He might lead us home. From His birth in a stable He was whisked away to Egypt to seek asylum from Herod’s sword. Foxes have holes, Jesus once said, and birds of the air have nests, but the Son of Man has no place to lay His head. Jesus is the homeless God—who came to win a new and everlasting home for you.

He lived like one of us; He died like one of us. His cross was a crime scene caused by our sin. There He took the place of every prodigal son and daughter, rendering perfect obedience to His Father, and earning perfect obedience for all His wayward siblings—including you and me. Our homeless Savior traveled from heaven to hell and back again.

Risen, ascended and glorified, Jesus is now making all things ready for your final homecoming. Christmas is the first step on our long journey home again. The way to Paradise stands open. Jesus, our brother, has gone ahead of us. Home is on the horizon.

But we’re not there yet. And until we’re there, we’re here. This place is where the refugees gather. This church is an oasis where the weary come for rest. This is our Bethlehem, where we gather like confused shepherds, beneath a timbered roof, to be with our Savior, who is Christ the Lord. This is His house, and our home away from home. The cornerstone may say 1948, but this sacred space is as old as Eden; for here the homeless gather. Here every attendee is a refugee who finds asylum from sin and death in the Savior’s warm embrace. And all this a free gift, received through faith.

It’s true what they say: There’s no place like home. Christmas is a reminder that we’re on our way. Jesus once spoke about what He called His “Father’s house.” It’s a spacious place with many rooms. And unlike the inn at Bethlehem, there are plenty of vacancies—always room for more! That’s the home that’s hardwired into our hearts. The powerful pull of that home is what you feel tonight. A home on a hill, aglow with light and laughter and love. The smell of good food—a real feast. A Father’s warm welcome. The embrace of our Brother with the nail-scarred hands. The Spirit of peace and joy. Everyone there a regular. Not one soul a stranger. And the faces! So many old and familiar faces, saints you haven’t seen in God knows how long. They’ve gone home ahead of us. I’ll see you there. But for now, merry Christmas.

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

[Based on the poem, “The House of Christmas,” by G. K. Chesterton.]

Advent Greatness

Jesu Juva
St. Matthew 11:2-15
December 15, 2019
Advent 3A

Dear Saints of Our Savior~

He shall be great! What new parent hasn’t had that thought upon holding their firstborn child for the first time? He shall be great! She shall be great! In sports, in music, in wisdom—this kid has the potential to be a prodigy. The possibilities are limitless for the newborn child of proud first-time parents. It’s a time of big dreams and aspirations. But after those parents have been humbled—humbled by weeks of sleep deprivation, and a thousand dirty diapers—all those dreams of greatness don’t die, but they usually get tabled for a time.

He shall be great. Search the pages of your New Testament and you will find that only one person aside from Jesus is ever called “great.” The greatness of John the Baptizer was a done deal even before he was born. When the angel Gabriel informed old Zechariah that barren Elizabeth was going to have a son, Gabriel, that great angel warrior, was clear and direct: That son, Gabriel said, “He shall be great in the sight of the Lord.” Fast forward three decades and today we hear Jesus pick up where Gabriel left off: “I tell you the truth: Among those born of women there has not risen anyone greater than John the Baptist.”

But by the time Jesus called John “great” in today’s Holy Gospel, that opinion was starting to fizzle. The fiery-eyed wilderness preacher we heard from last Sunday had, since that time, dared to publicly criticize the immoral conduct of Herod, who had shacked-up with his brother’s wife. By the time Jesus called him great, John was languishing in prison, about to have his head severed and served up on a

silver platter.

You call that great? The world certainly wouldn’t. From the world’s perspective Herod was great. In fact Herod’s father had been known as “Herod the Great.” People feared him. He had whole towns wiped out. Caesar was great; he reigned over most of the inhabited world. But John, that sunburned man with uncut hair eating grasshoppers and digging for honey in hollow trees? Great? Get real! Novel, eccentric, interesting, a religious side-show perhaps, but not what most people would call great. What did he accomplish? Nevertheless, Jesus, the Son of God, called John great.

Some have questioned the greatness of John based on what we learn in today’s holy Gospel. From prison John had sent his disciples to ask a question of Jesus: “Are you the one who was to come? Are you the one we are waiting for, or should we expect someone else?” Some have seized on that question and concluded that John must have been wavering—that his faith was going wobbly now that he could only keep company with cockroaches in Herod’s dungeon. Was John himself having doubts about Jesus? That’s a distinct possibility; John was only human, after all.

The other possibility is that John was simply doing what John did best. He was pointing the way to Jesus. Sending his disciples to see the Savior seems about right for the one who pointed his prophetic finger and declared, “Behold, the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world.” Perhaps John sent his disciples to Jesus with that question so that they could hear Jesus’ answer with their own ears. John must decrease; Jesus must increase. Perhaps John wanted his disciples to be in the very same spot to which he points all of us—that is, with Jesus.

It is in this little episode that the greatness of John begins to reveal itself—in a new way. What is this Advent greatness of John? John was so captivated by the God He served—so consumed by the Word of God he had been called to preach—that he could live his days on earth in a kind of freedom—freedom that you and I can only imagine. John’s faith in the Christ gave him a glorious freedom—an absolute independence from the things that keep most of us chained up day in and day out.

John’s blessed independence was evident to all. He preached without regard for what people thought of him or how high up he was in the public opinion polls. As a preacher he didn’t worry about being relevant or clever like so many preachers worry about today. John’s message was “Repent and be saved, or else prepare yourself for hellfire,” which is a message that never goes out of style. John didn’t care about what he wore—camel’s hair and leather was good enough. He didn’t care about living in a pricey north shore neighborhood—the wilderness was good enough. He didn’t care about what was on his table or in his wine cellar—locusts and wild honey were sufficient for John’s daily bread.

What made John great was that freedom and independence from all the patterns and expectations that would draw us away from Jesus. John was a non-conformist in the very best sense. He was totally conformed to Christ—and nothing else mattered. His voice, his finger, his baptizing—it all served to point people to the coming Christ. John’s conformity to the Christ is what made him one of a kind—the greatest ever born.

You can’t hear of John’s greatness without realizing how much we lack it—how much we don’t have it. John’s zeal for the Lord brought him freedom and independence. But our lack of zeal makes us conformists of worst kind. We are far too eager to conform our lives—not to Christ—but to the secular sleaze of the world around us. It would be nice to be free and independent of all that. But we usually go along to get along. We go with the flow—even when the flow is away from the Lord. We don’t dare rock the boat with our Christian beliefs, our morals, our doctrines. No, we keep all that safely tucked away so that nobody can accuse us of being judgmental, or eccentric or some kind of religious fundamentalist.

Instead of conforming our lives to Christ, we conform to all the wrong things—to a culture driven by greed and lust. We seem to fit right in. We fear the condemnation of our friends more than we fear the condemnation of God. We trust our own opinions more than we trust the Word of God. We love the people and pleasures of this world more than we love God and His gifts to us. We prefer the security of mediocrity and a safe spot among the majority. It’s so nice to be normal. It’s nice to be accepted. It’s nice to belong. But if that’s all you’re aiming for in this life, you will never, ever be “great” in the way that John was great.

John the Baptizer ultimately paid the price for this kind of Advent greatness—the greatness of independence and freedom in Christ—the greatness of total conformity to the Christ. Ultimately, John the Baptizer was executed. But when you conform your life to Jesus of Nazareth, execution—or at least cross-bearing—is always to be expected.

We call John the “forerunner” of Jesus. He even ran ahead of Jesus into death by execution. John got it just right, for that’s why Jesus came—to die. If Jesus is going to sever us from our sins and cut off our conformity to the ways of this dying world, if He has truly come as the Lamb of God who takes away our sin, then, of course, He Himself would have to die—in your place, as your sacred substitute, bearing your sins.

If you want the boldness of John, if you desire the freedom and independence of John, if you want the Advent greatness of John in your life—you will find it in the cross of Jesus. Jesus is the greater one of whom John spoke—the One whose sandals John wasn’t worthy to stoop down and untie. John—John the Great!—he lived and died for Jesus. But Jesus lived and died for you. The commandments of God which we keep so casually and carelessly—Jesus kept them perfectly; and through faith in Him that perfect record of obedience now belongs to you. And death which seems so scary to so many in this world—well, Jesus has destroyed death by His own resurrection. Your death—and the deaths of all who die in Christ—it’s simply the final step until you are with Christ—until you are enjoying the greatness of resurrection life. That’s real freedom—looking forward to the resurrection of the body and the life of the world to come.

Jesus called John great, but He also said that even the least and the lowly in His kingdom are greater than John. Do you know what that means? I think it means that you—yes, you—are great. You are not perfect, but sinful. But in Jesus who lived and died and rose again for you—in Him you can confess your conformity to this world. In Jesus you are being transformed into the greatness of Jesus Himself. Oh, you might not feel great as you head off to your job, your school or into the darkness of December. But great you are. Great you are because you are baptized into Jesus’ death and life, joined to Him through faith, having His body and blood in your body, you are great in Jesus, riding the coattails of His death and resurrection to the life of the world to come.

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