A Voice and a Finger

Jesu Juva

St. John 1:6-8, 19-28                                                     

December 13, 2020

Advent 3B                                             

 Dear saints of our Savior~

          We could have designated this Sunday as “John the Baptist Sunday.”  For John the Baptist Sunday we could have encouraged people to come to church dressed in leather and camel’s hair.  Our men could have refrained from shaving or visiting the barber for several weeks beforehand.  Downstairs by the coffee pot we could have asked the fellowship committee to whip up a big batch of honey-coated grasshoppers. . .

          But John himself would have objected to that idea—to a Sunday celebrating him.  John was the forerunner of Christ, not the Christ.  He was a witness to the light who didn’t try to outshine the light.  He was a voice crying out in the wilderness.  John was a finger, pointing people to Jesus, and saying, “Behold!  There He is!  The One you’ve been waiting for.  Look!  The Lamb of God.”

          In works of art down through the centuries, John the Baptist is often depicted with an overly large mouth and a hyperextended index finger, pointing to the Lamb

of God.  A big mouth and a pointing finger—that was John.  Most of us were taught as children that it’s not polite to point.  And having a “big mouth” wasn’t much better.  But John had been called by God to be a witness—a mouth with a voice, a finger pointing to another.

          Now, witness is one of those rich and meaningful words found in the gospel according to St. John.  “Witness” here means “authoritative eyewitness”—one who tells exactly what he has seen and heard.  To bear witness is not to draw attention to one’s self, but to recede into the background and let the message—let the testimony—take center stage.

          The first thing we learn about this witness named John is that he was sent from God.  John was sent.  He didn’t decide to start his own ministry, or venture out into the wilderness on his own initiative.  Even before John was conceived in the womb of his aged mother, his sending was already a done deal.  The angel Gabriel told John’s father, Zechariah, that his son would go before the Lord . . . to turn the hearts of the fathers . . . . to make ready for the Lord a people prepared” (Lk. 1:17).

          John was sent from God as a witness to give testimony—so that all might believe through him.  Note that: Through him, that is, through his testimony, not in him.  John’s testimony—his preaching—was not given so that people would believe in John, but that through John all people might believe in Christ.  His message was not, “Follow me,” but, “Follow Him.”

          This is still the case today with all those who are sent by God to proclaim the Gospel.  God still sends out pastors so that, through their testimony, people will believe in Jesus.  And who the pastor is, is somewhat irrelevant.  That’s why pastors (for the entire history of the church on earth) have always worn vestments.  The purpose of this alb and this stole is not to draw attention to the man in the pulpit.  Just the opposite!  The vestments cover up “the man” (with all of his quirks and eccentricities and imperfections) so that all that remains showing is a big mouth and a finger pointing to Christ.

          The problem today is that we blur the distinction between the message and the messenger.  We live in an age when person and personality matter much more than do message and testimony.  You sometimes hear about congregations getting rid of their pastor because they don’t like his personality—even though his message and doctrine might be spot on.  It’s worth considering how Pastor John the Baptist would have fared as a pastor today—decked out in leather, calling his hearers a “brood of vipers,” all while picking honey-coated grasshoppers out of his teeth.  You can be sure that John’s district president would be getting a few phone calls.

          The religious leaders at corporate headquarters in Jerusalem were intrigued by this new messenger out in the wilderness.  John’s appearance created enough of a stir that they formed a blue-ribbon task force to investigate.  They asked John, “Who are you?”  Or, probably more to the point, “Who do you think you are?”  And John told them—He confessed, “I am not the Christ.  I am not Elijah.  I am not the Prophet.  I’m just the voice of one crying out in the wilderness.”  He told them who he wasn’t.

          John didn’t tell them who he was because it ultimately didn’t matter.  John could have launched into the miraculous story of his conception and birth—about how his priestly father was rendered speechless by an angel—how his mother was an old lady when she gave birth to him.  It’s not that John didn’t have a great story to tell.  It’s that John was called to tell them about Jesus—the coming One whose sandal straps he was unworthy to untie.

          This is what true witnessing is all about.  If we’re going to be witnesses for Jesus, then let’s talk about Jesus.  Let’s tell the good news about Him.  Many modern evangelism techniques call for you to talk about yourself as you witness to others—talk about your life, about how you came to faith, about how you overcame this and that adversity with the Lord’s help.  And while there may be a time and place to share some personal history, we need to be careful that our big mouths aren’t always talking about “me,” and that our pointing fingers aren’t pointing right back in our own direction.  There’s a very fine but important distinction between telling the good news about Jesus, and telling the good news about me and my faith in Jesus.

          John wasn’t sent by God to talk about himself—to deliver stirring personal testimonials.  Nor was he sent to entertain people.  He was sent to prepare people for the Lord by preaching a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins.  John’s message is, “Don’t look at me, because I’m not the Christ.  I’m not Elijah.  I’m not the Prophet.  I’m nothing but a voice ringing in your ears, telling you to repent and be baptized because the Lord is coming.”  John is nothing; Jesus is everything. John must decrease; Jesus must increase.

          Today we in the church are called to bear witness to Jesus Christ.  We are that voice and that finger in today’s wilderness of sin and darkness—a voice to proclaim repentance and forgiveness in the name of Jesus.  God forbid we should point to ourselves—to our own goodness—showing the world just how religious we are.  No, we point the world to Jesus.  There’s the One for you.  There—in Him—is your forgiveness, your life, your salvation.  There is Jesus in the water of your baptism.  There He is speaking through the mouth of your preacher, absolving your sin.  There He is in the bread that is His body and in the wine that is His blood.

          That’s what it means to be a witness for Jesus.  Not pointing to me and saying, “Be religious like me.”  But pointing to Jesus in the Word, in the water, the bread and wine, and testifying on His behalf:  “Behold the Lamb of God who takes away all your sin.  He died bearing your sin.  He rose again holding your life in His nail-scarred hands.  He now reigns, and in Him you too will reign.”

          One word of caution though.  The New Testament word for “witness” also means “martyr.”  Being a witness for Christ can be costly.  It’s never easy.  Come to Bible class this morning and you’ll hear about how John the Witness became John the Martyr.  It could happen to you too.  But don’t worry.  In your baptism you’ve already died and been buried with Jesus. You are in the ultimate witness protection program, under the eternal care of the Son of God, who loved you and gave Himself for you.  You are covered up (disguised, if you will) in the righteousness of Christ.  Your life is safely hidden with Christ in God. You’ve got nothing to lose and nothing to fear.

          So let’s get those fingers pointing.  And let’s open our mouths wide to bear witness to Jesus.  He is the light.  He is the resurrection and the life.  It’s our privilege to speak of Him and point to Him.

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

 

The Beginning of the Gospel

 

Jesu Juva

St. Mark 1:1-8                                                                

 December 6, 2020

Advent 2B                       

Dear saints of our Savior~

          This is the beginning of the sermon.  Today is the beginning of the second week in Advent.  The text for this sermon is the beginning of the gospel according to Saint Mark—Mark chapter one, verse one (which reads): The beginning of the gospel of Jesus Christ, the Son of God.  So, let’s begin, shall we . . .

          That first sentence from Mark’s gospel actually tells us an awful lot about Mark’s gospel.  First of all, that first sentence isn’t even a complete sentence.  The beginning of the gospel of Jesus Christ, the Son of God.  Hmmmm.  Last time I checked, sentences require verbs; and it doesn’t take an English major to recognize that that verse is verb-less.

          But that verb-less verse is very typical of St. Mark.  His gospel is the briefest of them all, clocking in at a mere sixteen chapters.  Mark has a proclivity for brevity.  He’s the most efficient evangelist.  Although Mark’s gospel does contain a few precious scraps of Advent; it’s got no Christmas at all—no angels, no shepherds, no manger, no Word becoming flesh.

          One of Saint Mark’s favorite words is “immediately.”  And that tells you a lot.  In Mark’s gospel, Jesus is always moving “immediately” from one scene to the next.  The events of Jesus’ earthly ministry just tumble off the pages of St. Mark, one right after the other.  The opening eight verses we heard today contain no prologue, no preface, no backstory to set the stage.  No, Mark just pops the clutch and we’re “immediately” transported into the Judean wilderness, where there’s a long-haired, fiery-eyed preacher doing baptisms down by the Jordan River.

          This is the beginning—the beginning of the gospel.  The beginning of the gospel of Jesus Christ, the Son of God.  And as beginnings go, well, this one isn’t very spectacular.  It doesn’t begin with a miracle or an angel.  The gospel doesn’t begin in a palace—not in a church or a synagogue. It begins in the wilderness—in the middle of nowhere.  It begins nowhere with a “nobody” named John.  Or, as Mark puts it in his barebones writing style:  John appeared.

          And John was a busy man.  There at the genesis of the Gospel, John was

preaching—preaching a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins.  The gospel—the good news of our salvation in Jesus Christ—it began with preaching—with baptism and repentance and the forgiveness of sins.  That’s how it all started.  That’s how it all began—with sinners leaving ordinary life behind, venturing off to a quiet place (a sanctuary of sorts) where the good news was being preached—where repentance and forgiveness of sins was happening—where sinners were being washed clean in the waters of baptism.  That’s what the beginning of the gospel looked like.

          That’s also what things look like here and now, today!  What began in the Judean wilderness—in Mark one, chapter one—is pretty much how it begins here among us every Sunday.  What started with a wild-eyed prophet clad in camel’s hair and leather centuries ago—the preaching, the baptizing, the repentance and forgiveness—you’ve got it here and now today.  The One mightier than John—the One whose sandal straps no one is worthy to untie—the One we know as Jesus of Nazareth—He comes here to serve you.  The Lord Jesus comes among us bringing a new beginning for every repentant heart.  He’s following a path that runs straight through your heart.  Here the gospel begins again and again and again.

          Now, if by chance, your heart isn’t feeling the fresh newness of the gospel, let me suggest that the problem isn’t with the gospel.  The problem mostly likely lies with you and with your heart.  Repentance was the theme of John’s preaching; and repentance is where we so often run-aground.  The Lutheran Confessions define repentance rather simply:  The phrase “to repent” means . . . to recognize one’s sins, to feel heartily sorry for them, and to desist from them (Tappert 559:8).  To recognize the sin, to feel sorry for the sin, to cease and desist from the sin.  That’s the repentance John preached.  Jesus preached it too, for that matter.  How’s that working out for you?  Is real repentance a part of your Sunday—or any other day?  Or do you glide right through the confession of sins with absolutely no sense of just how far you have fallen short?  Or are you simply too comfortable and too selfish to stop living for yourself, and to begin again in humble repentance and faith?

          There’s not a one of us here today who doesn’t need to re-think our repentance.  The prophet Isaiah puts everything in perspective this morning when he compares our lives to grass:  All flesh is grass, and all its beauty is like the flower of the field. The grass withers and the flower fades when the breath of the Lord blows on it.  Our absence of snow this December gives us a glimpse of God’s Law, with all the withering grass and fading flowers.  I don’t know about you, but I’ve been dreaming of a brown Advent.  Because all that brown, dingy, dead landscape out there shows us just what our sin has earned for us—and just how much we have to repent of.  The grass withers, the flower fades, but the word of our God will stand forever.  Whenever and however our lives deviate from that Word of God—that’s where repentance must begin.

          Both John and Jesus preached repentance.  In Mark’s gospel one of the very first words out of Jesus’ mouth—in His very first sentence—He says, “Repent—repent and believe the gospel.”  Repentance alone isn’t worth a bucket of warm spit.  But to repent and believe the gospel—to repent and believe that Jesus Christ has come into the world to save sinners—that makes all the difference.

          But we can’t really understand any of Jesus’ words without also hearing His final words.  It’s those famous last words of Jesus that bring us lasting comfort and confidence when our repentance runs aground and despair closes in.  Hear our Lord cry from the cross that final famous phrase:  It is finished.  What was finished?  His work of fulfilling God’s Law and His innocent suffering and death as your sacred stand-in.  What Jesus endured, He endured for you and for your forgiveness.  And with His final words, He makes it clear that nothing more is needed.  The job is done.  Peace on earth and mercy mild, God and sinners reconciled!   It is finished.

          What isn’t finished is Jesus’ work in your life.  What isn’t finished is His love for you and His deep desire that all people including you be saved.  Because Jesus died and rose again in your place, it means that sin and Satan do not get the last word (unless you allow them to).  It means that through the power of preaching—through the power of baptism, repentance and forgiveness, you can have a fresh start, a clean slate, a new beginning.  That may sound trite, but it’s true.  That’s the truth that can set you free.  That’s the gospel of Jesus Christ, the Son of God.  And you can find that gospel gift-wrapped and waiting for you right here beneath the tree of the cross every Lord’s Day.

          In Mark chapter one, verse one, we have the beginning of that gospel of Jesus Christ.  But nowhere in Mark’s gospel will you find the words, “The end of the gospel.”  In fact, it doesn’t end; it’s open ended.  Go the last page of Mark and what do you read?  The women find the stone rolled away from the tomb, they hear the angel’s message that Jesus is risen, and they flee from the tomb, trembling and astonished and fearful (16:8).  The end?  Hardly!  The gospel never ends.  The power of Jesus to redeem a fallen world never ends. 

          Because of Jesus, your own life is a never-ending story.  You know why.  Because Jesus walked out of the tomb very early on that first day of the week it means that we shall all step out of our graves someday—resurrected, changed, glorified for all eternity.  And on that day you will discover that your entire earthly life—the beginning, the middle, the end—your life which you thought was enough to fill a whole book from cover to cover—well, to paraphrase C. S. Lewis, you will discover that your whole life on earth was really only just the cover and the title page of a wonderful story that will never end—thanks to Jesus Christ, the Son of God.  This—this is the end of the sermon. 

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

Lepers on Lockdown

 

Jesu Juva

St. Luke 17:11-19                                                         

November 26, 2020

Thanksgiving Day                                                

 Dear saint of our Savior~

          Just look at those lepers.  They make an appearance here every year on Thanksgiving Day.  But there’s something different about them this year. These

aren’t your grandfather’s lepers.  These lepers are the latest model—lepers for the year 2020:  quarantining, social-distancing, self-isolating, wearing ragged clothing while working from home, limiting themselves to groups of ten or fewer.  These are the “lockdown lepers,” and they’ve showed up just in time for Thanksgiving.

          Leprosy was a debilitating disease of the skin—a dermatologist’s dilemma.  But leprosy was also much more than that.  The physical pain and disfigurement it caused was nothing compared to the spiritual and emotional pain it caused.  Leprosy made you spiritually unclean—there are two entire chapters devoted to it in Leviticus.  Leprosy locked you down hard.  You were cut off from family and friends, cut off from worship and the temple, cut off from God.  Leprosy meant that at special family feasts and holy days, there would be no place at the table for you.

          Leprosy and every other disease, including COVID, is a result of sin.  Once sin entered the world through our first parents, disease and death were also made manifest.  We tend to view COVID through the lenses of politics and epidemiology.  But these lockdown lepers invite us to view the virus through the lens of God’s Law.  Whenever our forefathers in the faith faced pandemic, plague, or pestilence, they almost unanimously saw it as the judgment of God on a sinful world. 

          Is COVID the judgment of God on a sinful world?  I liken COVID to how God led the Israelites in the desert for forty years.  Why did God devise a forty-year detour for His chosen people?  Moses told us this morning that it was to humble them and to test them—to know what was in their hearts.  It’s hard to deny that COVID has humbled us and tested us—and revealed the thoughts of our hearts.  At the very least COVID has served as a divine discipline to remind us that man does not live on bread alone, or on science alone, or on government alone.  But man lives on every word that comes from the mouth of the Lord.  If you haven’t learned that lesson this year, then maybe you need to spend a little more time locked-down with the lepers.

          Everything changed for that sad and sorry cohort on the day when Jesus drew near.  Jesus’ reputation as a healer apparently preceded Him.  The lepers recognized that this might just be their one shot at a miracle.  What could they say or pray to Jesus as He approached?  What would you be saying and praying?  Jesus, heal me?  Jesus, give me the vaccine?  Jesus, make me clean?  All perfectly suitable and appropriate requests to make.  Yet, that wasn’t the prayer of the lepers.  Their prayer wasn’t specifically for healing, but for mercy: Kyrie eleison; Lord, have mercy.  That’s what you pray when you’re sick and helpless and hopeless.  It’s what we pray in the divine service every week.  To pray, “Lord, have mercy,” is to ask for God’s help, but to leave the details in His hands.  It’s trusting Him to provide the help you need in the way He knows is best.

          The miracle which then transpired is very unusual.  Typically, Jesus would touch the afflicted person, even if—especially if—that person was unclean.  But here, with these ten lepers, Jesus doesn’t even cross the street.  There’s no shaft of divine light from heaven—no awesome special effects.  Jesus just shouts out His prescription:  Go, show yourselves to the priests.  That was it!  Leviticus explains how the priests served as the equivalent of our modern “contact tracers” who would verify the healing and give the green light for a return to family and community and church.

          Jesus’ directive would have made perfectly good sense for someone who had been healed of leprosy.  The problem was that these ten lepers were still lepers.  As Jesus spoke, their skin was still festering!  They were still isolated outcasts!  The only difference was that now they had words from Jesus ringing in their ears; and by those words from the mouth of the Lord those lepers would live.

          But then comes the gospel surprise—the thing that makes this miracle so magnificent.  Jesus told them to go and show themselves to the priests.  But then we learn this:  As they went, they were cleansed.  Now, if you blinked, you might have missed that.  If you were daydreaming about pumpkin pie, you’re still in the dark here.  So let me say it again:  As they went, they were cleansed.  I’d like to know whether they started out slow and skeptical, OR whether they were excited and expectant from the get-go.  How many steps did their fitbits record before the first signs of healing began to appear?  Saint Luke doesn’t tell us any of that.  He only tells us what we need to know:  As they went, they were healed.

          Those six words are a great illustration of the Christian life.  Like those lepers we are helpless and hopeless, quarantined and isolated, sick to death with sin and its wages.  But every so often Jesus passes our way (right here), and we—we pray the leper’s prayer:  Lord, have mercy.  And Jesus puts His words into our ears:  Go, and trust me above all other things.  Go and serve your neighbor.  Go and love your spouse.  Go and forgive those who sin against you.  Go and take up your cross and follow me.  And as we go, trusting the promises of Jesus, we are healed.  We are forgiven.  We are cleansed.  We find help and hope.  We live—we live by every word that comes from the mouth of the Lord.

          Will you go and do what Jesus asks?  Will you take His Words to heart?  If those lepers had decided not to go—if they had doubted Jesus—if they had stayed stuck in their disease and despair—if they had decided to do the “safe” thing and shelter in place—this account would have ended far differently.  The promises were from Jesus.  The healing was from Jesus.  The miracle was all Jesus’ doing.  But it was the faith of the lepers that enabled them to receive this tremendous gift from Jesus.

          Now, we can’t leave these lepers without mentioning that one of the ten was different and distinct.  One of them ran back to Jesus, praising God in a loud voice, and threw himself at Jesus’ feet and thanked Him.  He worshipped.  And, it turns out, this guy was a double loser in the eyes of any self-respecting Israelite.  Not only was he a leper, he was a Samaritan.  But this loser returned to Jesus and gave 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.  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 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 and unclean.  There Jesus suffered the terrible isolation of being forsaken by God and man.  He endured the horrors of hell, quarantined to the cross.  But Jesus now lives and reigns to welcome you into the full fellowship and the blessed communion of angels, archangels and all the company of heaven.

          Today the risen Lord passes this way—here where His body and blood are served up as a sacred vaccination and a holy antidote against sin and death.  It was our sin that infected Jesus and killed Him on Good Friday.  But here and now He brings you the blessings of Easter—offering you His immunity and His immortality in the bread that is His body and the wine that is His blood.

          On this Thanksgiving Day in the year of our Lord 2020, you have aligned yourself with lepers.  You pray the leper’s prayer:  Lord, have mercy.  You bend your knees as you pray, praise, and give thanks.  Like those lepers, your life is probably messy and complicated; and the weeks ahead are riddled with a strange mix of hope and fear.  But as you leave here this morning, you are cleansed.  You are healed.  You are saved.  You know who to trust. Your faith has saved you.

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