The Wilderness Way

Jesu Juva

Mark 1:9-15; Gen. 22                            

February 18, 2024

Lent 1B                                     

 Dear saints of our Savior~

        What was going through Abraham’s mind?  What was he thinking about that day as he walked up the mountain—with the knife, the wood, and the fire—and with his beloved son, Isaac?  Was his heart breaking and sinking with every step?  Did his eyes well up when the boy innocently asked, “Dad, where’s the lamb?”  Abraham knew what God had said—knew what he was prepared to do.  Yet Abraham, ever faithful, declares, “God will provide.  God will provide the lamb.” 

        Abraham’s faith was being tested.  Isaac was the son of the promise, conceived and born when Abraham and Sarah were well past their prime.  Isaac was a miracle baby—uniquely precious to his mother and father.  What did Abraham tell the boy’s mother about this march to Moriah?  Just a father-son camping trip?  Or did he tell her the truth?  We never hear another word from Sarah after this.  Her death is recorded in the very next chapter, which has led some to speculate that she knew what was going on—that she died of a broken heart.

        If I were Abraham—if I were walking in his sandals—I’m thinking the lines must have gotten crossed—that this wasn’t God talking to me, but the devil.  Could this be the same God who had promised him a son in the first place?  Who had told him that his descendants would be as numerous as the stars in the sky?  Who had told him that all the nations of the world would be blessed through his offspring?  Abraham could do nothing but confess his faith: God will provide the lamb.  He has to.  He has promised.  And so, up the mountain they go—father and son, with the knife, the fire, the wood, and nothing more but faith alone.  God will provide.

        In contrast to that harrowing narrative from Genesis, the Gospel of Mark seems much more streamlined and efficient.  Everything happens “immediately” in Mark:  Jesus is baptized.  The heavens are torn open.  The Spirit descends.  And the Father speaks, “You are my beloved Son, with you I am well pleased.”

        What happens after that—immediately?  What does the same Spirit who descended on Jesus in the form of a dove do next—immediately?  He drives Jesus into the wilderness—forces him violently into the wilderness for forty days of fasting—forty days of deprivation—forty days of temptation.  This is where Jesus’ baptism immediately takes him—into direct confrontation with the devil, where Jesus has nothing with which to defend Himself except the Word of the Lord.

        Today’s Scripture readings should lead you to wonder:  Why in the world do we expect the life of faith to be easy?  Why are we surprised when every move we make to draw closer to God seems to stir up trouble?  It’s become a standard part of my spiel when I’m visiting with new members who are about to join the church.  I tell them, watch out!  Troubles and trials are just around the corner. You shouldn’t be surprised when your faith is tested and challenged.  The devil positively hates it when people draw nearer to the Lord—when they undertake a renewal or a deepening of their faith.

        The marketing department always tries to edit out this word of warning.  But it’s true.  Start praying more, reading the Scriptures more, receiving God’s gifts more regularly, attending Bible study, putting into practice what you believe—and there will be trouble.  I think Abraham would back me up on that.  Jesus too. 

        The hard truth is that the road of faith doesn’t always lead onward and upward into success and happiness.  More often it leads into the wilderness—into the desolate places of testing and temptation.  Or it leads up that mountain where everything you have and love hangs in the balance and you have no good answer to give . . . except Abraham’s answer—the answer of faith:  “The Lord will provide.”

        Martin Luther said that when these things happen to you (as they did to him)—when you find yourself being tested by God and tempted by Satan—rejoice.  God is at work here, and He does some of His best work when you are “uncomfortable.”  Next Sunday we will hear from the apostle Paul in Romans chapter five.  Paul was no stranger to testing and temptations.  He wrote:  “We rejoice in our sufferings” because suffering produces all kinds of good things, including hope that does not fade away.  Christianity is not idle philosophy.  It’s not a contemplative escape from the harsh realities of life.  No, it plunges you right into those messy realities.

        St. Mark doesn’t go into all the details of Jesus’ temptation the way Matthew and Luke do.  Suffice it to say, He was tempted as you are tempted.  And yet He didn’t sin.  And through faith in Him, you get His sinless record of obedience.  Jesus’ skirmish with the devil which we hear about today was just the opening round of a war that would end with Jesus’ bloody corpse hanging from a cross, in the wilderness of Golgotha, where with one last word, “it is finished,” Jesus defeated the devil and all his works and all his ways.

        You see, at Golgotha, God provided.  God has indeed provided the Lamb for sacrifice; and wonder of wonders, it turns out to be His own beloved Son.  Where is the Lamb?  God Himself has provided the Lamb—conceived by the Holy Spirit, born of the virgin Mary, suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died and was buried.  Abraham’s terrible test was but a preview of the awful sacrifice God would ultimately require of Himself.  Isaac was spared, not sacrificed; Jesus was sacrificed, not spared.  In Romans chapter eight Paul connects the dots definitively:  He who did not spare His own Son, but gave Him up for us all, how will He not also graciously give us all things? Surely, the Lord will provide.

        You too must walk the wilderness way—the way of testing and trial—where the devil seems so real and God seems so hidden you might think He’s absent.  This is the way of the baptized.  This is the way to the promised land of eternal life.  It’s called the way of faith—the wilderness way.  And you do not walk it alone.  Your Savior—the one who loves you and gave Himself for you—He has traveled the wilderness way ahead of you and He will lead you through it—sustaining your life with His life, His forgiveness, His salvation, His body and His blood.  For He has risen from the dead, never to die again.  Death could not hold Jesus and it cannot hold you either.

        The Lord will provide.  In Jesus, the Lamb of God, your sin has been atoned for, your guilt has been taken away.  The Lamb has done it all for you.  Where is the Lamb?  Here is the Lamb of God.  Here He comes, in the preaching of His promises, in the bread that is His body and the wine that is His blood.  At the Lamb’s high feast we sing.  Worthy is the Lamb whose death makes you His own.  The Lamb is reigning on His throne. 

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

 

Praying for a Miracle

Jesu Juva

Psalm 51                                                      

February 14, 2024

Ash Wednesday                                   

 Dear saints of our Savior~

        Have you ever prayed for a miracle?  And by “a miracle” I don’t just mean praying for a long shot or an upset.  It’s not praying for something that has the potential to happen on its own.  Miracles require divine intervention.  Have you ever prayed for a miracle in the Biblical sense—for a tumor to vanish—for blindness to give way to 20/20 vision—for manna from heaven?

        Tonight on this Ash Wednesday we pray for a miracle.  In fact, every time we pray Psalm 51 we are requesting miraculous, divine intervention.  With these well-worn words you are asking God to do the impossible.  Which words?  Create in me a clean heart, O God.  You’ve probably prayed and sung those words so many times in your life that you have no idea the miraculous magnitude of the request you are making.

        Consider the word “create.”  The very same verb appears in the Bible’s first sentence:  In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth.  Where there was nothing—where there was only emptiness, chaos and darkness, your God created.  He said, “Let there be light” and life, and there was.  And it was all very good.  And throughout the pages of the Old Testament—wherever that word “create” appears—the subject is inevitably God.  Only God can create something new out of nothing.

        In Psalm 51 we pray that God would take all of that amazing creative power which He alone possesses and apply it (here) in our hearts.  Create in me a clean heart, O God.  That may not sound all that miraculous to you.  But it is.  A heart that’s cleansed of sin—a heart that beats in harmony with the holiness of God—that requires divine intervention.  That takes a miracle.  Why?  Because the human heart by definition is un-clean and un-holy.  Jesus once listed all the filthy things that find a home in our hearts:  Evil thoughts, murder, adultery, sexual immorality, theft, false testimony, slander (Matt. 15:19).  It’s a sewer of sin in there.  And there’s not a thing you can do to clean it up. 

        Tonight I carried out my annual Ash Wednesday smear job on dozens of foreheads.  Remember that you are dust.  Remember that you are mortal.  Remember that you are a sinner in need of repentance and rescue.  Remember Jesus.  Your forehead will probably be washed clean before bedtime tonight.  But my right thumb will be black and dirty for days.  O, I’ll wipe it, wash it, and scrub it.  But those oily ashes aren’t going anywhere soon.  An unclean thumb to remind me of my unclean heart—where the blackness runs death deep.

        How did things get so bad?  Where did things go wrong?  There’s a little psychologist inside each one of us who is always hard at work to pinpoint the origin of our problems. There’s a whole industry devoted to helping you answer questions like: What from your past is causing your current dilemma?  What trauma still terrorizes you?  What abuse still haunts you?  How did your parents make you so dysfunctional?

        King David wrote Psalm 51 in the aftermath of his terrible downfall, after he not only committed adultery with Bathsheba but coolly arranged for the murder of her husband on the battlefield.  Where did things go wrong for David?  How did that fearless shepherd boy, who once slew the Philistine giant Goliath with nothing but a single smooth stone—how could he mature into a man who couldn’t even win a battle against his own private parts?  Where did David go wrong?

        David tells us in his Psalm.  It wasn’t when he first laid eyes on Bathsheba, or when he was anointed king, or when he outsmarted Saul or even back when he was shepherding sheep as a boy.  It was when he was conceived in his mother’s womb that things went wrong with David.  And with me.  And with you.  Behold, I was brought forth in iniquity, and in sin did my mother conceive me.  We are conceived and born as fully flawed, deeply disordered people.  You can consult with your inner psychologist as often as you’d like.  You can point the finger of blame at everyone else.  You can try hard to get comfortable with the filth of your sin.  Or, you can pray for a miracle—a clean heart.

And a clean heart requires a broken heart.  Don’t let this Psalm leave you merely acknowledging that you are a sinner—or merely affirming the doctrine of original sin. This Psalm is designed to do much, much more.  For before God can create a clean heart in you, there needs to be a broken heart in you.  Because a broken heart—a contrite heart—that’s the kind of heart where your God does His best work.  A broken heart is fertile ground for God to do the miraculous.  God doesn’t want your excuses.  He doesn’t want your promises to do better.  God wants a broken heart. The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise.

        David was a broken man.  When he prayed Psalm 51 for the first time he was at the lowest point of his life—broken and crushed by guilt and shame.  Of all the times to ask for a miracle!  How could David ask for a clean heart at that moment when he still had blood on his hands—as he was face down in the dust?  Was it desperation?  Was it sheer audacity?  No, it was faith.  Only by faith can we stand before God, broken-hearted and empty-handed, and ask for and expect a miracle—a clean heart.

        Tonight you have the opportunity to do what David did—to come clean before God—to fess up and admit your transgressions, your iniquities, your sin.  And then to ask for and expect a miracle—a clean heart—a “whiter than snow” heart—a heart that’s joyful and glad and eager to follow Jesus by the power of the Holy Spirit.

        Jesus is the reason for the season—the reason for this season called Lent.  Jesus is the true miracle-worker.  In His earthly ministry He left in His wake multitudes of miraculous healings.  But the miracle that matters most is the miracle in here—the creation of a clean heart.  If anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation!  Jesus comes tonight to take away the old—to bear away your transgressions, your sins, your iniquities.  His blood shed on the cross brings you cleansing and forgiveness of sins and eternal salvation.  Because His heart stopped beating on Good Friday, He can create in you a clean heart—a heart filled not with sin and shame, but with His very own righteousness, innocence and blessedness.  He gives you life that lasts forever.

        Jesus will not cast you away from His presence.  In fact, tonight Jesus comes into your presence with His real presence.  It’s a miracle in bread and wine—the true body and blood of Jesus, given and shed for you, for the forgiveness of sins.  From this altar comes miraculous medicine—cleansing for the heart—cleansing that works from the inside out. 

        Jesus blots out your transgressions.  Jesus washes away iniquity.  Jesus cleanses you from your sin and gives you what no one else can—a clean heart. Miracle of miracles!  Happy Ash Wednesday.   

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

 

Listen to Him

 Jesu Juva

St. Mark 9:2-9                                           

February 11, 2024

Transfiguration B                 

 Dear saints of our Savior~

        God gave you two ears . . . but only one mouth.  And there just might be a reason for that:  Listening is more important than speaking.  In fact, it’s only through listening that you first learned to speak.  Tis better to be mute than to be deaf.  The wisest man who ever lived wrote in Ecclesiastes that “there is a time to keep silence . . . and a time to speak” (3:7). 

         Spoken words governed by wisdom can be a great blessing.  With our words we can encourage one another, instruct one another, and admonish one another.  And what a blessing that can be.  But there are other times—many other times—when the most loving and eloquent thing you can bring to a situation is silence.  Remember what happened after Job lost everything—after all he loved was taken away and his entire body was covered with festering sores?  His three friends showed up to comfort him.  Job was such a mess that his friends could barely recognize him.  But before any of them opened their mouths to say a word, “they sat with [Job] on the ground seven days and seven nights, and no one spoke a word to him, for they saw that his suffering was very great” (2:13).  Sometimes it’s good to be speechless. 

        Especially when God is at work, it’s often wise to do nothing and say nothing.  Let all mortal flesh keep silence.  Silence is golden when God is speaking and acting.  It’s too bad nobody told that to Peter.  On the Mount of Transfiguration, Peter, James and John were given to see what no eyes had ever seen, and to hear what no ears had ever heard.  Jesus was transfigured before them.  His clothing became radiant and intensely white.  The brightness of divinity shone through His humanity.  This Jesus who looked like an ordinary man was now shining brighter and purer than all the angels in the sky:  God of God, Light of Light, very God of very God.  These chosen disciples beheld the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ.  And then out of nowhere, who should appear but Moses and Elijah, talking with Jesus.  With Moses and Elijah nigh The incarnate Lord holds converse high.

        If ever there was a time to be silent—to stare in awesome wonder—to drink in all the sights and sounds—that was it.   Soak it all in.  Absorb every detail.  Make some mental notes.  Memorize and ponder every word.  Become nothing but seeing eyes and hearing ears.

        But right in the middle of this breathtaking scene, what does Peter do?  He starts jabbering:  Rabbi, Wow!  It is good that we are here.  Let’s make three tents, one for you and one for Moses and one for Elijah.  Mark writes that Peter didn’t know what to say because they were terrified.  Luke gently adds in his account that Peter didn’t even know what he was saying.  And that’s pretty obvious.  What mortal mouth has the temerity to interrupt a conversation between Jesus and Moses and Elijah?  And for what?  To unveil his talking points about tents?  Don’t you just want to tell Peter to pipe down and stop talking?

        You may be thinking that your preacher is probably the last person to give advice on talking less.  And I won’t pretend that I could have done any better than Peter did on the mountain that day.  I wouldn’t have minded having my own conversation with Moses about some of the things he wrote in Genesis and Exodus . . . and Leviticus and Numbers and Deuteronomy.  I wouldn’t have minded chatting up Elijah about that day when he took on the prophets of Baal at Mount Carmel, or about what it’s like to ride on a fiery chariot.

        We all feel the need to speak and the urgency to act—to do something.  It gives us a sense of strength and control.  But just to sit and watch and listen and receive?  Those easy-sounding things are actually the hardest things.  And sitting where you are right now, you know just how difficult it can be to sit, to listen, to do nothing but receive.  After all, that’s the primary reason we come to the Divine Service—to receive—to be given to—to listen. 

And since Jesus is here to bless us, then our primary work in this place is to be passive—to listen and receive.  Our sinful natures really rebel against being passive . . . because our sinful natures want to be god in the place of God.  We have plans to implement!  We have agendas to enforce!  By nature we want to bark out the orders and call the shots and be the center of attention.  And for that sin we need to repent.  We need to sit and watch and listen and receive.  For only when we do those things, are we in the perfect position for God to do His thing—His acting and His speaking and His giving.  As He famously expresses it in Psalm 46:  “Be still, and know that I am God.”

        Back up on the mountain, right about the time Peter’s voice stopped prattling, a cloud of glory enveloped them all.  And from that cloud came the Father’s voice:  “This is my beloved Son; listen to him.”  He was talking to Peter, to James and to John, to all of us too.  Listen to Jesus.  It’s what we do when we gather here. 

        But keep in mind that listening to Jesus is a different kind of listening.  We don’t listen to Jesus like we listen to political pundits, or podcasts, or professors. We listen to Jesus with hope—with expectation—with faith that the words we hear from Jesus will change us.  When you prepare to come to the Divine Service—or when you settle in to listen to the sermon—are you convinced and convicted that the Word of God you are about to hear will change you—will expose your guilt and forgive your sin—that God’s Word preached and proclaimed will give you the power to live as a witness for Christ—power to say “no” to wickedness and “yes” to the holiness that is yours through your baptism?  Listening to Jesus isn’t just a matter of sound waves.  Listening to Jesus is a matter of anticipation and expectation and the joyful confidence that the Savior’s Words will have their way with you.  Gladly, eagerly, listen to Jesus.

        And just in case the disciples hadn’t figured out the great value of keeping their ears open and their mouths shut, Jesus had a few more words for them on the way down the mountain.  He told them: Keep quiet.  “He charged them to tell no one what they had seen, until the Son of Man had risen from the dead.”  The time to tell about the transfiguration would come.  The time to preach and proclaim the miracle they had just witnessed would come.  But first would come the cross.  Jesus’ transfiguration alone couldn’t do a thing about our sin.  His shining splendor alone does not destroy the power of death. 

        This is why Jesus told them not to say a word about what they saw and heard until the Son of Man had risen from the dead.  Before glory would come agony—the agony of nails and thorns and cross.  Before we can behold Jesus in all His glory, He would have to hang dead on a cross bearing all of our sins.  Before we can know Jesus in His glory, we need to see Him broken, bleeding, dying and buried—because that’s how He saved you.  That’s how He paid for your sin.  That’s how He opened the kingdom of heaven for you.  That’s how much He loves you.

        There is, of course, a time and place for speaking—for shouting and singing the praises of the Lord.  Here in the Divine Service we exclaim our “amens” and our “alleluias.”  We sing our hymns and we preach our sermons—with all the volume and vigor our voices can raise.  We pour out our prayers and we confess the creeds.  But the most important times we spend in the presence of God are those times when we are all ears. 

        At no time do we use our mouths more faithfully than when we receive from our gracious Savior the bread that is His body and the wine that is His blood.  As we swallow this sacred Supper, sin is forgiven, the death of Jesus is proclaimed, and we are changed.

        In times like these—standing in the presence of God—we come to realize, “tis better to receive than to give.”  Tis better to listen to Jesus than listen to anyone else.  These moments of receiving are beautiful moments, for they reveal what kind of God we have:  One whose glory is revealed in giving, whose grace is all-sufficient, whose power is made perfect in our weakness.  God is never more God than when He gives.  And we are never more His children than when we receive from His gracious hands.  Listen to Him. 

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

The Christ of Capernaum

 

Jesu Juva

St. Mark 1:29-39                                        

February 4, 2024

Epiphany 5B          

 Dear saints of our Savior~

        Capernaum was just a quiet, seaside fishing village.  It wasn’t the sort of place where headlines were generated.  There wasn’t ever much “breaking news” in Capernaum.  Until the day when Jesus showed up, that is.  Suddenly, Capernaum was the epicenter of the Savior’s work.  There was chaos in Capernaum!  Capernaum would never be the same again.

        It all began on a Sabbath Day.  And this particular Sabbath began when local resident Simon Bar-Jonah showed up at the synagogue with his buddies—a little crew of Hebrews, with their new friend, Jesus of Nazareth.  We heard last week how that Sabbath service was nearly derailed by a man with an unclean spirit.  But with only a word, Jesus dispatched that demon, and freed that man from Satan’s tyranny.  It’s safe to say:  Everybody sat up and took notice of the new Rabbi from Nazareth.  But that day in Capernaum was just getting started.

        From the synagogue they brought the Savior to Simon’s house.  But there was a problem:  Simon’s mother-in-law was sick.  She was in bed with a fever; and they asked Jesus to look in on her.  It doesn’t sound too serious.  We’ve all been there.  Feed a cold; starve a fever.  Get some rest and plenty of fluids—maybe some ibuprofen, Vitamin D3.  But Jesus came and went to be with that sick, old woman in her hour of need.

        Have you been sick recently?  I have—sicker than I’ve been in many years.  If you’ve been sick with something more than the sniffles then you know that sickness can be a very spiritual moment—a time when you are forced to draw more deeply upon your faith and the promises of God.  You’re weak.  You’re vulnerable.  You’re dependent on the kindness of others.

        Ultimately, illness of any kind is a stark reminder of our mortality.  It causes us to remember that we are dust, and to dust we shall return.  But every time you get better—every time you experience healing and recovery—well, that is a little resurrection reminder.  It points us ahead to that grand and glorious day when our bodies will be raised and glorified, and sin and sickness will be no more.

        Consider the healing of Simon’s mother-in-law.  Such a nice story!  Wouldn’t it be nice to have Jesus come to your sickbed, take you by the hand, and lift you up “on eagles’ wings?”  So much better than dealing with insurance and co-pays and waiting on lab results and phoning the pharmacist because you can’t remember if it’s two pill three times a day or three pills two times a day.  Who wouldn’t prefer a house call from the Great Physician?

        But there’s more. This is a teachable moment for us.  Jesus went to look in on that feverish old woman.  And He comes to you, too, when you are sick.  He comes when your mother-in-law is sick—when your loved one is suffering—when you are flat on your back.  Never doubt that.  Jesus doesn’t just draw near when you are healthy, happy, and active.  But especially when you are weak, weary, and sick—He comes.  And suddenly, at such times, His Words and promises become even more meaningful and powerful.  His power is made perfect in your weakness.

        St. Mark says that Jesus “took her by the hand and lifted her up, and the fever left her . . .”  It’s a little preview of the resurrection, when Jesus will raise you up from sin and death, and from all that drags you down into the grave.  They who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength . . . they shall run and not be weary; they shall walk and not faint.

        And let’s not overlook that, as soon as the Savior healed her, she began to serve them.  She got to work.  Put on the coffee.  Scrounged up some sandwiches.  She returned to the work of her vocation with vigor.  She offered herself—not as payback or because it was expected.  She offered herself as a little sacrifice of thanksgiving and praise.  For now she knew.  She knew just how precious she was to Jesus—her Savior.  And she would never be the same again.

        When the Sabbath ended at sundown that day, chaos came to Capernaum.  The Savior’s work suddenly snowballed.  The whole city was gathered on Simon Peter’s front yard—bringing with them the sick, the demonized, the paralyzed, the leprous and the lame, the deaf and the mute, the epileptic and the diabetic.  And you would have done the same thing.  You would have moved heaven and earth to bring your sick loved ones to Jesus.  And one by one—with perhaps just a touch, or only a word—Jesus healed them.  Wonder of wonders.  Marvel of marvels.  Tears of joy!  The community of Capernaum could only conclude that the Kingdom of God had come to them in Jesus of Nazareth.

        But if that’s the case, why did Jesus eventually close up His Capernaum clinic?  He could have kept going.  The sick would have kept coming.  He could have put every doctor and hospital in Galilee right out of business!  Instead, Jesus sneaked off to pray in the early morning darkness.  His disciples hunted Him down to remind Him that He still had a waiting room full of patients:  Everyone is looking for you!  But Jesus had other plans—plans to preach elsewhere—for that is why I came.

        Jesus came to preach—to proclaim repentance and forgiveness of sins to the whole world.  The miracles and healings were to call attention to His message and His power over sickness, sin, and death.  Healings and miracles were not the main thing.  Jesus dealt decisively with disease and death by giving Himself over to death as your substitute—to take your punishment, to bear your sicknesses and sorrows, to endure the just wages of your sin.  On His cross and through His death, Jesus drags all our demons and diseases into the black hole of His death—swallows them all up forever.  Death and resurrection is the way Jesus works.

        His way is the way of death and resurrection.  Because Christ is risen, it means that every prayer you’ve ever prayed for healing will be answered affirmatively on the Last Day, in the resurrection of the dead and the life of the world to come.  Whenever we pray for health and healing, that prayer is always, ultimately, answered by God with a “yes.”  We just don’t know when or how that “yes” will come to pass.  You might be like Simon’s mother-in-law and pop out of bed and get right back to work.  Or you might spend a few more days in bed—or a few months.  Or you might spend the rest of your earthly days in hospitals or other care facilities.  Or you may die.  But then and there God’s “yes” will be wondrously revealed to you.

        Simon Peter’s mother-in-law died one day.  Peter died, too, along with Andrew, James and John.  All those diseased and demonized people who Jesus healed in Peter’s front yard in Capernaum—they all died too.  One day you and I will die.  And there won’t be any easy answers or quick fix miracles.  But Jesus will be there, as He always is.  Jesus will come alongside of you, take you by the hand, and lift you up from sin, death and despair.  Jesus will lift you up to be with Him.  And then all those prayers for health and healing you ever prayed will find their “yes” and their “amen” in the wonder of your resurrection.  All your sighs and groanings—years of tears and prayers—Jesus heard them all, and in His death and resurrection He’s already done something about them.

        The chaos in Capernaum quickly died down after Jesus moved on.  But Capernaum was never the same again.  The kingdom of God had come to them in Jesus.  And those who saw and experienced His power to save—they could at least conclude correctly that they—they were precious to Jesus.  Simon’s mother-in-law too—with all her faults and failings—with all her crackly bones and aching, arthritic joints—she knew.  She was precious to Jesus.

        And you are too.  Jesus Christ comes today into your messy world—wades into the chaos of your existence.  Whatever the worry that plagues you—whatever causes you to be feverish and flustered—whatever fills you with fatigue and weariness—Jesus doesn’t bat an eye.  Nothing gives Him pause.  To you He comes with the medicine of immortality:  Take and eat, He says, this is my body given for you.  Drink of it all of you, this cup is the new testament in my blood, shed for you, for the forgiveness of sins.

        And with these gifts He lifts you up from all that would drag you down.  And you—you rise up to depart in peace.  And you get busy serving and working on your divine assignments in this world.  For you have been given to know that you are precious to Jesus.

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