Lenten Midweek 3:
“Behold the Man! A God Exposed”
March 28, 2019
Text: John Gen. 3:7-21; John 19:1-5, 23-24
Your
fig leaves are inadequate. Those
excuses, stories told to deceive others and yourself, outright lies you use to justify yourself… It’ll never work. It didn’t for your first parents. The fig leaves they hastily sewed together in
their flight from God couldn’t cover their guilt or their shame.
Adam
and Eve were not ashamed of their nakedness before that fateful forbidden
bite. Before they were wholly focused on
God and His love for them and His provision for them. They loved one another because God first
loved them, and they loved God. In their
original righteousness, they were happy in God, and they perfectly knew God’s
will and delighted to do it. But when
they tasted the fruit of their rebellion, they looked down. Incurvatus
in se is the theological term. They
were curved in on themselves. Navel
gazers. They had only known good, but
now they knew evil, and it was them.
Naked. Exposed. Vulnerable.
Ashamed. That is why they covered
themselves and hid from God.
Shame
is different than guilt, though the two often go together. Guilt is the residue of sin, whether you feel
it or not. It is the objective reality
for sinners in their sin. Shame is
subjective. And it is always the fruit
of an unhealthy preoccupation with the self.
We’re ashamed when we look at ourselves.
We’re just like our parents in the garden. Having lost God’s image and original
righteousness, we are born in original sin.
We, too, are curved in on the self.
And we’re naked. Exposed. Vulnerable.
And taking fashion advice from Adam and Eve, we sew together the fig
leaves of self-justifying excuses and lies.
We hide ourselves behind our piety and good citizenship. We cover our tracks. We tell our stories so that we look good, and
everyone else not so great. We disguise
our gossip as Christian concern. We
pretend we didn’t take a second look at that man or woman who passed by, or
hover a little too long over the image on the website. Greed we call taking care of ourselves. You know, so we won’t be a burden to
others. Whatever it is, everyone else
does it. Repent. You may be able to fool others, maybe even
yourself, but not God. You might as well
go to Confession so you can be absolved, rather than hiding from God, as if you
could.
God,
of course, found Adam and Eve, and there was hell to pay for their sins. The Curse and all that. But our God is merciful. And He did not leave us without hope. In the very midst of the Curse, He preached
the Gospel: “I will put enmity between
you,” the serpent, “and the woman, and between your offspring
and her offspring; he shall bruise your head, and you shall bruise his heel”
(Gen. 3:15; ESV). And then He covered
our parents’ nakedness. Not with fig
leaves, but with skin. The first death,
animals sacrificed to cover sin. We’ve
been wearing clothes ever since, to cover our shame. But those animals were types of Christ, the
Seed of the woman who would crush the serpent’s head. You see, “Sin can only be covered with skin”
(Hemmer).
And
so Jesus. God the Son is born of the
Virgin. Naked He comes into this world,
and she wraps Him in swaddling clothes.
Jesus is a God who wears clothing.
And why? He has no sin. He has nothing to hide, nothing of which to
be ashamed. But He is clothed for us,
for our sin and shame. God is clothed in
human flesh. Jesus dresses as a man.
And
as we meet Him in our Holy Gospel this evening, He is stripped by the soldiers,
clothed again, and stripped again. He is
stripped for flogging, a particularly gruesome punishment. Leather straps, two to three feet long, held
together by a wooden handle, studded with metal balls that beat and bruise the
skin, and shards of sheep bone that rip the skin and muscle to shreds. This can even expose the internal organs, so
deep are the wounds. So this is already
serious business.
But
then they clothe Him. A crown of
thorns. The Curse: Thorns and thistles,
the fruitless produce of a cursed land, now pierce the brow of His sacred
head. A purple robe. The color of royalty, to be sure. But so also, the color worn by the rich man
who despised poor Lazarus (Luke 16:19), the ostentatious color worn by prostitutes,
including the great prostitute of Revelation 17. Then, too, it was a color used in the
Tabernacle (Ex. 26), the place of sacrifice, and in the robes of the High
Priest (Ex. 39), the one who makes the sacrifice. Pilate has the soldiers clothe Him thus to
bring Him out for mockery. “Behold the man!” Pilate declares (John
19:5). This is no King, he means to say.
Ah, but He is. Clothed in the
purple fig leaves of our sin, clothed in our greed and lovelessness, clothed as
the Sacrifice, clothed as the Great High Priest who offers, not a lamb, but
Himself as the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world (John 1:29).
The
Lord bears our sin, our guilt, our shame.
And they lead Him out to the Place of a Skull, where they strip Him of
His clothes, nail Him to the cross, and raise Him up, naked, exposed,
vulnerable, paying the hell due for our sins.
The soldiers divide His garments among them, and for His clothing they
cast lots, to fulfill the Scriptures.
This was all prophesied in Psalm 22 (v. 18). Ah, yes, that seamless tunic, woven from top
to bottom. A costly specimen. Jesus is stripped of it so some miserable
wretch of a soldier can have it.
Which
is the point of all that is going on here.
Jesus
is not curved in on Himself. His eyes are
trained on His Father. Even as He
suffers the greatest physical torture this world can inflict, and all the pains
of hell in His naked, bleeding, exposed body, He does it all in faithfulness to
God and out of love for us. And the
robe, the tunic, is given from top to bottom, from above to below, to cover our
sin.
“For as many of you as were baptized into
Christ have put on Christ” (Gal. 3:27).
Christ is our robe. Christ is our
tunic. Christ covers us with His own
righteousness, with Himself. That is
what it means to be baptized into Christ.
To be covered with His death and resurrection. To be covered with His obedience. To be covered with His life. This is top to bottom covering, from above,
from heaven, to below, to you and me.
And it is seamless, of a piece, whole, complete. This alone covers our nakedness. Christ, the God clothed in skin.
Jesus
is the God who died naked in order to clothe us. Jesus is the God who is risen from the dead,
but before He leaves the tomb, neatly folds His gravecloths, the linen
wrappings, the face cloth (the shroud!).
And He leaves them behind. No
need for those anymore. No need to cover
the shame of nakedness, the rot and stench of death.
And
you? Forget the fig leaves. Don’t even try to justify yourself. Jesus is your justification. Jesus is the robe of your righteousness. In Jesus, you stand before God covered, and
you are not ashamed. In the Name of the
Father, and of the Son (+), and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
Fourth Sunday in
Lent (C)
March 31, 2019
Text: Luke 15:1-3, 11-32
Two
groups of people, two different kinds of hearers with two dramatically
different reactions, serve as the original audience for this parable. On the one hand, there are “the tax collectors and sinners” who are
“drawing near to hear” Jesus (Luke
15:1; ESV). On the other hand, there are
“the Pharisees and scribes,” the
religious elite, who grumble precisely because Jesus “receives sinners and eats with them” (v. 2). Now, there is great irony at play within
these two groups. The despised sinners,
rejected by polite society and abandoned to hell by respectable religious
people, these are the ones who come to Jesus and hang on every Word of His
preaching. The religious leaders, the Pharisees
and scribes, the “good Christian folk” who demand the respect of everyone…
these refuse to give Jesus the time of day.
They will not hear His
preaching. They will not receive Him… as a colleague, much less their Messiah and
Lord. These pious leaders of Israel reject Jesus. And they reject Him for doing the very thing He was sent by the Father to
do. They reject Him for receiving sinners and eating with them.
So
our Lord tells a parable. Two sons, two
dramatically different relationships with their father… or, maybe not so
different, as we’ll see. On the one
hand, there is the younger son. He wants
his inheritance, and he wants it now. For this son to demand his inheritance from
the father is to tell his father he wishes he would hurry up and die. Imagine
the hurt of the father, the ache for this son who has turned against him and
wishes him dead. And the amazing thing
is, he gives the rascal what he wants.
He divides up the inheritance.
And notice here, too, the older son also benefits from the younger son’s
audacity. The older son also gets his share. The younger son gathers together all he has,
his newfound fortune, and journeys into a far country, squandering his property
in reckless living. We can only imagine
what that entails. On the other hand,
there is this older son. He stays with
his father. But remember, lest you think
this older son the responsible, selfless hero, he has received his inheritance, too. Everything
that the younger son did not take. So, good for him that he stays and takes
care of his own property. Good for him that he does not squander
it in reckless living. How selfless is
it, though, to stay and take care of your own interests? Can you really claim that this makes you
righteous?
Now
consider, in contrast to the two sons, the one father and his unimaginable
compassion. To divide the inheritance in
the first place is essentially to declare
himself dead for the sake of his sons.
This brings new meaning to the idea of loving your children to death. But the father does any number of unbelievable
things in the parable. This parable is
most often called “The Prodigal Son,” but perhaps it should be called “The
Prodigal Father.” Prodigal simply means
reckless and wasteful. And this is as
good a description of the father’s love as it is of the son’s behavior. Notice where the father is while his younger
son is away in a far country. He is
every day watching and waiting, praying and worrying, straining his eyes down
the long road into town, hoping against all hope that his wandering son will
come home again… you know, the son that wished him dead. And one day he sees, a
long way off, a lone, gaunt figure stumbling down the road. And he knows.
It is the son. And here is where
the father’s love makes him do the most ridiculous, prodigal things. In his “compassion,” (the Greek word here
basically means “feeling it in his bowels”) he hikes up his robes and runs. Now, in our culture, some people run for fun,
as silly as that is. Not so in the
ancient world. No self-respecting man,
much less of pillar of the community like this father, would run. That would be demeaning. To hike up your robes is like showing off
your underwear. It is embarrassing. It is shameful. But love knows no shame. The father runs to the rebellious son, and
before a word can be spoken, he embraces him and kisses him, a reckless show of
love and affection, especially for a son who has disowned his father. The son, remember, had resolved to work his way into the father’s house as
a servant. When he was hungry, tending
pigs (unclean animals good Jewish boys should avoid!), longing to eat their
slop, he thought maybe he could go home and work
his sin off at the farm. He even has a
speech prepared. And he gets part of the
way through it when he meets his father.
He confesses his sin. “Father, I have sinned against heaven and
before you. I am no longer worthy to be
called your son” (v. 21). But the
father cuts him off. There will be no
promises of working off sin, as if
you can work off the sin of wishing your father dead. Here in the father’s house, there will only be forgiveness, restoration,
and joy. Put the best robe on
him. Put a ring on his finger. Put shoes on his feet. And kill the fatted calf. Let’s eat and celebrate. For
there has been a death and resurrection.
This son was lost, but now he is found.
The
older son was out in the fields while all this was taking place. He hears the music and dancing. A servant fills him in on the details. And he is angry. Not that his brother is back. Perhaps not even that his father has been
merciful. But a party? Really?
For this wretch? Full restoration
to his place in the family? And the
fatted calf… There are only two reasons you would slaughter the fatted calf: If
the King is coming, or if the older son is getting married. The older son knows he’s not getting married,
and as far as he knows, the King has not come for a visit. But this worthless rebel of a younger son has
come home, and the father treats him like royalty. Forget it.
I’m not going in. Well, here is
more reckless, prodigal love on the part of the father. He goes out to his son. Never would this happen. When your son is being a snot, you don’t
cater to his tantrum, especially not in the ancient world. But the father goes out to him, and he
begs. Come in. Celebrate.
All that is mine is yours. This
feast is for you, too. And your brother
has been restored. It is a time for
joy.
So,
two sons, one father, one unimaginable, reckless, prodigal compassion for his
rebellious sons. The father, of course,
is God. More specifically, he is
Jesus. And the prodigal son is the tax
collectors and sinners Jesus receives and with whom he eats. The older son is the Pharisees and
scribes. In His prodigal love, Jesus
gives Himself into death for both groups,
for the forgiveness of their rebellion, and that they might have the
inheritance of the Kingdom. How Jesus loves sinners who disown Him and
abuse His gifts. He longs to receive
them back into His embrace and claim them as His own. He longs to put the best robe on them, the
robe of Holy Baptism; the ring of faith to mark them members of His holy Bride,
the Church; and as shoes for their feet putting on the readiness of the Gospel
of peace (Eph. 6:15). And how Jesus loves sinners who don’t know they
are sinners; who think they are faithful, pious, good Christian folk; who in their self-righteousness fail to
recognize that they need the same prodigal grace and love of Jesus that the
“really bad” sinners need. He longs to
bring both into the Feast, where He is both Host and Meal. Jesus is the
King who comes and the elder Son
who has arrived for His wedding. And He is the
Fatted Calf who is slaughtered and served on the altar for the celebration. And He wants everyone to come in and sing and
dance and partake and rejoice. Tax
collectors, prostitutes, rebellious sons, and Pharisees. He wants them all. He died for them all. He lives for them all. The bowels of His prodigal love ache for
all. He aches, He suffers, He longs for you.
Yes,
the parable, finally, is about you. And
about Jesus’ prodigal love for you. The cross it the ultimate prodigal act of
love that makes you His own. He died to
give you the inheritance, which is His Kingdom and Salvation. Are you the younger son, who has wasted this
inheritance in reckless living? Are you
a sinner, and you know it? You cannot work your way into God’s favor. Nothing
you do can restore you to His House.
But thanks be to God, you don’t have to work your way out of the mess,
nor are you rejected. Jesus hikes up His
skirts and runs to you to receive you back to Himself and wrap you back in your
baptismal robes.
On
the other hand, are you the older son who has always come to Church, Sunday
after Sunday, doing what is expected of you, dressing, speaking, and voting the
right way, giving your offering, and sometimes having a hard time recognizing
your own sin in comparison with the prodigal?
Are you offended that you’re
in the company of tax collectors and prostitutes and really bad sinners? Repent.
And rejoice. Jesus comes out to
you in your self-righteous rebellion and He begs. He sends his servants, the Christian pastors,
to bid you come to the Feast. And He
Himself comes out to you. All that He
has is yours. Come into the Feast. Eat with the sinners. Be
the sinner that you are, and so be forgiven.
Come, sing and dance and eat.
For
this is the place of death and resurrection.
Christ has died. Christ is
risen. And you are baptized into Christ. Whoever you are, whatever you’ve done,
wherever you’ve been, in Christ, you are no longer dead, but alive. You are no longer lost, but found. And the angels in heaven rejoice. And we on earth rejoice as the Lord gathers
us sinners around the Fatted Calf, the Body and Blood of the Lord, given and
shed for you, and for all, for the forgiveness of all of our sins. The Father pours out His compassion on
you. The Son has been slaughtered, that
you may eat and celebrate and be fully restored. The Spirit calls you to come and eat, for the
Feast is now ready. Jesus sinners doth
receive. There is a place at His Table
for you. The Lord receives you and eats
with you and feeds you with Himself. In
the Name of the Father, and of the Son (+), and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
And
that is the key to the new of the
Commandment. “Just as I have loved you, you also are to love one another.” You can only love that way with the love of
Jesus Himself, poured out for you at His death, flowing through you in the
Sacrament of His Body and Blood. That is
to say, your love for one another flows from the Sacrament. We even call it the Holy Communion. Because it
unites us as one in the love of Jesus.
Jesus’ love (and remember, we’re not talking about some schmaltzy
emotion here, but love that is action, sacrifice, the real thing)… Jesus’ love
flows between you and your fellow Christians at the altar, and outward toward
your neighbor.
