Nineteenth Sunday after Pentecost

Video of Service

Nineteenth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 24C)

October 19, 2025

Text: Luke 18:1-8

            “And he told them a parable to the effect that they ought always to pray and not lose heart” (Luke 18:1; ESV).

            Our Lord knows us so well, doesn’t He?  He knows exactly what we need.  He knows that we are prone to despair.  He knows that as we behold the fallenness of the world, the brokenness, the corruption of all things, including the things and people we love… and our very selves, our bodies, our hearts, our souls… even the disciple of Jesus Christ can lose heart. 

            It is worth noting that Jesus speaks this parable immediately after prophesying the distress that will come upon the earth, and particularly upon the Church, in the Last Days.  The days will be evil, He says, essentially.  That is, being a Christian, being faithful… Jesus promises it won’t be easy.  If anything, being a Christian will make life harder, because it places you in opposition to the whole world, the devil and the hordes of hell, and even your own sad sack of sinful flesh.  Fightings and fears within, without.  You know how it is.  Suffering.  It hurts.  And when you’re in it, it can seem like there is no end to it.  And when you do get a respite, you’re just waiting for the other shoe to drop.  So, yeah, it’s easy to lose heart.

            Jesus here gives us the key to bearing the precious and holy cross without losing heart.  Always pray.  Now, that advice has the potential to sound more than a little trite.  Here is what Jesus is not saying: “When the going gets tough, just say a little prayer, and everything will turn out okay!”  No.  That may be the theology of pop-American Christianity, but it isn’t the theology of Jesus.  Jesus knows things are not okay.  So this is not mindless optimism, this admonition always to pray and never to lose heart.  The theology of it is not well expressed by a t-shirt or a bumper sticker. 

            But, you know what it is?  It is an invitation to demand with the widow, “Give me justice against my adversary,” O God (v. 3).  To cry out with the psalmist, “How long, O LORD?  Will you hide yourself forever?” (Ps. 89:46).  To lament with Job, and beg for relief.  To weep with Jeremiah, wondering if God has deceived you, because it seems like everybody’s against you (Jer. 20:7).  To complain with the Prophet Habakkuk, “O LORD, how long shall I cry for help, and you will not hear?  Or cry to you, ‘Violence!’ and you will not save?” (1:2).  See, what this does, this kind of prayer… which is right here in the Bible… Sometimes we Christians think we shouldn’t say such things to God, but in these Scriptures, the Spirit places these words on our lips… what this does, is it takes the burden and responsibility for all that is wicked and wrong and broken in the world off of our shoulders, and places it on God, where it belongs.  So He can shoulder it all the way to Golgotha.

            This is pictured so well for us in our Old Testament reading (Gen. 32:22-30), isn’t it?  Jacob wrestles all night with this mysterious man.  We know it is it the LORD.  And the LORD lets Himself be vanquished by Jacob.  He gives Himself to Jacob in weakness, in humiliation.  And Jacob won’t let go.  “I will not let you go unless you bless me” (v. 26).  Well, that’s how the Christian prays.  Especially in times of distress.  When Jesus bids you always to pray and not lose heart, He is inviting you to wrestle with Him.  To cling to Him as he gives Himself in the weakness of our flesh, in suffering and cross, to be prevailed upon.  Hold Him fast, and do not let Him go until He blesses you. 

            You undoubtedly know this kind of prayer.  Who of us has not lain awake at night, wrestling with God over some problem, some person, some place where the brokenness and fallenness of things has brought us to the brink?  It’s taken me a while, but I’ve come to realize over the years that insomnia, whatever else may be its cause, is actually God’s gift to me, calling me to prayer.  To wrestle.  To cling.  Until He blesses.  And He does.  And He always will.

            Though, not without pulling the proverbial hip out of the socket, perhaps.  That is to say, in praying, as Jesus here invites you… in giving it all over to your Lord, and demanding His blessing in exchange… you will not be relieved of every pain.  That is not the Promise.  In fact, the Lord may touch you and lay additional suffering upon you.  Look, that just the reality of life this side of the veil.  He may relieve you of some particular sorrow in this life.  He often does that, and you can pray for that (in fact, you should).  Even Job was given temporal relief once his afflictions had run their course.  But then, you can bet there will be new crosses to bear right around the corner.  They will find you.  But the Lord will carry you through the suffering.  He will bless you in it.  He will turn it for your good, and for the good of others.  He will use it for your salvation.  And in the End… in the End… perhaps when you least expect it, He will deliver justice to you, and that, speedily (Luke 18:8).  Here, for you Tolkien fans, that is the eucatastrophe, which is true.  That is Jesus’ Promise in our text.

            When you are in it, of course, the deliverance doesn’t seem very speedy.  What is God doing by that?  Whatever else He is doing, He is driving you all the more into prayer… to surrender all things into His almighty and all-loving hands… to surrender yourself into His almighty and all-loving hands.  Like the persistent widow.  Don’t give Him a break.  Keep coming to Him.  Keep badgering Him.  Don’t let Him go until He blesses you.  Because that is faith.  God is exercising your faith. 

            And here is the point of comparison between God and the unrighteous judge (no, Jesus is not saying that His Father is an unrighteous Judge!):  If even an unrighteous human judge, who neither fears God above, nor man below, eventually gives justice to this no-account widow who keeps bothering him, lest she beat him down… literally, give him a black eye… destroy his reputation, his prestige… if even he gives justice, then you can bet that our righteous and holy God will give justice to those who cry to Him day and night, and that speedily.  It would be absurd to think otherwise!

            The way He gives it, though… that is the astounding mystery.  He gives it by piling all the injustice, all the fallenness and brokenness and corruption of this world, and our lives, our bodies, our hearts, our souls… all our sin… upon His Son.  Who bears it for us.  Who shoulders it up the hill, to the place of a skull.  To put it all to death.  In His body.  In Himself.  That is the price of justice.  He gives Himself to be vanquished.  He gives Himself in weakness, in humiliation.  That we may be blessed.  And so we are.  The answer to all our demands for justice, our cries, “How long,” our lament, our complaint… the answer is Christ on the cross.

            And then the justice… the justification delivered to us… is Christ risen from the dead.  You know, one Day soon, before you know it, the risen Christ will raise you from the dead.  That isn’t just a fantasy.  That is real.  As real as the flesh and bone now sitting in the pew.  And when He does, you’ll realize what He means when He promises to give you justice speedily.  “How long, O LORD?”  Soon.  Very soon.  The Lord is coming.  So keep clinging to Him, knowing He will bless.  Always pray, and do not lose heart.  Things are hard right now, God knows.  But the old order of things is passing away (2 Cor. 5:17).  In the blink of an eye, you will see, the Lord is making all things new (Rev. 21:5).  In the Name of the Father, and of the Son X, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen.

Eighteenth Sunday after Pentecost

 Video of Service

Eighteenth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 23C)

October 12, 2025

Text: Luke 17:11-19

            If you want some edge-of-your-seat, page-turning, electrifying reading, turn to Leviticus 13 and 14, and read about skin diseases in ancient Israel.  Is it leprosy, or is it not?  How should the priest make the examination?  Who has to be excluded from the community, and for how long?  Who is unclean, and how do they become clean?  Can they become clean?  Now, admittedly, this is the part of the Bible where many Christians give up on their Bible-in-a-Year reading plan.  It’s tedious.  It’s gross (well, if you think that’s gross, wait until bodily discharges in Chapter 15).  It’s more than a little daunting.  We can laugh about it, especially we beneficiaries of modern medicine.  But note at least two things about this: First, there is nothing in the Bible that God, in His infinite wisdom, didn’t put there very deliberately, for our good.  And second, these were very real afflictions, borne by very real, flesh and blood people.  Their lives were devastated.  Their bodies were devastated.  And because of their uncleanness, they had to suffer these afflictions as outcasts from their community, outcasts from their homes and their families, outcasts from the Communion of God’s Old Testament Church, the children of Israel.

            Jesus comes across ten such people in our Holy Gospel.  Lepers.  Now, their disease may or may not have been Hansen’s disease, what we, today, call leprosy.   As a term in the Bible, leprosy covers a broad spectrum of skin disorders.  But whatever it is, specifically, the living bodies of these men were already decaying, piece by piece.  They were slowly degenerating into walking, breathing corpses.  That is what made them unclean, in the Old Testament sense.  This is the key to understanding biblical uncleanness.  Life is from God, and therefore holy.  Death is from sin, and therefore anti-holy.  And so, where the things of death and life mix (and they don’t really mix… this is the problem), there you have uncleanness.  A living person touches a dead body?  Unclean.  The things in men and women that make for new life (ask you mother about those)?  Unclean.  Flesh rotting on your body?  Unclean.  So, anybody who touches you, or touches the things you touch… Unclean.  That is why you have to stand apart, and when anyone gets too close, you have to shout, “Unclean!  Unclean!”

            Being unclean wasn’t necessarily a sin, understand.  Everybody has bodily functions.  Somebody has to carry the corpse out of the room.  Procreation is a blessing.  It’s not like anyone wants to get leprosy.  But theologically, it’s helpful to understand that bodily uncleanness signifies the spiritual condition of every one of us, every single son or daughter of Adam and Eve.  It signifies the brokenness caused by our sin.  Death snuffing out life.  Unholiness.  Separation from God.  Separation from one another. 

            And that’s why Jesus came.  There they are, these lepers, standing apart, as they must do according to the Law of Moses.  But they are crying out something different, something other than “Unclean!  Unclean!”  They are praying the Kyrie (we just prayed that, moments ago, in our liturgy… “Lord, have mercy,” we sang).  “Jesus, Master, have mercy on us,” they cry (Luke 17:13; ESV).  Well, they’d heard about Him.  This Man gives sight to the blind.  This Man makes the lame to walk.  Even, this Man raises the dead!  So, of course they cry to Him.  He can help us!

            Now, it’s interesting what Jesus does.  We know He often heals people with a touch.  That would have been scandalous in this case.  But then, Jesus is not One to shy away from scandal.  We know He often heals people with a Word.  This one, though, is different.  This one calls to mind leprous Naaman from the Old Testament.  That passage really is exciting.  2 Kings 5, if you want to read about it, maybe this evening.  Remember?  Naamann comes to Elisha’s house, and the prophet doesn’t even come out of the house to say hello.  He doesn’t wave his hands over the infection, or speak some incantation, or hand over some magic elixir.  He just sends his servant out to say, “Go, wash in the Jordan seven times, and you will be clean.”  Naaman scoffs!  That dirty old river?  He resolves not to do it, but his servants convince him to give it a try.  So he does.  And it works.  Why?  Because Elisha speaks God’s Word.  And that dirty old Jordan River water has God’s Word and Promise attached to it.  So it does what God’s Word says.  Had Naaman washed in a different river, he wouldn’t have been healed.  God said the Jordan.  Had Naaman washed six times, or nine times, he wouldn’t have been healed.  God said seven times.  Naaman does according to the Word of the Lord.  And Naaman is healed.  Naaman is clean. 

            Well, likewise Jesus in our Gospel.  He says, “Go and show yourselves to the priests” (Luke 17:14).  They aren’t healed yet, understand.  I have to imagine they hear Jesus say that, and then look at their still-rotting flesh, and think, “What gives?  Shouldn’t You wave Your hands or something?  Shouldn’t you have spoken some incantation, or given us some magic elixir?  Instead, You tell us to go show ourselves to the priests?”  But that is what you do when you think you might be healed, according to the skin disease discourse in Leviticus 13 and 14.  And, in spite of the fact that they had not yet been healed, as they go… as they do according to the Word of Jesus Christ, that to which His Word and Promise are attached… behold, they are healed!  They are cleansed! 

            By the way, you can bet they are all grateful.  They are all praising God.  Lord, have mercy on us for making this Gospel into a morality tale about how we should remember to say “Thank you,” whenever God, or somebody, does something nice for us.  We should remember to say “Thank you,” and maybe that is a tangential point we can glean from this text, but it kind of misses the main gift our Lord here gives us.  We’re getting to that. 

            The Samaritan… talk about somebody who is excluded!  Not only is he unclean because of his disease, he’s the wrong ethnicity to be presenting himself before the priests in the Jerusalem Temple.  But he catches on to something that the rest do not.  “Wait a second.  Jesus healed me.  I’m whole again.  No high priest in Jerusalem could do that, heal a man of leprosy.  If I’m supposed to go and show myself to the Priest, I should actually go to Jesus.  He is the true High Priest!”  But more!  “Here I am, thanking and praising God for my cleansing, the miraculous healing of my body, my release from suffering.  But I don’t have to stand afar off, anymore, to thank Him.  Now that He’s made me clean, I can draw near.  Restored to Communion with Him, and with His people.  And I know just where to find Him.  I don’t have to go to Jerusalem.  He’s standing right there.”  Did you catch the language regarding the Samaritan’s actions in our Gospel?  “Then one of them, when he saw that he was healed, turned back, praising God with a loud voice; and he fell on his face at Jesus’ feet, giving him thanks” (vv. 15-16).  In praising God, he fell at Jesus’ feet.  And that is exactly right.  God is the only One who can cleanse the uncleanness of body and soul.  God is the only One who can make a broken and dying man whole.  This Man is God.  And that is what He does.

            Not only for lepers.  For you.  In fact, He is doing it for you, right now, in your hearing of these words.  The Word of God is such that it never simply tells us about something.  This is not just a nice story about how some lucky lepers were cleansed and healed, any more than it’s a lesson in manners, remembering to say “Thank you.”  The Word of God does things.  It does what He says.  Otherwise, what’s the point of coming to Church?  Learn some fun facts about history, and find out how to be a nice person?  Spare me.  That isn’t Christianity, and I have better things to do.  When Jesus Christ tells you how He cleanses lepers, He is, in that very moment, healing and cleansing you. 

            You’re not a leper, thank God, but sin renders you unclean.  Broken.  Death snuffing out life (you’re reminded of that every time you get sick, and every time you go to a funeral and stare your own mortality in the face).  Unholy.  Separated from God.  Separated from one another.  Broken relationships.  Broken Communion.  What does Jesus do?  Tell you to stand over there, far apart, where you belong?  Tell you to cry out, warning everybody to stay away from your uncleanness?  No, that’s not what He does.  Go and show yourself to the priest.  You know why you would do that?  Not only so that he could verify the healing.  So that he could offer the blood sacrifice that renders you clean.  So, again, what does Jesus do?  He bids you come to Him.  Come right up into His space, with all your uncleanness.  Let Him take it into Himself.  That as your High Priest, He may make the blood sacrifice that renders you clean.  Not a lamb, or a bird, as in Leviticus.  Himself.  His body on the cross.  His blood shed for you.  His death for your life.  His atonement for the forgiveness of your sins.  And then, the Third Day.  The reversal of all that sin has wrought.  His life snuffing out death.  What was broken, made whole.  What was unholy, now holy.  You, who were separated from God, and from one another, now restored and brought near.  So near, you don’t have to give thanks to God from afar, as though He is somewhere up there, far removed from the sinner.  He’s right here, for you, in His Word, and on the altar with His true body and blood.  You can come right into His presence, praising Him with a loud voice, and fall at His feet, and receive Him.  Because you are clean.  He is your cleanness.  He is your healing.  He is your life.      

            By the way, when the Old Testament priest made the sacrifice for cleansing, he’d mix the blood of the sacrifice with water, and sprinkle it with hyssop on the one to be cleansed.  Interesting.  The sacrificial blood in the water, attached to God’s Word and Promise, applied to the unclean person, rendering him clean.  That is Holy Baptism.  You see what Leviticus does for us?  The Priest has done His work again.  You, beloved, are baptized into Christ.  In the Name of the Father, and of the Son X, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen.                                

Seventeenth Sunday after Pentecost

Video of Service

Seventeenth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 22C)

October 5, 2025

Luke 17:1-10

            “If your brother sins, rebuke him, and if he repents, forgive him, and if he sins against you seven times in the day, and turns to you seven times, saying, ‘I repent,’ you must forgive him” (Luke 17:3-4; ESV). 

            A hard saying from our Lord this afternoon.  But let’s do a little exercise of our imagination: Think about a person who has sinned grievously against you; a person you have struggled, for some time, to forgive.  Honestly, you’ve tried.  You’ve prayed for the ability, the strength.  You’ve prayed for the person (you should always do that).  But the sin is so serious, and the pain of it haunts you so deeply.  And there is always, in the back of your mind, that nagging cry for justice.  The sinner must pay.  Because, perhaps, that would make things right. 

            But here, your Lord says to you, “you must forgive.”  It’s hard, isn’t it?  With the disciples, you pray to Jesus: “Increase our faith!” (v. 5).  Because this is going to take something more than we have, something from outside of us.  Jesus says, if you have faith like a grain of mustard seed… small, but containing within it all that is necessary for growth into a large plant… “you could say to this mulberry tree, ‘Be uprooted and planted in the sea,’ and it would obey you” (v. 6).  Of course, don’t try that at home.  Don’t tempt the Lord your God.  The point is not that your faith can do magic tricks.  The point is that faith of any size or strength… because it receives the Lord Jesus Himself… can, and will, receive from the Lord whatever else is necessary for God’s Kingdom to come and His will to be done.  But, mulberry trees aside, forgiving this one who has sinned against you?  The one you are imaging right now?  See, that’s even harder than moving trees.  Lord, help us.

            What is Jesus’ answer to the prayer?  It’s actually not that you need more faith.  A little faith… any faith… if it is the faith given by the Holy Spirit, receives the whole Jesus.  That is comforting.  It means your faith is never inadequate.  It can’t be, because it is God’s gift to you, by His Spirit, in His Word.  It is rather that you need to recognize, once again, what that faith receives.  The cross.  Christ crucified for sins.  Christ crucified for sinners.  The blood and death of God that washes away all sin.

            See, that takes the sin seriously.  Jesus is not asking you to simply excuse the sin perpetrated against you.  In no sense is He telling you to sweep it under the rug, or pretend it didn’t happen.  The sin is real, and it demands a real solution.  But you can’t solve it by your own power or strength.  Not by holding your neighbor responsible and pinning him to the wall, nor by your own self-generated efforts at forgiveness.  What to do, then?  Okay, back to our exercise of imagination.  Imagine that person, and imagine the sin they committed against you.  Imagine that burden that you’ve been carrying on your shoulders, maybe even for years.  Hang it, now, on the broken and bleeding body of Jesus.  His arms are open wide to take it into Himself.  Where He… and now, this part is not imaginary, understand… where He puts it to death.  Where He takes all the pain of it, all that pain you’ve suffered over it, upon Himself.  Where justice is meted out… on Him!

            Do you see what you have in the faith that receives the crucified Jesus?  How can you possibly forgive that one who has sinned against you?  Recognize that the guilt of that sin has been paid in full.  Jesus took the debt away from the sinner.  Jesus paid the debt with His own blood.  That makes things right.  That is why, when you pray, “Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us,” you are, in fact… whether you know it or not… whether you feel it or not… forgiving your neighbor’s sin.  That sin of that sinner… the one you are imagining during this exercise.  Because those words have all the power of Jesus’ blood behind them.  So, it is done.  And it is done again and again, every time you speak those words.  Even if you have to say them seven times in a day, because your neighbor sins against you and repents seven times in a day.  Frankly, even if they don’t repent.  Even if the hurt of your neighbor’s sin against you keeps pressing on you.  Say the words.  Pray the words.  They are a Holy Absolution for your neighbor.  Not an excusing of your neighbor.  An application of the blood and death of God’s Son upon your neighbor.

            What about the hurt?  It still hurts.  Yes, it does.  No question.  But that doesn’t change the objective reality.  Now it’s just a matter of your feelings catching up with that new reality.  And how are we supposed to do that?  Seems like that’s impossible.  Lord, increase our faith!  Well, the answer once again is the cross.  Christ crucified.  Pour your pain out there, upon Him.  He knows it.  He feels it even more deeply than you do.  But what happens as His blood covers it over (this pain you feel so deeply), is that He transforms it.  He turns it to your good, and the good of your neighbor.  He redeems it.  He heals the wound, such that it becomes a scar.  That is to say, the pain may never entirely go away.  But it can, and will, get better.  There is comfort for you in Jesus, even as you hurt.  And that scar is a mark that testifies to the healing.  It is a testimony of the healing power of the living crucified Christ.  “You must forgive him,” Jesus says.  There is only one way to do that.  Christ.

            Okay, another exercise: Think about a grievous sin you have committed… against God… against a loved one… someone in your family, someone in the Church, someone who was a friend…  Maybe you’ve asked for forgiveness, and that request has been denied.  Or, perhaps, it’s been granted, but you struggle to receive that forgiveness, or believe it, trust it.  Or, perhaps it’s been granted, but the relationship has never been the same.  Honestly, you’ve tried.  But the sin is so serious, and the pain… your own, and the pain you caused to another… it haunts you so deeply.  And there is always, in the back of your mind, that nagging cry for justice.  The sinner must pay.  I must pay.  Because, perhaps, that would make things right.

            I bet you’ve been there.  I certainly have.  There are still things that creep into my mind at the most inopportune moments… guilt, sorrow, grief.  I remember one particular episode when I was seven years old, when I had so deeply disappointed my parents.  I’ll spare you the details, but it lives vividly in my mind to this day, and it still breaks me to pieces when I think about it.  You have similar memories.  

            What is Jesus’ answer?  The cross.  Christ crucified.  Back to the exercise.  Imagine that sin that still haunts you.  Imagine the burden you’ve been carrying on your shoulders, maybe even for years.  Hang it, now, on the bloody corpus of your crucified God.  Again, His arms outstretched to receive it into Himself.  Where He puts it to death.  Yes, that sin.  That one.   And all the others.  Where He takes all the pain of it, all the pain you have suffered over it… all the pain others have suffered over it… all of it… upon Himself.  Where justice is meted out… on Him!

            Do you see what you have in the faith… whatever amount, whatever strength… the faith that receives the crucified Jesus?  In no way is He excusing you, or your sin.  He is not sweeping it under the rug.  He is forgiving you, and that means taking it to His death.  He makes atonement for you on the cross.  Recognize that the guilt of that sin has been paid in full.  Jesus took the debt away from you, the sinner.  Jesus paid the debt with His own blood.  That makes things right.  The Holy Absolution stands as God’s announcement that it is finished.  The sin has been atoned.  So you can release it, too.  It need haunt you no more.  “I forgive you all your sins,” He says, by the mouth of His called and ordained servant.  “I forgive you, in My thrice-Holy Name.”  And the sin is done.  Done to death.

            And then, a mystery.  He says to you, “Dear child, come and recline at My Table, and let Me wait on you.”  And He feeds you.  Himself.  His body.  His blood.  Amazing.  Because, in Christ, our duty has been done.  Done perfectly, because He has done it, and atoned for our not doing it, or doing it poorly.  And we unworthy servants, he declares “Friends,” and invites us into His joy.  In the Name of the Father, and of the Son X, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen.      

 

A Devotion for Aunt Evelyn

In Memoriam +Evelyn Krenz+

October 4, 2025 - White Salmon, Washington 

“Precious in the sight of the LORD is the death of his saints” (Psalm 116:15; ESV).  So we pray with the Psalmist in Psalm 116. 

What a strange thing to say.  Death is precious?  What could that possibly mean?

Well, it doesn’t mean God thinks death is irresistibly cute, as in, “Oh, how precious!”

It doesn’t mean that He really likes it when people die.

It doesn’t even mean that death is a good thing in His sight.  It isn’t.  Death is always tragic.  Even when it is expected.  Even when the person has lived a good, long life.  God designed us for life, not death.  Death is the wages of sin.  Death is the reality in a world that is fallen.  Death is never how it was supposed to be.  Death, Paul says, is the last enemy to be defeated (1 Cor. 15:26). 

So, it doesn’t mean those things.  Rather, it means this: When a Christian dies… and that is what the word “saint” means here… a Christian… not a sinless one (we are all sinners), but one whose righteousness comes from Jesus Christ alone, given as a gift, received by faith… When a Christian dies, God holds the death of that Christian, and the Christian herself, sacred.  Worthy of His full attention.  He attends to that death.  He does not abandon His beloved one.  The Christian is not alone.  Not even then.  So that, even as the Christian… like Aunt Evelyn… breathes her last, and closes her eyes to this world, she opens them in heaven to behold the Lord God, and breathe in His life-giving Spirit.  She opens them to behold the One who held her death so precious, He suffered it for her, on the cross.  To reverse it.  To undo it.  The One who died, but who is now risen from the dead, and lives, and reigns.  She beholds Jesus.  Face to face. 

And He will raise her, on a Day known only to God, but a Day that is coming soon.  And He will do the same for you.  And think about what that means.  Because the death of Aunt Evelyn is precious in the LORD’s sight, she is not gone.  She lives.  In Jesus.  And we can live, in Jesus.  And we can be with her, whenever we’re in Jesus.  And we’ll see her again.  And we’ll embrace her again.  And we’ll laugh with her again.  And talk with her again.  Because of Jesus.  Let us comfort ourselves, then, with these words.  

“Precious in the sight of the LORD is the death of his saints.”  What a strange, and wonderful thing to say.  Aunt Evelyn lives.  Because Jesus lives.  And she is precious to Him.  In the Name of the Father, and of the Son X, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen.

Sixteenth Sunday after Pentecost

Video of Service

Sixteenth Sunday after Pentecost (C)

September 28, 2025

Text: Luke 16:19-31

            First, what our Holy Gospel is not.  It is not a condemnation of wealth, or the wealthy.  It is not a reading to be marshalled in some sort of class warfare.  Wealth is a good gift of God when stewarded according to His will.  You are all relatively wealthy compared to most people in the world, and certainly most in human history.  You actually live in greater comfort than the rich man in our text.  Don’t feel guilty about that.  Thank God for it.  Recognize that it all comes from Him, and really, belongs to Him.  Then, use it responsibly, as entrusted to you by God, to provide for yourself and for your family, and for the benefit of your neighbor.  Support the preaching of the Gospel.  Give to those in need.  Especially the poor, the sick, and those hungering for crumbs from your table.  Like Lazarus.  Love them, and give to them. 

            Also, this Gospel is not holding forth poverty as some sort of virtue that gains you favor with God.  Lazarus is not praised for his poverty.  He doesn’t go to heaven because he is poor.  He goes to heaven because he trusts in God.  He is saved by faith alone.  The rich man goes to hell, not because he is rich.  He goes to hell because he trusts in his riches.  He is devoted to them.  And so, even if he is a good Jew, outwardly (probably one of the Pharisees, who were lovers of money), in his heart, he is a pagan unbeliever.  He worships an idol: Mammon.  Beware, dear Christian.  Beware.  For Mammon is an idol common among us.

            We should also note that this Gospel puts to rest, once and for all, the false and damnable teaching of the prosperity gospel, the idea that, if you are righteous before God, believe enough, and do enough good works, God will reward you with riches and good health.  But if you are not righteous before God, do not believe enough (or rightly), and do not do enough good works, God will curse you with poverty and sickness.  That is actually a theology the Pharisees can get behind.  It is the theology of Job’s three friends, and it is the false doctrine espoused by far too many American Evangelicals.  If anything, the point of our Gospel this day is precisely the opposite.  The well-dressed, well-fed rich man, living in the lap of luxury, is, in fact, living an accursed life.  Because he doesn’t have Christ.  The naked, starving, poor man, homeless, and covered in sores, tasty to the tongues of mongrels, is, in fact, divinely blessed.  Because he does have Christ.  Because, in the Kingdom of God, things are not as they appear.  What is hidden to the naked eye here and now, revealed only to faith enlightened by Holy Scripture, will be manifest and visible there and then, beyond the veil of this earthly life.

            The rich man received his good things in his earthly life, and they consumed him.  Now, he is in anguish in hell.  Likewise, Lazarus suffered bad things in his earthly life, but now he is comforted at Abraham’s side.  Incidentally, you may remember an older translation wherein heaven is called “Abraham’s bosom.”  The image is one of a father’s affection for a beloved son, the son reclining against his father at a feast, much like the beloved disciple, the Apostle John, reclining against Jesus at the Lord’s Supper.  At least two things should be of comfort to you in that image: First of all, by faith in Christ, you are a child of Abraham.  That is what Paul preaches to the Galatians: “Know then that it is those of faith who are the sons of Abraham” (Gal. 3:7; ESV).  So, that space is reserved for you, too… by Father Abraham’s side, right next to his heart.  And second, and even more profound, you are the disciple Jesus loves.  So, your place… in heaven, certainly, but also here and now… is to be reclined upon the Lord’s breast, right next to His beating heart, at His Holy Supper.

            In any case, we learn something of heaven and hell, of what it is to be behind the veil, in this Gospel, though the teaching is not comprehensive.  As we look closely at the text, we learn that the angels escort us to heaven when we die.  But the journey to hell is a lonely one (never mind the company of demons, who undoubtedly pounce at the moment of death).  Hell is a torment, whereas heaven is a place of comfort and consolation and love.  Notice that the one who begged for crumbs on earth is well-satisfied now in heaven, whereas he who was full on earth now begs for just a drop of water from a fingertip in hell.  And it will not, and cannot be granted.  There is not even that miniscule comfort.  Notice that the rich man does not beg to be let out of hell, and into heaven.  There is something to C. S. Lewis’ idea that the door to hell is locked from the inside; that is, that the damned would rather spend eternity in hell than have to suffer our God’s loving presence.  But he does beg that Lazarus be sent to hell to serve him.  Even in death, the rich man never gets over his feeling of entitlement, especially over against Lazarus, whose whole reason for existence, apparently, is to serve him.  Notice that the rich man can see Lazarus and Abraham in heaven.  Could that be a part of what it is to be in hell?  Maybe.  But notice that Lazarus is not troubled by hell.  Perhaps he can’t see it, though apparently Abrham can.  We are up against a mystery, that is for certain.  In any case, we should be troubled now by hell, for our own sake, and for the sake of our neighbor.  But we will not be then.  And even so, don’t fail to notice that chasm between the two fateful destinations.  You cannot pass from one to the other, even if you wanted to.  At the very least, this indicates the finality of the judgment at death.  Those in heaven cannot fall and be damned.  Thank God.  Those in hell have no opportunity to repent and be saved.  Let us take heed. 

            And then, there is this detail, artfully woven, but so easy to miss, in the story.  Lazarus has a name.  It is a name written in heaven, and immortalized on earth.  We all know his name, and we all love his story.  The rich man’s name is never mentioned.  Tradition names him Dives, but that is just a transliteration of the Latin (not even the original Greek) for “rich man,” so, not actually his name.  What's the point?  The rich man made a name for himself on earth, but that name is forgotten and lost to posterity.  The no-name beggar, Lazarus, however, has a name before God and all the world.  There is both a warning and a comfort for us in this.  If you live for penultimate things (or not even penultimate things, but just earthly things), no matter the monuments you build for yourself, or the legacy you leave, in the end, all you are is dust in the wind.  You will be forgotten.  But if you live for God, and in God, and by the things of God… no matter who knows your name now, God knows it.  And your name is written in heaven in the blood-red ink of God’s Lamb.  And your legacy is that of Lazarus, a legacy that preaches the faithfulness of God and salvation in Christ for generations to come. 

            Well, if Lazarus can give the rich man no relief in hell, the least he can do, the rich man thinks, is return from the dead to go and warn his five brothers… also Pharisees, also lovers of money.  What is Father Abraham’s answer?  They have Moses and the prophets.  They have the Holy Scriptures.  Let them listen to them.  If they will not listen to them, neither shall they be convinced if someone should rise from the dead.  The irony is delicious, isn’t it? 

            Now, on the face of it, Father Abraham’s answer appears to be, “No.”  But that isn’t actually what he says.  He says that, even if it were to happen, as the rich man requested, it wouldn’t make any difference to those who will not believe the Scriptures.  But the plain fact is, even before we get to the real punchline of the whole thing, we know from another Gospel, the Gospel of John (Chapter 11), that there was a man named Lazarus, who actually did die, and who did, in fact, at the command of the Lord Jesus Christ, rise from the dead.  Is this the same Lazarus?  I don’t know.  There is no way to know (although we should note that the Lord never calls the story in our text a “parable,” though we often treat it that way… this may be an account of actual events).  But what was the reaction of the Pharisees (the five brothers) to Lazarus’ resurrection?  Did they fall on their knees in repentance and believe in Jesus?  No.  Instead, what did they say?  “Let’s kill Lazarus!  And let’s kill Jesus!  Because we still don’t believe in Jesus even if He can raise the dead, and we can’t let anyone else believe in Jesus, either!”  Believe it or not, miracles don’t convert anyone apart from the Word of God, apart from the Scriptures.  They are signs that confirm the preaching, and they are signs that confirm the faith of those who already believe on account of the preaching.  But they do not convert, in and of themselves. 

            And that explains the real punchline of the whole thing.  Jesus Christ is risen from the dead!  We killed Him, and after three days, He rose.  But if you don’t believe Moses and the prophets, neither will you believe in the wake of this earthshattering, grave-splitting turn of events.  Of course, we are given even more than Moses and the prophets.  The Old Testament writers gave us shadows and patterns.  We have Apostles and Evangelists who give us their fulfillment.  And here is the point: Believe them!  Hear, mark, learn, and inwardly digest their Words, because their Words are the very Words of God.  And God’s Words impart the death and life of God’s own Son to all who hear and believe.  These Words are the way to go where Lazarus has gone: Heaven.  Resurrection.  Eternal life in Christ. 

            This story is recorded… and a man named Lazarus, indeed, came back from the dead… as a warning and witness to the five brothers, and to you and me.  Hear the Word.  Heed the Word.  Believe the Word.  And so cling to Christ, who died for your sins, and who is risen from the dead.  In comparison with that, all the riches in the world aren’t worth… well, I’m tempted to say… a darn.  They can’t buy you life.  But Jesus has bought you life.  No matter your circumstances here and now.  Even if you live in utter poverty and misery (and you don’t, so give thanks to God, and don’t exaggerate your plight).  Good things are coming.  Your comfort is coming.  This life is brief, and full of trouble.  But life in Christ is eternal.  Live for that.  Love in that.  Share what you have, because of that.  Be generous.  Live in hope, and in joy.  Your name is written in heaven.  And you have a place, there, in Father Abraham’s bosom.  And you have a place, here, reclining against your Lord’s riven side.  Beloved, behold… you are rich beyond imagination.  In the Name of the Father, and of the Son X, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen.                  

St. Matthew, Apostle & Evangelist

 Video of the Service

St. Matthew, Apostle & Evangelist

September 21, 2025

Text: Matt. 9:9-13

            It was just another day at the tax booth, there on the border lands, where the toll is levied on persons and goods.  It was hard, at first, drowning out his conscience: “What’s a good, Jewish boy like me, doing here, working for, and enriching, the Romans and their local vassals?”  And the jeers of his people: “Traitor!  Thief!”  But the money was good: A few coins for the government, and a few coins for me.  The authorities don’t care.  In fact, it’s expected.  “A man’s gotta do something to keep warm.”  A man has to eat.  And, are a few luxuries, in addition, too much to ask?  Call it “an administrative fee.”  So, Levi… Matthew… and his similarly calloused colleagues, go about their business, as usual.  Another day in the office.  Another shekel in the bank.

            But then, Matthew looks up.  And He is standing there.  His dark brown eyes pierce Matthew to his very soul.  There is no hiding the conscience before His gaze.  Even if one could command the mountains to fall on it, and the hills to cover it… even if one could tie a millstone to his conscience and drown it in the depths of the sea… there could be no hiding it from Him.  And yet, the look in His eyes is not one of accusation, but compassion.  Not condemnation, but mercy.  And, as piercing as His eyes may be, even so does He open them to be pierced.  He gives them, as a window into His mind, His heart, His love for the lost ones.  His longing to gather sinners to Himself, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings.  To save them from destruction.  To save them from their own hell-bent rebellion.  To reconcile them to Himself.  To restore them.  To bring them in once again.  To give them a place, and a people, a family, a home.  To give them a new identity.  “As Jesus passed on from there, he saw a man called Matthew” (Matt. 9:9; ESV).  Saw him all the way.  Looked upon him.  And that’s how it all started.  Matthew would not be the last disciple upon whom the Lord would bestow His gracious gaze… look upon him, to the very core (Luke 22:61).

            And then He speaks.  Two words.  “Follow me” (Matt. 9:9).  “Ἀκολούθει μοι.”  And there is no accounting for it.  Not by any human reason, anyway.  Matthew rises…  Now, I know, this may be my own eccentricity, but I can’t help but think there is more going on with that word… He rose… than simply that Matthew got up out of his chair.  Because, by the power of those two words from Jesus, “Follow me,” Matthew turned… repented… from death to life, from sin to grace, from unbelief to faith in the One speaking.  And he leaves everything.  The money.  The booth.  The career.  And probably some very confused colleagues.  Matthew rises… and follows Jesus, whom he now knows to be the Way, and the Truth, and the Life (John 14:6).

            And the next scene is a party, a banquet, a feast at Matthew’s house, where many of those confused colleagues, and their rather disreputable companions, are gathered together, congregated.  And who is reclining in the midst of them, but Jesus!  They are all gathered about Him.  They are basking in His presence.  They are hanging on His every Word.  And though we don’t know most of the Words He spoke on that particular occasion, we do know what those Words bestowed on those thus gathered: Forgiveness.  Healing.  Life.  They’d never met anyone like Jesus before.  They’d never heard anything like the things He said.  And the things He said, did things.  Bestowed things.  Created for them a whole new reality. 

            Not everyone would have it, though.  And they wouldn’t have anyone else have it, either.  “And when the Pharisees saw this, they said to his disciples, ‘Why does your teacher eat with tax collectors and sinners?’” (Matt. 9:11).  We had a similar reaction from them in our Gospel last week: “This man receives sinners and eats with them” (Luke 15:2).  Well, why does He do that?  Because these are the very people for whom He came.  The well don’t need a physician… the sick do!  The righteous don’t need salvation… sinners do!  “I came not to call the righteous, but sinners” (Matt. 9:13).

            And He came, not to call sinners to follow Him at a safe distance… not to take their rightful place, licking the dust at His feet… not to sit at their own table down in the servants’ quarters, far removed from the presence and consciousness of the Master and His guests.  He came that they might be the guests…  He came to cleanse, heal, and restore sinners to the Holy Communion of His Table, where He is present, beholding them in love, continually bespeaking them righteous, bestowing His gifts, making sinners whole. 

            Well, notice once again where the Pharisees are in proximity to Jesus.  Not with Him at the Table, but standing apart in judgment and condemnation.  Jesus is looking at them, but they will not meet His gaze, except, perhaps, in defiance.  They will not be included in this company of sinners.  They have their own system of righteousness.  Ritual washings.  Sabbath regulations.  Meticulous attention to every legal detail.  The hedge about the Law.  The traditions of men.  Their own works, which are the envy of others.  And the shunning of people like… well, like Matthew.  And the others assembled at his home.

            But that’s not righteousness, dear Pharisees.  You’ve missed it.  You are willfully blind.  Tax collectors and sinners see what you don’t… and won’t…. see.  Jesus is our righteousness.  Jesus alone.  To be righteous, therefore, is to be with Jesus.  And in Jesus.  To hear Him.  To follow Him.  To eat with Him.  To live in Him.  His life.  His righteousness.  His salvation.  There is no other way. 

            And if you’d go an learn what this means, “I desire mercy, and not sacrifice” (v. 13), you might just get it.  Your own sacrifices… your works, your keeping of the Law… earn you nothing before God.  But mercy does.  His, for you, that is.  His, that gathers sinners around His Table.  His, that looks deep into the very soul of the sinner, in compassion, and calls to the sinner, “Follow me.”  So that the sinner rises, and does just that.  And then, likewise, has mercy on his neighbor.

            Though, Jesus doesn’t just have mercy.  Jesus is mercy.  And, as a matter of fact, Jesus is the Sacrifice.  The cross.  His blood.  His death.  Making atonement for the real sins of real sinners.  For Matthew.  For his beleaguered colleagues and castaway companions.  For Pharisees.  For you, beloved.  He died for you.  He is risen and lives for you.  He looks upon you.  He loves you.  And he calls to you: “Follow me.”

            Then, of course, to follow Him does entail making sacrifices.  Sacrifices for Jesus.  Sacrifices for others.  These don’t save you, but they come because you are saved.  We learned about that a couple weeks ago, too.  The cost of discipleship, the disciple being one who follows Jesus.  Jesus goes the way of the suffering and the cross, and that means those who follow Him go the way of suffering and the cross.  There will be scorn, rejection, persecution to bear.  There will be hardships and afflictions, and there is no way around them.  There is no way around the cross and death.  Only through.  But with Jesus.  With Jesus, who goes before, and blazes the trail, and is, Himself the Way.  With Jesus, who leads into the tomb, and out the other side… to life and resurrection and joy.

            Matthew rose and followed Jesus.  And that means to the cross.  It’s not only that he left everything.  He died for the Savior, who died for him.  We don’t know the details (there are several traditions), but he surely died a martyr’s death, as did all the Apostles, save St. John, who was a martyr in life.  In any case, Matthew suffered.  He suffered for following Jesus.  But look what it brought us, this suffering.  It was a sacrifice of mercy that brought us the Gospel that bears Matthew’s name.  It brought us… in fact, brings us… the crucified and living Lord Jesus Christ.  So that we rise, and follow Him.  To be with Him.  And in Him.  To hear Him.  To eat with Him.  To live in Him.

            Here we are, and it’s just another Sunday afternoon at Church.  And we look up, and here He is, the Lord Jesus.  He is looking upon us.  And we don’t even try to cover over our conscience, hide our sin from His gaze.  We confess our sins.  He sees them anyway.  And it is good and right to confess that we are sinners.  Because it is for just such that He came.  It is just such whom He calls.  It is just such whom He raises, and heals, and forgives.  And it is for just such that He sets a Table, that He might receive them, and eat with them.  Don’t stand apart.  Don’t hold on to any righteousness of your own (filthy rags, anyway).  As a matter of fact, don’t hold on to anything that keeps you from Him.  Not even your job, or your money.  Give it up.  Leave it all behind.  Just be with Him.  Where He is.  Be loved by Him.  Receive from Him.  Recline at Table and feast with Him.  Hear the Words He says to you today… (to you!): “Follow me.”  By those Words, you’ll do just that.  In the Name of the Father, and of the Son X, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen.

              

Fourteenth Sunday after Pentecost

Video of the Service

Fourteenth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 19C)

September 14, 2025

Text: Luke 15:1-10

            Who are these sinners Jesus scandalously receives, and with whom He eats?  They’re the kind of people with whom Pharisees and good Jewish folk wouldn’t be caught dead associating.  They’re the kind of people that make Law abiding, pious synagogue members feel unclean.  In fact, maybe the uncleanness is contagious.  Never would you speak to such a one.  At least not intimately, not on friendly terms.  Like, maybe you have to talk to the tax collector at the tax booth as he robs you of your money, enriching himself and the Romans, the traitor!  And maybe you have a rebuke for the prostitute or the backslider in your proximity.  But you wouldn’t willingly engage in conversation, ask about their welfare, or say nice things to them.  Never would you touch them, shake their hand, embrace them.  And never… not ever, under any circumstances, would you sit down for a meal with them.  Which would probably mean going to their house, or (gasp!) inviting them into yours. 

            Now, here comes Rabbi Jesus, and they’re all drawing near to Him, to hear Him.  Don’t miss that important point.  The virtue of these sinners is not in their sinfulness.  It’s not in the shock value of their publicly manifest iniquities.  It is that Jesus speaks, and His Word captures them, and draws them in.  Because they know it is a Word of mercy, and it is a Word for them.  So, here is Jesus, immersed in crowds of sinners, who flock to Him because they’ve found in Him release from their sins.  Cleansing for their uncleanness.  Healing for their brokenness.  Restoration to community, and Communion.  Jesus receives them and eats with them.  Once cast out, now brought in.  Once excluded, now belonging.  Once lost, now found.  And all heaven rejoices.

            Who are these ninety-nine righteous persons who need no repentance?  You do hear the holy snark in that appellation, do you not?  In reality, there is no such person (with the one exception of our Lord Jesus Christ) who is righteous and needs no repentance.  “None is righteous,” Paul says, “no, not one; no one understands; no one seeks for God.  All have turned aside; together they have become worthless; no one does good, not even one” (Rom. 3:10-12; ESV).  “(A)ll have sinned and fall short of the glory of God” (v. 23).  But the Pharisees and scribes think they're pretty close to that glory.  As close as anyone could expect.  They are not like other men, and certainly not like these tax-collectors and sinners.  They fast twice a week.  They give tithes of all that they get.  They meticulously observe the Law of Moses and the traditions of the elders built as a hedge around the Law of Moses, to keep them safe from transgression.  Good.  Fine.  But they look upon this as their righteousness, as that which renders them righteous before God.  And one has to admit, it all looks very good.  Outwardly.  But they’re blind to the real corruption, the deep-seated wickedness of their own heart.  They’re good at seeing the sins of others.  They can’t see their own.  And so, they grumble about (among other things) God’s mercy to sinners (grumbling, which I happen to be very good at, is nevertheless a mark of self-righteousness and thanklessness).  And they don’t draw near to Jesus.  They reject Him and go far away from Him.

            You know a few Pharisees.  Actually, you know one of them quite well.  His name is old Adam.  He’s sitting with you in the pew.  No, don’t look to your right, or your left.  That’s just the sort of “I’m righteous in comparison with my neighbor” game pharisaical Adam loves to play.  Rather, look deep down into your heart.  You know, the place the world always tells you to look for inspiration and every good thing.  Instead, you’ll find old Adam there.  Get him!  Grab him by the scruff of the neck and confess the ever-lovin’ hades out of him.  Drown him in the blest baptismal waters.  Crucify him.  Repent him to death.  Say… out loud, even… I am not, in and of myself, a righteous person who needs no repentance.  I am a poor, miserable sinner.  The only good in me comes from outside of me, from Christ, my Lord, bestowed on me by grace, without any merit or worthiness in me.  I stand with the tax-collector and beat my breast, lamenting, “God, be merciful to me, a sinner!” (Luke 18:13).  Yeah, that ought to do it.  That ought to stuff old Adam back where he belongs.  Because, that is not who you are anymore.

            Who are you, beloved?  Well, you know who you were?  You were the lost sheep, wandering off on your own, away from the Shepherd, away from the flock, away from the sheepfold, thinking you knew better than that crozier-wielding stick-in-the-mud, Jesus, anyway.  Wandering toward perils unknown.  Predators.  Robbers.  Injury.  Certain death.  But now… now you are the one for whom Christ, our Good Shepherd, leaves the ninety-nine to search out and rescue.  You are the one… just look at paintings or icons of Christ, the Good Shepherd… you are the wounded sheep He bears on His shoulders, and carries home rejoicing.  And all heaven with Him.

            You were the lost coin, the drachma, woven into a crown of ten, constituting a bride’s dowry.  When one coin falls off, by the way, the whole wreath falls apart.  When one coin is lost, the whole crown suffers.  This is an intensely personal tragedy for us all, beloved.  Now, holy Mother Church, the Bride of Christ, lights a Lamp… the Word of God!  “Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path” (Psalm 119:105)… and she sweeps the house and seeks diligently until she finds it.  And when she does, she rejoices.  And all heaven with her! 

            And so does the Church on earth.  With angels and archangels and all the company of heaven.  More joy over one sinner who repents than over… Well, what about those ninety-nine supposedly righteous people?  They’re not actually righteous.  They need repentance, too.  They’re lost, too.  So, send out the undershepherds, in the Name of Christ.  Light the Lamp, dear Church of God.  Preach.  Preach the Lord Jesus Christ. 

            Who is this Man who receives sinners and eats with them?  He is the very Son of God, sent on divine mission into our flesh to gather lost sheep into His fold.  To save sinners.  To save us.  Not to save the righteous.  Sinners.  “I came not to call the righteous, but sinners” (Matt. 9:13).  We have no righteousness of our own.  But He is our righteousness.  As God says through the Prophet Jeremiah, “In [Jesus’] days Judah will be saved, and Israel will dwell securely.  And this is the name by which he will be called: ‘The Lord is our righteousness’” (Jer. 23:6).

            Who is this Man?  He is the One who takes the sins of sinners, the sins of the whole world, my sins and yours, upon Himself, and puts them to death in His body on Calvary.  He is the One who sheds His blood, who dies our death, who is buried in our tomb.  He is the One who is risen from the dead, lives, and reigns, and will raise us, and give eternal life to us, and to all who believe in Him. 

            And He is the One who still receives sinners and eats with them.  What is He doing for us today?  He is speaking His Words into our ears, and placing His Words upon our lips as we sing and confess.  He is absolving us: “I forgive you all your sins,” He says, through the mouth of His called and ordained servant.  He is breathing His Spirit into us, even now, as the holy wind of His Word blows through the building.  And in a few moments, what will He do, but bid you come to His Table and eat with Him. 

            And then, He’ll send you on your way… note this, this is very important… changed.  Different than you were before.  When Jesus receives sinners, just as they are, without one plea, it is a beautiful thing, but understand, He doesn’t leave them that way.  He forgives their sins, and then sends them out healed, whole, and new.  What do the tax-collectors, like Matthew, like Zacchaeus, do once they’ve drawn near to Jesus?  They do things like give half their possessions to the poor, and restore four-fold whatever they’ve stolen (Luke 19:8).  What do sinners, like the woman caught in adultery, do once they’ve fallen before Jesus’ merciful feet?  They cling to the Words, “Neither do I condemn you; go, and from now on sin no more” (John 8:11).  The blind who receive their sight, don’t go wandering back into their blindness.  The crippled who have taken up their beds to go home, don’t lay back down on them and refuse to use their limbs.  What a squandering of the Lord’s gifts!  This is an important point to make, because some falsely believe and teach that our Lord’s receiving sinners and eating with them means we can do whatever we want, with nary a worry about offending God or falling from faith by disregarding His Word.  And then we can waltz right back to Church every Sunday for our weekly dose of forgiveness… or, more probably, what we’re seeking… justification, not from our sins, or in spite of our sins… but justification for our sins, and in our sins.  Lord, have mercy.  That is not what this text means.  That is not what Jesus does. 

            Beloved, when our Lord has had His way with you, receiving you to Himself, feeding you, and eating with you, He then sends you out with a whole new life… His life.  Not so that you can go out and sin a bunch more, knowing you have a get-out-of-hell free card.  No.  But so that you can live each day as a New Creation, as God’s own, precious, blood-bought child.  Jesus sends you out with His blessing, His Name, His presence.  A member of His Bride, the Church, shining forth the Light of His Word, sweeping and seeking other lost coins for the Kingdom.  Living always in His righteousness.  Oh, you will sin when you go out.  No denying that, this side of the veil.  Old Adam again.  Push him back down under the water.  Daily.  But also, daily emerge and arise to live before God in Christ.  As one who keeps coming back to Jesus.  Who keeps drawing near, to hear Him.  Because you know He’ll always receive you with open arms, and pierced hands.  And there will always be a place for you at His Table.

            “This man receives sinners and eats with them” (Luke 15:2).  Thank God, fellow sinners.  Thank God.  In the Name of the Father, and of the Son X, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen.