The Sermon Archive is up-to-date!

Hi all!

This is how I’ve looked for the last three days.
From Twitter

I have finally gotten through the backlog of sermons I hadn’t uploaded here and now everything is up on the blog! Feel free to peruse them here. Do note that most of these also have links to video of the live, preached sermon, which sometimes differs a bit from the manuscript–I will sometimes add extra illustrations on the fly or choose to reword something in my manuscript, and to be perfectly honest, I don’t really intend to go back through the videos and rewrite my manuscripts to match the final product. As an old pastor of mine, Gerry Kuhn, used to say, “There’s the sermon I wrote, the sermon I gave, and the sermon you heard.” Sometimes having the disparity between the written sermon and the one given can be a useful homiletical tool when looking back at a text.

If you like anything you read, please comment! I’d love to know what stuck out to you, what you thought was an effective homiletical move, and what you think could have been different. (Nota bene: This is an invitation for constructive criticism, not trolling; not that I would expect anyone to do that here, but hey, this is the internet, and people are sinful.) Thirty sermons don’t make a person an expert on preaching by any means, and so I am still growing and hoping to learn more. The reason why this site exists as it does is to create a portfolio of public work that not only records what I have done in my preaching over my vicarage, but also to be a record of my work for my seminary professors and for future congregations that I may serve. It also exists so that the people who originally heard these sermons can hear them again and contemplate them if something in them stood out during the delivery.

Thank you for reading/listening/watching, and enjoy!

Soli Deo gloria!

Nils

+ St. Peter ad vincula, August 1, 2019 +

Sermon for the 7th Sunday after Pentecost, July 28, 2019, Proper 12 (Luke 11:1-13), “Fully Reliant on the Father”

“The Lord’s Prayer/Le Pater Noster” (1886-1894), by James Tissot (1836-1902). The Brooklyn Museum. Public Domain.

Final Sermon preached as Vicar at Living Savior Lutheran Church in Fairfax Station, Virginia.


Grace, mercy, and peace to you from God our Father, and our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.

Martin Rinkart, 1586.
Public Domain

The Thirty Years War was a terrible time for Europe.  From 1618 to 1648, Europe was wracked by violence, famine, and plague— Protestant and Catholic mercenary armies scoured the landscape, especially in Germany.  By the end of the war, one third of the German population had been wiped out in what would be the largest known war for three hundred years until the outbreak of World War One.  It would also be known as a war that was as hard on civilians as it was on soldiers.  In the midst of it all was a German Lutheran pastor, Martin Rinckart (1586-1649), the archdeacon of the walled town of Eilenburg, Saxony.

            Rinckart’s war was, by most accounts, a terrible one.  Troops were forcibly billeted in his home (they didn’t have the 3rd Amendment then), and the contents of his pantry and barn were frequently requisitioned by foraging soldiers, leaving him and his family with few resources.  In 1637, nineteen years into the conflict, plague brought by refugees fleeing the Swedish army swept through Eilenburg, killing 8,000 people, including Rinckart’s first wife.  Among those killed by the plague where all but three members of the town council, many children, and the pastors serving in the neighboring parish.  As a result, Rinckart had to do the work of three men, visiting the sick and dying, and overseeing over 4,000 burials.  1637 was an unimaginably awful year.

“Soldiers Plundering a Farm” (1620), by Sebastiaen Vrancx (1573–1647). Deutsches Historisches Museum, Berlin. Public Domain.

Hot on the heels of the plague came famine, and so Rinckart shared what little he and his family had with those starving in his community.  When the Swedish army showed up in Eilenburg in 1639, they levied a 30,000 Thaler tribute on the town, a sum that beleaguered Eilenburg could not pay.  (It is roughly equivalent to $460,500 in today’s money.)  Rinckart went into the Swedish camp to parlay with their general for mercy on Eilenburg, but the general would not budge.  He wanted his 30,000 Thalers, and so Rinckart turned to those who came into the camp with him and said, “Come, my children, we can find no hearing, no mercy with men, let us take refuge with God.”[1]  With this, he fell to his knees, and began to pray.

Prayer comes to the forefront in our Gospel reading this morning.  Jesus, sitting with his disciples, is approached by one of them who asks him to teach them how to pray properly.  After all, John’s disciples had a certain mode of prayer  So did the people in the Dead Sea communities.  Fixed prayers were a standard part of the spiritual life of your average first century Jew.  “Does Jesus have one that he promotes, too?  Does he know a better way?” they may have wondered.  So Jesus begins:  “When you pray, say:

“‘Father,[a]
hallowed be your name,
your kingdom come.[b]
3 Give us each day our daily bread.
4 Forgive us our sins,
    for we also forgive everyone who is indebted to us.[c]
And lead us not into temptation[d]’” (Luke 11:2-4 NIV).

And after he has said this, Jesus illustrates the importance of such a prayer.  He poses them a hypothetical situation: suppose one of them has a friend who shows up outside the house at midnight and raps on the window.  “Hey, buddy, can you lend me three loaves of bread?  I have a friend passing through on a journey who stopped at my place, and I’ve got nothing to give him.”  And the one in the house replies, “Don’t bother me!  The door is locked, we’re all in bed, and I’m not getting up!”  Some parents here this morning might sympathize with that sentiment— doubtless you’ve all heard the midnight water call.  And yet, the disciple in bed will get up, if not on account of his friendship, then on account of the brazenness of his friend in coming to bother him at that hour—if only to make him go away.  (This reminds me of many a night in college, though instead of bread, it was pizza money our nocturnal visitors were after.)  Jesus encourages the disciples to approach God the Father with the same boldness in this prayer, continuing: “Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives; the one who seeks finds; and to the one who knocks, the door will be opened” (Luke 11:9-10 NIV).

“The Importunate Neighbor” (1895), by William Holman Hunt (1827-1910). National Gallery of Victoria. Public Domain.

            When Jesus teaches the disciples to pray in Luke 11, his prayer does several things for them.  First, it orients the disciples to acknowledge God as their Father.  Not some distant thunderer, not some cosmic horror, but as a God who has a relationship with his creation that is so close that he views them as his children and they view him as their father.  Second, it orients the disciples to ask God to “be” God (“let thy name be made holy,” “let thy kingdom come”)— it orients them to rely upon God to do his will in the world and fulfill his promises.  And third, it forces them to reckon just how totally reliant they are upon God and how helpless they are without him.  Daily bread— everything that one needs to live both now and in eternity—, forgiveness, and protection from the assaults of sin, death, and the Devil, all come from him and him alone.  When the disciples pray as Jesus has taught them, they talk to him in such a way that indicates their full reliance on God and his promises for their lives and their utter helplessness without him.  Altogether it is, as Dr. Peter Nafzger, our professor at the Seminary, says in his recent notes on this text, a prayer focused on asking God to do what he promises to do–it is “an expanded version of the recurring prayer throughout the Gospels, ‘Lord, have mercy.’”[2]

And we need his mercy, because without it, we’d be lost!  In a weird and twisted way, our sinful selves desire to be free from God’s provision and mercy, seeking after evils and illicit pleasures that separate us from him and go against his will for us.  Left to our own devices, we seek self-aggrandizement and see ourselves as our own sustainers, believing that everything we are and have and do depends on us.  But in our sin-warped vision, we seek the things that destroy us, focusing on temporal pleasures that are fleeting, and misallocating the gifts we receive.  We fail to acknowledge our creator and his gifts for us.  In our unthinking arrogance or ignorance, we go our own way.

Invariably, left to our own devices, we go so far down the rabbit hole of self-gratification and self-reliance that we get in trouble.  We might find ourselves caught in a particular sin that, though at one time it felt “okay” to engage in and not wrong— even healthy— now suddenly becomes all-consuming.  Or we might find ourselves caught in activities that are unethical, and though we know what we’ve done is wrong, we’re in so deep that we cannot get out of the web of lies and deceit we’ve created to maintain ourselves in the manner to which we’ve become accustomed.  Or maybe we’ve placed so much dependence on ourselves that we find ourselves juggling too many responsibilities at once, thinking that everything depends on us and telling ourselves that we can handle it all, hurting ourselves and others due to our foolish pride.  Or if things do seem to go well, we perhaps think that we deserve all the credit, even when we do not because we’ve needed other people for our success.  And when we hit rock-bottom, failing to conduct ourselves properly or to carry out our vocations in a way that helps our neighbors, we can find ourselves in a hopeless position, one full of despair, fear, and self-loathing because we could not carry ourselves and the rest of the world on our shoulders like some sort of Atlas.  When that happens, we seek some kind of relief, some kind of mercy.  But how do we know to ask for it and where to find it?

“Pater Noster” ca. 1890s, by Fridolin Leiber (1853-1912), from Wolfgang Brückner, Elfenreigen – Hochzeitstraum. Die Öldruckfabrikation 1880–1940. (Köln: M. DuMont Schauberg, 1974). Public Domain.

This is why Jesus teaches the disciples his prayer because he gives us the words to speak and know that God the Father is the one on whom all depend for their life, well-being, and all they have.  When one is being crushed by sin and adversity, the words of Jesus’ prayer remind him that God is the Lord and also the loving Father of all; that he will keep his promises and be God to the one praying; and that he is the source of all that is needed for this body and life, of all love, and of all forgiveness.  As Luther writes in the Large Catechism:

82] Behold, thus God wishes to indicate to us how He cares for us in all our need, and faithfully provides also for our temporal support. 83] And although He abundantly grants and preserves these things even to the wicked and knaves, yet He wishes that we pray for them, in order that we may recognize that we receive them from His hand, and may feel His paternal goodness toward us therein. For when He withdraws His hand, nothing can prosper nor be maintained in the end, as, indeed, we daily see and experience.[3]

“Christ teaching the disciples the Lord’s Prayer” (1550), by Hans Brosamer (1495-1554) from the 1550 Frankfurt Edition of the Small Catechism of Martin Luther. The British Museum. Public Domain.

“Behold, thus God wishes to indicate to us how He cares for us in all our need.” Luther is talking more about the petition “give us this day our daily bread” here, but it goes for the whole prayer.  Jesus, in teaching his disciples (and us, by extension) to pray in this manner shows them and us that all the good we have comes from God, not just those things that satisfy our daily needs (and for which we ought to give thanks to God), but also the gift of forgiveness of sins, protection from the powers of hell, and everlasting life.  It is all his mercy, and he gave us his ultimate gift of mercy to sustain us in every need when he sent Jesus to win salvation and life for us through his death on the cross and resurrection.  The Lord’s Prayer reminds us of this gift and our reliance upon God for it— we could not gain that act of mercy and love for ourselves.  But God teaches us to remember it.  He teaches us to pray, to boldly ask him to remember us in his mercy, and indeed to know that we have already received it from him.  Indeed, as Jesus says to his disciples in our Gospel lesson, “If you then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him!” (Luke 11:13 NIV).

That mercy has been given for you, my brothers and sisters in Christ.  It is yours, and you can go before your Father in Heaven, asking him to be God for you with all the boldness and unmitigated temerity of a guy knocking on your door at midnight asking for bread for a guest and more.  When you are weighed down by guilt, shame, fear, and stress, and you don’t know how to pray for the mercy you need but don’t know where to find, let the words of Christ’s prayer point you back to him who takes those sins and buries them in the tomb, clothing you in his mercy, and giving you eternal life and everything you have.  His mercy is for you, and he will sustain you by it, fully reliant on the Father.

And now…the rest of the story.  Remember Martin Rinckart?  When he got down on his knees with his parishioners to pray to God for a solution to their suffering and the harsh tribute that the Swedes planned to inflict on their town, the Swedish commander was so moved by their display of faith— it may be fair to say that God softened his heart toward them— that he cut the tribute from 30,000 Thalers to 2,000.  You and I might not see that kind of answer to prayer in every circumstance; indeed, it seems miraculous.  But we know that, though [we] are evil, [and] know how to give good gifts to [our] children, how much more will [our] Father in heaven give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him!”  God the Father is your good Father and mine, and he will always be merciful to us and give us what we need, we who are fully reliant on him, when we ask him as dear children do their father.  This is his promise to us through Jesus Christ our Lord, and we can thank him just as Rinckart thanked him when the Thirty Year’s War ended with our prayers and songs, perhaps with words like these of Rinckart’s:

Now thank we all our God
With hearts and hands and voices
Who wondrous things has done
In whom this world rejoices;
Who from our mother’s arms
Has blest us on our way
With countless gifts of love
And still is ours today.

“Nun danket alle Gott,” published in Johann Crüger, Praxis Pietatis Melica (Berlin, 1653).
Public domain.

And now may the peace which surpasses all understanding keep your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.  Amen.


[1] http://www.bach-cantatas.com/Lib/Rinckart.htm

[2] https://www.1517.org/articles/gospel-luke-111-13-pentecost-7-series-c

[3] LC V.82-83


Sermon for the Fourth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 9), July 7, 2019 (Luke 10:1-12) – “Sent Out as Lambs among Wolves”

“He Sent them out Two by Two/Il les envoya deux à deux” (1886-1896), by James Tissot (1836-1902). Brooklyn Museum. Public Domain.

Originally preached at Living Savior Lutheran Church in Fairfax Station, Virginia


Grace, mercy, and peace to you from God our Father, and our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.

It is worth noting that von Lettow’s legacy is not without controversy and the man not without his own sins–thousands of natives died in East Africa as a result of famine caused by his campaigns. Von Lettow may also have been involved in a previous action against the Herreros in German East Africa that is considered the first structured genocide in modern history, but it is unclear as to the extent of his involvement, and some biographers claim that he was against it or was not actually involved. Nonetheless, I am more interested in his prowess as a guerrilla commander here, and Gaudi’s recent study of him provides a well-rounded look at his military legacy leading up to and during the Great War.

As all of you know, I have an interest in history, and one area that I’ve recently been devoting a fair amount of attention to is the history of the First World War.  As part of satisfying that interest, earlier this year, I happened to read a biography of General Paul von Lettow-Vorbeck, who commanded troops in an extensive guerrilla warfare campaign against both British and Belgian forces in German East Africa, what is now modern Namibia and Tanzania.[1]  Even though his army of native Askari troops and German colonial Schutztruppe were equipped with outdated single-shot, black-powder Jägerbuchse rifles, had little artillery at their disposal, and were technologically and numerically outmatched, they were nonetheless able to inflict severe losses upon the British and Belgians.  They were the only German forces in the entire war who were able to successfully bring the war into British territory, and only surrendered at the end due to shrinking numbers of men and supplies in the face of increasing numbers of British and Belgian troops being brought in from outside of Africa.   Because of his gallantry in battle and his ability to win the admiration of his enemies, von Lettow was given the nickname, “The Lion of Africa,” and he has gone down in history as one of the greatest guerilla fighters of all time.  (He is also remembered for colorfully telling-off Hitler in the 1930s when the latter asked for his endorsement.)

Lightly-armed Askari troops in German East Africa.
This file is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Germany license. Attribution: Bundesarchiv, Bild 105-DOA7209 / Walther Dobbertin / CC-BY-SA.

In our Gospel reading this morning, we see a different kind of lion, the Lion of Judah, preparing “soldiers” for a different kind of guerrilla warfare.  Jesus is preparing 72 (or in some manuscripts, 70— it’s a difficult textual question as to which one Luke originally wrote because existing manuscripts are split between the two numbers; that said, theologians have determined that 72 is most likely)– 72 new disciples to go out into the world to preach the good news of the kingdom of God to the towns Jesus was going to come through.  Like von Lettow’s Askaris, they’ll go lightly armed, with little equipment, but their foes are not flesh and blood like the British or Belgians.  These 72 disciples are going behind the lines deep into enemy territory, territory ruled by Satan, the Prince of the Power of the Air.  Jesus is sending them out like sheep among wolves— the enemy is dangerous and deadly, and going as they are, they appear vulnerable.  We might assume that the territory is not just hostile because they’ll be doing battle with the forces of evil, preaching the good news of the kingdom, but also because they will literally be going into hostile territory for Jews.  As we heard last week, Jesus and his disciples have been going through Samaria, and the Samaritans, long considered by the Jews to be a people and religious group tainted by foreigners brought into the region by the Assyrians when they conquered Israel, aren’t terribly friendly toward the Jews.  Jesus and his disciples have already been turned away from one town in Samaria; it’s likely that the 72 won’t receive a warm reception here as well.  But nonetheless, they’re going out, vulnerable, to preach a message of repentance and the coming of the kingdom to an unbelieving and hostile world.  And they are going into this hostile world, full of sin and its entanglements, full of violence and hate, full of unbelief and persecution, to do the will of their master, to preach the peace of the coming kingdom to potentially enemy ears.  He sends them off like lambs in the midst of an enormous wolfpack.

Agnus Day appears with the permission of www.agnusday.org

Like the 72, Jesus sends us out to be his ambassadors to the world as well, to shine the light of Christ before others.  Our task may not be quite the same— for us, the kingdom of God is now here, and we, as Christians, are citizens of it— but the world today isn’t any less hostile to the message of the kingdom of God than it was when Jesus sent out the 72.  This seems odd to us as members of the Church in a country where Christianity seems pretty mainstream and (as of 2017), 70% of the population identified as Christian.  But there are still plenty of people who are hostile to the Gospel or who have not heard it and are enthralled by other religions, and the number of people who claim no religious affiliation is growing by the day.  Here in Northern Virginia, “nones,” those people who seem to have no religious affiliation or belief has increased to roughly 60% of the local population.  That’s a lot of people who have either left the church, never were part of the church, or are burned out on religion who are trapped in their sins and need to hear the Gospel, many of whom likely have their own conceptions about the church that don’t make them well-disposed to hearing the good news of the Kingdom of God.

And adherents of other religions and the rising prevalence of irreligion aside, the world certainly doesn’t want to hear a message of repentance for the forgiveness of sins.  The world is partial to sin.  The world likes violence and greed and sensuality and hatred.  The world loves pride and vanity and envy, gluttony and mindless consumption. The world loves apathy and dehumanization and death and objectification, among myriad other things.  And the devil and the world thrust these things upon us, their own foul panoply, in order to entice and captivate with the aim of leading astray and, ultimately, destroying souls.  The devil and the world play to man’s sinful nature with these things, and they seek to undermine the message of the Gospel by bringing down those who would be God’s ambassadors to the world and who would live as his children.  All of us have been tempted by these things, all of us have given into them one time or another.  We all, like sheep, have gone astray, and sometimes the wolves have attacked us.  Sometimes the wolves have taken a few members of our flock.  Sometimes some of us have been turned into wolves.  Sometimes, we have had wolves in sheep’s clothing among us.  When we see the weapons arrayed against us, we realize that it’s not easy being someone sent by Christ.  It can be downright frightening, and when we seem to be losing our battles to the wolves, it can lead us into fear and despair.

“Wolf und Fuchs” (1666), by Franz Rösel von Rosenhof (1626–1700). Bavarian State Painting Collections. Public Domain.

And of course, the mission for us is different.  The 72 were sent out by Jesus to specifically preach the kingdom’s coming.  We haven’t been commissioned that way.  Not all of us are gifted preachers.  Not all of us have been given the vocation to preach and teach like a pastor or a missionary does.  And we are living in the world post-resurrection; Jesus has died and risen to forgive our sins.  The kingdom of God has come near and is with us.  But how do we go about in this hostile world with confidence, knowing what lurks out there, waiting for us?  If Jesus has called us to serve him, what is he calling us to do?  How can we face the dangers of this still dangerous world if we’re not being sent out in the manner of the 72 to explicitly do battle with evil?

“Wolf reißt ein Lamm” (1666), by Christopher Paudiß (circa 1618 –1666/1667). Bavarian State Painting Collections. Public Domain.

When Jesus sends out the 72, he apparently sent them “unarmed,” but in reality, they are carrying a super-weapon on their mission into enemy territory.  Think of it as something like a spiritual briefcase nuke.  Jesus gives them authority to speak his peace to the people they come to.  The peace of God comes with them, and that peace is the blessing of eternal life through faith in the promised work of Christ, in the coming of the kingdom of God.  Their job is to speak that peace, to tell other people about the reason for their peace, and should they be open to it, pass it on to them.  It is the peace that comes when the kingdom of God draws near.  The faith they have in the promise keeps them safe; it gives them the power to cast out demons, to heal, and to tread upon all the evil schemes of the enemy; to strike such a blow against Satan through the good news of God that Jesus sees him falling from heaven, his power weakened and grip on mankind loosened.  Faith in the redemptive work of God forgave their sins, and put their names in God’s book of life.  Jesus reminds them that they should not rejoice in the power he gives them over evil forces, but rather to rejoice in knowing that their “names are written in heaven,” that their hope and joy should be in their salvation.  The 72 can boldly go about their mission, as sheep among wolves, but safe from the enemy’s assaults.  Jesus assures them: “And nothing will harm you.”  They are forgiven, and reconciled with God to do his work.

The Eastern Church preserves some of the names attributed to the 72 disciples. From psephizo.com.

The peace of God, the promise of redemption from sin and the gift of eternal life, made it possible for the 72 to go forth and perform their mission for Jesus, preparing the way for him on his journey through Samaria.  That peace of God is also ours.  Though we are not called by Jesus to perform the exact mission of the 72, we are nonetheless his missionaries.  As Peter writes in his first epistle, all Christians “are a chosen people, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, God’s special possession, that you may declare the praises of him who called you out of darkness into his wonderful light” (1 Pe 2:9 NIV).  We, therefore, trusting in the work of Christ for our salvation from sin, can, through our daily vocations, witness Christ by the way in which we live, and by so doing, we can be the light of the risen Christ in the world for others. 

Martin Luther once said the following through how a Christian can be a source of light and peace in the world in a 1522 sermon:

“The prince should think: Christ has served me and made everything to follow him; therefore, I should also serve my neighbor, protect him and everything that belongs to him. That is why God has given me this office, and I have it that I might serve him. That would be a good prince and ruler. When a prince sees his neighbor oppressed, he should think: That concerns me! I must protect and shield my neighbor….The same is true for shoemaker, tailor, scribe, or reader. If he is a Christian tailor, he will say: I make these clothes because God has bidden me do so, so that I can earn a living, so that I can help and serve my neighbor. When a Christian does not serve the other, God is not present; that is not Christian living.”[2]

Christ has sent us, recipients of the promise of eternal life, royal priests in a holy nation, to serve one-another and to be agents of the Gospel through our interactions with others in an unbelieving world.  You can be confident as a Christian, “always being prepared to make a defense to anyone who asks you for a reason for the hope that is in you” (1 Pe 3:15 ESV), because Jesus has empowered you to serve others because he first served you.  You don’t have to be afraid to reach out to others who are not in the church, you don’t have to fear engaging those who are in the thrall of the world because Jesus has written your name in the heavens.  He is with you, and though you may seem to be a sheep among wolves, no power of the enemy can harm you when you trust in him and let him use you as his instrument.  Go forth and serve joyfully— Jesus has saved you and sent you to share his peace!  Amen.


[1] Gaudi, Robert. 2017. African Kaiser: General Paul von Lettow-Vorbeck and the Great War in Africa. (London: Hurst & Company.)

[2] Martin Luther, “Sermon in the Castle Church at Weimar” (25 October 1522, Saturday after the Eighteenth Sunday after Trinity), in D. Martin Luthers Werke: Kritische Gesamtausgabe, 60 vols. (Weimar: Herman Böhlaus Nachfolger, 1883–1980) 10/3:382 (translation F.J.G).  Cited in F.J.G., “What Luther Didn’t Say about Vocation,” Word & World 25:4 (2005): 361.


Sermon for the Third Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 8), June 30, 2019 (Luke 9:51-62) – “Foxes have Holes, Birds have Nests….”

“Jesus Traveling (Jésus en voyage)” (1886-1896), by James Tissot (1836-1902). The Brooklyn Museum. Public Domain.

Originally preached at Living Savior Lutheran Church, Fairfax Station, Virginia.


Grace, mercy, and peace to you from God our Father, and our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.

It seems hard for me to believe (because it seems so recent), but over ten years ago, Honda had a certain advertising campaign on television and that featured an animated man who would talk about the vehicles and deals available during the Honda Year-End Clearance Event.  Once he had told the viewer or listener about the great deals available to them, he would either “rap” the television screen or “tap” the radio microphone and state enthusiastically, “I’m Mr. Opportunity, and I’m knocking.”

Mr. Opportunity was Honda’s way of telling prospective car buyers about the cars they could have if they acted quickly.  The Year-End Clearance Event wasn’t going to last forever, though, and the cars weren’t going to stick around. Just as soon as the event was over and the cars sold, Mr. Opportunity would be on his way until the next big sale.  But while the sale was on, he was knocking.

In a way, Jesus, in our reading from Luke this morning, is kind of like Mr. Opportunity.  He’s been going along, preaching about the coming kingdom of God, preaching repentance and healing people as he journeys toward Jerusalem where his work will be made complete.  He presents an opportunity in every town he enters, an opportunity for life and healing, an opportunity for second chances and changed hearts. But not everyone who comes into contact with him is open to that opportunity.  The Samaritans, theological opponents of the Jewish community, see that he’s going toward Jerusalem, the seat of their rival religion, and so they don’t let him into their town. He’s not acceptable among them, even if he is bringing with him the good news of the kingdom of God.

Some of the people who have joined Jesus on his journey don’t understand what taking the opportunity to follow him means.  The man who says he’ll follow Jesus wherever he will go doesn’t understand the stakes of being a disciple. “I will follow you wherever you should go,” he says.  But Jesus replies, “Foxes have dens, the birds of the air have nests, but the Son of Man has no place to lay down his head.” To follow Jesus is to leave behind everything, to give up your comforts, to become homeless in this world.  Wild creatures have their homes, but not Jesus. The one who expects comfort and an easy time of it while going with Jesus on his journey to Jerusalem will be sorely mistaken.

“Homeless Jesus” by Timothy P. Schmalz in the courtyard of the Papal Charities Building, Vatican City. From the sculptor’s website.

And those whom Jesus calls to follow him learn that the opportunity to follow Jesus is fleeting.  Jesus isn’t waiting around. “Permit me, going [with you], to first bury my father,” says one. “Let me say goodbye to all the folks at home,” says another.  But Jesus won’t give them time to do these things. “Let the dead bury the dead,” Jesus tells the first, “but you proclaim the kingdom of God.” “No one who puts his hands upon the plough and looks back is worthy of the Kingdom.”  Jesus is Mr. Opportunity, and he’s knocking. He’s still heading for Jerusalem, and they either heed him or they don’t.

Of course, what Jesus tells these men who wish to follow him is a hard saying.  In the case of the first, he’s telling him that following the Son of Man means becoming essentially homeless in the world.  In the world of first-century Judaea, to follow a rabbi literally meant to take on their philosophies and lifestyle. Following Jesus guarantees hardship and difficulty–no earthly security, no earthly comfort.  The fox has his den, the bird her best, but Jesus, and by extension, his followers, doesn’t have that comfort and safety. When Jesus calls these men to follow him, they learn that in order to truly follow him, they must have no earthly attachments.  Jesus comes first, everything else comes second. Even the obligation to bury one’s father, the most important thing one could do as a first century Jew, must come second.

“Fox Den” (2018) by Yellow Oxide after Shingo Nono. Image from Instagram.

But surely Jesus can’t be serious, can he?  That his followers are not to expect any kind of stability, that family comes second to following him, so much so that caring for one’s parents is made subordinate to preaching the word of the kingdom of God?  What Jesus is doing for these men who wish to follow him is that he’s pointing out their idols, the things that keep them from committing to his call, those things that take their attention away from preaching the kingdom of God and instead focus their attention on worldly matters, those things which take Jesus’ place in their hearts, those things which keep them from fully placing their trust in him, either because they dominate their attention or because they are convenient excuses.

And that’s what Jesus is doing here. By calling these men to follow him (or in the case of the first, explaining what his call will be like), Jesus is asking them to trust him utterly, to give up all they have and to follow him wherever he goes, even to Jerusalem where he will die.  But these men have other worldly cares that seem to take place of Jesus’ call. They don’t seem necessarily willing to set these things aside and throw their lot in with Jesus. They hear the call of the son of God, and yet, when they hear what’s entailed, they are reluctant. The idols in their lives–comfort, family, societal obligations–keep them from trusting him fully and taking the plunge.  They don’t have their priorities straight. They try to put conditions on their following him.

It’s worth remembering that when Jesus talks to these men, he’s talking to people who haven’t yet seen his crucifixion and resurrection (though they’re looming in the distance).  Looking at ourselves, what does this mean for us? We’re Christians, living in the promise of the resurrection. Most of us have been Christians since our infancy. But just because you’re in the church, doesn’t mean that you’re automatically following Jesus.  To follow Christ isn’t some sort of casual activity. It’s not something that we do passively (though we can’t do it without Jesus’ help), because there are all kinds of things out there that vie for our attention and which we turn into excuses for not following him, living as baptized children of God, being the church.  Maybe you’ve noticed some in your life. Perhaps it’s a desire to be comfortable. “Lord, I want to follow you, but I don’t want to take the risk–I’m afraid of the social repercussions of living out my faith publicly.” “Lord, I want to tell other people about you, but I’m just too busy making ends meet.” “Lord, I fear what others will say.”  Maybe the desire for financial security gets in the way. “I want to help people as you would have me, Lord, but I want to save money. I’m worried that if I give this homeless fellow cash, he’ll spend it on drugs. I don’t want to be defrauded.” “Lord, I know we pray ‘thy will be done,’ but I really want things to go my way for once.” “Lord, I know what I should do, but I can’t bring myself to act the way you want me to.”  “Lord, I believe— help my unbelief!” These thoughts and worries are all indicative of the idols we make out of ourselves, our time, our money, and our feelings, among myriad other things. They’re all things that we use to say, “I want to follow you, Jesus, but….” When we do that, we’re going back to that old familiar sin of ours wherein we trust ourselves over Jesus, or at least show that we’re not so ready to take him at his word, to trust that he is God and that, with him, we will be in his care and under his protection.  We can’t put our hands on the Gospel plough and then have second thoughts about it.

“The Man at the Plough” (1886-1894), by James Tissot (1836-1902). The Brooklyn Museum. Public Domain

Humans are creatures of comfort, after all.  We don’t like to be drawn into uncomfortable situations or ones in which we are vulnerable.  But that desire for comfort in the world distracts us from the fact that our Lord wants us to find our true comfort in him, not in the world.  That’s the issue that faced these men to whom Jesus called along the road to Jerusalem. But the difference for them is that Jesus isn’t calling them to follow him on their own, left to struggle and puzzle out how to best follow their master by themselves.  He is going to be with them! And while they may not understand who he is and what following him fully means, he invites them to trust him and follow him. It’s not unlike how the Israelites trusted God and followed his pillar of cloud and fire on their way out of Egypt in the Exodus.  God called them to follow him, and they did so, trusting him the whole way. They didn’t know where they were going, but he was present with them for every step, protecting them from danger.

“Moses goes through the Red Sea. The Army of Pharaoh is Drowned” (10th Century). Paris psalter, BnF MS Grec 139, folio 419v. Public Domain.

As it was for the Exodus-era Israelites, so it is for the men in our Gospel reading.  Jesus will be with them–in fact, they’ll be with him. And if they’re with him, then he will guide them.  In a sense, that’s what Jesus means when he talks about how no-one who puts his hands to the plough and looks back is not worthy of the Kingdom.  If you’ve ever seen how an old plough works— the kind that’s drawn by oxen rather than horses— you’ve probably noticed that in addition to the person who guides the plough itself, there’s at least one other person to help goad on the oxen along and keep the plough moving.  Jesus is like that person who guides the oxen, and when they start moving, you’d better hang on! But he keeps the oxen from going out of control and keeps the plough in its furrow.

And so it is for us.  Even though there are many things that fight to control our attention and entice us to hem and haw about living as one of God’s children in Christ, Jesus invites us to trust him and follow him.  We don’t have to fear or worry about discomfort or worldly obligations preventing us from following Jesus with our whole being because he will help us deal with that discomfort and meet those obligations as we follow him.  As we “go along,” following Jesus, we can perform our duties and face discomfort and unsurety in the world, but motivated by a different spirit, not because we are motivated by fear or by some law or custom, but because Jesus has given us the freedom to do so.  When we trust Jesus when he says, “Follow me,” knowing that the Son of God has our back no matter where we go or where he calls us to go, we can follow him without fear or worry, and we can do our best to be who he calls us to be. He will be with us every step of the way, and if we stumble in our following him, he will set us back on our feet to continue with him on his way.

C.S. Lewis once wrote the following: “If you read history you will find that Christians who did most for the present world were those who thought most of the next.  The apostles themselves, who set out on foot to convert the Roman Empire, the great men who built up the Middle Ages, the English evangelicals who abolished the slave trade, all left their mark on earth, precisely because their minds were occupied with Heaven.  It is since Christians have largely ceased to think of the other world that they have become so ineffective in this one. Aim at Heaven and you will get earth ‘thrown in.’ Aim at earth and you will get neither.”

When we remember that Jesus is with us when we go to follow him, we can live confidently in whatever circumstances we find ourselves, not worrying about discomfort, vulnerability, or fear, but living in the world while looking confidently forward toward the kingdom of heaven, made worthy of it because we trust the one who makes us worthy, Jesus Christ.  Amen.


Sermon for Pentecost, June 9, 2019 (Acts 2:1-21) – “Depart, you unclean spirit, and make room for the Holy Spirit!”

“Pentecost” from the Nuremberg Chronicle (1493), F 102r 1. Public Domain.

Originally preached at Living Savior Lutheran Church, Fairfax Station, Virginia.


Grace, mercy, and peace to you from God our Father, and our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.

Imagine, if you will, the following:  The year is AD 33, though you, as someone in the Jewish community would have known it as the year 3794, or as the 786th year since the founding of Rome, or the 19th year of the reign of Tiberius Caesar.  You and all of the congregation are crammed together in a house in Jerusalem, praying.  The day is the feast of Pentecost, called “Shavuot,” the Feast of Weeks.  It is a Jewish harvest festival, which “conclude[s] the period of seven weeks which began with the presentation of the first sheaf of the barley harvest during the Passover celebration.”[1]  But it is also a festival commemorating God’s giving the Law to the Israelites at Sinai fifty days after their leaving Egypt, when God descended upon Mount Sinai in thunder and fire, when “[the] smoke of it went up like the smoke of a kiln, and the whole mountain trembled greatly” (Exodus 19:18, ESV).  You and the rest of the assembly are probably planning to observe the feast with everyone else in Jerusalem.  But recently, strange and wondrous things have been afoot in your little community.   Jesus has ascended into heaven.  Fifty days ago he was resurrected from the dead after being put to death by the Romans, and now he’s gone to be with God, his Father.  But he promised to send a helper to you, the Paraclete, the Holy Spirit, to speak to his glory and be your guide.  And now you are waiting, following Jesus’ command to “not depart from Jerusalem, but to wait for the promise of the Father” (Acts 1:4, ESV).

And while you’re all together in the house, talking, praying, reading, there’s suddenly a mighty whoosh, a great wind, roaring like the sound of a jet engine through the house (not that you’d have known what a jet engine was). But nothing is moving, it’s merely the sound.  Suddenly tongues of fire, perhaps like those God sent down on Sinai over one thousand years earlier, come down through the air and rest above the heads of each person in the house, you included, and you’re filled suddenly with this indescribable feeling, maybe a warmth, maybe a prickling, you can’t say.  It feels unlike anything you’ve ever experienced, though.  Something is going into you, filling you, and you feel different.  Better?  Whole?  Alive?

“Pentecost : The sending of the Holy Spirit upon the Apostles” from the Hortus Deliciarum (1180) by Herrad of Landsberg (1125-1195). Public Domain.

Suddenly you and everyone else are running out of the house, dashing into the street.  The neighbors have heard the whoosh, as well as the out-of-towners who have come to Jerusalem to celebrate Pentecost.  They’ve come from all over the world for this, men and women from other parts of Judea and Galilee, from Parthia to the east and Crete to the west; from Egypt, Pontus, Persia, the Anatolian coast, North Africa, and far off Italy.  The whole known world is represented in Jerusalem this day.  And suddenly, like things possessed, you’re speaking to them about Jesus and who he is and what he’s done.  And they can understand you and you can understand them, even though you don’t know a lick of Farsi or Latin or Egyptian.

But some people in the crowd laugh at you.  They hear all these languages that they’ve never heard before, this literal Babel of voices, and they think you’re all drunk. They can’t believe it.  You can’t believe it.  How can this be?  What is causing you to do this?  How are you doing this?  You see, this is the work of the promised one, the Holy Spirit, and he has entered you and made these things possible.  The Third Person of the Trinity has come into you and made you his instrument to proclaim the Good News to the world congregating in Jerusalem.

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That’s the first part of the Pentecost account from today’s Acts reading.  We have all heard the story before, but has it ever occurred to you that something is happening here that is an exact reversal of what happened on several occasions in the Gospels?  What we’re looking at in the Pentecost story is not just the story of a miracle.  It’s the story of— and I use this term carefully— a possession.  Or perhaps put a better way, an exorcism and a possession.

“St. Felix, priest of Rome performing an exorcism” (1170-1200), by “Frater Rufillus,” from the Weißenauer Passionale, Cod. Bodmer 127, fol. 146v. Fondation Bodmer, Coligny Switzerland. Public Domain. Cropped.

When we think about possession, we usually think about demonic possessions, especially the pop culture depictions of them, like the film depictions in The Exorcist or Ghostbusters or The Evil Dead franchise, or that scene in Ghost where Patrick Swayze inhabits Whoopi Goldberg’s body so he can give Demi Moore one last kiss, to name a few.  Or we might remember those famous Biblical possessions: the possessed man in the synagogue who tried to call Jesus out early in his ministry or the possessed man in the land of the Gerasenes who hosted the demon Legion, and from whom the demon was cast into a herd of hogs which drowned under its influence.  Or we may remember the possessed slave girl used as an oracle who the apostles healed in Acts.  We even have a famous story of demonic possession at Concordia Seminary, which is said to have served as the basis for the novel upon which The Exorcist was based.  And in all of these examples, we see demons, evil spirits, taking up residence in the bodies of individuals and bending them to their wicked wills, tormenting them and harming them.

But Pentecost is different, because instead of an evil spirit taking up residence in their bodies, the Holy Spirit enters the disciples and takes hold of them.  Prior to his coming upon them, they were open to demonic attack, but now the Holy Spirit is dwelling in them.  Their bodies are his temple, and he is with them forever, glorifying God, testifying about Christ through them, and helping them withstand the assaults of the devil and the world.  They have been “possessed” by him, and are now preaching his Word to an unbelieving world.  And even after hearing the sound of the Holy Spirit rushing through the house and seeing and hearing the disciples, these people from Galilee, speaking in tongues not their own, some of the Judaeans and visitors to Jerusalem still did not believe that the Holy Spirit, the Spirit of the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, was at work there among them that day.  They chalked it up to “new” wine, “sweet wine,” the flavor of which masked the alcohol and made it far too easy to drink too much.  To them, this miracle was no miracle at all, just a bunch of lushes babbling drunkenly in the street.

“Pentecost” (1925), by Ludwig Glötzle (1847-1929), Saint Jodok Parish Church, Bezau, Vorarlberg. Photo by Wolfgang Sauber (May 27, 2012). This image is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported, 2.5 Generic, 2.0 Generic, and 1.0 Generic license.

It’s easy for us, too, to not see, or not want to see, the work of the Holy Spirit, either in us or in others.  The Old Adam, the old sinful man and servant of the devil who still lives within us, tempts us to sin and do those things that would harm us, contrary to God’s will and desire for us.  And because we are sinful beings, we enjoy following the Old Adam.  It is our basest inclination.  And so we sin in all sorts of ways.  We might gossip about a neighbor’s behavior, or get angry at that guy with Maryland plates who’s driving twenty miles under the speed limit in front of us in a no-passing lane.  We might let our gaze linger just a bit too long on someone who is not our spouse and entertain fantasies that, while we didn’t act on them, still were played out in our hearts.  Or we might get angry with our neighbor over some perceived slight, and say things that are very hard to take back.

But when we sin in these ways, when we give in to the temptations wrought upon us in the world, we forget whose we are, trusting in our feeble selves to know what is right and wrong and how we should act.  Isn’t this what happened to Adam and Eve, our first parents? And if we let sin rule us for long enough, when we go in search of unclean spirits and trust their voices over God’s, then God help us, because we become lost and cannot find our way back to him on our own.  And at that point, the law of God condemns us, and there is nothing we can do.  How shall we be delivered from this body of death?  Who can we turn to when the enormity of our sin comes crashing down on us and we realize just how helpless we are?

Peter provides an answer to the despair that comes from living under the rule of sin.  As Peter says in his sermon to the people gathered outside the house, quoting the prophet Joel, God has poured his Spirit out upon all flesh on account of the work of Christ, and he is now working through those who have received him.  They are doing his will now, conformed to him in righteousness so that they might do the works he has set before them.  He has cast out the unclean spirits that once made a home in those who have received him, and has made them his dwelling place. Just as God wrote his law on the hearts of the people of Israel, now he comes himself to rest upon the hearts of all believers.  The house swept clean from which the unclean spirit has been sent has been given over to a new and better Owner, with a very different taste in interior decoration.  They are his own, possessed by him to do God’s good and gracious will.  He, the Paraclete, the Helper, has come to protect them against the assaults of the devil and help them live according to God’s purpose.  Won by Christ, these disciples are now further preserved in faith by the Spirit who works in them, and his indwelling makes it possible for men to call upon the name of the Lord and be saved.

How do we know that the Holy Spirit dwells in us, especially if we have at times not lived as God would have wanted us to?  How do we know that he can help us when we see how terrible our sin is and desire deliverance from it?  I have this to say to you: trust in your baptism.  You see, when you were baptized, the same kind of exorcism and possession that we see at Pentecost took place in you.  In Luther’s Baptismal Rite, the pastor says to the one being baptized, “Fahr aus du unreiner Geist und gib Raum dem heiligen Geist![2]  (I bet you didn’t expect hearing speaking in tongues today!)  “Therefore, depart, you unclean spirit, and make room for the Holy Spirit!”  And later, “Ich beschwöre dich, du unreiner Geist, bei dem Namen des Vaters und des Sohns und des heiligen Geistes daß du ausfahrest und weichest von diesem Diener Jesu Chrsiti [N.] Amen![3]  “I command you, you unclean Spirit, in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, that you come out of and depart from this servant of Jesus Christ, Amen!”  This rite still exists in our agenda.  The old unclean spirit, the old power of the devil, was cast out, and God’s Holy Spirit has made you his dwelling place.  Bought and cleansed in the precious blood of the Lamb spilled on Calvary to reconcile all of creation to the Father, you are his own.  His Spirit is living in you.  Because he lives in you, you can live the life he desires for you and do the good works that have been set before you for the good of your neighbor.  With him living in you, you can fight temptation to sin and remember whose you are and how you should live when you want to gossip or look with lust on someone or get angry with your neighbor, for he is your protector.  And with him living in you, you can have faith in the promises of Christ, that he died and rose to save you from sin, death, and the devil and turn to him when confronted by your own sin.

“Baptism” from the Reformation Altarpiece (1547), Stadt- und Pfarrkirche St. Marien zu Wittenberg, by the Cranachs. Public Domain. Cropped.

And if you fear that you are too great a sinner, that you have lost your salvation because of how you have lived, or if you fear that you are beyond redemption because you have fallen away from the faith for a time, take heart!  You might be a great sinner, but God is an even greater savior!  His promises are still for you.  You can’t wash off your baptism.  That promise is indelible, and you can always return to it.  The Holy Spirit is still working in you to show you your sin and lead you to repentance and Christ’s love and forgiveness.  And when you are restored, he helps you to live as God would have you do.

Jesus says in John 16: “When the Spirit of truth comes, he will guide you into all the truth, for he will not speak on his own authority, but whatever he hears he will speak, and he will declare to you the things that are to come. He will glorify me, for he will take what is mine and declare it to you. All that the Father has is mine; therefore I said that he will take what is mine and declare it to you.” Because of Jesus, we have been cleansed and possessed by the Holy Spirit.  Let us live joyfully in his dwelling in us, confident in the promises he has given us in our baptism and doing good toward our neighbors, and speaking God’s good news in Christ to them so that they too may know him and believe.  For this is the Pentecost mission of the church.

May the peace which surpasses all understanding keep your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.  Amen.


[1] Mark J. Olson, “Pentecost,” ed. David Noel Freedman, The Anchor Yale Bible Dictionary (New York: Doubleday, 1992), 222-223.

[2] Agend-Büchlein für die Nürnbergerische Kirchendiener in der Statt und auf dem Land, 1591: 54.

[3] Agend-Büchlein für die Nürnbergerische Kirchendiener in der Statt und auf dem Land, 1591: 56.