YOU SAY YOU WANT A REVOLUTION?

SERMON FOR THE SECOND SUNDAY OF ADVENT

WYou Say You want a Revolution?W

 

Almighty Father, sanctify us in Your truth. Your Word is truth. Amen.

 

OUR READING FOR THIS MORNING THE HOLY SPIRIT HAS CAUSED TO BE WRITTEN IN THE GOSPEL OF ST. MATTHEW, THE THIRD CHAPTER:

 

I

n those days John the Baptist appeared in the wilderness of Judea, proclaiming, “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near.” For it was he of whom the prophet Isaiah spoke as “The voice of one crying out in the wilderness: ‘Prepare the way of the Lord to make His paths straight.’”

Now John wore a garment of camel’s hair, and a leather belt around his waist, and his food was locusts and wild honey. At that time Jerusalem and all Judea and all the region about the Jordan were going out to him, and they were baptized by him in the river Jordan, confessing their sins.

But when John saw many of the Pharisees and Sadducees coming for baptism, he said to them, ‘You brood of vipers! Who warned you to flee from the wrath to come? Bear fruit in keeping with repentance. And do not presume to say to yourselves, “We have Abraham as our father,” for I tell you, God is able from these stones to raise up children for Abraham. Even now the axe is laid to the root of the trees. Every tree therefore that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire.

I baptize you with water for repentance, but He who is coming after me is mightier than I, whose sandals I am not worthy to carry. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and with fire. His winnowing fork is in His hand, and He will clear His threshing floor and gather His wheat into the barn, but the chaff He will burn with unquenchable fire.’”       

 

WThis is the Word of GodW

 

Dearly Beloved: Grace to you and peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

 

I

t was the year 1542. In those days a young astronomer—well-educated, well-mannered, and self-reserved—published a book that would prove to be “revolutionary.” His name: Nicolas Copernicus. His book: On the Revolutions of the Celestial Spheres. With a sharp mind and a keen intellect, Copernicus argued against the prevailing view of that time which said that the earth stood at the center of the universe. This view—called geocentrism—had gone virtually unchallenged for nearly 2,000 years. So when Copernicus suggested in his book—quietly published before his death—that it was the sun, and not the earth, which stood at the center of the universe, it seemed to turn everything upside down and inside out. Suddenly and abruptly, the world was changed. The center was no longer ours to claim. We were found to be an orbiting planet—one among several others—in a strange new world. With his book, Copernicus had marked the end of an age.

It was the year 30. In those days a young preacher—wild-eyed, hairy, and unhygienic—proclaimed a word that would prove to be “revolutionary.” His name: John the Baptist. His word: “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near.” With a bony finger and a fat mouth he preached against the prevailing view of every time which says that I the sinner stand at the center of the universe. This view—called egocentrism—had gone virtually unchallenged since Adam and Eve bit the apple—and, consequently, the dust. So when John declared in his sermon—loudly published before his head was placed on a silver platter—that it was the Son (of God), and not I the sinner, who stood at the center of the universe, it seemed to turn everything upside down and inside out. Suddenly and abruptly, the world was changed. The center was no longer ours to claim. We were found to be wandering sheep—among a countless fold of others—in a strange new world. With his sermon, John had not only brought an end to an age—but he was bearing witness to a new one altogether.

The church year has now moved into the season of Advent. The word “advent” is an Anglicized version of the Latin word adventus, which means “coming.” So the season of Advent is the period of time in which we the church wait in joyful hope to celebrate the coming of our Lord Jesus Christ into the world.

And John the Baptist is only too eager to teach us the proper way to observe this Advent season: “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near!” To repent means to be changed—suddenly and abruptly. It means to be turned upside down and inside out. It means to no longer be able to claim the center as “mine”—but to confess that the center belongs to the Son alone. And this Son does not rise daily, but rose—once and for all; never to set again—in order that we might daily die and be raised to live before Him in righteousness and purity forever.

Christ does the arriving—we do the waiting. Christ does the increasing—we do the decreasing. Christ does the raising—we do the dying. Christ is the center. We are not.

It is the year 2013. In these days an old bride—uncertain of her future, irrelevant to the world, and wondering why on earth she can’t honeymoon in sunny Cancun instead of bloody Calvary—is in a desperate search for something—anything!—that will prove to be “revolutionary.” Her name: the church. Her groom: the Son of God made flesh. And the questions she is so used to asking herself, such as “What will I say?” or “What will I do?” are only chaff to be burned, because they get it all wrong. They are not merely pre-Copernican—they are pre-Christian! They do not know that the center does not belong to us anymore—that it never really did—that it belongs to the Light shining in the darkness, whom the darkness has not overcome. For it is no longer I the sinner who lives, but the one who is mightier than I—Jesus Christ—who lives in me.  

God be praised! We the church have not been commissioned to become “something” before the world’s teetering, tattered—and soon to be toppled—throne. Instead, we have been called to become nothing but a voice—crying out in the wilderness to prepare the way of the Lord and make His paths straight. To become nothing but a finger—pointing to the Lamb of God who takes the sin of the world away. To become nothing but an ax—laid to the fruitless trees of this dying age. To become nothing but a hand—planting the promised Seed from which alone will sprout the new creation, the new kingdom, where the wolf shall dwell with the lamb; and the little child shall lead them.  

Whereas the Copernican revolution boasted in its discovery that the sun does not orbit around us, but we around it, the Christian revolution boasts in its proclamation that the sinner does not come to God, but God to the sinner. The proclamation is the Advent—the coming of the Lord. The revolution is the absolution—the word of forgiveness in which you can be sure that the old has passed away and the new has come near. As Dr. Luke once put it: “The law and the prophets were until John, and since then the good news of the kingdom is being preached—and everyone enters it violently” (Lk. 16:16).

You say you want a revolution? Well, you know, we all want to change the world. So let’s stop talking about it, and let’s start actually doing it, proclaiming the revolutionary word that turns everything upside down and inside out; that marks the end of one age and the beginning of another; that prepares the way of the One who baptizes with Spirit and fire—whose sandals we are not worthy to carry.

Never mind that there are several unlit candles on the Advent wreath. Never mind that Mary’s due date isn’t up for a few weeks yet. Never mind that you haven’t even had time to get the nativity set down from the attic. Never mind that the paths you’ve spent all your life preparing and making straight will, in the brilliant light of the Son, be revealed as nothing but a crooked, cluttered, meandering mess. Because whether or not your heart has prepared Him room, heaven and nature will sing! For Christ has come today—FOR YOU—to “revolutionize” you; to clear His threshing floor and gather you up like wheat into the storehouse of heaven. So ready or not, here He comes—with His winnowing fork in His hand! ALL YOUR SINS—EVERY LAST ONE OF THEM, FROM HERE TO ETERNITY—ARE FORGIVEN IN THE NAME OF GOD ALMIGHTY: THE FATHER, THE SON, AND THE HOLY SPIRIT. AMEN!

What is there left for you “to do” now? Join the revolution! And let the ruling classes—the devil, the world, and your own sinful flesh—tremble! Because now that Christ has come, there is nothing but chains to loose and a world to win! Preachers of the world unite—and make way for Christ! AMENW

 

VOCATION: LIFE IN THE OLD & NEW WORLDS

"When God, through the orders he has established, deals with man, he aims to save man in heaven, and he wants man to serve his neighbor. In the law which speaks in the vocations of men God compels man without the assent of his heart to serve others. Thereby the old man is crucified, the neighbor is helped, and, through his cross, man himself is advanced on the way toward heaven and salvation, all by one concrete action of God. In the gospel the gate of heaven is opened, and a miracle takes place. He who enters heaven immediately descends in love, in 'free bondage.' He gives himself to the care of his neighbor, concerned about his well-being. Thus God carries forward his double work in new concrete action, not now without the assent of man's heart, but with the heart through the Word and the Spirit. The freedom of faith does not dissolve vocation. On the contrary, is sustains it and gives it new life" [Gustaf Wingren, Luther On Vocation, 1957 (Eugene, OR: Wipf & Stock, 2004), 66].

DO THIS!

 

SERMON FOR THE Twentieth SUNDAY AFTER PENTECOST 

WDo This !W

“Jesus said to his disciples, ‘Occasions for stumbling are bound to come, but woe to anyone by whom they come! It would be better for you were a millstone hung about your neck and you were thrown into the sea than for you to cause one of these little ones to stumble. Devote yourselves! If your brother sins, you must rebuke the offender, and if there is repentance, you must forgive. And if the same person sins against you seven times a day, and turns back to you seven times and says, ‘I repent,’ you must forgive.’

“The apostles said to the Lord, ‘Increase our faith!’ The Lord replied, ‘If you had faith the size of a mustard seed, you could say to this mulberry tree, ‘Be uprooted and planted in the sea,’ and it would obey you.

“Who among you would say to your slave who has just come in from plowing or tending sheep in the field, ‘Come here at once and take your place at the table’? Would you not rather say to him, ‘Prepare supper for me, put on your apron and serve me while I eat and drink; later you may eat and drink’? Do you thank the slave for doing what was commanded?  So you also, when you have done all that you were ordered to do, say, ‘We are worthless slaves; we have done only what we ought to have done!’” (Luke 17:1-10).

 

Dearly Beloved, Grace to you and peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

W

hat do we have here? Mulberry trees and mustard seeds—and in the midst of it all, the cry of the disciples: “Increase our faith!” It certainly sounds pious enough. In fact, it seems to be so swollen on piety that it just might burst itself into a million pieces. And, perhaps surprisingly, our Lord has no interest in keeping this holy hot-air balloon afloat. Instead, He aims to shoot it right out of the sky. “If you had faith the size of a mustard seed,” says Christ to the disciples, “you could say to this mulberry tree, ‘Be uprooted and planted in the sea’, and it would obey you.”

            “If you had faith the size of a mustard seed…” In the Greek, this is a counter-factual. Jesus is saying, “If you had faith as small as a mustard seed—WHICH YOU DO NOT—then you could preach a word to this mulberry tree, and, in so doing, uproot it and plant it in the sea.” Here the winged cry of the disciples is hurled down to earth in a furious and fiery nose-dive. To demand an increase of faith assumes that you have at least a little bit of faith already. But how can you increase what you have nothing of? Oddly enough, Christ reveals the disciples to be faithless in their very cry for “more.”

            At the same time, however, we can see that the disciples were in some limited way aware of their lack. After all, to cry out for “more faith” is tantamount to confessing of not having “enough faith.” The disciples knew they needed “more” than they currently possessed. But why? What provoked this sense of absence? What led them to suspect this scarcity? What aroused this recognition of want? The preceding verses—verses 1-4—provide the answer:

“Jesus said to his disciples, ‘Occasions for stumbling are bound to come, but woe to anyone by whom they come! It would be better for you were a millstone hung about your neck and you were thrown into the sea than for you to cause one of these little ones to stumble. Devote yourselves! If your brother sins, you must rebuke the offender, and if there is repentance, you must forgive. And if the same person sins against you seven times a day, and turns back to you seven times and says, ‘I repent,’ you must forgive.’”

How truly bizarre it is: If you ask the church whether she can stamp out world hunger by the year 2020, without even a moment’s hesitation she’ll say, “Yes! My faith can move mountains!” But if you ask her in the next breath whether she can forgive sin seven times a day, then suddenly the color flushes from her face and she becomes sick with worry: “Increase my faith, Lord!”

What is so hard about forgiving sins anyway? Nothing, actually. And maybe that’s just the problem. Maybe the problem is that it’s too easy. Forgiveness, we think, doesn’t “go anywhere.” It doesn’t hold out any promise beyond itself. It is a circular movement we just repeat over and over again—seven times a day—even seventy times seven! The Old Being shudders at the very thought of it. “You mean to tell me,” the old sinful self whimpers, “that the Christian life is just this ceaseless repetition of going back and forth, to and fro, around and around: repentance and forgiveness, repentance and forgiveness. Isn’t there something more to be done than just that?!” Forgiveness never seems to be quite enough.

Our Lord Jesus Christ has just finished giving the disciples the keys to the Kingdom: a key that binds (the Law) and a key that looses or sets free (the Gospel). And yet the disciples just sit there, staring at the keys like dumb cows staring at a new barn door—mouths agape and drooling, totally oblivious to the precious office being given to them. My goodness, just imagine if we actually implemented Christ’s instruction that it would be better for a millstone to adorn the neck of every pastor, deacon, bishop and pope and they be drowned in the depths of the sea than that even the smallest one should be allowed to stumble? There wouldn’t be a single millstone left above sea level, I’m afraid—besides there being far too many necks left unadorned!

The office Christ gives is an office that does something. It uproots and it overthrows, it builds and it plants. The word does it all. And there is nothing ambiguous about it. “Take, eat, this is my body, given for you…Take, drink, this is my blood, shed for you for the forgiveness of sins…Do this!” Or how about another? “Go! Baptize all nations in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.” The sense of absence, the suspicion of scarcity, the recognition of want, is nothing other than the experience of the Old Adam and Eve being put to death. If we are all just poor beggars at our Master’s table; if we are all just babies in the font—AND WE ARE; if the Christian life is nothing but a continual dying and rising again, drowning and emerging anew—AND IT IS—then the old has passed away and the new has come—AND IT HAS! Here, in this new kingdom come, the logic of scarcity, of wondering if I have “enough” faith, of fearing its lack and so trying to secure its increase, utterly fails to understand what faith is. Faith is not a power in you, but it is the truthfulness of the promise you have received.

Dearly beloved, God did not send me to preach to you this morning in order to “reinforce your life with a sense of meaning.” He sent me to take your life away and so to give you a new one—without end. Nor did God send me to point you down the wide, well-trodden path of self-discovery, so that you might—one fine day—stumble upon the answer to your aching question: “Who am I?” Instead, He sent me to pluck off every last rung from your ladder to heaven, to tear away every last block from your yellow brick road, and to proclaim, FOR YOU, not an “answer,” but a PROMISE: “You are His and He is yours—and nothing—neither death, nor hell, nor anything else—can tear you away from His hand.” And no, God did not send me to plumb the depths of your potential so as to reveal in you some inner spark or power you never knew you had. Rather, He sent me to uproot your head from your navel, to place it in the guillotine of God, and to cut it off with the final stroke of grace—the coup de grace—and, in so doing, to plant you firmly in the Sea of Living Water: Jesus Christ your Lord.

God be praised! I have not been sent to preach to you some phony-baloney word, all slick and smarmy, never ceasing to advertise its ability to “transform” and “penetrate” human lives, but, when the hour of death strikes, can’t even manage to pierce the surface of my grandmother’s jello mold—much less the cold, stone heart of a sinner! It would be better that a millstone be wrapped about my neck and I be thrown into the depths of the sea than that I should preach to you any other words than the two God has put in my mouth: the Letter that kills and the Spirit that gives life; the Hammer that lays the old world to waste and the Hand that raises up a new world out of the grave.

But I expect that here Old Adam and Eve—in the midst of their death throes—will want to whisper one last desperate doubt in your ear; will want to strike one closing chord of uncertainty in your heart: “What if,” the Old Being hisses seductively, “—what if this preacher, who is so impious and brash as to claim to be sent by God and to speak on His behalf—what if he doesn’t have faith the size of a mustard seed? Then how do you know whether or not he is able to uproot a mulberry tree and plant it in the sea? You don’t know. Because you can’t know. You can’t possibly know because you cannot see his faith. Sure enough, he talks a big game, claiming to speak for God—any crazy loon can say as much! But the question you must ask yourself, the question you must prayerfully consider, is this: ‘Did God really say?’”

Well, if it promotes your hearing of the gospel, then allow me to put your consciences to rest: I don’t have faith the size of a mustard seed—and so what!? You’re not a grove of mulberry trees either, but I’ll preach to you anyhow—because the Word of God will have its way; it will accomplish that for which it was sent; ripping you out of the arid soil of your sin, and building you into the oceanic loam of Christ’s blood and righteousness.

Rest assured: the word of God is not loafing about in its bathrobe, wringing its hands in boredom, waiting for you or I to attain some minimal threshold of faith before it can find employment. In fact, the word works best precisely where there is no faith; yes, even where there is nothing at all.

Do you want an example to emulate? Then emulate this: the body of your crucified Lord, who though once dead on a cursed tree, was raised to life through the power of the word, and, in rising, destroyed the bonds of death, bringing life and immortality to light. The time for dozing in your sin-shrouded death, then, is over. The time for slumbering in your navel-shaped tomb is done. Morning has broken! Daybreak has dawned! The Word of the LORD has visited your house today. So arise, O sleeper! Arise from the dead!

Do you want something to do? Then do this: grab your serving apron and scratch off the letters that say, “Kiss the Cook—If You Want Desert,” and replace them with big, bold letters that read: WORTHLESS SLAVE. Then go out into the world and actually do the task to which God has called you, exercising the two keys. Bind and loose, rebuke and forgive, crucify and resurrect, pluck up the old and plant the new.

Do you want something to obey? Then obey this: the word of your Lord, who commands you: “Be uprooted from the jaws of death! Be torn away from the grips of hell! I have destroyed them both, for you. And now I build a new heaven and a new earth, and I plant you within it. You are no longer a stranger to me—I have called you by name! You no longer belong to yourself—I have made you my own! Did I really say it? Yes, I did! I, the LORD your God, HAVE SPOKEN!”

And if you should ever hear a hissing sound in your ear—and you will—and if your boldness should ever falter—and it will—then turn first to that Old Adam and Eve and tell those frauds to keep their forked-tongues behind their teeth; and then turn a second time to that blessed word of promise through which you have received faith and life and every blessing in Jesus Christ. For how can you increase what has already been given you beyond all measure? AMENW

 

 

 

BLESSED WE, THOUGH POOR AND LOWLY

 

WBLESSED WE, THOUGH POOR & LOWLYW

 

Blessed we, though poor and lowly,

By God’s Word made rich and holy,

Who await our resurrection,

In the certain hope of heaven.

 

Blessed we, though weak and weary,

To God’s Promise clinging dearly,

Who while yet lost and uncomely,

By His speaking were made lovely.

 

Blessed we, though starved and thirsting,

With the Gospel we are bursting,

Forth in power shown in weakness,

And in wisdom known in meekness.

 

Blessed we, though faint and dying,

Jesus Christ our strength supplying,

Life and comfort, salve and healing,

In the Cross his love revealing.
 

Blessed be the God of heaven,

Holy Father ever given,

Through the Son and in the Spirit,

By His grace I do believe it!

OUR GOD IS A CONSUMING FIRE

 

SERMON FOR THE Fourteenth SUNDAY AFTER PENTECOST

 

WOur God is a consuming FireW

“Therefore let us be grateful for receiving a kingdom that cannot be shaken, and thus let us offer to God acceptable worship, with reverence and awe, for our God is a consuming fire” (Hebrews 12:28-29).

 

Dearly Beloved: Grace to you and peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

 

 

T

he church wants something to do. Talk to her about adopting a new social statement, and she’ll lend you her ear; ask her to plan yet another conference on what the word “missional” means, and you’ll get her attention; provide her with the latest twelve-step program for increasing church membership, and she’ll give you her thanks; but try to remind her that the one and only task God has actually entrusted to her is the faithful proclamation of two words—law and gospel—and she’ll just roll her eyes, shrug her shoulders, and flip her hair as she struts off to the nearest street corner. “After all,” she’ll say, “a girl has to make a living somehow.”

            So what is it, exactly, about the God-given task of rightly distinguishing law from gospel, command from promise, Sinai from Zion, Moses from Christ that the church finds to be such a terrible nuisance, such a vexing obstacle to her own self-chosen task of arousing the world’s desire? Why does the very prospect of preaching God’s word so as to kill the old and raise the new make the church so insecure, so unsure of herself that she feels she must get all gussied up if the world is ever to glance in her direction? Why is the church, like Esau, so content to give away her divine birthright for just one measly bowl of worldly potage?

Now the church may well be a promiscuous bride—a point over which there is little dispute—but she’s not stupid. She knows that by adorning herself in the word of law and promise she has absolutely no chance of captivating the world’s wandering eye with her naked splendor. Rather, she knows that when adorned in the covering of God’s two words she will appear to the world as nothing but a leprous hag, a treacherous harpy, a black angel of death to be cast out of its sight and destroyed—by crucifixion if necessary.

And is it really any wonder why? After all, even proud and holy Israel, the chosen people of God, who when first led into the wilderness of Sinai said to Moses, “All that the LORD has spoken we will do” (Ex. 19:8), were swiftly reduced to quivering beggars beneath the thunder and the lightning, the fire and the darkness, the gloom and tempest and trumpet blast, as they pleaded desperately to Moses, “You speak to us, and we will listen; but do not let God speak another word, or the sound of His voice will devour us!” (Ex. 20:19). If even the righteous nation of Israel, whose sanctity was unsurpassed by that of any other—if even they begged God to just shut His mouth and leave them alone, then why on earth would we expect the fallen world to stand up and request an encore?

In that wilderness of Sinai, where the law was revealed in all its dread and fury, in all its terror and might, of what use to Israel was its ritualized sanctity, its white-washed garments, or its three days’ worth of preparation? Answer: none whatsoever! With all of their sanctimonious piety, with all of their religious zeal, yet they could not endure the presence of God’s glory, but instead took flight as if God weren’t their God at all, but the devil himself. And, strangely enough, this is precisely what the writer to the Hebrews teaches us to do when he says: “offer to God acceptable worship, with reverence and awe, for our God is a consuming fire” (vv. 28-29).

Now, to be sure, there is only one true God. As it is written, “Hear O Israel: The LORD our God, the LORD is one” (Dt. 6:4). But this one LORD of all will be yours in one of two ways, or better yet, in one of two words. Either He will be yours hidden in the law, or He will be yours given in the gospel. In other words, either His very heart will be preached to you in the form of a promise, “You are my beloved child in whom I am well pleased,” or His heart will remain hidden from you in the deafening howl of His silence. And so we find in Luther’s Small Catechism the persistent refrain, and true definition of worship, “We should fear and love God…”

Contrary to popular belief, there is such a thing as orthodoxy, that is, “right worship” of God. The “right worship” of God depends on the difference, not between the tiresome categories of ‘traditional’ and ‘contemporary,’ ‘high’ and ‘low,’ but solely on the difference between the ultimate categories of life and death. The “right worship” of God, as He comes to you beneath the crushing hammer-blows of the law, is to fear Him—and not only to fear Him, but to fear Him in such a way that you run as fast and as far away from Him as you possibly can. Thus we read that the people of Israel stood at a great distance from Sinai, having heard the command of the LORD, “Whoever touches the mountain shall be put to death” (Ex. 19:12). Now did this commandment serve in any way to affirm the Israelites in their own purity and holiness, or to confirm them in their own righteousness and chastity? Not for a moment. Instead the law did that for which it was sent: to “pluck up and pull down, to destroy and to overthrow” (Jer. 1:10a), to break the old being’s stiff-necked presumption of its own righteousness to pieces.

The law comes to lay its mark upon the clean and the unclean, the righteous and the sinner, the blessed and the damned, for the sole purpose of separating them—and making sure they stay that way. According to the law, there are two basic stuff in life: that which is holy and that which is unholy—and never the twain shall meet. The law enters this old world searching for the one who is righteous; and finding none—no, not even one—proceeds to distribute the just wages of sin: death. Now the law does not carry out its verdict without first securing the blindfold of justice over both its eyes. For the law, being spiritual and holy, shows neither partiality nor prejudice, but abides by the most stringent of non-discrimination policies, tracking down and damning sin wherever and in whomever it is found—regardless of age, race, ethnicity, creed, gender, sexual orientation, political affiliation, and, yes, even divinity.

Herein lies the conflict. For the gospel also comes to lay its mark on the clean and the unclean, the righteous and the sinner, the blessed and the damned, but for the sole purpose of uniting them—and in such a way that they remain united for all eternity. According to the gospel, there is no law to separate the holy from the unholy, but only true freedom in the One who is “all in all”: Christ the Crucified. He is our God, this man, Jesus—and no other. He is the one who has consumed your death and damnation in Himself, by becoming them in His own person, and defeating them there once and for all. And so, as your God and Lord, He commands that you worship Him rightly, with reverence and awe, by knowing Him as the One so wrapped in your sins that they are His, and by knowing yourself as the one so wrapped in His righteousness that it is yours.

And so, as it turns out, the proper distinction of law and gospel is not some abstract principle, or a particular “style” of preaching, or one way of interpreting the Bible among others. The art of rightly distinguishing law from gospel, command from promise, Sinai from Zion, is none other than the art of laying your sins on the Lamb of God slain, for you, from the foundation of the world. And it is an art to be practiced, not in an armchair, but here and now and at the hour of our death.

            You have not been led to the dark and withering flame of Sinai, where your life once depended on standing far off and away so as not to hear God’s voice; but you have been led to the burning fire of Zion, to the city of the living God, to the heavenly Jerusalem, where your life now depends on its being united to Christ—so united, in fact, that when the blessed promise fills your ear anew you no longer know how to separate yourself from the person of your Lord, but can only confess with St. Paul: “It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me.”

Make no mistake: God is a fire that devours, and, one way or another, either through the fire of the law or the fire of the promise, you will be consumed. Whereas the word of the law once shook all the earth, now the word of the promise shakes “not only the earth but also the heavens…in order that the things that cannot be shaken may remain.” And what is that which alone cannot be shaken?—which alone remains? It is the Word of God: Jesus Christ Himself. As the prophet Isaiah said, “The grass withers and the flower falls, but the Word of the LORD abides forever” (40:6).

The church is not being the church when she, like Hosea’s slovenly wife, is out selling herself to the highest bidder, desperately seeking to be an object of the world’s desire. Or when she, like Martha, is frantically running about the kitchen trying to make herself useful, searching anxiously for something—anything—to do but the one thing that is needful. The church is being the church when she, like Mary, is sitting at her Lord’s feet, hearing His word, and so finally finds something worth talking about: Christ has arrived, he has arrived for you, and He has come to make you useful to Him by putting you to death and creating you anew; by forgiving you all your sins and translating you into His kingdom, where He alone abides.

And if you should ever come to a place and a point where the flame of this promise has grown dim in you, and your faith is weak and dying, then listen again to Christ’s promise, wrapping Him in your sins, firmly believing that there—in His body—they have been burnt away like the chaff. You can bank on it. Truly, truly, I tell you, your God is a consuming fire. AmenW