Psalm 23 and Eternal LIfe

Test: Psalm 23

Note: This sermon preached by Vicar Craig Simenson

Psalm 23 is a favorite psalm. It is a familiar psalm. So familiar and etched into our memories through its frequent repetition—(didn’t we just hear this a few months ago?)—that we may have stopped paying much attention to its nuances. When we do stop to take notice, the different translations that we might (or might not) be familiar with pose interesting interpretative questions for us to make meaning of.

For example, in the end, is that I am to dwell in the house of the LORD forever (as the King James and this morning’s version goes)?

or is it only my whole life long (as the New Revised Standard Version, the Bibles that are in our pews) renders it?

As Pastor Stein highlighted for us in his sermon on the psalm this past summer, attention to the actual Hebrew used suggests that the psalm does not here refer to any notion of an eternal life. Rather, more literally, the psalm here speaks to the length of these days, on this green earth, beside the still waters of this time and place. Psalm 23 speaks to the comfort that is available to us even now in the darkest valleys of this life.

Interestingly, attention to the actual Greek used in John’s gospel this morning poses similar interpretative complexities.

My sheep hear my voice. I know them, and they follow me. I give them eternal life, and they will never perish.

Yet, what is translated here as eternal life, while denoting life that is ever-lasting or eternal (in other words, infinite) can also mean life lasting for a definite period of time: an age, a generation or a lifetime.

Similarly, when John tells us that Jesus says that his sheep will never perish, the Greek literally (and perplexingly) tells us that they will never perish into the age.

With this in mind, we come to an important interpretative question:

What age exactly does John refer to here?

My own guess (for what it’s worth) is that behind John’s words is belief in an age that is to come. An age, a world, a new way of life that Christians continue to speak about, when in the words of the Nicene Creed, we say that we look for the resurrection of the dead, and the life of the world to come.

Importantly, this notion of ever-lasting life that we find both in John’s gospel and in the Creed does not seem to be a life that we can necessarily wholly abstract from our experiences of this life: a life lived within and bound to a particular world and a definite period of time. There is the life in this world, and there is the life in the world to come—each life bound to a particular, though apparently different, kind of world.

Yet, picking up the puzzling language used in John’s gospel would also seem to hold open the possibility this morning that we each re-examine and reflect on the ways in which we, as Christians, might often—and mistakenly—go too far in distinguishing our lives in this time and place from the ever-lasting life that is to come.

When John tells us that Jesus’ sheep will never perish into the age, the use of the preposition here suggests not a disconnection between this world and the next, but a certain continuity. Rather than abstraction, John’s language here would seem to suggest that those who follow Jesus now already live into the age that is to come.

This morning, Jesus speaks to us of an ever-lasting life that does not exist wholly beyond the length of these days, on this green earth, beyond this time and this place:

My sheep hear my voice. I know them, and they follow me.

Importantly, Christian faith cannot be limited only to the life that awaits us. For Christians, ever-lasting life is not apart from, but inclusive of the lives that we live into now. Inclusive of who we choose to listen for and follow now.

Importantly, for Christians, the life in this world and the life in the world to come are bound together.

Importantly, for Christians, the resurrected Christ who appears to us this Easter season is the Christ whose resurrected body still bears the marks of his former death. This life and the life of the resurrected world to come are bound together.

In our readings from the Acts of the Apostles, even the Christ already gone away into the clouds in chapter 1, already seemingly passed into the world to come, is the Christ who is still present among us—the Christ who is still healing the sick and bringing the dead to life.

Importantly, the Easter storyline is not one in which ever-lasting life stands wholly removed from this life. Rather, Easter is the story of resurrected life breaking into this one.

Even Revelation, a book often characterized in over-simplified terms of future happenings, arguably offers Christians not a picture of the life that is only to come, but also a vision of who we are already becoming. A vision of how God is already shaping us.

From every nation, from all tribes and peoples and languages, standing before the throne and before the Lamb, crying out in worship, singing to our God, Revelation reveals to us who we are when we gather together every week. Revelation’s words are our words.

Blessing, honor, glory to the Lamb. Holy, righteous, worthy is the Lamb.

Revelation’s words are our words.

And the Easter storyline is our story. The story of the slain Lamb who has already overcome death, who—by his resurrection—shows us just how expansive life is. The God who is and who was and who is to come. Who reveals to us ever-lasting life stretching out in every direction, in every time and place, in every life and lifetime.

My sheep hear my voice. I know them, and they follow me.

Christ, speaking to us still, speaking to us always. Who leads us in right paths, but not necessarily always easy ones.

The Christ who, instead of eternal safety and security, promises ongoing relationship. I know them, and they follow me.

The resurrected Christ who leads us beside still waters, where God wipes away every tear from our eyes that they might become the water of life. Where even betrayal, violence, and criminal execution are turned into empty tombs, resurrected lives, healing, and hope for this world and the world to come.

My sheep hear my voice. I know them, and they follow me. I give them eternal life—life that does not end, life in these days and in the days to come—and they will never perish.

May we keep on listening for that shepherd’s voice.

May we keep on following this resurrected one in our midst calling us to love one another.

To give our lives to one another without fear.

To live abundantly into the ever-lasting life already here.

Acting Praisy

Text: Psalm 150 and John 20:24-29

Praise God from whom all blessings flow. Praise God all creatures here below. These words are no doubt familiar to you. We’ll sing them in a few minutes as we collect offerings. You may know this song as being called The Doxology. It is really just a doxology, a word that means “words of glory.” Doxologies praise God.

Hallelujah! we sing around this Easter time. It seems like it should be translated “hooray!” Jesus Christ is risen today, hooray! But the word Hallelujah means “praise God.” Praise our God, the one we know by name. Hallelujah is a word of glory.

Hallelujah! Praise God in God’s holy temple. So begins Psalm 150. Praise God for God’s mighty acts. From whom God’s blessing flows. Praise God, all things that have breath. Praise God all creatures here below. Praise God with music and dancing and loud clanging cymbals. Hooray!

This is the last psalm. The final psalm in the book of psalms. After all the laments and songs of the earlier psalms, what does it come down to? When things are good, praise God. And when things are bad, praise God. Praise God, all the time.

Praise and sacrament are the backbone of our worship. We come here to praise God and to be fed. Lutherans have a pretty good understanding of the feeding part. But are more suspicious of praise, thinking we might have to act “praisy.” You know, waving our arms around and, as the psalm says, dancing and otherwise carrying on. We should do a little more of that, I suspect. But even for Lutherans, praise is central to our relationship with God. In one sense, praise is pure prayer.

Praise is not necessarily a religious term. But when it is, it has five characteristics that I want to talk about today. A kind of top-five list of things about praise. So we’ll do a countdown, as people do, back to front.

Number five: praise is thanksgiving. It is appropriate that we connect it with our offerings, which are, as we say, signs of God’s gracious love. Praising God is an expression of gratitude. For God’s mighty acts, as the psalm says. Hallelujah, thank you, God, for all you have done.

But praise is not transactional. We don’t praise God in exchange for the goodies God has given us. Praise is not payment: You be nice to me, I praise you. So, the fourth characteristic of praise is that it is not useful. That is, its utility is not germane. As one writer said, this psalm with all its praises is “an extreme case of inutility.” It asks for nothing, it makes no claims. It is not churchy or religious: it does not speak about judgment, covenant, or promise. It is just praise. God, you are great.

Number three: praise is naive. We praise God without knowing all that much about God. Just as you can praise, say, a hero for her bravery or a saint for his compassion, without knowing that person very well, so we can praise God for what we see, whether or not we understand it or can make sense of it. God has, as the psalm says, excellent greatness. That’s sufficient.

Number two: praise is not about us. Whether we are in fact thankful or bitter or whether our tears are from laughter or despair, it does not matter. We do not have to prepare ourselves. We do not have to be especially good or contrite or anything. We praise God in exactly the same way as we step up to the altar rail for Holy Communion: without qualification. We praise God without apology.

Praise is a way of seeing things. So, the number one characteristic of praise is recognition. Not recognition in the sense of reward. “I give you this certificate in recognition of your outstanding service blah blah blah,” kind of thing. Not that. But recognizing God as you would recognize a lover or a friend. Seeing them as they are (or as you know them to be). Embracing them. Admiring them for no good reason. Just because you love them. (As the father of the prodigal son does, who spies his wayward son on the road home and rushes to greet him.) Excusing them, even. Because they are your friend. This is the kind of recognition that reminds us, when we are in the middle of fight with our partner—that reminds us who he or she is, and interrupts our angry blindness. The person is not just anybody, but a particular somebody we love. Praising God is recognizing God in that way. God, our lover.

Now, what does this all have to do with Thomas? Thomas calls out to Jesus. “My Lord and my God.” These are words of praise, not of belief. Thomas recognizes Jesus, a friend Thomas had thought to be dead. We cannot call Thomas “Doubting Thomas,” for doubt and belief were never the issue. It is not that Thomas does not believe the other disciples. He comes back to the room—in which the disciples are strangely still shut up one whole week after they have seen Jesus—he does not come back for more evidence.

He demands to see Jesus not because he is short of faith. He has to see Jesus because he needs to recognize him. The disciples had seen Jesus. “We have seen the Lord,” they told him. But Thomas had not.

Luke writes that Jesus offers evidence. Touch me, Thomas, says Jesus. But Thomas never does touch him. He does not need any evidence of that sort. Thomas sees Jesus. The heart of Thomas recognizes him. Thomas praises Jesus: My Lord and My God! It has nothing to do with belief in some fact or doctrine or miracle, even. Thomas is in love with Jesus.

The language of worship is the language of love. We come to this place, this church, over and over, not because we need to learn something new, though maybe we do and maybe we will. We do not come, that is, for more evidence. We come to be fed, and we come to be with God. Sacrament and praise.

The words we use in worship, the songs we sing, the prayers we recite, are powerful because they remind us who God is, who we are, and who God and we are together. In one sense, they are boring. They are the same thing, more or less, each week. We do not need them in order to be healed; we believe that God heals us out of grace, not out of obligation. And I suppose that God does not need them either. They are boring in the way old stories are boring between friends, or little nothings are boring between lovers. Powerfully boring. They serve no purpose other than praise.

Not all praise is God-talk. You can praise all sorts of things and people. You can praise a soldier, or a nurse, or a president. But most God-talk is praise. That is because like most of the talk of friends and lovers, it all says the same thing.

You are my Lord and my God, says Thomas. When we talk to God, when we gather in worship, when we pray in our houses. And even when we complain to God and speak in anger and disappointment. We all say in other ways what Thomas said to Jesus. I praise you. God, you are mine. God, I am yours.

Praise the Lord.

The Resurrection of Jesus from the Dead

Text: Luke 21:1-12

Grace to you and peace from God our father and the Lord Jesus Christ, risen from the dead.

Having heard the story told by Mary, and Joanna, and Mary the mother of James, Peter ran to the tomb to see for himself. (Typical Peter: rushing in where others would not.) And having seen nothing in the tomb but a pile of body-wrapping linens, he went home amazed.

If that were the end of the story, we would not be here today. If all the witnesses to the resurrection of Jesus had been as flummoxed as Peter was, there would be no Christian faith. If the story of the three women had continued to be treated as nonsense, there would be no Jesus movement, no Gospel stories, no church. There would have been resurrection, but no Easter.

But the event of the resurrection turned out to be powerful and compelling. People at the time experienced the resurrection of Jesus in a way that disrupted and transformed their lives. It drew them to one another to establish small communities of men and women who would re-tell the story to one another. And then to tell the story of the life of Jesus and to try to live by his teachings and example, to establish rituals that he implied or commanded. How else can we explain the rise of early Christianity? Prophets then were a dime a dozen. Something happened with Jesus and, powerfully, in the people who heard the story of Jesus, killed but confoundingly risen and for a while physically present. People were enthusiastic, in the sense of the word that means they were filled by spirit, or the wind of God. They were blown away.

Mary and Joanna and Mary the mother of James were not expecting what they saw. None of the followers of Jesus were. When the disciples heard the news, they pooh-poohed it. They called the three women delirious. Partly this was misogyny. Partly it was total incredulity. The women had expected to find the body of dead Jesus. They did not find the body. “Why are you looking among the dead for one who has risen?” a man in bright clothes asks them. But the man is being disingenuous. They are looking among the dead because they had seen Jesus die. Unlike the other, male, disciples, who had scattered, these women had been eye witnesses to his death. It is fitting that they be the first witnesses to his rising. They had come looking for Jesus among the dead because Jesus had been dead.

We who know the story sometimes imagine that Jesus was more like an astral traveler than he was dead. That he was a divine spirit creature who inhabited various realms like a tourist until he was discovered to be not dead. But Jesus was dead. That’s what our faith and church teach us. Not sort-of dead, or faking it. Jesus died and was buried, as we say in the creed. Jesus was as dead as any creature on this earth can be. Jesus was human. Humans die. Jesus rose from the dead. That tells us something about humans. From the dead, Jesus is risen.

We who live on this side of life know next to nothing of death. We have some hints. We have some hints in scripture and teachings. Ashes to ashes. That makes sense. We are creatures of dust: you are dust, we say on Ash Wednesday, to dust you shall return. That is our experience. But we also hear that in Jesus’ father’s house there are many rooms. And we have heard Jesus tell another man that “you will be with me in paradise.”

We have some hints in our feelings about death. The disciples know that Jesus died. They would, I’m sure, have felt what we all feel at times like this. Sorrow, of course. But also anger, not understanding: how could this be? Trying to figure things out: how could this be happening? They might have been angry at God. Angry, even, at Jesus for leaving them. Angry, maybe, at themselves for things they never did, or things never reconciled, or things they regretted. (Peter denied Jesus, we read. How did he feel?) This is how they came to the tomb on Sunday morning.

And we have a hint in our hope in things unknown. And things unknowable. We are not all that smart. That there are things beyond our knowing is an occasion for hope. The fact that we can be hopeful in the face of ignorance seems to me to be useful information: not that we are naive, though we certainly are, but that while we are simple and small, God is big and not simple.

The resurrection of Jesus teaches us something that we did not know. It teaches us how little we know. It teaches us about the power of life—the power of God—in the world. It teaches us that death is not quite so fearsome. Death, where is your sting? asks the apostle Paul, later. Death, though unwelcome, need not be feared.

The resurrection of Jesus is an event, not an idea. Each of the four Gospels tells about it in a slightly different way. There are multiple stories of the Passion, the Resurrection, and the days after. This is not a defect in scripture. It is that the resurrection was an event that was experienced. It requires interpretation. The Gospel writers tried to interpret it. The man in dazzling clothes at the tomb tried to interpret it to Mary and Joanna and Mary the mother of James by putting it in context. “Don’t you remember what Jesus said would happen?” Jesus himself interprets it, both beforehand and afterward, by quoting scripture: This is to fulfill what is written, he sometimes says. Scholars and theologians interpret the resurrection constantly. Is it fulfillment? Is it part of a scheme of atonement? Is it a promise? Is it a sign?

The resurrection of Jesus is an event. It still confuses people and makes them marvel, two thousand years later. Jesus Christ rises from death. People are adamant about the meaning of that. Only they do not all agree about what the meaning is. It does mean something important. Christians, at least, agree about that.

The resurrection of Jesus is an event, but it is not over by a long shot. As we celebrate the particular event, we also contemplate its effect on us and the world. We chew on it, like a hard notion that needs softening. The resurrection of Jesus is an ongoing transformation in us, as it was for the disciples and early followers of Jesus. Paul says that we are certainly united with Jesus in a resurrection like his.

The resurrection of Jesus is an event. It is not a metaphor. It exists as it is. It should not be softened. But is a wonderfully fertile soil for growing metaphors. It reminds us of the rebirth of the world at springtime. Look at the trees budding and the gardens suddenly awakened. It reminds us that things that are broken can be repaired. And also that God can repair them. It reminds us that the end of one thing is the beginning of another. It brings to our hearts the comfort of renewal and restoration.

We are celebrating—and it is a celebration—we are celebrating today something that is way too powerful to take lightly, no matter what we make of it. It is occasion to remind us that the value of faith is to resist, as one person said, to resist the attempt to make God as knowable and dependable as breakfast cereal.

Mary and Joanna and Mary the mother of James were right to be dumbfounded. Peter was right to be amazed.

And we are right to say [with the children at worship] Hooray! Jesus is risen.

Living the Fat Life

Text: Luke 22:14-23:56

Pastors are advised by the instruction manual to prepare no sermon for today, or at least keep it very short. So while I do not want to leave without commenting on this dual‑purposed Sunday, I’ll keep it short.

We are tempted by beginnings and endings. The temptation is to forget or elide the middle. And instead to condense it into kind of historical concentrate, holding more than its due of hopes and regrets. In the church, days like today aggravate this view that life is mostly about big events, big changes. Today is especially guilty, where in one Sunday we have the triumphant march of Jesus into Jerusalem followed within a few minutes by the horrible execution of Jesus. It is not really understandable. Even though joys sometimes do turn suddenly to sorrows, this does not seem like one of those occasions.

The danger here is not just that we sentimentalize the story of Jesus. Which we do. Or that we pay too little attention to the ministry of Jesus in the world. Which we also do. (Our creed, for example, goes “Born of the virgin Mary, suffered under Pontius Pilate, crucified, died, and was buried.” Is that all there was of Jesus? Born and died. What about the life that Jesus led and the people who heard and followed him? And the great missionary Paul rarely mentions the life of Jesus.) But danger is not there. The danger is in thinking that Jesus has nothing to do with his death. And that things happen without a reason (other than “God wants it”). And that people killed Jesus because he was good and they were bad. Mostly people do not do that. Mostly people do not hate goodness. Mostly they hate being scared.

Life is more than beginnings and endings. Jesus’ life and our lives. What happens to us happens mostly in the middle. This story in Luke, though momentous and important, fits into a larger story of the life of Jesus. This is especially true in Luke, which is really just the first part of a two-part story that continues into Acts (most scholars refer to Luke and Acts together as “Luke/Acts.”) The events of Holy Week are in the center, but there are edges, too. The life of Jesus. The life of his followers.

The twin Gospel readings for today in Luke leave out what happens between the triumph and the tragedy. But the Gospel of Luke does not leave them out. Once in Jerusalem, Jesus stops healing and starts preaching in a major way. And what he says surely scared the people, at least the people who had the power to execute someone. He preaches about the end of the old times and the certain coming of new ones. That means the destruction of the Temple and of the city of Jerusalem. It means that what the people had counted on had always been wrong or was about to be wrong. He preached about corruption in high places. He preached about a culture whose foundation was crumbling, and he preached it with a little bit of regret and a whole lot of satisfaction. And he preached that this would happen soon. In their lifetimes. Be watchful, he said. Be careful.

We cannot help focusing on the end points. The transitions. Because they are times of intense hope and despair, birth and death, adventure and grief. On this strange day, the boundary between Lent and Holy Week, when we hear eager anticipation of the crowd turn into confused unbelief, and we ourselves peek to Easter when it all gets turned around again, we might be as shattered emotionally as we are when sorrow and joy butt up against one another in our lives. But of this time and that, we need to remember that highlights and lowlights make thin gruel.

Our lives are fatter and richer than that. I’m not saying that events like this are not a big deal. They are just not the only deal. Or even the majority deal. We rightly celebrate the peaks, but we live mostly on the plains. We are a plain people.

Between birth and death, triumph and tragedy, we live. And human divine Jesus lives there, too.

Rubbish, I Reckon, Compared to Jesus

Text: Philippians 3:4b-14

There are at least two ways to hear these words of Paul in his letter to the Philippians.

Paul, who is in jail (it is hard to say where and when), writes to the church at Philippi, comforting them that he is all right. And, as usual, advising them about how to be a better community of people who follow Christ. In this passage we just heard, he writes to warn them of the teachings of what Paul calls the “dogs and evil workers.” That part the assigned reading somehow skipped over. As Paul often does, he is making a case.

One way to hear his words are as a polemic against materialism. And against our worshipping of accomplishments. Against, as Paul says, our confidence in the flesh. By which he means not our bodies—this is not about that kind of morality—not our bodies so much as our soul’s captivation with stuff, things, achievement, and conversely our fear of their loss. I have spoken about this before, interpreting this passage as some kind of scriptural support for deaccessioning. Get rid of all that stuff, and you will be free. Not intending to question the ethics of having and hoarding, though that is a good thing to question. But to offer a promise of freedom from its burdens. Nonetheless, those sermons always sounded like: get rid of your stuff, you’ll be better for it. More law than gospel.

Still, there is some truth in that (I’m not ready to let it go just yet) and to hear Paul that way is not a mistake. After all, he does say that a bunch of things that he and we value he now counts as rubbish. He gives us his résumé. On it are things both of accomplishment and birth. Status, class, ethnic origin, positions of authority and responsibility, titles, reputation, the respect of friends and colleagues. It’s things and things associated with things.

Before he met Jesus, Paul had been an enforcer for and a member of the power elite. He searched for followers of Jesus and brought them to jail. He was skillful, sophisticated, and well-educated. He was a faithful worshipper. he knew what to wear and how to meet and greet. He knew how to be smooth when he had to be. He was the right people.

What he does not talk about here, but which are just as much things of the flesh, are our fears that are the flip side of our résumés. Of being alone—at any age. Of being sick and helpless, in the hands of others. Of not being able to think straight. And all we do to keep those things at bay.

We trust in things of the flesh because we think that they are safe, attainable, and effective. By good and energetic action we can ensure the health and life of us and our friends and family.

But that is not true, says Paul. All these things that he thought were so great he now reckons, now figures, now counts, as rubbish. As refuse. The word he uses means things pretty disgusting. Like the grad-doo that ends up in the gutters on Cambridge streets after a long and wet winter. He is not talking about stuff you just don’t like but which you might decide to store away in the cellar or attic for a while. This is stuff you want to get out of your house and life as soon as possible.

I hold these things, Paul says, to be a loss. The word in this case means not something mislaid and sought for. But something which causes damage and it’s good riddance to bad rubbish. The word literally means not tamed. These things of the flesh narrow our lives and hem us in. We might consider how much time and energy we give to these wild things.

Yet even so, and in spite of the picture I just painted, Paul does not say these things in themselves are bad things. “I too,” he writes just before this passage, “I too have confidence in the flesh.” Not had. But present tense. Many fleshy things are useful. Pens to write with, shoes to walk with, roofs to keep us dry.

Paul trusted these things, as we do, to protect him, to give him purpose, to bring him peace, and to provide a solid base for action in life. But in practice they did not. It is just that none of these things ever got him one bit closer to where he wanted to go. Where he wanted to be.

The things are rubbish not in themselves. They are rubbish only compared to Jesus. Which is, finally, the second way to hear this passage. The words of Paul about the dangers of things of the flesh might be compelling and useful to us. I find them so. But without Jesus in the picture they are only musings of a wise man on clean living. Paul’s relationship with Jesus Christ overwhelms his admiration for things he once valued, still values. But they no longer bless him. Jesus does.

We want to be blessed. We want to be favored. We want to live the good life. When we say at the end of the Sunday worship, “the Lord bless you and keep you,” we are hoping for each other that we all get to live fine lives. That we will be safe, and have peace of mind, to know beauty in the world and joy in our friends, to feel like we rest on good foundations.

Christ has given Paul blessings. You can feel it in Paul’s writings. In so many words and so often he tells his churches and us: “I feel so blessed I can hardly stand it.” Blessed in spite of his ailments and all. Much more blessed than he was with that rubbish.

The feeling I get from Paul—and this is total speculation—is that in Christ he feels a unity that all the other things in his life never gave him. Our stuff and our accomplishments, accentuated sometimes by our fears, are fragmented. They are never quite whole, and never have what it takes to make us whole.

I want to know Christ, Paul says. (Maybe—I wonder—to know as Peter did. Jesus’ friend. To be connected with Jesus in the deep and pervasive way that you know someone you love.) I want to be found in Christ, Paul says. I want to gain Christ. Paul does not want to know about Christ. Paul wants to find in Christ a unity of life and spirit and that comes from being a part of the larger story of God and God’s world.

Not that he is—or we are—already there. Not that I have already obtained this, he says. It is not something Paul or we accomplish. It is the intervention of God, not our own power, that lets us know Christ. It is a blessing. Brothers and sisters, Paul says, rejoice in the Lord.

What has happened to Paul is that his eyes are different. He sees that he was looking for the good life in all the wrong places. But now he has had a glimpse of what is possible. He sees that knowing Jesus Christ will bring him nearer to where he wants to be. He has decided to act as if he did. For that he is already blessed. Just wanting that is a blessing.

Lent is a time when we try to be quiet enough to be open to the workings of the Holy Spirit. How do we stand with regard to rubbish and to Jesus? Where do we want to be? Are we getting there? Who will guide us there?

Found Things Don't Have to Repent

Text: Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32

Unless you are perfect, you have sinned. You have sinned against God and against other people.

We sin against God. Some people take this to mean that God is recording all our little mistakes (and big ones) in a large book (the one that St. Peter looks to at the pearly gates, I imagine). And that God is judging us daily, disapproving of things now and at the end of time.

There is another way to look at this, though. Another way to look at this is to say we have sinned against Good. Against the good. Not all our sins are against others directly. We do things we ought not to do. We cheat at something. We disdain others for no good reason. We think bad thoughts or act like idiots. We agree with plans we know to be evil. Or we make those plans. We keep more than we need. We lie to ourselves. We live high on the exploitation of others.

Or we do not do as we ought to do. We turn our backs on someone who asks for help. We are silent when a courageous voice is needed. We are timid because we are afraid.

We do things that are not good and do not do the things that are good. I don’t know if God is disappointed or chagrined or annoyed at us. We, in moments of reflection, certainly are.

There is no one to forgive us these sins of doing and not doing. When we pass by a sick man asking for help on the street because he makes us nervous or frightened, that is not good. But who can forgive us? The needy man is gone. We cannot apologize to him. (Except perhaps on judgment day, when we pray that all those we passed by and passed over will forgive us.) But now, we have no one to forgive our sins. Only God forgives us these sins against Good.

But just as often, we sin against others. The harm our sins cause is personal and obvious. Horrible sins that cause death or suffering. Or that cause others sorrow or loss. Angry, stupid sins and clever, intentional ones. For those sins, we ask particular forgiveness. We hope to make amends. If we are fortunate, we can seek reconciliation. We hope that we may be forgiven by the one whom we have harmed.

The younger son in today’s Gospel story sins against both the good and against others. “I have sinned against heaven and before you,” he says. He says it twice, once in planning his return and once when he sees his father. He has done what he knows he should not have done, and he has hurt his father and also his brother.

Regarding the sins against others—forgiveness is theirs to grant or deny. The younger son is forgiven by his father, but it seems not by his brother. That’s how it works with others. We can only offer. And wait. And sometimes remain unrequited.

But regarding the sins against God, we can be more hopeful. The Pharisees accuse Jesus of eating with sinners. Jesus says to them, “you bet I do.” The implication is that that is what God requires. The Good demands that not only are sinners tolerated but welcomed. And if to that we add Luther’s proclamation that all of us are saints and sinners, we get that God demands that we all welcome all people. That we are more than not mean to them but that we sit down with them and eat with them. That is, treat them like our friends and family. At least, that’s what Jesus does in Luke’s Gospel.

But in the parable that Jesus tells, the father goes further than that. Now only does he tolerate his younger son and welcome him, but he keeps an eye out for him (“while he was still far off, his father saw him,” it says. He was watching and waiting). And more, he ran to him to greet him and to invite him home.

Now, you can—and people do—see yourself as one of these characters. The profligate and dissolute younger son, or the betrayed older son, or the anxious and then enthusiastic father. I certainly have been all three, at one time or another. But this is a parable, not a moral tale. It tells us about God.

Some say, since this is a Lenten reading, that it is about repentance, and about how the younger man comes to his senses and turns into a better person. But first of all, the father watches for the son and seeks him and runs to him before the father has any idea of what the son intends. He does not know whether the son repents or just wants a few more bucks. And second of all, we don’t really know what happens after the story ends; all we know is that he came home this time. Who knows what happens next?

And third of all, this parable is the last of three in Luke about searching for something that is lost (the other two being lost sheep and lost coins). And lost things do not have to repent for us to want them back in our fold, or purses, or homes, or hearts. The finding of things lost has more to say about the finder than about the thing lost.

When we seek forgiveness from others, we seek them out in reconciliation. But when we seek forgiveness from God for sins against Good, it is God who does the seeking. It would be nice if we repented. Repentance makes God’s forgiveness understandable. It puts it in context of our sin and regret.

But in the story, the father has forgiven the son long before the son repents, before he returns home. The father has forgiven the son because he is his son.

We forgive others in time, or pray to. But God forgives from the start.

A Devotional

Text: Psalm 63:1-8

Lutheran World Relief is an admirable organization that provides help for hungry, impoverished, or devastated people all over the world. They know that God calls them to help those who need help, and they are dedicated to do so effectively and efficiently. This church, Faith, and individuals in it have supported them by giving them money. I think they are great.

In a recent issue of their newsletter, the president of Lutheran World Relief offered what he called a devotional. “A Christian Devotion,” is what the article was called. In it, the president talked about how his organization hears the cries of the suffering, said that evil is real and sorrow inevitable, told a little story from his personal life, and ended by quoting Luther. It was a nice article. Encouraging and hopeful. But how was it devotional? How would we have known? If the newsletter had not labeled it “A Christian Devotion,” how would we have recognized it as anything different than a reflection by this good man on the need to help others? Or is that the same thing as a devotional? What does that mean anyway? What is devotion?

Devoted, devout, devotion. All related words. But not too specific. People say things like “he’s devoted to his mother,” or “she’s devoted to her husband,” or “she’s devoted to her job—she comes home late and works hard.” Or “he is devoted to his political party” or “devoted to an idea.” Paul Farmer is devoted to the people of Haiti and the idea of providing them medical care otherwise not available. Are devotion to parent, spouse, employer, calling—are they all the same? We say that a dog is devoted to his owner. How about that? Is that the same thing, too?

Lutherans in the past have been a little nervous about the word “devotion.” That is because there have been battles in the past about whether Lutherans should be more or less interested in doctrine or more or less interested in one’s relationship with God. Especially if that relationship has anything to do with an emotional attachment to God. Which a devotion to God certainly does. But whether you are somber or passionate, an emotional attachment to God is part of your faith, even if you are Lutheran.

Someone wrote about today’s psalm that it is “one of the truly great pieces of devotional writing in all of human history.” This psalm is all about the relationship people have with God. Or to be more exact, what one person has. “People” is too general here. This is about a person and God. About, if you choose to make it so, about you and God.

The word “devotion” hardly appears in the Bible. But a devotional life has been part of people’s response to God since way before Jesus. Anything that starts out “My God, you are my God,”—that’s devotional. Anything that starts out like a letter to God written from the heart—that’s devotional. Scripture, poem, prayer, or thought, it does not matter.

Devotion has been fundamental to Christian experience. It is both something on which our faith stands and, at the same time, something that is a result of what we do in our faith. It is a pre-requisite and a perquisite. We need it to give power and energy and patience to our Christian life, but it is also a benefit of that life.

Devotion is a word that describes a kind of intense relationship. It does not have to be a happy one. Someone who is devoted to his or her dying spouse does not have to be thrilled about it. Someone who is devoted to his or her job or calling usually has good days and bad days. Same with devotion to God. But it is still devotion.

Devotion, to God or otherwise, has two attributes that are key. The first is that it is other-centered. That is, if you are devoted to another, that other person is the center of your life. Not necessarily all of your life, but the focus of its attention. What you think about in the idle times, the things you wake up wondering about, the mental reminder notes you write yourself.

The second attribute of devotion is that it changes you. It changes the way you act and it changes the way you see. Toward the object of your devotion you are more attentive, expectant, and patient. People sometimes say of someone’s devotion: “I don’t see how you can put up with that.” “That” being some difficult condition, or demand, or effort. But it does not matter; devotion uses some other calculation.

When we are devoted to something or someone, we see them differently than others do or than we ourselves did before. We see ourselves, perhaps, more as servants than as served. More humble. More generous to others. Our hopes become both less grandiose and at the same time more likely to be met. “I hope I can make a difference here.” “I hope I can be with her until the end.” “I hope to be at peace with my life.”

Psalm 63—this great piece of devotional writing—paints a picture of the devoted life. It tells us what we might expect when we are devoted to God, who is the object of devotion here, and hints at ways we might strengthen that devotion.

The protagonist in this psalm—what religious folks call the “psalmist”—the psalmist can hardly stand it. He or she feels a deep longing toward God that is so powerful that the psalmist faints in desire. This is how you feel when you first become infatuated with someone. You can hardly stand up. A glimpse of that person, a voice, makes your insides go all crazy. The protagonist needs God just as desperately as a starving person needs food or water—more so. As much as an insomniac needs sleep. “Your love is better than life,” it says.

The psalmist seeks God out in church, in the sanctuary, where God is likely, one hopes, to be found. He or she speaks aloud to others about God—“my mouth praises you with joyful lips.” The psalmist tells God what’s going on: I bless you, I praise you, I life up my hands to you. God, you are great. God, you are my God.

And in the end it comes down this: the object of your devotion is worthy of it, and worthy of your trust, and that you consider yourself worthy to be devoted. In the end, the writer of the psalm sings out in joy. “My soul clings to you, your hand upholds me.”

It is these kinds of words, these powerful and radiant words, that has made Lutherans queasy. It sounds pretty emotional. It sounds pretty pious.

And so it is. But our quest is the quest for the ultimate. It comes from our whole selves (what the psalm calls soul) and from our bodies (what the psalm calls flesh). People rarely show up in church because of, or only because of, intellect and right thinking. They show up because they want to know God. The words of the psalm are over the top. Good. We want some of that.

How do we get there? There is a chicken and the egg nature to devotion. Devotion leads to acts that bind us together with the person, the thing, God, to whom we are devoted. At the same time, acts of devotion—worship, kindness, mindfulness, patience, praise—lead to powerfully connected relationships.

It is blessed for us that this is a virtuous cycle. It grows on you. Devotion is not a feeling. It is a practice. And like other Christian practices—prayer, charity, compassion—it takes practice. The husband was not the devoted nurse at the start. The worker was not devoted to her job at the start. The psalmist, probably, did not go weak in the knees at the start.

Devotion is an intense and intimate relationship. But it begins with small steps. The psalm teaches us. Send God messages from your heart. This Lent, may we open each day, praying: My God, you are my God. I seek you. And may we end each day: My spirit is content.