One of the things I love most about the Lutheran Church-Missouri Synod, in which I was confirmed as a young married twenty-something in the late 1980's (having been Roman Catholic in my teenage years), is its perfect understanding of salvation and the individual's role in obtaining it. As human beings we naturally (and sinfully) desire ultimate power over our own lives and credit for our accomplishments. No wonder, then, that we struggle so with realizing that when it comes to justification--being made righteous in the sight of God--we have no role to play. Martin Luther described the human condition as that of a beggar standing before God. There is nothing we can do to remove the stain of sin, nothing we can offer to earn God's forgiveness. We are utterly dependent upon God's mercy, and because God is God and He demands perfection, our only hope is to plant ourselves firmly behind the cross of Christ, trusting the Father's promise to impute the righteousness of the Son to those who live under that cross. As the pastor who confirmed me described it, God looks at the sinner through the lens of the cross and, seeing only the perfection of Jesus, likewise pronouces the sinner to be "poi-fect."
To realize that there is nothing I can do to gain salvation--indeed, nothing I need to do, since Jesus has done it for me--brings a feeling of peace, rest and freedom that goes beyond human words because it is not of this world. And yet, the sinful nature still fights against it, wanting to reclaim that power and control. I am the master of my destiny, after all. Aren't I? Aren't I helping just a little by what a good person I'm being and how hard I'm working? "No," says the Father, smiling gently. "No. You are a poor, miserable sinner. But you are my child whom I love, so much that I sent my own dear Son to live the perfect life you couldn't and to pay for the sins you couldn't pay for. Rest in His triumph over sin, death, and the grave. It is finished. There's nothing more to be done!"
Oh. Yeah. I forgot for a moment there. And on it goes--the daily forgetting and reminding that is the essence of the life of a Christian.
I think it may be that constant need of the sinner to be reminded of his sinful condition that leads to something I sometimes encounter among my Lutheran friends.* Because they so deeply understand their sinful state and love the theology of the cross, I think there is sometimes a tendency to put their sins on display in a way that is not necessarily helpful to either themselves or those with whom they come into contact. And because it is so easy to fall into the "try to be good so God will love me" trap, they overcompensate by trumpeting as loudly as possible what wretches they are, turning their shortcomings, weaknesses, and sinful nature into almost a point of pride or badge of honor: "Look at me! Look at what a messed up, sinful excuse for a human being I am! Can you believe it? I'm even more screwed up than you!"
And indeed, they are wretches. We all are, and again, one of the things I love most about Lutheran theology is how effectively that message is communicated. But I think there's a balance to be had. There's a difference between quietly hanging our heads in shame as we acknowledge our sins and perhaps even share them in hopes of pointing another towards Christ, and standing before the world, playing a game of sinner's one-ups-man-ship as we tick off our transgressions with Technicolor detail and provide the equivalent of a Powerpoint presentation on our messed up selves.
I sometimes even see what strikes me as intentionally edgy behavior that has as its goal the avoidance of the dreaded "pietist" label: "See? I appreciate wordly music and pleasures. I can swear and drink and party and tell dirty jokes with the best of them. I'm no goody-two-shoes holier-than-thou Pollyanna. I'm a sinner!" The mind reels with the possibilities. "See Dick sin. Sin, Dick, sin!"
I think that sometimes our sins, like our prayers, might be best kept between us and God: “And when you pray, you must not be like the hypocrites. For they love to stand and pray in the synagogues and at the street corners, that they may be seen by others. Truly, I say to you, they have received their reward. But when you pray, go into your room and shut the door and pray to your Father who is in secret. And your Father who sees in secret will reward you." (Matthew 6: 5-6)
And you know, there's nothing wrong with trying to be good as long as we realize that, while it will certainly make our earthly life and that of those around us better, it's not going to get us any closer to heaven.
*I do it, too.
Showing posts with label Justification. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Justification. Show all posts
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Reformation Day
By grace! On this I'll rest when dying;
In Jesus' promise I rejoice;
For though I know my heart's condition,
I also know my Savior's voice.
My heart is glad, all grief has flown
Since I am saved by grace alone.
"By Grace I'm Saved" (Lutheran Service Book #566, stanza 6)
Text, Christian Ludwig Scheidt (1709-61)
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Getting Out of the Box
One of the more enjoyable aspects of our family's homeschooling routine is the family "readaloud"--a book that I select for its literary, cultural, or historical value and then spend time reading to and discussing with my children. Whereas in some families the practice of reading together wanes as the children learn to read on their own, we are similar to many other homeschooling families I know in that we have continued reading together even as our oldest children have become teenagers. Lately, though, I must admit that we have been struggling more and more to find time for this most cherished activity. It seems that in the face of overloaded schedules and tired minds and bodies, the readaloud, with its more abstract benefits, has often been neglected in favor of more obviously necessary pursuits such as math lessons and piano practicing. So for months now we have been on the same book--Marjorie Rawlings' The Yearling--trying to finish it not for lack of interest but for lack of time. And now with two chapters remaining (of 33 total--it's a long book!), I think I can finally say the end is in sight.
For anyone who is not familiar with the story, it relates one year in the life of a farming family in the backwoods of Florida during the early 20th century. The main character is Jody Baxter, a 12-year-old boy who turns an orphaned fawn into a pet. As the fawn--named Flag--grows, it begins to threaten the Baxters' crops, and in spite of the family's efforts to thwart its mischief it repeatedly causes damage to the young plants that are to provide the Baxters' sustenance and livelihood in the coming year. Jody, faced with telling his father that Flag has destroyed the young corn shoots that were just beginning to break through the soil, finds himself panicking because he knows that the family is running out of options for dealing with this problem. Yet he knows he has no choice but to go to his father with the bad news. As I read this passage to my children a few days ago, these words resonated with me in a way I didn't expect:
Jody was frightened. He dawdled about the field, hoping to have a miracle happen and the corn appear again when his back was turned. Perhaps he was having a nightmare in which Flag had eaten the corn crop, and when he awakened he would go out and find it growing, green and tender. He pushed a stick into one arm to make sure. The dull misery he felt was that of a bad dream, but the pain in his arm was as real as the destruction of the corn. He dragged back to the house with slow and heavy feet. He sat down in the kitchen and did not go to his father. Penny called him. He went to the bedroom.
"Well, boy? How's the crops?"
"The cotton's up. Hit looks like okry, don't it?" His enthusiasm was spurious. "The cow-peas is breakin' the ground."
He spread the toes of his bare feet and wriggled them. He was absorbed in them, as though they had developed an interesting new function.
"And the corn, Jody?"
His heart beat as fast as a humming-bird's wings. He swallowed and took the plunge.
"Somethin's et off most of it."
So--to the point of this post. A few weeks ago I became convicted of the need to see my pastor for personal confession & absolution. I take part in corporate confession every week as part of the liturgy, but due to certain circumstances in my own life of late I have found myself desperately needing to hear those words of absolution spoken not just to the assembly but personally to me. Having been confirmed Roman Catholic, I went to confession years ago as a teenager, but since joining the Lutheran Church-Missouri Synod in my young adulthood have not found individual confession encouraged to the same degree, although that is changing in some congregations (and I should clarify that in the Catholic church it is not merely encouraged but required at certain times in the believer's life).
So having made the decision to see my pastor and having called him to set up an appointment, I found myself having to wait for several days due to our conflicting schedules. And oh, the waiting--it was awful. I was desperate to go to confession--to speak to my pastor the truth of my sin--and yet I was dreading it. Could I really say those words out loud? And what was he--not just my pastor, but my friend--going to think of me? I felt just like Jody in the above excerpt from The Yearling, looking for ways to avoid the inevitable, hoping it was all just a dream, heart beating "fast as a humming-bird's wings."
But sin is very real, as are the deadly consequences it has on one's life and soul. And it was eating away at me in the same way Jody's fawn was eating away at those corn plants. And similar to Jody's father calling him to report on the plants, my Father had been calling me, and calling me, and calling me again, and finally I went to Him in the person of my pastor, took a big deep breath, and laid it all out there:
"I, a poor sinner, plead gulty before God of all sins.
I have lived as if God did not matter and as if I mattered most.
My Lord's name I have not honored as I should; my worship and prayers have faltered.
I have not let His love have its way with me, and so my love for others has failed.
There are those whom I have hurt, and those whom I have failed to help.
My thoughts and desires have been soiled with sin." (Lutheran Service Book, p. 292)
And Pastor's words came back to me, as he placed his hand on my head:
"In the stead and by the command of my Lord Jesus Christ I forgive you all your sins in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit."
And suddenly it was clear that it mattered not what Pastor thought of me but only what my Lord thought of me, and He had known all along--and still knows--my sinful condition and yet for the sake of His Son and my Saviour had forgiven me all those sins and made me new in Christ.
In The Yearling, after Jody informs his father of Flag's devastating action, Mr. and Mrs. Baxter confer to decide what to do. Mrs. Baxter has long been "down" on Flag and Jody fears this most recent event might be the last straw. But when his parents call him to share their verdict, it turns out that Mr. Baxter--full of sympathy and compassion for his son--has prevailed upon his wife and talked her into trying one more time to manage the misbehaving fawn. A reprieve is granted: Jody will be allowed to attempt the building of a fence to keep Flag away from the vulnerable plants. At this news, Jody feels as though he has gotten his very life back:
It seemed to Jody that he had been shut up in a small black box and now the lid was off, and the sun and light and air came in across him, and he was free.
I can think of no better words to describe the way I felt after hearing my pastor's granting of my Lord's absolution. It was indeed like being let out of a tiny, suffocating black box--a tomb of condemnation--and finding myself once again able to live and breathe again.
As I mentioned earlier, I was confirmed in the Roman Catholic church and so have some memory of personal confession and absolution. But as a Catholic the experience was somewhat different: once the penitent has confessed, he or she is instructed to perform some sort of "penance"--perhaps an act of prayer, fasting, or good works--to demonstrate his remorse and make up for the harm that his sin has done. Now, I don't mean to argue against any of these things--they each have value, and prayer in particular seems to me a natural outgrowth of true repentance. But to have a priest prescribe that I say three "Our Father's" or two "Hail Mary's" or that I engage in some specific act to make up for my sin seems to me to fly in the face of true forgiveness, which is granted without any strings attached. For if the penitent is truly sorry, the joy and gratitude that are experienced upon receiving absolution will doubtless lead to prayers of thanksgiving and acts of Gospel joy.
If you are finding yourself weighed down by sin, I encourage you this Lenten season to see a pastor, preferably a confessional Lutheran one with a Biblical understanding of Law and Gospel, and relieve yourself of that burden. Then find yourself a Lutheran Service Book, turn to hymn #611, and sing or speak these words, not as an act of penance but as a celebration of the absolution that has just been granted you by your Father and of the reconciliation you now have with Him--a reconciliation that was obtained not by any work of yours but rather once and for all by Jesus on the cross:
Oh, the height of Jesus' love,
For anyone who is not familiar with the story, it relates one year in the life of a farming family in the backwoods of Florida during the early 20th century. The main character is Jody Baxter, a 12-year-old boy who turns an orphaned fawn into a pet. As the fawn--named Flag--grows, it begins to threaten the Baxters' crops, and in spite of the family's efforts to thwart its mischief it repeatedly causes damage to the young plants that are to provide the Baxters' sustenance and livelihood in the coming year. Jody, faced with telling his father that Flag has destroyed the young corn shoots that were just beginning to break through the soil, finds himself panicking because he knows that the family is running out of options for dealing with this problem. Yet he knows he has no choice but to go to his father with the bad news. As I read this passage to my children a few days ago, these words resonated with me in a way I didn't expect:
Jody was frightened. He dawdled about the field, hoping to have a miracle happen and the corn appear again when his back was turned. Perhaps he was having a nightmare in which Flag had eaten the corn crop, and when he awakened he would go out and find it growing, green and tender. He pushed a stick into one arm to make sure. The dull misery he felt was that of a bad dream, but the pain in his arm was as real as the destruction of the corn. He dragged back to the house with slow and heavy feet. He sat down in the kitchen and did not go to his father. Penny called him. He went to the bedroom.
"Well, boy? How's the crops?"
"The cotton's up. Hit looks like okry, don't it?" His enthusiasm was spurious. "The cow-peas is breakin' the ground."
He spread the toes of his bare feet and wriggled them. He was absorbed in them, as though they had developed an interesting new function.
"And the corn, Jody?"
His heart beat as fast as a humming-bird's wings. He swallowed and took the plunge.
"Somethin's et off most of it."
So--to the point of this post. A few weeks ago I became convicted of the need to see my pastor for personal confession & absolution. I take part in corporate confession every week as part of the liturgy, but due to certain circumstances in my own life of late I have found myself desperately needing to hear those words of absolution spoken not just to the assembly but personally to me. Having been confirmed Roman Catholic, I went to confession years ago as a teenager, but since joining the Lutheran Church-Missouri Synod in my young adulthood have not found individual confession encouraged to the same degree, although that is changing in some congregations (and I should clarify that in the Catholic church it is not merely encouraged but required at certain times in the believer's life).
So having made the decision to see my pastor and having called him to set up an appointment, I found myself having to wait for several days due to our conflicting schedules. And oh, the waiting--it was awful. I was desperate to go to confession--to speak to my pastor the truth of my sin--and yet I was dreading it. Could I really say those words out loud? And what was he--not just my pastor, but my friend--going to think of me? I felt just like Jody in the above excerpt from The Yearling, looking for ways to avoid the inevitable, hoping it was all just a dream, heart beating "fast as a humming-bird's wings."
But sin is very real, as are the deadly consequences it has on one's life and soul. And it was eating away at me in the same way Jody's fawn was eating away at those corn plants. And similar to Jody's father calling him to report on the plants, my Father had been calling me, and calling me, and calling me again, and finally I went to Him in the person of my pastor, took a big deep breath, and laid it all out there:
"I, a poor sinner, plead gulty before God of all sins.
I have lived as if God did not matter and as if I mattered most.
My Lord's name I have not honored as I should; my worship and prayers have faltered.
I have not let His love have its way with me, and so my love for others has failed.
There are those whom I have hurt, and those whom I have failed to help.
My thoughts and desires have been soiled with sin." (Lutheran Service Book, p. 292)
And Pastor's words came back to me, as he placed his hand on my head:
"In the stead and by the command of my Lord Jesus Christ I forgive you all your sins in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit."
And suddenly it was clear that it mattered not what Pastor thought of me but only what my Lord thought of me, and He had known all along--and still knows--my sinful condition and yet for the sake of His Son and my Saviour had forgiven me all those sins and made me new in Christ.
In The Yearling, after Jody informs his father of Flag's devastating action, Mr. and Mrs. Baxter confer to decide what to do. Mrs. Baxter has long been "down" on Flag and Jody fears this most recent event might be the last straw. But when his parents call him to share their verdict, it turns out that Mr. Baxter--full of sympathy and compassion for his son--has prevailed upon his wife and talked her into trying one more time to manage the misbehaving fawn. A reprieve is granted: Jody will be allowed to attempt the building of a fence to keep Flag away from the vulnerable plants. At this news, Jody feels as though he has gotten his very life back:
It seemed to Jody that he had been shut up in a small black box and now the lid was off, and the sun and light and air came in across him, and he was free.
I can think of no better words to describe the way I felt after hearing my pastor's granting of my Lord's absolution. It was indeed like being let out of a tiny, suffocating black box--a tomb of condemnation--and finding myself once again able to live and breathe again.
As I mentioned earlier, I was confirmed in the Roman Catholic church and so have some memory of personal confession and absolution. But as a Catholic the experience was somewhat different: once the penitent has confessed, he or she is instructed to perform some sort of "penance"--perhaps an act of prayer, fasting, or good works--to demonstrate his remorse and make up for the harm that his sin has done. Now, I don't mean to argue against any of these things--they each have value, and prayer in particular seems to me a natural outgrowth of true repentance. But to have a priest prescribe that I say three "Our Father's" or two "Hail Mary's" or that I engage in some specific act to make up for my sin seems to me to fly in the face of true forgiveness, which is granted without any strings attached. For if the penitent is truly sorry, the joy and gratitude that are experienced upon receiving absolution will doubtless lead to prayers of thanksgiving and acts of Gospel joy.
If you are finding yourself weighed down by sin, I encourage you this Lenten season to see a pastor, preferably a confessional Lutheran one with a Biblical understanding of Law and Gospel, and relieve yourself of that burden. Then find yourself a Lutheran Service Book, turn to hymn #611, and sing or speak these words, not as an act of penance but as a celebration of the absolution that has just been granted you by your Father and of the reconciliation you now have with Him--a reconciliation that was obtained not by any work of yours but rather once and for all by Jesus on the cross:
Oh, the height of Jesus' love,
Higher than the heav'ns above,
Deeper than the depths of sea,
Lasting as eternity!
Love that found me--wondrous thought!
Found me when I sought Him not.
(Stanza 2, "Chief of Sinners Though I Be")
Friday, June 15, 2007
Romans 1:16-17
"I am not ashamed of the gospel, because it is the power of God for the salvation of everyone who believes, first for the Jew, then for the Gentile. For in the gospel a righteousness from God is revealed, a righteousness that is by faith from first to last, just as it is written: 'The righteous will live by faith.'"
So began Pastor Todd Wilken's Bible study at Bethany Lutheran Church in Naperville, Illinois this past Sunday morning. What a fitting theme from the host of a radio program that seeks to defend and teach "grace alone, faith alone, scripture alone on account of Christ alone" while challenging "today's postmodern culture with its unbiblical and illogical ideology" (from the KFUO website).
In his teaching on this passage from Paul's letter to the Romans, Pastor Wilken first directed the class's attention to Paul's introduction: "Paul, a servant of Christ Jesus, called to be an apostle and set apart for the gospel of God--the gospel he promised beforehand through his prophets in the Holy Scriptures regarding his Son, who as to his human nature was a descendant of David, and who through the Spirit of holiness was declared with power to be the Son of God by his resurrection from the dead: Jesus Christ our Lord" (1:1). Pastor then made the point that one might expect a missionary who is going after as big a "catch" as Rome to spend some time building up his credibility and laying out some references, especially in a time (not unlike our own) when there were plenty of false teachers around simply interested in taking people's money. But Paul does nothing of the sort. Instead he briefly identifies himself and then immediately goes to talking about the gospel, essentially saying (in the words of Pastor Wilken) "if you want to know what I'm all about, let me tell you about Jesus."
One of the things that I so appreciated about Pastor Wilken's preaching and teaching was his ability to make the abstract concrete--to take a theological concept and turn it from head knowledge into gut understanding. Taking note of how central the words "the gospel" are to this opening chapter of Romans, he asked the class for a definition of those words. The consensus was that they mean "good news." Then Pastor shared how when he was young he wondered why it was only "good news"--not "great" or "awesome" or "spectacular" news. It's an interesting question for us today who have elaborate rating systems for everything from books to movies to school report cards. And when you think about it, he's right: "good" is frankly not a very strong recommendation. As Pastor Wilken put it, if you were considering eating at a new restaurant and asked a friend who had been there for his opinion and were told by that friend "It's good" you would probably not make a beeline for that restaurant. You want a great restaurant, not just a good one! So why is the gospel merely "good" news? Isn't the truth of Jesus Christ the best news in the world? The answer, of course, is that when it comes to our God there is no middle ground. There is no "poor, fair, good, excellent, superior"--only "good" and "bad." We have either been made righteous in His sight or we haven't. Our Lord is an all or nothing God.
So began Pastor Todd Wilken's Bible study at Bethany Lutheran Church in Naperville, Illinois this past Sunday morning. What a fitting theme from the host of a radio program that seeks to defend and teach "grace alone, faith alone, scripture alone on account of Christ alone" while challenging "today's postmodern culture with its unbiblical and illogical ideology" (from the KFUO website).
In his teaching on this passage from Paul's letter to the Romans, Pastor Wilken first directed the class's attention to Paul's introduction: "Paul, a servant of Christ Jesus, called to be an apostle and set apart for the gospel of God--the gospel he promised beforehand through his prophets in the Holy Scriptures regarding his Son, who as to his human nature was a descendant of David, and who through the Spirit of holiness was declared with power to be the Son of God by his resurrection from the dead: Jesus Christ our Lord" (1:1). Pastor then made the point that one might expect a missionary who is going after as big a "catch" as Rome to spend some time building up his credibility and laying out some references, especially in a time (not unlike our own) when there were plenty of false teachers around simply interested in taking people's money. But Paul does nothing of the sort. Instead he briefly identifies himself and then immediately goes to talking about the gospel, essentially saying (in the words of Pastor Wilken) "if you want to know what I'm all about, let me tell you about Jesus."
One of the things that I so appreciated about Pastor Wilken's preaching and teaching was his ability to make the abstract concrete--to take a theological concept and turn it from head knowledge into gut understanding. Taking note of how central the words "the gospel" are to this opening chapter of Romans, he asked the class for a definition of those words. The consensus was that they mean "good news." Then Pastor shared how when he was young he wondered why it was only "good news"--not "great" or "awesome" or "spectacular" news. It's an interesting question for us today who have elaborate rating systems for everything from books to movies to school report cards. And when you think about it, he's right: "good" is frankly not a very strong recommendation. As Pastor Wilken put it, if you were considering eating at a new restaurant and asked a friend who had been there for his opinion and were told by that friend "It's good" you would probably not make a beeline for that restaurant. You want a great restaurant, not just a good one! So why is the gospel merely "good" news? Isn't the truth of Jesus Christ the best news in the world? The answer, of course, is that when it comes to our God there is no middle ground. There is no "poor, fair, good, excellent, superior"--only "good" and "bad." We have either been made righteous in His sight or we haven't. Our Lord is an all or nothing God.
Pastor Wilken then asked the class about the definite article "the." Why is it "the" good news? The answer is simple: the news of Jesus is quite simply the only good news there is. Everything else is bad. To illustrate, Pastor described the scene at his house when he gets home from work: lovely wife preparing dinner, children greeting him at the door, family dog lavishing him with affection, Pastor settling down in his chair to unwind from the day. What could be better than an idyllic homecoming such as this one? Yet without Jesus Christ in the picture, even that perfectly lovely scene becomes a horror movie because it is all for naught, a tragic picure of condemned sinners biding their time in this world with nothing to look forward to in the next. As Pastor Wilken so aptly pointed out, it is a picture that makes you want to hightail it to church to hear the gospel!
On the Sunday of Pastor Wilken's visit to our congregation the high school students joined the adults for Bible study. As I listened to Pastor's teaching I studied the faces of some of those young people present. They were absolutely riveted. These were young people who have grown up in church for the most part, have been confirmed, and have heard about "the gospel" for years. But I think they, like all of us, were stunned to think about all the good things in their lives--the family and friends and comfortable homes and nice possessions and hobbies and activities and more--and to realize that without Jesus in the picture none of it is good at all. As is written in Ecclesiastes, it is all ultimately meaningless.
But praise be to God, it doesn't have to be! "For in the gospel a righteousness from God is revealed, a righteousness that is by faith, from first to last, just as it is written: 'The righteous will live by faith.'" Writing that last statement on the board, Pastor Wilken rearranged the words slightly so they were in this order: "The one who is righteous by faith shall live." Then he suggested that the word "faith," both here and in other places in the Bible, could be replaced by the name of Jesus: "The one who is [made] righteous by Jesus shall live." We are made righteous through our faith in Jesus Christ, a faith that is created and sustained by Him alone, and in Him we find our life and eternal salvation. Indeed that is good news, the only good news that we really need! Alleluia!
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