Sermon for Lent 4 Midweek Vespers

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Jesu Juva

“Our Ordinary Lenten Exodus: The Sanctus”

Text: Exodus 19:16-20; 20:18-21; Isaiah 6:1-8; Matthew 21:1-11

In the Name of Jesus. Amen.

There are two things God is concerned with: your sin and your salvation. Your sin, which hurts both yourself and others, which separates you from God, and which robs you of the life God has for you, both your life now and your life forever . . . and your salvation, which is God dealing with the issue of sin, healing the damage inflicted by sin, which includes dealing with death, bringing you back together with Himself, and restoring you to life - a full and meaningful life now, and a life that will last forever. 

There are two things satan is concerned with: your sin and your salvation. Your sin, which he wants to keep you in and keep in you, so that it continue to hurt you and others, continue to separate you from God, and continue to rob you of life - though he would have you believe that your sin actually gives you life and makes your life better! . . . and your salvation, which he wants to keep far from you, keep God far from you, and convince you that - even if you care about these things - you can do it yourself. You can undo the damage. You can fix it.

But satan’s problem is that while he can keep you away from God with his lies, half-truths, deceptions, and temptations, he can’t keep God away from you. God keeps coming into this world and ruining everything he worked so hard to do! But he doesn’t give up. And neither does God.

So God comes. To us. In this world of sin and death. And in many and various ways, depending on the situation, depending on what is needed. So He came to Adam and Eve, terrified by their sin and hiding from God, walking in the Garden in the cool of the day. We heard last week how He came to Moses in a wonder-full way, in the bush that burned with fire but was not consumed. He came to the prophet Elijah in a still, small voice. And today we heard Him come in two different ways: (1.) on Mount Sinai, in such a fearsome display of power and might that not only the people, but the mountain itself trembled greatly . . . and then (2.) He comes into Jerusalem in the exact opposite way: humbly, and to the cheers and welcome of the people. Leading some to wonder: which reflects how God really is? How should we think of God? Will the true God please stand up?

This is not two different Gods, of course, but one God with one goal: to deal with your sin and give you salvation. So when He comes down on Mount Sinai, He does both - He gives the Law and He gives the instructions for the building of the Tabernacle, the priesthood, and all the sacrifices to be offered there for the forgiveness of their sins, to give them His holiness. Or to put that in good Lutheran terminology, there is both Law and Gospel. God dealing with sin and giving salvation.

And so, Moses tells the people, “Do not fear, for God has come to test you, that the fear of him may be before you, that you may not sin.” . . . Do not fear. God is coming to save. But that sounded a bit odd, didn’t it? What Moses said there . . . Do not fear . . . that the fear of him may be before you . . . Which is it? To be or not to be may have been Hamlet’s question, but to fear or not to fear is ours. How do we think of God? How do we approach a holy God?

The people of Jerusalem we heard about tonight were not cowering in fear, or if they were, it was not because of Jesus but because of the Romans. Unlike the people at Mount Sinai, when God comes to them, when their King comes to them, the King of the universe, they take up palm branches and rejoice! They call out for salvation - Hosanna! which means, save us. They welcome Him with the words of Psalm 118 - a psalm of thanksgiving, a psalm of celebration. Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord! The Lord who has come to save us, fulfilling this psalm. The Lord who is good. The Lord whose steadfast love endures forever.

But not many days later, they, too, were trembling. The one who came to save them, so they thought, was hanging on a cross. He was rejected, abused, mocked, humiliated, cursed, thrown out with the garbage, hung between two criminals, was considered worse to have around than Barabbas. And then He was dead. Now what? They went home . . . trembling, questioning . . . Who would save us now? 

Well, it is the prophet Isaiah who brings it all together for us tonight. A bridge, or sorts, from Mount Sinai to Jerusalem. Isaiah is sometimes called the fifth evangelist because his prophecy is so filled with Jesus, prophecies of who He was and what He would do. And in his vision, in the verses that we heard, there is trembling and fear, and there is also salvation and thanksgiving. First, as a filthy sinner in the presence of a holy God, he is filled with trembling and woe, like the people at Mount Sinai. And rightly so. But when a coal from the altar touches his lips, his guilt is taken away, his sin atoned for, and he is a new man. A man made new, a sinner made righteous, a dead man given life. And as such he is filled with thanksgiving, he is able to stand before God and is ready to live this new life he has received. The life God always intended for him to have. Isaiah knew his sin and he knew his salvation. He both feared and loved God. Feared him as sinner. Loved him as sinner made saint.

Which is our reality. When the Small Catechism teaches the Commandments, it includes in the explanation of each one: we should fear and love God so that . . . We fear Him as sinner, and so not do anything against these commandments, and we love Him as sinner made saint, and so gladly do what He commands. We should fear and love God . . . Mount Sinai and Jerusalem both. Isaiah before and after both. Which is also the reality of the cross. For the cross shows us the seriousness of our sin and the end result of our sin, that we tremble like the people at Mount Sinai and like Isaiah in the throne room of God. But the cross also shows us the forgiveness of our sin, so that we rejoice and give thanks like the people of Jerusalem and like Isaiah after the coal touched his lips. Because on that fearsome cross is not us - but Jesus. Jesus in our place. Jesus as our substitute. Jesus hosanna-ing us. Jesus as the fulfillment of Psalm 118 and all the psalms and all the prophecies of Isaiah and all the Old Testament. Jesus atoning for the sin of the world. And if for the sin of the world, then for your sin and my sin. 

And this truth has now been put into the liturgy for us in the Sanctus, the fourth ordinary, the fourth part of the liturgy that is ordinarily in every service, for us to sing in every service. For the Sanctus has these two parts: (1.) First is the song of the angels in the presence of God that Isaiah heard in the throne room of heaven that brought him to his knees and then flat on his face in trembling and fear, but then also (2.) second, the Sanctus is the song of the people of Jerusalem in welcoming their coming Saviour. We should fear and love God . . . Here, like Isaiah, we are in the presence of the holy God, and so rightly fear His wrath against sin and repent, but we also love the one who comes now and touches our lips with the sacrifice from the altar of the cross, the Body and Blood of Jesus. And with that our guilt is that is taken away; our sin that is atoned for. And as God then sent Isaiah, sinner made saint, out to be His prophet, so He now sends us from this place, us sinners made saints, to live in the callings, the vocations, He has given us. A greater exodus, from a greater slavery, to a greater freedom.

We should fear and love God. Law and Gospel. Sin and salvation. But of the two, the greatest of these is love. The Lord’s salvation is greater than our sin. The proclamation of the Gospel predominates over the Law. And love of God is more than the fear of Him. For while the cross shows us both, it is His love that shines most brightly. That your grand and glorious, all-powerful and all-knowing God would do this for you. To make you His son, His daughter. And so you are.

For there are two things God is concerned with: your sin and your salvation. So on the cross He takes your sin and provides for your salvation. Salvation that is given to us frightened, trembling sinners here, that we rejoice in Him. Take eat, take drink, He says. Your guilt is taken away, your sin atoned for, He says. And so Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord! we say. Hosanna! Save us! It is the very thing He came to do.

In the Name of the Father, and of the (+) Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Sermon for the Fourth Sunday in Lent

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Jesu Juva

“The Faithful Father’s Forgiveness”

Text: Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32; 2 Corinthians 5:16-21; Isaiah 12:1-6

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

Familiarity breeds contempt, they say.

That was certainly true for the younger son in the parable Jesus told today. The prodigal son, as he has come to be known. We don’t know how old he was, but old enough to have grown tired of his father, and more than tired - he no longer wanted to be around the old coot. There was a whole big, wide world out there just waiting for him to explore. It was exciting just to think about. To be free from the restraints of living in his father’s house. Free to do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, with whoever he wanted. The more he thought about the possibilities, the more he grew in contempt for his father and the stale, familiar old life he was stuck in.

And it was exciting at first. But soon, it too became familiar and stale, the reckless living. So he had to ratchet it up even more. More exciting, and more reckless. In a world happy to accommodate him. In a world happy to take from him. Until he had no more to give them. Until his money ran out. And then they had no use for him. Those happy to take from him wouldn’t give him anything, not even the pods the pigs ate. 

Familiarity breeds contempt, they say. 

And after the younger son spent so much time by himself, feeding pigs, he grew to hate himself. Now he had contempt for the life he had been living. The reckless life. The big, wide world and all its fun and exciting possibilities wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. And suddenly, the life he left didn’t seem so contemptible anymore. It seemed good, comfortable, safe. But he couldn’t go back. He had burned that bridge, hadn’t he? Divorced his father. He was no son; no longer worthy to be a son. He looked at himself - I mean really looked at himself, and was disgusted. He now regretted what he had said and how he had left, but the damage was done. Oh, how he hated himself! How could he live with himself?

Familiarity breeds contempt, they say. 

And so it was for the other brother, too. The older one. He had grown in anger, hatred, and contempt for his father, too. He didn’t say those words out loud, to his father’s face, like his brother had, but they stewed inside of him. His father didn’t appreciate him, didn’t “get” him. His father didn’t give him what he wanted. He wanted to celebrate with his old friends like his younger brother went out and celebrated with his new friends. But he was stuck in his father’s house. Stuck in the same old routine.

And his contempt grew as he heard reports about his brother, as he grew more familiar with all that his brother was doing. He was jealous. Not that he approved of what his brother was doing, but of his freedom, of his ability to do it. He couldn’t. And that made him even more angry and more filled with hatred and contempt for his miserable, unfair life, for his father, and for the old coot’s other son. He wouldn’t call him his brother. He wasn’t. Not anymore.

Familiarity breeds contempt, they say. 

Except for one. The two brothers were different, but really not that different. But the father . . . he seems to have contempt for no one. When his younger son, angry and filled with contempt, demands his inheritance, he doesn’t get angry or lash back - he gives it to him and lets him go. And everyday hopes for his return, waits for his return. Looks for him to come back down the road on which he had turned his back to his father and vowed never to return. Surely he had heard the same reports his older son did, about how his younger son was living and what he was doing. But when this son finally comes back, broken down, defeated, a shell of his former self, with his tail between his legs, looking disgusting and smelling even worse, the father has nothing but love for his son. It was as if what had happened between them had never happened at all. He restores his son to full sonship again. He would not be a servant, even a well-cared for one, one treated like family. No - he is family. 

And this was just as true for his older son. After his older son lets him have it with both barrels for the welcome he gave his returning son, the father doesn’t get angry or lash back. Surely he had felt, realized, the contempt and restlessness of his older son all these years, too. But all he speaks are kind and generous words. He begs him to come in and celebrate. His love for him, his older son, was no less. But the older son didn’t see it that way. It was a zero sum game for him. Whatever that younger son of a . . . son of his father got, meant less for him. Less inheritance, less love. So the only more was his contempt.

The father is the only one consistent throughout, the only one we can count on in this story. His love for his sons never wavers. His care and generosity never wavers. He knows his sons. He knows their faults and shortcomings. He receives harsh words and insults from both. Yet his love for them is steadfast. 

Familiarity breeds contempt, they say. 

Perhaps it is even so in the church. A God who never changes with the times is oppressive, old fashioned, out of touch; even now, for some, a hater, a bigot, unreasonable, or worse. A God who forgives scoundrels, prodigals, people who think they can do whatever they want and waltz in here expect forgiveness! Who wants a God, a Father, like that? 

Maybe we don’t . . . until we realize that’s the God, the Father, we need. 

Us younger sons who leave this place with the gifts of our Father, His forgiveness and life, and then how do we live during the week? Do we go back to rolling around in the mud of our sins? Doing whatever we want, whenever we want, with whoever we want - our will, not God’s will? Does time in God’s Word and prayer, helping others, and discipline seem oppressive and unreasonable, while you look at the freedom and pleasures of the world, and think: that looks a lot more fun? Until it isn’t. The freedom not all it’s cracked up to be. The world moves on from us. The shine goes off the apple. And you look at yourself, I mean really look at yourself . . . where you’ve been, what you’ve done, who you’ve become . . . oof! 

And there are us older sons, too. Who didn’t do that, weren’t like that, but . . . wanted to? Wanted the freedom, wanted the fun. Didn’t want to be the old, faithful son. And so while outwardly looking good and doing all the right things, our hearts get filled with contempt, anger, jealousy, pride, resentment, and a hardness that won’t forgive and doesn’t want to forgive and doesn’t think God should either! Not him! Not her! Not that! . . . Until you look at yourself, I mean really look at yourself . . . and realize: not . . . me, too? What I’ve become? Oof!

And our Father says, Come in! You are welcome here. Most welcome. For you are not like family, you are family. My children. Am I happy with what you’ve done, what you’ve become? Of course not. My heart has ached for you, to see you like that. Knowing how you were hurting yourself. Knowing all the ugliness you were harboring in your heart. Knowing the pain and heartache that were coming. Knowing how the world would chew you up and spit you out, how others in their own freedom and selfishness were going to hurt you. 

So I am happy that you’re here. That you’ve come back, come back home. You are most welcome here. I forgive you and restore you. I have not killed a fattened calf for you - I did one better than that: I offered up my only-begotten Son for you. I made Him who knew no sin - no rebellion, no resentment, no hatred, no pride, no jealousy, no reckless living - to become all that; for you, in your place; to suffer all you deserve for all that; to Himself die for all that! For you. So that in Him, you might become the righteousness of God. So that in Him, trusting in Him - Jesus - and all that He did for you - His righteousness, His right-ness, His Sonship - become yours. As your Father, that’s what I want. And as your brother, that’s what Jesus wants. 

So come to the feast! My baptism has made you My child, my absolution has washed you clean, and now there is the food you need to live, your Saviour’s Body and Blood. You are a new creation, brand new, really new, to live a new life. 

So . . . familiarity breeds contempt? Maybe it is not always so. In sinful hearts, in a sinful world, yes. But in a world filled with contempt, and accusations, and lies and deceit, and recklessness, and lack of forgiveness . . . a world which takes and demands and oppresses and offers a freedom which really enslaves you to itself . . . a world which changes and so accepts you one moment and rejects you the next . . . a world filled with grumbling and complaining . . . a God, a Father, who is the same yesterday, today, and forever (Hebrews 13:8), whose truth doesn’t change, whose love doesn’t change, whose forgiveness doesn’t change, that sounds pretty good. That’s the God, the Father, we need, and we have. All of us younger sons. All of us older sons. All of us tax collector and sinners, Pharisees and scribes. 

And knowing that, knowing Him, breeds not contempt, but love, forgiveness, and praise. For us younger sons and us older sons become one in THE Son, in Jesus, and become like Him. And when we don’t, when we slip and fall back into the mud puddles of sin and into bitterness and resentment in our hearts, you have a Father who is here for you, waiting for you. Who won’t leave you. Who won’t reject you. Who is ready and eager to forgive you, welcome you back, and feast you. Which is pretty awesome. 

So come to His feast! All that is His is yours. Celebrate with your equally sinful and equally forgiven brothers and sisters. Celebrate your Father’s love.

In the Name of the Father, and of the (+) Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Sermon for Lent 3 Midweek

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Jesu Juva

“Our Ordinary Lenten Exodus: The Creed”

Text: Exodus 3:1-6, 13-15; Matthew 16:13-18, 21-23

In the Name of Jesus. Amen.

Moses did not know God’s name. But God knew his. Moses, Moses, He called out of the bush that burned with fire but was not consumed. That can be a bit disconcerting. When someone knows you, when they know your name, but you do not know them or their name. 

What did Moses know of God? This God who came to him here on Mount Horeb? Moses had been raised in Egypt, in Pharaoh’s household. The gods of Egypt that he would have known were small gods, elemental gods. Gods of the water, the sun, of animals, and things like that. Gods with very limited realms. At some point, he learned that he was not an Egyptian, but of Hebrew blood. Did he then learn about the God of the Hebrews? And if so, what did he think of this God? This God who lets His people be slaves . . . or, at least, seems unable to rescue them? 

Moses then flees from Egypt and Pharaoh after he killed an Egyptian who was abusing and beating a Hebrew slave. He flees and winds up in the land of Midian, in the household of Jethro, the priest of Midian. We don’t know how long he lived there, but long enough to marry one of Jethro’s daughters and have a son by her. Perhaps here, at this time, he learned more of the God of the Hebrews from his father-in-law. Of a God who was not just the god of a territory or of elements, but a different kind of God than that - the God of people. The God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. A God who chose people and saved people. A God not bound but unbounded. A God not limited but unlimited. 

And then this day, while Moses was out tending the sheep - for God does tend to have a thing for shepherds, doesn’t He? - he sees this sight, this bush that burned with fire but was not consumed. He goes to see it, and gets more than he bargained for. He hears the voice of God. The God of the Hebrews. The God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. And now, the God of Moses. He turns his face away in fear. What he went to see he could no longer look at. 

But the God who saw him and came to him in a bush that burned with fire but was not consumed, did not consume Moses, but spoke to him. He had chosen him, Moses, to rescue His people from Egypt. But what is Your name? Moses asked. Who are You? How do I confess You when I am asked about You? I AM WHO I AM was the answer. The God who is. The God who doesn’t change. The God who is always present. That’s how You confess Me, Moses. And after this God named I AM acted for them and rescued them, their confession of Him expanded - to who He is and what He has done: He is the LORD who brought us out of Egypt.

Many years later the LORD appeared again, and again to rescue His people. A greater rescue, from a greater slavery, to a greater freedom. But to do the greater, He came even smaller. He came, this time, not on a mountain, but in a small town. Not in a burning bush but in human flesh. But it was the same LORD. An infinite, all-powerful God in a tiny, weak, baby’s body, yet that body was not consumed. The shepherds had gone to see that sight.

Then one day, in the district of Caesarea Philippi, the question came up again, this time asked not by man, but by this God in human flesh: Who do people say the Son of Man is? Who do you say that I am? What is their confession? What is your confession? Peter gets it right: You are the Christ, that is, the promised one, the Son of the living God. That is important to know. For upon this confession Jesus will build His Church. A Church that not even the gates of hell will be able to overcome. 

But as with Moses and the people of Israel, this confession is not enough. For who God is and what He does always go together. They don’t always for us. Who we are and what we do are sometimes contradictory. What we say and what we do is sometimes inconsistent. But not with God. To know God is to know what He does, and to know what He does is to know Him. He is the God who saves, and the one who saves is God. He is the LORD who brought us out of sin, death, and hell.

And so this Jesus teaches His disciples - those He would send out into the world after He accomplished this salvation, to confess, to tell all people who He is and what He has done. He tells them: He must be killed. He must die and rise. He is the Lamb of God and so will be the Lamb of God. He will be the sacrifice to atone for the sin of the world. Who will give His life for the life of the world. 

And to this, Peter says no. . . . But it must be. There is no other way. No other way for us to be saved. But also no other way for Jesus to be who He is. This is who He is, so this is what He must do. For the two always go together. To know Jesus is to know Him as the crucified and risen LORD. You cannot really know Jesus apart from His cross and resurrection. For without His cross and resurrection, He is a Jewish person, a good man, a holy man, a miracle worker, an inspiration, an example, a rabbi, a prophet, or a whole host of other things, but He is not your Saviour.

So this the Church confesses. Not just who God is, but also what He has done for us. It is why the Creed is the third ordinary of the liturgy - the third part of the liturgy that is ordinarily in every service. This is the God who is comes for us and is here for us. The God who speaks to us, who washes us, who feeds us, who forgives us. The God who has created us, redeemed us, and sanctified us. The God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. The God of Moses. The God who came to us in the flesh and blood of Jesus. This is our God, we confess. Not because we have chosen Him, but because He has come to us. The LORD is His name. The I AM WHO I AM. And who He is is Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. One God in three persons, and three persons in one God. A trinity. The Father who sent His Son to save us. The Son who came and spoke from a bush that burned but was not consumed, who came and ascended a cross and died our death, and who comes now to feed us with Himself, His own Body and Blood. Our Passover Lamb, so that we will pass over with Jesus from death to a life beyond the reach of death.

So when we confess this God, credo, I believe this, in this God and what He has done, we are following in the footsteps of Moses and the disciples, of Old Testament Israel and the New Testament Church. This is the truth. This is who God is. And there is no other. What we believe in our hearts we speak with our mouths. And what we speak with our mouths is for all the world to know, and believe. Credo. I believe. For there is salvation in no one else, for there is no other name under heaven given among men by which we must be saved (Acts 4:12).

So we speak, we confess. And not just for others, but for ourselves. When we are faced with hardship and trouble. When we doubt and fear. When we worry and wonder what the future holds. At just such times, we look back and remember. We look back and confess. This is who God is and what He has done. And He is the same yesterday, today, and forever (Hebrews 13:8). He is present and does not change. So what He has done He will do. For me. He is faithful. He who went to the cross, He who did not consume the bush does not consume me either. He has come to save and will save and does save. Me. Credo. I believe. 

In the Name of the Father, and of the (+) Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Sermon for the Third Sunday in Lent

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Jesu Juva

“A Strongly Weak Life”

Text: Luke 13:1-9; 1 Corinthians 10:1-13

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

A volcano erupts deep under the Pacific Ocean and a tsunami wipes out an island.

A crazed man decides to invade another country and bombs start raining down on it.

A tornado strengthens to a category 5 and takes out everything in its path.

A gunman shoots up an arena filled with concertgoers, leaving blood and death and carnage.

An avalanche high up in the mountains crashes down and swallows up a village.

A tiny virus infects the world.

A hurricane makes a sudden and unexpected turn and smashes into a city filled with people, leaving many dead and even more homeless.

A bunch of misguided religious fanatics fly planes into buildings.

A wildfire rages out of control and consumes an entire neighborhood.

A freak storm dumps many inches of rain and floods take out farms, businesses, and whole communities.

A construction error causes a structure to fall, crushing many people under its weight.

All of these things happened in the last 20 years or so, within many of our lifetimes. And what else? What other natural disasters, tragedies, evil?

When they do, how do you react? There but for the grace of God go I many say. Which is true, but not enough. Some on television, radio, or podcast claim they know why these things happened - that these people were unbelievers, or that they or their countries were desperately sinful, and so God was punishing them. But is that true? And then there are those who would chalk it up to fate, or chance, or just plain ol’ bad luck, being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Today, Jesus tells us how we should react: I tell you . . . unless you repent, you will all likewise perish. When these kinds of things happen, it is an opportunity for us not to look at them and try to figure out why it happened to them, what’s wrong with them . . . but to look at myself, and what’s wrong with me, and know it - and even worse - should have happened to me. It is an opportunity for us to pray: Lord, have mercy on me. I am the sinner. I am the one who deserves death. Or as we confessed earlier: I, a poor, miserable sinner . . . justly deserve Your temporal (Your earthly) and eternal punishment. 

For the grace of God we really need isn’t just to avoid some hardship, unpleasantness, or tragedy here and now, in this world and life, the grace we really need is the forgiveness of our sins, so that we need not fear the eternal consequences of our sins. For that is far worse. We don’t always think that way, but we should. Between physical death and spiritual death, spiritual death is far worse. 

So these things that happen remind us of the sin that is in the world - that the world is broken and out of joint and does not work as it was created to. These things remind us of the sin that is in people - that hatred and revenge often drive our actions, and that even our best intentions fall short. But most of all, says Jesus, these things remind us of the sin that is in me. That I am not the person God created me to be. That wrong motives often drive my actions. That even my best intentions fall short.

When Paul wrote to the Christians in Corinth, this is the point he was making with them. He points back to Old Testament Israel and all that God had done for them: His presence leading and protecting them, dividing the Red Sea so they could pass through, the manna that God gave them every day, the water from a rock . . . they were blessed in so many ways! Yet what did they do? They were idolaters, they were sexually immoral, they doubted God and tested Him, and they grumbled. A lot. 

How should we react to those things? In astonishment and incomprehension? That they were worse sinners than us? Wonder how they could be so stupid, ungrateful, and rebellious? No, Paul says. But realize we are just the same. We who have the presence of God here with us, who have passed through the waters of Baptism, who are fed with the bread of life and drink of the living water of God’s Word, and yet . . . do we not have idols, too? People or things in this world that we fear, love, and trust more than God? Do we, too, not have sexually impure thoughts, desires, and actions? Do we, too, not doubt God and His love and test Him? Do we, too, not grumble and complain against God when things aren’t going our way, or the way we want or think they should? 

When those things happened to Old Testament Israel, God disciplined them because He loved them! To turn them back to Him in repentance. So take a lesson, Paul says to those Christians. Take a lesson, he says to us. Repent, Jesus says. Because I love you. 

And then Paul adds to that, saying let anyone who thinks that he stands take heed lest he fall. That is, don’t think you are beyond the reach of sin, temptation, and satan. Don’t pat yourself on the back for how good you are doing and that you’re not like others. To think like that puts you in a dangerous place, taking your eyes off the danger and relying on your own strength. And when you do that, you are ripe to fall. 

But the news is not all bad. Take heed, be aware, Paul says, yes - but then this, too: there is a way of escape. Now, if this were science fiction, that would be a wormhole. If this were a spy movie, it would be a secret passage. If the Civil War, the Underground Railroad. But what door, what passageway, what avenue of escape is there for us? To get away from satan and his temptations? To escape the danger? For us sinful humans beings, there is only one thing it could be: the cross. God is faithful, Paul says. He will not leave you on your own. There is a limit, too, a leash on satan and how far he can go. But the way for us out of sin, out of death, and out of hell, is not the strength of God, but His weakness. God showed His strength to Israel in Egypt and the wilderness and still they rebelled. And it is not His might, but His mercy. For God’s might is terrifying. But His mercy is comforting. So the way for us out of sin, out of death, and out of hell, is the cross of Jesus, His love for us there, the forgiveness He won for us there, and the new life that is given to us when we are baptized and die and rise with Him. It is the cross of Jesus, when He looked at His most helpless and weakest and there was no escape, that has become our strength and help and way of escape.

Which is something we are constantly learning. Because away from the cross is where satan is constantly tempting us. That when we are tempted, to rely on ourselves and our own strength, our own will power and faithfulness - which, as you well know, sometimes may work, but often times it does not. That’s why Paul doesn’t point to our faithfulness or strength, but to God’s. God’s faithfulness shown to us on the cross, where all His words and promises to us are fulfilled. Where He is strongly weak for us. How’s that for an oxymoron! Strongly weak.

But so it is, with Jesus, with the cross. For as Paul told the Corinthian Christians in his letter before this, the weakness of God is stronger than our strength (1 Corinthians 1:25). So if we are relying on our strength, be it our physical, mental, or spiritual strength, we are weak. But if we rely on Jesus’ weakness, on His cross, on His victory there, then we are strong. We are strong when we rely on our baptism to know who we are. We are strong when we rely on Jesus’ forgiveness as our confidence. We are strong when we feed on Jesus’ Body and Blood for the nourishment we need. The nourishment from Jesus’ tree that will make us good trees bearing good fruit. The good fruit of repentance. The good fruit of forgiveness for those who sin against us. The good fruit of lives lived in Jesus.

Maybe Jesus will have to dig around in your life to give you that nourishment you need . . . when you neglect it, when you’re not bearing good fruit, when you’re relying too much on yourself. Which might not be pleasant, but it will be for your good. For He loves you; He doesn’t want you to be cut down. So He was cut down for you, on the cross. Giving His life for you, to give you His life now. 

So living in a sinful world, that is broken and out of joint and does not work as it was created to . . . and living in a world of sinners who sin against us . . . and living ourselves as sinners in this world sinning against others . . . we’re either going to destroy ourselves and our world, ourselves and each other, or we need a Saviour. Someone from outside this sinful world to set it right. And this Lenten season, that is who we see. We fix our eyes on Jesus (Gradual). And when all those disasters, tragedies, and evil befall us - and more - we fix our eyes on Jesus, hanging on the cross, enlightening the darkness, and calling us to hope in Him and not despair. Calling us to repent and find our life in Him. So do that. Fix your eyes on Jesus. And not just this Lenten season, but as this Lenten season trains us to do. Fix your eyes on Jesus and feed on Him with your ears, your eyes, and your mouths, and then live the life He has given you. A strongly weak life. A life of repentance. A life of forgiveness. A life filled with the fruits of faith, hope, and love.

In the Name of the Father, and of the (+) Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Sermon for Lent 2 Midweek

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Jesu Juva

“Our Ordinary Lenten Exodus: The Gloria”

Text: Exodus 14:30-15:21; Luke 2:8-14

In the Name of Jesus. Amen.

We praise people when they do something well, when they achieve one of their goals, or for a certain accomplishment. We want others to know what they’ve done. We’re proud of them. When a child wins an award at school. When a friend is promoted at work. When you’ve been working really hard on something and finally get it done. And it feels good to be praised, to have others recognize our accomplishments. And if the accomplishment is big enough or of particular note, then memorials are built, songs are written about it, days set aside to remember the event, so that the praise won’t be just for a day or two, but be passed down the generations. 

So it was for Israel’s exodus out of Egypt. They had been slaves for so long - it was all they knew or could remember. They were slaves, their fathers were slaves, their grandfathers were slaves. The burden of their slavery was getting heavier with each passing generation, and there was no end in sight. Then they cried out to the Lord, as we considered last week, and He rescued them. But not only that He did, but how He did, they needed to remember and praise Him for. So that when they confessed that they were the people God brought out of Egypt, they would remember all of it - all the mighty deeds God had done for them.

First there were the ten plagues God sent upon the land of Egypt. The water turned to blood, the invasion of the frogs, the clouds of gnats, the swarms of flies, the death of the Egyptian livestock, the boils on man and beast, the destructive hail, the devouring locusts, the three days of pitch darkness, and then the death of the firstborn of all the Egyptians. But not only that God sent those plagues on the land of Egypt, but that many of them effected only the Egyptians and not the people of Israel living in Egypt. 

But there’s more. When Pharaoh finally release them from their bondage, the people of Israel did not leave empty handed, but were enriched as the Egyptians gave them silver and gold and clothing as they left. They also did not leave alone, as God Himself led them out in a pillar of cloud by day and pillar of fire by night. And as if all that weren’t enough, if that wasn’t amazing enough or accomplishment enough, there was the piece de resistance - God’s deliverance of Israel and destruction of Pharaoh at the Red Sea. Pharaoh and the creme of his army were chasing after Israel to haul them back to Egypt. Everything they gained was about to be lost. The Red Sea was before them and the Egyptian army was behind them. But - and you know the story - God divided the sea so that Israel could walk through it on dry ground. But when Pharaoh and his army went in and pursued Israel, the sea returned to its place and swallowed them up. 

So Israel sang about it. A hymn of praise. For music helps the word get into our minds and hearts. They praised God and wanted future generations to remember and do the same. To never forget what God had done for them. And so they learned and sang the hymn of praise we heard tonight.

But as I said last week, out of Egypt was just step one in God’s plan. As great as all that was, there was a greater exodus that God had in mind, a greater exodus that God was working toward, from a greater slavery, to a greater freedom. The exodus from Egypt was put in motion when God sent Moses to Egypt. This greater exodus, from our slavery to sin, death, and hell, was put in motion when God sent His Son into the world. And when He did, it was the angels who sang a hymn of praise. The angels who could not remain silent, who could not restrain their joy, but broke forth in praise of God, saying, “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace among those with whom he is pleased.” Or, in a slightly different but more well-known translation: Glory to God in the highest, and on earth, peace, goodwill toward man (KJV). The angels proclaimed that to the Bethlehem shepherds, that they would know. But those words and that praise has continued down through the ages. Luke tells us that after the shepherds saw their Saviour, their Messiah, lying in the manger, they told Joseph and Mary the saying that had been told them concerning this child (Luke 2:17), and then when they left, they glorified and praised God for all they had heard and seen (Luke 2:20). Or in other words, they told others not just of the baby Jesus, but who He was and what He had come to do - the message of the angels. 

That message now is repeated and sung by generation after generation in the liturgy of the church, a hymn of praise to our God. That we always remember what God has done for us, how God rescued us, and praise Him for it. Even if the hymns that day fall flat and the sermon is a clunker, we sing the praise of God and all that He has done in the liturgy. It is always there, that it may always be on our tongues, in our ears, and in our hearts. 

Now when we sing that today, the Gloria in Excelsis, we start with the words of the angels, but don’t stop there. Just as Israel’s song proclaimed what God had done and how He did it, so does our hymn of praise. The words of the angels proclaim Jesus’ birth, but then our hymn of praise continues. Who is this God on high? The Father Almighty, and His only-begotten Son, now incarnate in the flesh of Jesus. And why is this Son now incarnate in the flesh of Jesus? To be the Lamb of God who takest away the sin of the world. The Lamb of God who is our substitute in death. The Lamb of God who sheds His blood because of our sin. But the Lamb of God, we then go on to sing, who now sittest at the right hand of God the Father. That is, who is no longer dead but rose from the dead and ascended into heaven, as both God and man, to His place of honor and authority. From there He is ruling all things for our good. From there, the holy one sends His Holy Spirit to us to make us holy in the forgiveness of our sins. Like Israel when they came out of Egypt, our Lord enriches us with His gifts and does not leave us alone, but continues with us, leading and guiding us on the way. Until He accomplishes our great exodus, when we, too, will rise from the dust of death and live with Him forever.

Which is really good news, for like Israel, it’s not always smooth sailing in this world and life. Israel got stuck between the rock and the hard place of the Red Sea and the pursuing Egyptian army. Sometimes we find ourselves in the same kind of predicaments, not knowing where to turn, and with (it seems) no way out. At such times, you may not feel like praising God, like He’s not doing enough to help you, like He doesn’t even see or know the spot you’re in! But He does. And that’s where this second ordinary of the liturgy can really help us. For in those times of struggle and trouble, when the praise of God seems so far from us, it comes to us in the liturgy. Our fellow Christians sing it and proclaim it to us, and we sing it with our (perhaps) reluctant or unwilling lips. And with these words in our ears and on our tongues, we are reminded, we remember, what God has done for us. That as God rescued Israel, so He has rescued us. The sin in us and in our world cannot win. The death that is eating away at us from within and assaults us from without has already been defeated. The problems that vex us God can and will use for our good. So while our future may not be easy, it is safe and secure. In Jesus.

So, the Gloria: the second ordinary, the second part of our liturgy that is ordinarily in every service. With it we take our place in the great exodus of people who praise and proclaim the glory of God. Israel was the people God brought out of Egypt to freedom; we are the people God brings out of death to life. So we sing to the Lord, for he has triumphed gloriously! Glory to God in the highest! We are free.

In the Name of the Father, and of the (+) Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Sermon for the Second Sunday in Lent

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Jesu Juva

“The Doctor Is In”

Text: Jeremiah 26:8-15; Philippians 3:17-4:1; Luke 13:31-35

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

We ignore the warning signs. We disregard the symptoms. Everything is fine. No problems. We don’t want there to be. But there are. That pain in your body, that pang of guilt, that gnawing conscience, that fear, are signs that something’s not right. We can ignore the signs, and often do. But that doesn’t make the problem go away. It’ll clear up by itself, we think. Maybe. We’ll deal with it later. But maybe there won’t be a later. What then? We had a chance. We chose not to take it. The fault is our own. If we’d caught it in the early stages, we could have . . . we might have . . . but now . . .

They people of Israel didn’t go to Dr. Jeremiah. They thought everything was fine. So he made a house call.

Dr. Jeremiah has taken the spiritual temperature of Jerusalem and it is not good. They are sick. He knows the medicine they need, but they do not want it. They do not want to turn from the reckless behaviour that is endangering their lives. Like any good doctor, Jeremiah tells them: quit smoking, eat right, and exercise. Quit smoking incense to foreign gods. Stop eating the food offered to idols. Exercise yourself in repentance. Get healthy spiritually before it is too late. But no, Jeremiah. We’re not going to change. Everything is fine. You need to change your tune!

But everything was not fine. Israel’a denial did not make the problem go away, it made it worse. Their disease progressed. Their false worship, false gods, and wickedness metastasized. The people did not repent. So God kept His Word. The city of Jerusalem was destroyed, the Temple leveled.

So now how about you? What are the warning signs, the symptoms in your life that everything is not alright? Are you bored with God’s Word, think it irrelevant, or disagree with it? Are your prayers infrequent and empty? Are you dissatisfied with God? Are you falling into the same sin over and over? Is it metastasizing in your life? How is it with you? We don’t want to believe there is anything wrong with us physically, we don’t want to believe there is anything wrong with us spiritually. We can ignore the signs and symptoms, deny them, but it is not good to do so. So Dr. Jeremiah is making a house call to us this Lent, and calling us to repent and receive the medicine we need. The medicine our Lord has here for us.

The people of Jerusalem didn’t want to hear it, though. They instead wanted to de-platform Jeremiah, censor him, and ban him. He had to go, and by death, if necessary. 

But Jeremiah wouldn’t change his tune to save his life. Instead, he says, I am in your hands. Do with me as seems good and right to you. Only know for certain that if you put me to death, you will bring innocent blood upon yourselves and upon this city and its inhabitants, for in truth the Lord sent me to you to speak all these words in your ears.

Well, turns out, they did not kill Jeremiah. But Jeremiah’s words did come true. For another prophet. One who came after him and was greater than him. They took Him in their hands and did what seemed good and right to them - they crucified Him and brought His innocent blood upon themselves. But what men intend for evil God uses for good. For it is that innocent blood shed by evil men that God now uses to save. That innocent blood on us washes us clean from our death-causing sin. And this is the word now spoken into our ears: that we repent of our role in the shedding of His blood, repent of our sins that put Him there, and believe and rejoice in how His blood now raises us to a new life, with bodies no longer given to sin, but now temples - temples of the Holy Spirit.

To do that . . . that’s the power Paul was talking about in his letter to the Philippian Christians. The power that enables [Jesus] to subdue all things to Himself. The power that will transform our lowly bodies - our sin-diseased and dying bodies - to be like His glorious body. It is the power of Jesus’ death and resurrection. The power of His blood shed on the cross, and now poured on us in Baptism and poured into our mouth in His Supper. That innocent blood on us and in us is the medicine that gives us the healing and new life we need. So that we no longer walk as enemies of the cross of Christ. No longer live just to satisfy our own bellies, urges, and desires. No longer live with our minds just set on earthly things. 

If you see that in yourself . . . how what you want, not what God wants, is most important . . . how your mind is set on earthly things, not heavenly things - what doesn’t last instead of what will . . . if what used to ping your conscience and bring you shame does so no longer . . . you can ignore those warning signs, those symptoms . . . but to what end? Paul says, their end is destruction. Just as happened to the people of Jerusalem, when their city was destroyed and the temple was leveled. Dr. Jeremiah warned them. Dr. Paul is warning us. Don’t wait. Repent. Receive the medicine Jesus has for you.

For that’s what Jesus wants. He doesn’t want to ruin your life or deprive you of having any fun. He simply wants to give you life. Life now, free from the oppression of sin and its bondage; free from your urges and desires controlling you; free from having to bend your knee to the world and its agenda; free from having to find your value and acceptance from a fickle and ever-changing world; free from having to prove yourself. For all those things sap you of life, they don’t give you life. They wear you down, not build you up. They don’t heal you of your sickness, but make it worse. 

How different Jesus. Who says: you don’t have to prove yourself to me, I know who you are, a dirty, rotten sinner. I came to take those dirty, rotten sins away and set you free from them. That’s how much you’re worth. That’s how valuable you are. I shed My innocent blood for your guilty blood. I trade My life for yours. I die that you may live.

And that’s what Jesus yearned for as He looked over Jerusalem that day, as we heard from St. Luke. He wanted - like a mother hen - to gather them, protect them, shield them, provide for them, give them life. But like Dr. Jeremiah, they don’t like what He says. The Pharisees especially. They’ve been plotting against Him for some time. This day, they invoke King Herod - maybe he’ll spook Jesus! He did imprison and then behead John the Baptist, after all. Your next Jesus! He’s coming for you next! 

He wasn’t, really. We read that Herod was perplexed by Jesus, thought maybe He was channeling John or Elijah or one of the prophets of old (Luke 9:7-9). He wanted to see Jesus. And after Jesus was arrested and Pilate sent Him to Herod, Herod was delighted (Luke 23:6-12). 

But Jesus wasn’t afraid of him anyway. Or any man. As He said, no one takes His life - He lays it down of his own accord (John 10:18). He would give His life for the life of the world. He knew that day was coming. It’s why He came. And no fox in the henhouse was going to change that or make Him abandon you. He’s going to finish what He started. He’s going to finish His course. He will cast out demons and perform cures today and tomorrow, and the third day He will finish. The third day He will rise from death and finish the course He blazed for us through death to life again. For He came to give us life - life now, life from the dead, life forever.

And because of that, as St. Paul said, our citizenship is in heaven. That’s our home. That’s where we belong. Your baptismal certificate your citizenship papers. You belong there. You belong to Him. And so Jesus is coming again to take you there. And when He does, we will see Him and be among those who say Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord!

Which, actually, we will say today in the liturgy, because Jesus comes for us today, giving us His forgiveness, speaking to us His Word, and feeding us His Body and Blood. So as He does, and we see Him with the eyes of faith, we welcome Him with those words: Blessed is He! Blessed is He! Blessed is He who cometh in the name of the Lord (The Sanctus). And we eat and drink His forgiveness, life, and salvation. His forgiveness for our sin, His life for our death, and His salvation for our condemnation. He takes the bad from us and gives the good to us. That we can live.

So the season of Lent . . . well, it’s like our yearly spiritual physical. We’re sick with sin. The warning signs and symptoms are there. The doctor has the medicine we need. We can ignore it and die, or we can repent and live. 

O Jerusalem, Jerusalem! O Saint Athanasius, Saint Athanasius! Find your life and health under the outstretched arms of your Saviour.

In the Name of the Father, and of the (+) Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Sermon for Lent 1 Midweek

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Jesu Juva

“Our Ordinary Lenten Exodus: The Kyrie”

Text: Exodus 1:8-14; 2:23-25; Mark 10:46-52

In the Name of Jesus. Amen.

It started out okay. Better than okay - it was good. Jacob and his family were living in the land of Goshen, the best part of the land of Egypt. And not because of anything they did. In fact, it was quite in spite of what they did. It was the hand of God. Their hands? Jacob was no paragon of virtue, and his sons followed in his steps. They wanted to kill their brother, but settled for the next best thing: selling him into slavery in another land. Either way they’d be rid of him. Either way they were better off without him. They thought. But God preserved Joseph so that He could preserve Jacob and his family. Not that they deserved preserving. But God had promised, and a promise is a promise. He promised that one of Jacob’s descendants would be the Messiah. So He had to preserve Jacob and his family. And He did so in a way that there would be no question whose doing this was. 

So things were good. Better than good - Jacob and his family were being well taken care of as guests in the land of Egypt. The Pharaoh so appreciative of Joseph and showing that appreciation in caring for his family. 

But then time rolled on. Jacob died. Joseph died. All the brothers died. The Pharaoh so appreciative to Joseph died. And after a generation or two or three, when the famine was but a faint memory, the new Pharaoh and the people of Egypt began to wonder . . . who were these foreigners living in their land? And why? And living in not just any part of their land, but the best part of their land? Life there was obviously agreeing with them, for they became much more than a family, but a people, a nation. One that had to be reckoned with. One that could turn against Egypt. 

It probably started out okay. They could stay, but they had to earn their keep. Put them to work. Everybody works. But one thing led to another. Some work became more work, but still the nation grew. Then more work became heavy burdens, and still the nation grew. Then heavy burdens became slavery, and still God blessed them with children. And the Egyptians grew, too - in fear. What had started off good became bitter. Egyptian kindness turned into Egyptian ruthlessness. 

And the people of Israel, the children who had descended from Jacob, cried out to the Lord. Lord, have mercy! And we read that God heard, God remembered, God saw, and God knew. He heard their cry, He remembered His promise, He saw this people from whom His own Son would be born into the world and their affliction, and He knew. He knew. He knew them as Adam knew his wife Eve, for they were His bride. He knew what He would do. He would rescue them. He would mercy them. He would show them His powerful right hand, for His hand was still at work. Not just to save them, but to save the world.

And He did it. Yes, He brought His people out of Egypt. Rescued them from their slavery and bondage there. You know the story. God knew that, but He knew much more than that. Out of Egypt wasn’t the whole thing - just step one. For He and His powerful right-hand man were going to provide a much greater exodus than that one. From a greater power, from a greater slavery, and to a greater freedom. 

And so it was that God’s right-hand man found Himself near Jericho that day, in the midst of a people in slavery, but a worse kind of slavery than Egypt because they didn’t even know it was slavery - their slavery to sin. Some knew it. Some whose lives had started out okay, maybe even good, but then the oppression of sin burdened them in obvious ways. Like blindness. Like Bartimaeus. Having your sight taken away can make life bitter. It made him a beggar. What had he done before? How had he earned his living and maybe provided for his family? What could he do then that he could now do no longer? So that he was reduced to begging. Just as Israel in Egypt had been brought to their knees, so had Bartimaeus. 

So when he hears a commotion, people passing by, he readies to cry out for mercy. It was the life of a beggar. Some would have mercy, some wouldn’t. Some would care, some couldn’t care less. Maybe it would be a good day. Maybe he would get to fill his empty stomach.

But then he heard this wasn’t the normal crowd leaving Jericho that day . . . someone else was in the crowd. Jesus of Nazareth was in the crowd! Jesus of Nazareth, who was filled with mercy. So when the crowd approached where he sat, he was going to be heard. He was going to be heard by Jesus. He echoed the cry of the people of Israel in Egypt: Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me! That is, Jesus, promised Messiah, have mercy . . . on me! 

How many other beggars were out there that day? How many others crying out for alms, for help? The crowds were tired of hearing them all and rebuked them, told them to be quiet. But Bartimaeus no longer wanted their alms - He wanted Jesus. He wanted what Jesus had come to provide; what no one else could provide. So he cried out all the more, “Son of David, have mercy on me!” And Jesus heard, and saw, and knew. He asks so that faith can give voice. What do you want me to do for you? Rabbi, set me free. Set me free from my slavery to blindness. He called Him Rabbi, but asked for much more than any Rabbi could do. He asks boldly, for faith is bold. Faith is bold because it knows not its own power, but the power of the one it trusts and believes. The power of the one who brought the people of Israel out of Egypt in the exodus, and had come to rescue His people again. 

And Jesus knew. He knew who He was. He knew what He had come to do. He knew the slavery this man and all the others was in bondage to. And He sets him free. With just a word. Go your way; your faith has made you well. And Jesus continued on His way. On His way to the cross.

Because He knew. He knew who He was. He knew what He had come to do. An exodus. But to go out, don’t you first have to be in? To do an exodus, don’t you first have to be enslaved? So enslaved He would be. With the sin of the world. With Bartimaeus’ sin, with your sin, with my sin. He would be shackled to the cross and bear the heavy burden of God’s wrath against the sin of the world. A burden that made the slavery of Egypt look like child’s play. But He would bear it, for you. He would die, for you. And He would exodus out of death and the grave, for you. To bring you out, too. To live in freedom, as His children. Free not for sin, but from sin. Free not to return to your heavy taskmasters, but to live a new life. 

And so the cry of the people of Israel and the cry of Bartimaeus continues today. Because we are the ones oppressed. Blinded by the glories of the world. Deaf to God’s Word because we keep listening to thoughts and opinions of the world. Hungering and thirsting for righteousness because we keep gorging ourselves with what is unrighteous. And so instead of lives that are full and abundant, we are beggars. Struggling, stooped low under burdens of sin and guilt and pain. 

But we come to this place, because Jesus, Son of David, promised Messiah, the Father’s right-hand man, is here. And we cry out: kyrie elesison! Lord, have mercy. And He hears, He remembers, He sees, and He knows. He hears our cries and prayers. He sees our distress and plight. He remembers the promises He made to us in Baptism. And He knows. He knows what we need. He knows what is best. He knows how to save. And He does. He provides what we need. He opens our eyes to see Him and His cross. He opens our ears to hear His words of forgiveness and life. He fills us with His good things. And He leads us in His exodus, through this life, through death, and to life again. A much greater exodus, from a much greater foe, from a much greater slavery, to a much greater freedom and a much greater life, which will have no end.

So we take our place with Jacob’s family, with Bartimaeus, and with how many others through the years? We take our place with them and cry out Lord, have mercy. You’ll sing it 11 times in the Great Litany in a moment. How many times did the people in Egypt cry it out? How many times Bartimaeus? But no matter how often, our Lord never tires of hearing it. For He is the God of mercy, and it is our cry of faith. Faith in the one who is mercy, and who we know will keep and fulfill every promise to us. Through all the twists and turns of life, and no matter where life takes you, that fact remains the same. 

So the first ordinary of our liturgy, that is ordinarily in every service, is the Kyrie: Lord, have mercy. It is part of our Ordinary Lenten Exodus. For with it we take our place in the great exodus of people from Adam and Eve to today, following our Saviour to the glorious freedom He has won for us.

In the Name of the Father, and of the (+) Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.