Sermons

The heart surgeon cannot operate on himself. He will always stop before he gets deep enough. And so will you. When Jesus says the Pharisees have hollowed out the word of God, He is not only talking about them. He is describing what every man does when left to himself — and what you do. You adjust the terms. You find the exception. You construct the tradition that protects you from the full weight of what God actually says. And then you call it faithfulness.

The house must not be empty. Christ must dwell there. He must sit on the throne. And He does this by His Word and Sacraments. He comes to you in Baptism and claims you as His own. He comes to you in Absolution and drives the accuser out with the declaration: “You are forgiven!” He comes to you in His Supper and feeds you with His own Body and Blood so that He dwells in you and you in Him. “For you were once darkness, but now you are light in the Lord. Walk as children of light” (Ephesians 5:8). You are not an empty house. You are the dwelling place of the living God.

If you want to be great, you serve. If you want to be first, you become a slave. This is the exact reversal of every human ambition, every human calculation of worth and status and advancement. The church is the one place on earth where the logic of the world is turned upside down, where the last become first, where losing your life is the only way to save it, where dying is the way to live.

So when the Lord seems slow, do not read that as absence. When He seems harsh, do not read that as final rejection. He is doing what He did with Jacob: wrestling you down to the promise. “I will not let you go unless you bless me.” (Genesis 32:26) That is not stubbornness; it is faith taught by the cross.

Jonah went unwillingly; Jesus goes willingly. Jonah preached grudgingly; Jesus preaches as the Word made flesh. Jonah was thrown into the sea because of his own disobedience; Jesus was thrown into death because of ours. Jonah is a sign that exposes how little control we have; Jesus is the sign that gives us what we could never earn: forgiveness, life, salvation.

Christian discipline isn’t bad. Not even close. Scripture speaks of fasting, prayer, and self-control. Luther says outward practices can be useful, as noted in the Small Catechism. But useful isn’t the same as saving. When discipline becomes the cure rather than the symptom, we’re already off track. Repentance isn’t a self-improvement project. It’s not climbing up to God rung by rung. It’s being stopped cold by God’s Word. Exposed. And addressed.

And He goes as the Second Adam. The first Adam was placed in a garden. Surrounded by abundance. No hunger. No thirst. No thorns. Only one prohibition. And he fell. The Second Adam stands in a wasteland. No food. No comfort. Forty days of fasting. And there He stands for you.

Ash Wednesday is not merely about dust. It is about dust claimed by God. It is about sinners marked not only with ashes but with the cross. The same forehead that hears, “Remember that you are dust,” was once washed with water and the Word. In Holy Baptism, you were buried with Christ and raised with Him. The ashes do not erase that. They intensify it.

The blind man did not analyze mercy; he received it. He cried for it and received it. So also here. At the altar, mercy is distributed in the most concrete way possible. At the altar, sinners who confess, “Have mercy on me,” are given Christ. Sins are forgiven. Faith is strengthened. Eyes are opened again and again. And this changes you.

If the tree is bad, fruit inspection will not save it. The tree must be made new. Christ does not merely trim branches. He dies. He rises. He gives His Spirit. He creates a new heart.