Husband. Father. Lutheran pastor. Sinfonian.

A God who is everywhere is no better than a God who is nowhere, if He isn’t somewhere for you and for your benefit.

God comes to us by means. Always by means.

The Means of Grace.

The Word of God. The Sacraments.

It’s not that God couldn’t come to us in different ways. It’s not that God hasn’t come to His people of old in many and various ways. It’s that God has chosen and promised and proclaimed to all the world that He most certainly comes to us in these ways—these means.

Today, God comes to us in the Gospel, the Word of God proclaimed and preached—and the Sacrament, the Body and Blood of Jesus the Christ, given and shed for you, that you would have the forgiveness His body, given, and His blood, shed, earned for you.

Here and by these means, we know that God is for us.

Here and by these means, we have the hope of everlasting life, because God fights for us.

But where Jesus doesn’t come, there’s no hope. Where He’s not for you, there’s no certainty of salvation.

Jesus comes to us—by means—that we would be certain of our hope, certain of our salvation.

So be comforted, and know that your God comes to you in these ways and for your benefit.

Look—and see—how He comes to Jerusalem.

Jesus comes with knowledge.

Jesus knew where the donkey was and where the colt was. He knew that someone would ask them why they needed them. St. Mark records how the disciples told those who asked that the Lord had need of them, and they immediately let them take the animals.

Jesus knew what was written about Him by the prophet Zechariah, and He knew He had to fulfill it and how.

Zechariah wrote: “Rejoice greatly, O daughter of Zion! Shout, O daughter of Jerusalem! Behold, your King is coming to you; He is just and having salvation, Lowly and riding on a donkey, A colt, the foal of a donkey” (Zechariah 9:9).

The eternal Son of God possesses perfect knowledge.

In Proverbs chapter eight, Solomon calls Him wisdom. In John chapter one, St. John calls Him the Word.

He knows everything there is to know.

And for us to know Him is for us to know God.

All that would terrify us if we didn’t know that God is for us. But sometimes we doubt that, too.

How do we know? Is God actually for us?

We expect God to be angry. We’re guilty of all sin, committing all kinds—and the only kind, unbelief.

God knows all.

That God knows could cause everyone of us to despair of all things.

St. Paul writes in Galatians, “Do not be deceived: God is not mocked, for whatever one sows, that will he also reap” (Galatians 6:7).

If we reap what we sow, the coming of the One who knows everything we’ve ever thought, said, or done is a time, not to celebrate, but to avoid.

Jesus really does know when you’re sleeping. And when you’re awake. He knows what you’ve done, what you’ve left undone. What you’ve wanted to do and what you’ve talked about doing.

He knows. And He’s coming soon.

This could cause everyone of us to despair of all things, but look how Jesus comes to us!

He comes with knowledge, yes. But He comes, also, in humility, meekness.

He who will judge the hearts and minds of the entire human race, who knows every sin you’ve ever committed, He comes in humility.

He comes to stand in your place, to die for you.

His ride on the donkey into Jerusalem wasn’t a spontaneous decision. It was deliberate.

The ride on the donkey was a ride unto death.

He comes to Jerusalem to die there. He goes to the place where sacrifices are made, and His blood is shed for the sin of the world. 

He knew He would be rejected.

He knew He would suffer.

He knew He would bear in His own body the sin of the world.

That’s why He came—in humility.

To obey the will of his Father. To fulfill the demands of the Law. To suffer the penalty for the world’s disobedience.

When Jesus came in humility, He embraced what humility required of Him—obedient suffering.

Pride suffers nothing, insisting on its own way.

Pride challenges God’s authority, asserting the word of the world against the Word of God.

Pride scoffs at the benefit of humble obedience, following only the three most important people: me, myself, and I.

Pride sets itself up as a judge of God and neighbor, but “Pride goes before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.” (Proverbs 16:18).

But God comes, rescuing us from that destruction.

The Son of God, sharing the majesty and glory and power of His Father, chose to become our brother, to redeem His brothers.

He chose to humble Himself, to become a servant, to be born under the law, to bear the sin and shame of the world to the point of death, even death on a cross.

But there, lifted up and mocked by the world, God obtained the greatest glory.

In the willing obedience and perfect sacrifice of Jesus, God is glorified, and His great love for us and the world is made known.

Why did the crowd worship him? Why did they offer him such a beautiful liturgy of praise, singing “Hosanna to the Son of David! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord! Hosanna in the highest” (Matthew 21:9).

Because He loved them.

He loved them, and they knew it.

He didn’t come to judge them or punish them.

He came to rescue them from the peril of their sin.

God comes with knowledge, knowing how to save us.

He comes in humility, serving us and saving us.

God comes to help, save, comfort, and defend us all.

God comes to forgive us our sins, to cleanse us of all unrighteousness.

God comes to us and for us, by means, that we may hear and believe, eat and drink, and have forgiveness.

We come to God burdened by guilt.

He comes to us, covering that guilt and taking away our burdens.

We come, confessing our sins of pride and self-promotion.

He comes to us, knowing perfectly all our sin.

But in knowing us, in knowing our sin, He neither turns away from us in disgust nor against us in anger.

He comes to us in love. Your king comes to you.

Not just to the other Christians who have everything together, who are living good Christian lives.

He comes to you who’ve repeatedly fallen short in your Christian duty and squandered the opportunities God has given you.

He comes to you to forgive you, to restore you to His side, to strengthen you, and keep you in His peace.

We meet Him and—by faith in Him—we worthily receive Him.

God comes to you not that you would be afraid but that you would believe that He is your God, that you would sing “Hosanna” to the Lord!

A blessed Advent to you all!

Jesus is coming—to save us.

Hosanna to the Son of David! Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord. Hosanna in the highest.

In Jesus’ name, Amen!

The First Sunday in Advent Sermon, 2019 (Ad Te Levavi)
Matthew 21:1-9
Rev. Benjamin Tyler Holt

How many of you have heard someone quote St. Paul: “I can do all things through him who strengthens me” (Philippians 4:13)?

Everybody knows this verse.

Everybody’s seen it, heard it, and read it.

It’s everywhere.

But to my eyes and ears, it’s applied in only one way. When someone quotes St. Paul—I can do all things through him who strengthens me—what they mean is, “I can overcome whatever challenge is in front of me. I can do it. If I trust God enough.”

Maybe that’s a bit too broad a summary, but that’s how it’s used. And that’s not what St. Paul means.

For St. Paul, “all things” consists of a very specific list of things: He writes, “I know how to be brought low, and I know how to abound. In any and every circumstance, I have learned the secret of facing plenty and hunger, abundance and need. I can do all things through him who strengthens me” (Philippians 4:12-13).

That’s not how that verse is commonly used. Commonly, its use is cliché.

A person will invoke Philippians 4:13 to overcome—that most generic of things—adversity.

If you watch any football over the next few days, count how many times “overcoming adversity” is mentioned.

It goes like this—this is what you might hear or see:Jesus healed the leper who believed in Him. We can’t forget that. Jesus says, “Rise and go your way; your faith has made you well” (Luke 17:19). We can’t forget Jesus.

St. Paul writes, “I can do all things through him who strengthens me” (Philippians 4:13). And I believe in Him. I believe in Jesus.

Therefore, I can overcome whatever “leprosy,” whatever adversity I face. I believe in Jesus and can do all things through Him.

That is—commonly—how Philippians 4:13 is applied.

That may not be every person’s logical progression, but the destination’s the same—whatever “adversity” you face is to be gotten rid of.

American Christianity has reduced St. Paul’s all things into just one thing: the appearance of success.

No one ever talks about “overcoming adversity” such that they mean “remaining faithful and losing.”

“Overcoming adversity,” doing “all things,” as St. Paul writes, is always used to mean “eventually winning,” or, at the very least, “eventually getting my way.”

Face the facts.

Not everyone overcomes adversity.

You don’t always win.

You don’t always get a second chance.

What St. Paul means—what “I can do all things through him who strengthens me” means, is this:

In your life—at your table this Thanksgiving—if there’s an abundance—a 2:1 pie to person ratio, for example—you can live and remain faithful to Christ.

Even with an abundance of pie—or money, stuff, whatever—even then, you can enter the kingdom of God. In Christ, you know how to abound.

It’s difficult.

Jesus says, “It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich person to enter the kingdom of God” (Luke 18:25).

With great difficulty will a rich man enter heaven; however, “I can do all things through him who strengthens me.”

If your table is full, if every seat is filled, if there’s hardly room to park at your house, don’t let your wealth—your food, your family, your stuff—don’t let that get in the way of your praise and thanks to God.

Thanksgiving is a secular holiday, but we’re not fooled. Many will say that today is about “family.” The next month is about shopping. The next eleven months are about paying off the credit cards. But today—that’s about family.

We’re not fooled.

“This is the day the Lord has made—let us rejoice—and give thanks—and be glad in it” (cf. Psalm 118:24).

All ten lepers were cleansed.

Like the ten virgins, they all looked the part—but only one ex-leper was wise. Only one ex-leper praised God, worshipped Jesus, and gave thanks.

And only that one was saved.

Jesus doesn’t literally say, “Your faith has made you well.” Literally, He says, “Rise and go your way; your faith has saved you” (Luke 17:19).

That’s one half of “all [the] things” we can do through God who gives us strength.

That’s plenty and abundance.

But all things includes any and every circumstance.

All things includes being brought low, hunger, and need.

So, in your life—at your table this Thanksgiving—if you lack anything—if a particular chair is empty, perhaps for the first time—if there should be one more car in the driveway that you know won’t be—if this is your first Thanksgiving without—you can live and remain faithful to Christ—thanking Him for all that you do have.

In Christ, you know how to be brought low.

Yea, though you walk through the valley of the shadow of death, though you lack, though your pastures are far from green, nevertheless, you can enter the kingdom of God.

You can endure all things in patient faith, with love to God and neighbor, waiting for all things to be made new.

Rich or poor.

In plenty or hunger.

With abundance or need.

You can do all things through Christ who gives you strength. The kingdom of God is yours.

That’s what the miracles of Jesus give and teach to us.

The cleansing of the ten lepers—the salvation of the one ex-leper—proves that the outward appearance of things is fleeting.

The appearance of success, it passes away.

Though the ten were cleansed, they all still eventually died.

That the one was saved—rich or poor, in plenty or hunger, with an abundance or a great need—the one can do and endure it all faithfully, because he recognized in Jesus the God of his salvation.

Faith in the Lord Jesus—fear, love, and trust in God above all things—the forgiveness of sins—enables you to bear all things, believe all things, hope all things, and endure all things.

That’s what St. Paul means in Philippians four.

St. John writes: “As Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, that whoever believes in him may have eternal life. For God so loved the world, that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life. For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him” (John 3:14-17).

We know this.

But in any and every circumstance we need to live it, too.

It won’t always be easy. It won’t always be fun.

But in whatever situation be content (cf. Philippians 4:11).

“Whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think [on] these things” (Philippians 4:8).

“Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication let your requests be made known to God” (Philippians 4:6).

Because “[You] can do all things through him who [gives you strength]” (Philippians 4:13).

You can be brought low. You can abound.

You can face plenty and hunger, abundance and need.

Because you recognize in Jesus, the God of your salvation.

Praise God. Worship Jesus. Give thanks.

“And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus” (Philippians 4:7).

In Jesus’ name, Amen!

Thanksgiving Day Sermon, 2019
Luke 17:11-19; Philippians 4:6-20
Rev. Benjamin Tyler Holt

The kingdom of heaven will be like ten virgins who took their lamps and went to meet the bridegroom” (Matthew 25:1).

Who wants to talk about virgins?

There are few questions that make us as uncomfortable as quickly as does that one.

Nevertheless, “the kingdom of heaven will be like ten virgins who took their lamps and went to meet the bridegroom.”

And not only are we uncomfortable talking about virgins, virginity, chastity, and self-denial, we’re uncomfortable using that language to describe the Church—Christianity in general and us Christians specifically.

Chastity is, to us, a name of ill-repute.

It should be—and is—a virtue—not a joke.

But the parable of the ten virgins is largely ignored.

It’s no one’s favorite, and when it comes up in the lectionary, pastors often preach on the Old Testament lesson or the Epistle.

It’s not even about virginity, and it makes us uncomfortable—which is exactly why Jesus says that, “the kingdom of heaven will be like ten virgins who took their lamps and went to meet the bridegroom. Five of them were foolish, and five were wise” (Matthew 25:1-2).

Jesus needs to unseat us from our comfortable silence, our blissful ignorance.

In opening the kingdom of God to us, by means of a parable, Jesus compares the Church to ten virgins—five wise and five foolish.

Foolishly—we’re uncomfortable with this.

And so we show, already, before a single word of explanation, which group of five we often belong to.

As we seek to understand this parable, we’ll recognize in the moronic virgins our great and many sins.

And, as we seek to understand this parable, we’ll also recognize in the wise virgins, the fact that, in the Church, there’s no such thing as a crisis.

Wouldn’t that be something—no such thing as a crisis.

When was your last crisis?

Most people have an answer, but in the Church, wisdom and oil—faith—prepares you for whatever comes.

“When the foolish took their lamps, they took no oil with them” (Matthew 25:3).

Without oil, they’re woefully unprepared for anything that’s not exactly what they expect.

Maybe you’re a pessimist, expecting sickness before, during, and after the holidays.

Maybe you’re an optimist, expecting your family to get along this year.

Maybe you’re a realist, and have planned, already, your escape route and which friend will call you with an “emergency.”

Regardless, “the Lord—knows the thoughts of man, He knows that they are futile” (cf. Psalm 94:11).

Not a single one of us can plan so perfectly as to negate the possibility of a crisis.

The pessimist’s day can always get worse. He would agree.

The optimist hopes for the best, but his hope is not a certainty but a wish that he maintains.

The realist may seem unaffected, but he, too, has a bottom to hit. He’s not there yet, but when he is, he’ll tell you.

The kingdom of heaven will be like ten virgins. Five wise and five foolish. The foolish virgins take no oil with them. But they still look the part.

Dressed the way virgins dress, speaking the way virgins speak, walking the way virgins walk—they’ve been baptized, catechized, and confirmed in the Church.

They’ve been hatched and matched in the Church.

And yet they lack saving faith that fears, loves, and trusts in God above all things.

The oil is the faith, hope, and love given by God in the proclamation of the Word.

The oil is the faith, hope, and love that “bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things” (cf. 1 Corinthians 13:7).

The oil is that which enables you to live in the Lord and that which prepares you to die in the Lord.

That you may be dispatched from the Church to the Lord.

Oil, faith, prepares the Christian for all the unexpected trials and tribulations, tests and temptations, that come our way. It doesn’t make it easy—but it does make you prepared.

Because the Bridegroom is delayed.

We’re drowsy, and we sometimes sleep. We drop our guard. We don’t rule over all temptations, and we sin.

The ten virgins all appear the same. They’re in the Church. All ten fall asleep. The Church is filled only with sinners.

Some are prepared. Some are wise.

And some are not.

“At midnight there was a cry, ‘Here is the bridegroom! Come out to meet him.’ Then all those virgins rose and trimmed their lamps. And the foolish said to the wise, ‘Give us some of your oil, for our lamps are going out’” (Matthew 25:6-8).

With oil, a lighted lamp lights the way—you will not dash your foot against a stone (cf. Psalm 91:12).

Wise Christians know no such thing as crisis, because faith prepares them to endure all things.

Christians know crosses, and they bear them. In sadness, in misery, and in patience, and faith.

Without oil, there is no light in you. And “If then the light in you is darkness, how great is the darkness” (Matthew 6:23).

Foolish Christians are unprepared. They know not rest but crisis. A crisis for every day and every day a crisis.

“Give us some of your oil, for our lamps are going out,” they say.

But the oil of faith is not a commodity for which you trade. It’s not stocked on the shelves for you to buy.

If it is not given—you don’t have it.

“The wise answered, saying, ‘Since there will not be enough for us and for you, go rather to the dealers and buy for yourselves’” (Matthew 25:9).

They don’t say this because it’s possible.

The cry went up at midnight. The dealers aren’t there. There is no 24-hour Walmart in Jesus’ parable.

The foolish virgins weren’t prepared.

To them, when they try to enter the feast, they will call out, “Lord, lord, open to us!” But the Lord will answer: “I do not know you” (cf. Matthew 25:11-12).

The unwise virgins in the Church look the part but lack faith. They attend and receive but do not hear and believe. They cover their own shame and display the shame of their neighbor. Out of the same mouth flows blessing and curse. With these, there’s love of money, not God. Love of self, not neighbor.

To them, the door is shut.

For them, it’s too late.

Because they lacked oil.

They weren’t prepared.

They were in the Church but not of the Church.

And when their final crisis comes, they won’t be ready.

“Watch therefore, for you know neither the day nor the hour” (Matthew 25:13).

That last part Jesus says to us all—to foolish virgins and to wise—to all the Church.

Faith sets a watch, waiting patiently for the Lord.

But even the faithful become drowsy and sleep. Our attention is at least occasionally turned to the cares and worries of this life. But faith reminds us of and directs us to the Light of the world, the Light no darkness can overcome.

We’re prepared for whatever comes.

We have a hope, a certainty, a promise, and a God who lives and reigns to eternity.

We’re ready.

Confident and trusting—with a certain hope—we know that when trials and tribulations, tests and temptations come our way, God will sustain us, to the end, that by His grace we may come to everlasting life.

“Watch therefore, for you know neither the day nor the hour.”

Watch. Listen. Hear. Behold.

The Bridegroom comes—to live, to die, to rise.

To save all who believe in Him.

Watch. Listen. Hear. And behold.

Believe in the Lord Jesus Christ, and you will know no such thing as a crisis.

In Jesus’ name, Amen!

The Last Sunday of the Church Year, 2019
Matthew 25:1-13
Rev. Benjamin Tyler Holt

Chief of sinners though I be / Christ is all in all to me; / All my wants to Him are known, / All my sorrows are His own. / He sustains the hidden life / Safe with Him from earthly strife (Lutheran Service Book, 611:4).

“Safe with Him from earthly strife”?

Doesn’t quite feel like it, does it?

What is the Christian life if it’s not the constant struggle against sin and death, hate and fear, cowardice and anger? And the already and inevitable victory of Christ?

That’s a bit too abstract, though.

If I say that the Christian life is a constant struggle against sin and death, you might think: “Yes, it must be terrible for those who struggle against sin. I wonder which pew they sit in.”

If I say that the Christian life is a constant struggle against hate and fear, you might excuse yourself because you only “dislike strongly;” you don’t hate. You might think you have nothing to be afraid of because of your last name and the county you live in, or because you’re wealthy, or because you’ve spent a lifetime collecting gossip, like grenades, ready to be hurled at your enemies.

If I say that the Christian life is a constant struggle against cowardice and anger, you might retreat into a hollow, puffed-out chest and raise your voice, but posture and tone do not necessarily connote strength.

A puffed-out chest and loudness can signify cowardice.

I don’t mean to speak in abstract ways.

I don’t know exactly what the author meant when he wrote that we are safe with Jesus from earthly strife, because it never seems that we are.

Earthly strife has many forms. Here are a few:

Every one of you is a sinner, a poor sinner, a miserable sinner. And every one of you will die.

Every one of you fails to love his neighbor as himself. You know—your neighbor—the family with small children who annoy you, the loud-mouth, the drunkard, the know-it-all, and the poor visitor who didn’t know that your pew was reserved.

Do you patiently endure these tests of faith?

Do you love your neighbor as yourself?

Or do you love yourself as you would have your neighbor love you?

Sinners all—this is what earthly strife can look like.

And worse—our sins have consequences.

When you roll your eyes at the mother of small children, when you “comfort” her by saying that maybe someday her kids will be like someone else’s kids, when you have conversations about how other parents parent and how no one parents like you parent, when you make yourself feel better by comparing your embellished best day with someone else’s hastily-misunderstood worst day—when you do these things, you scandalize your brothers and sisters in Christ, your congregation, your family—and when you hide behind anonymous complaints, you make it much, much worse.

Sinners sin and are sinned against.

Hurting people hurt people.

None are spared from earthly strife.

So Jesus says to Peter: “I do not say to you seven times, but seventy-seven times” (Matthew 18:22).

Not once—but always—you forgive.

Because once—for always—you have been forgiven.

“Forgive us our [trespasses] as we forgive those who [trespass] against us” (Matthew 6:12).

For those who’re sinned against, there’s never a time when you can refuse to forgive, because there’s never a time when the Blood of Christ does not avail for all sinners everywhere.

Believe that you’re forgiven.

Forgive as you have been forgiven—because you have been forgiven.

And for those who sin—for you all—for us all—for sinners—poor sinners—poor, miserable sinners: let what parents say to children be said to you all: you are not the most important person in the world.

To you, Jesus tells this parable:

A king wished to settle accounts.

One servant owed him ten-thousand talents, an absurd, impossible debt. This servant begged for the time required to pay back the debt—an impossible task. But the king pitied him and forgave the debt, all of it.

Then, that forgiven servant sought out one who owed him one-hundred denarii—a real, but reasonable debt. And when this servant couldn’t pay, the forgiven servant put him in prison. Enter the king.

“‘Vengeance is mine,’ sayeth the Lord” (cf. Romans 12:19).

“God is not mocked” (Galatians 6:7).

The king came down, in force, and bound up the first servant and held him accountable for every penny of the un-payable debt.

Jesus says, “So also my heavenly Father will do to every one of you, if you do not forgive your brother from your heart” (Matthew 18:35).

You are not the most important person in the world.

When you, even you, are sinned against—you must forgive.

In Christ, God has reconciled the world to Himself (cf. 2 Corinthians 5:19).

In Christ, by the Blood of God, you have been purchased and won from sin and death, hate and fear, cowardice and anger.

It’s impossible for a Christian to believe that he is forgiven but not his neighbor.

It’s impossible for you to believe that you’re forgiven but not your neighbor. Act like it.

In the forgiveness of sins—in the consolation of Christ and each other—our Lord Jesus Christ sustains us. He keeps us safe from earthly strife.

I think that’s what he meant.

In Jesus’ name, Amen!

Trinity 22, 2019
Matthew 18:21-35
Rev. Benjamin Tyler Holt

I would like to ask you a question, and—if you’re comfortable with it—I’d like you to answer out loud.

Do you believe…in Santa Clause?

Sometimes, as Christians, we’re tempted to think no further than the word “believe.” So let me ask you a different question:

Do you believe?

See, that time, you expected there to be more to the question—you hesitated.

You know that “believe” can be used in different contexts, that belief—faith—demands an object, something to hold on to, something in which we put our trust. You believe something or you believe in something, and you know that it matters not only that you believe but also in what or in whom you believe.

The official in Capernaum believed but he did not believe. Then, he did believe, him and his entire household.

Here’s what I mean:

“This man heard that Jesus had come from Judea to Galilee, so he went to him and asked him to come down and heal his son who was at the point of death.Jesus said to him, ‘Unless you see signs and wonders you will not believe.’ The man said to him, ‘Sir, come down before my child dies.’Jesus said to him, ‘Go; your son will live.’ The man believed the word that Jesus spoke to him and went on his way” (cf. John 4:47-50).

Jesus says, “Unless you see signs and wonders you will not believe” (John 4:48).

And then He says, “Go; your son will live” (John 4:50), and it’s worth noting that—literally—Jesus says, “Go; your son lives.” Not will live, future tense, but lives, present tense.

Then, “the man believed” (John 4:50).

He believes, but he doesn’t believe.

He doesn’t believe that Jesus Christ is Lord. He doesn’t believe that Jesus is the Son of God. He doesn’t believe that “the Son of Man must suffer many things and be rejected by the elders and the chief priests and the scribes and be killed, and after three days rise again” (Mark 8:31).

He doesn’t believe that “these [things] are written that you may believe that Jesus is the [Christ], the Son of God, and that by believing you may have life in his name” (John 20:31).

He doesn’t believe unto life everlasting.

He believes—only—that his son will live.

I say, “only.” It’s a big deal that his son lives. It’s a big deal that this man believes that. How many mothers—how many fathers—would have Jesus say the same thing to them? But this man, in his own view of things, simply asked the guy renown for turning water into wine to come down and heal his son.

He went to a revivalist’s tent meeting—and believed.

He consulted with snake-oil salesmen—and believed.

He read the book about the little boy who “went” to heaven—and believed.

But he doesn’t believe in Jesus.

He has no faith in Christ.

He has no care, no concern, for eternity.

He believes only that his son lives—on earth.

“And [he] went on his way. [And] as he was going down, his servants met him and told him that his son was recovering.So he asked them the hour when he began to get better, and they said to him, ‘Yesterday at the seventh hour the fever left him.’The father knew that was the hour when Jesus had said to him, ‘Your son [lives].’ And he himself believed, and all his household” (John 4:50-53).

For the first time, now, he believes. Now, his faith has something solid to hold on to.

There wasn’t an emotional show.

No cure-all in bottle form.

No fanciful descriptions of fantastical events.

He’s seen nothing and yet believes.

He’s heard and believes.

He asked Jesus to come with him. He didn’t know that He who created the universe in six literal, natural days could command life into existence with only a word.

And that’s the sign. That’s the miracle.

That’s the hope we have, the hope of every mother and father.

Not that we would see signs and wonders and believe, but that we would hear Jesus, His servants, His Word.

That we would hear and believe and live.

It’s not enough that our sons would live—on earth.

It is enough that our sons, with us, would live—in eternity.

Jesus says, “Unless you see signs and wonders you will not believe” (John 4:48).

That’s not a description of the man at the end of the story—he’s seen nothing he’s asked for! He’s heard everything he needs.

But that is a description of the man—and of mankind—prior to belief, prior to faith in the Lord Jesus.

In unbelief, we put God to the test, challenging Him to do a work that would prove to us He is who He says He is.

“Give me this. Answer my prayer. Do what I say.”

“I’ll pay the piper—after I call the tune.”

In John chapter six, a large crowd of Jews says to Jesus, “What sign do you do, that we may see and believe you? What work do you perform?” (John 6:30).

“Unless [they] see signs and wonders [they] will not believe” (John 4:48; cf. Jn. 6:25ff).

That’s not faith.

In John chapter six, that large crowd of Jews numbered in the thousands. Jesus fed them all with five loaves and two fish and collected twelve baskets worth of bread fragments after the fact.

Then—the large crowd asks, “What sign do you do, that we may see and believe you?”

They think signs and wonders will convince them, but even when they see signs and wonders, they don’t believe.

To Thomas and to us all, Jesus says, “Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed” (John 20:28).

That’s the sign. That’s the miracle.

That’s the hope we have, the hope of every mother and father.

Not that we would see and believe…

But that we would be content with the Word of God.

Content for God to speak.

Content to listen.

Content to hear and do.

Content to trust in the Lord, to lean not on our own understanding (cf. Proverbs 3:5).

Content with the assurance of things hoped for and the conviction of things unseen (cf. Hebrews 11:1).

“By faith we understand that the universe was created by the word of God, so that what is seen was not made out of things that are visible” (Hebrews 11:3).

By faith we hold fast to Christ and the Word of God.

We believe in Him whom He has sent.

We trust that Jesus “was delivered up for our trespasses and raised for our justification” (Romans 4:25).

We have to wait to see eternal life.

We don’t have to wait to hear and to know that we have it.

You have eternal life—you and your household and all who hear the Word of God and believe in the Lord Jesus Christ.

Believe this. It is most certainly true.

In Jesus’ name, Amen!

Trinity 21 Sermon, 2019
John 4:46-54
Rev. Benjamin Tyler Holt

Jesus begins teaching, in the Gospel according to St. Matthew, with the Beatitudes and the Sermon on the Mount.

When we think about the Beatitudes, we have to realize, right from the start, that they have a very intentional structure. The first beatitude is “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven” with a present tense is. Something that is true right now.

The last beatitude is “Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven,” with a present tense is. It’s true right now.

The beatitudes that occur between the first and last, all of these are future tense. They’re statements about what God will do, what will happen, what will be true: they’ll be comforted; they’ll inherit the earth; they’ll be satisfied; they’ll receive mercy; they’ll see God; they’ll be called sons of God.

The present tense statements bracket the future tense statements such that the Beatitudes describe the Christian life in terms of “now” and “not yet.”

Jesus says, “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven,” but poverty isn’t virtuous to us. We might think to shun those considered poor in spirit, but this isn’t a description of an attitude.

The Beatitudes are not attitudes you are to be.

Instead, Jesus describes the spiritual condition of each Christian. We’re spiritually bankrupt. Spiritually helpless. Spiritually dependent. With no resources of our own.

We’re conceived and born in sin, fallen, and trapped. And yet, Jesus speaks a perfect word of Gospel.

“Blessed are the poor in spirit, the helpless, the deficient, the lacking,” which is the same thing as saying “Blessed are those who are saved by grace through faith in Christ alone. Blessed are you.”

You’re blessed, saved, because God reigns. With power to save, the ministry of Christ opens the Word of God unto you. So hear and believe.

You’ve received the reign of God, and, by the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ, you’re freed from sin and death.

God made you His dear child, marked you as one redeemed by Jesus Christ the crucified, and washed away your sins.

In His mercy, He came to you, the helpless one, and saved you.

This is good news that we need right now, because we’re still living in a world that’s oppressed by sin and suffering.

Jesus says, we’re “persecuted for righteousness’ sake.” Christians face hardships because we believe in the saving work of Jesus. We face opposition if we want to live in ways that are pleasing to God.

We live as people who mourn, because we see the presence of sin in our lives and around us. We act in selfish ways, harming our spouse or children. We react in anger and strike back. We’re jealous, and we covet.

Oppressed by sin, we’re powerless—the meek of the earth.

We hunger and thirst for righteousness, confessing our lack and dependance. We want God to bring the consummation of His reign. We don’t want to keep struggling against sin. We don’t want to see evil around us. We don’t want to see Christians hated and even killed for living their faith.

But that’s the world as it is, and so we mourn.

But on All Saints’ Day we also remember another group of Christians—the saints who’ve died in Christ.

Those who’ve departed and are with Christ.

Those who’ve received the saving reign of Christ through Holy Baptism. Those who’ve been sustained in the faith through the Word of God and the body and blood of Jesus. Those, even, who only heard the promise—because of or in spite of—us.

For these, there is now no struggle against sin.

For these, there is now no mourning.

For these, there is only peace in Christ.

And for these, we give thanks, because we wait with eager expectation to share the same everlasting peace.

St. Paul desired “to depart and be with Christ, for that is far better” (Philippians 1:23).And it is.

But we might need this comfort, too: nothing can separate—away from Christ—those who rest in Christ.

For them, the strife is o’er. The battle, done.

Yet our Lord’s words in the Beatitudes also lead us to recognize that even for them, the final goal hasn’t yet been attained.

The Saints are with Christ. 

The body is in the ground. They are with the Lord.

But it will not always be so. That’s not it. Not the end.

In the Beatitudes, we have this future comfort, a great blessing to those who are with the Lord now, and to us, who live and mourn in this world.

Jesus says, “Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.” We mourn now because of sin. But Jesus makes this promise about the future: we’ll be comforted. Our time of mourning and suffering will end. And it won’t end just because we’ll die and depart and be with Christ. It’ll come to an end, because Jesus will return in glory on the Last Day and put all things right.

He says next, “Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.” The meek, the lowly, the powerless, will inherit the earth. And it’s true! God created us as with a body and a soul to live in the good creation He made. His promise for the future is that He’ll restore the designation “Very good” once again, and this earth, renewed, is where we’ll live.

A few things have to happen first—before that takes place. We hear in the next beatitude, “Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be satisfied.” Poor, miserable sinners want God to do something about it. We want the Lord to return. We pray, “Come Lord Jesus.” We confess that He will return to judge. Jesus says He will.

We’ll be satisfied, because Jesus will return in glory.

He’ll return for us. To get us. To bring us to Himself.

St. Paul writes: “We await a Savior, the Lord Jesus Christ, who will transform our lowly body to be like his glorious body, by the power that enables him even to subject all things to himself” (Philippians 3:20-21).He’ll do this for us. He’ll free and transform His creation. St. Paul told the Romans, “Creation itself will be set free from its bondage to corruption and obtain the freedom of the glory of the children of God” (Romans 8:21).

That’s what we have to look forward to.

In so many ways we have no guarantees about the future. But—as Christians—we have this certain, future comfort in Christ, because that future has already begun. 

Now and not yet.

Our future began on Easter when Jesus rose from the dead. In Him, the resurrection of the Last Day has already begun. Of Jesus’ return, no one knows the day or the hour, but there’s no uncertainty that it’ll happen.

As a reminder, as sustenance, Jesus comes to us every Lord’s Day—present in His body and blood for the forgiveness of our sins. His reign is present, here, according to His Word, sustaining us as the people of God. His people.

By giving us His true body and blood to eat and to drink, He guarantees that our bodies, too, will be raised. 

“Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood has eternal life, and I will raise him up on the last day” (John 6:54), Jesus says. And He means it.

In this foretaste of the feast to come, He unites us with those who’re with Him now already. With angels and archangels and with all the company of heaven, including all the saints who’ve gone before us, we laud and magnify God’s glorious name, evermore praising Him and singing:

“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”

“Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.”

This is our confidence. Now and forever.

In Jesus’ Name, Amen!

All Saints Day (observed) Sermon, 2019
Matthew 5:1-12
Rev. Benjamin Tyler Holt