you are a visitor this morning, let me inform you, if you are regular, you will quickly
perceive that what we are about to hear is not typical. Usually, the sermon portion of
our service seeks to explicate, explain some portion of scripture, and then discover God's
word for it in it for us today. And occasionally, however, we like to take some personal drama,
some person's story, someone's experience, and use that as a lens through which we see
some particular scripture that will illuminate our experience in that particular scripture
too. And today is one of those occasional times. So I offer you one person's story. In fact,
the person who wrote one of those hymns that we earlier sang, interspersed with a few reflections.
On a hot summer day of the year 1505, a young student was returning from a visit home to continue
his studies at university. As he trudged along the parched road just outside the Saxon village
of Stotterheim. Ominously, the sky began to cloud over and soon completely darkened.
Then suddenly, from the black, roiling thunderhead, shot a bolt of lightning, hurling the panic-stricken
scholar headlong. In utter terror, the prostrate traveler cried out,
St. Anne, save me and I will become a monk. Well, it was not just the terror of the moment
which had extracted this oath from the young Martin, for that was the student's name. It was his great
concern for salvation. And in that terrible flash of lightning, Martin saw the denouement of the whole
drama of existence, the inexorable final judgment of God. And he knew that he was not ready to face
an all-holy and almighty judge. Hence, the terror-stricken appeal to St. Anne. St. Anne was his father's
saint, the patroness of minors, and as such a household favorite in his home. But also, St. Anne,
as the mother of Mary, who was the mother of Jesus, very well connected and able to interpose on
Martin's behalf, or such was the hope. His panicked prayer, save me and I will become a monk,
was more than a deal. It was a determination, a determination to take his salvation seriously.
For the common view of the day had it that the only way to play it truly safe when it came to salvation
was to become a monk. Indeed, to novices entering the monastery came the assurance,
keep this rule and I promise you eternal life. Now, Martin's father was irate for his son's resolve
to take the cowl, verged from the carefully laid parental plans for their son, who was to become a
lawyer and then support them in their old age. And the eliciting circumstance of a lightning bolt
might have absolved him from his vow as one uttered rashly. I mean, after all, it was uttered in the midst
of a thunderstorm. But Martin would not go back, even if he could. And within two weeks, he presented
himself at the gate of the Augustinian Priory, with salvation at stake. And if the cowl alone could
safely secure it, safely secure it, a monastery it must be. And so Martin exchanged his civilian clothes
for his Augustinian habit. As the Priory of the monastery intoned,
Bless thou thy servant, whom we have clad in the habit of a monk, that he may merit eternal life.
And so the zealous novice set himself to that task with all the vigor he possessed.
What was this system of salvation to which he set himself? How did one go about to merit eternal life?
Well, avoid as much as possible demerits by avoiding breaking God's laws,
like the Ten Commandments. Don't break those. Now, of course, this could scarcely be completely avoided.
So the need was to confess your faults, then make some amends for them.
Render some satisfaction, as it was called. Things like extra prayers or extra austerities
that you might take, kind of going the extra mile or going without. And this would give you some positive
merit to compensate and offset the demerit that you had accrued. And the aim was to keep your moral
ledger out of the red, if you could. And ideally, well into the black, if possible. Though such a more merit than
needed accomplishment was a rarity. And that would put you into the saints class of super achievers.
Now, this is where the system got complicated and creative. Since some, those super achievers,
had more merit than they needed for salvation, their extra could be transferred to another,
who maybe found himself in arrears and needed a little bit of help. And all the extra merit was
pooled into a great storehouse called the Treasury of Merit and could be dispensed by the religious
authorities of the day, who were the caretakers of this treasury. And the typical means, there were many,
many, many, many people, many people. But the typical means of obtaining such merit was by things like
viewing with veneration, maybe a religious relic, such as a preserved piece of the cross of Jesus,
or visiting some sacred site, like the burial place of St. James or St. Peter.
Well, this prescribed system of salvation, the monk Martin set himself to assiduously.
He swelled his already rigorous regimen of the monastery with extra prayers and with all-night vigils.
He scrupulously confessed all of his shortcomings, and for these, offered compensating satisfactions,
often in the form of extreme mortifications or deprivations, such as sleeping blanketless in the cold
winter months. In hindsight, he testified, I vexed myself with endless prayers and fastings.
If any could have been saved by his monkery, it was I. What impelled Monk Martin was, just as with the
thunderbolt of that Stotterheim storm, terror, terror, terror of standing before a holy God.
For he felt acutely that fierce wrath must be the stance of holy justice against the sinner.
In the presence of God, my soul feels and drinks, he somberly confessed, nothing but eternal punishment.
Desperately, he sought to clear himself in confession. Ever worried that he might have neglected some sin,
he not infrequently would sit in the confessional six hours at a time, exhaustively and exhaustingly
owning all of his offenses.
Good grief, Martin, ease up, said his confessor.
Come back when you've committed some serious sin, like murder or blasphemy.
But all sin, realized Martin, all sin, small as well as great, has to be purged.
Ease up.
What? When eternal judgment awaits?
When the judge is holy?
Then an opportunity presented itself to visit Rome, and the tormented Martin leapt at the chance.
It was neither the architecture nor the gelato which lured him to Rome, though that might have been plausible.
Rather, the prospect of gaining additional merit by viewing all the religious relics with which the eternal city was brimming.
Indeed, Rome was the greatest treasury of merit in all Christendom.
From the prison chain that had bound St. Peter to the coin paid to Judas, Christ's betrayer,
Rome was a virtual supermarket of spare merit,
and Martin intended to do the rounds and to load up the cart.
I ran around Rome like a madman, Martin tells us.
And capping off his cash of merit was an ascent of the 28 steps of the Scala Sancta,
which it was said had once stood before Pilate's palace,
up which Christ himself had ascended.
And Martin did his due diligence, ascending on his knees, reciting the Lord's Prayer on every step,
even kissing each step for good measure.
But for all his efforts to earn God's favor, Martin found no peace.
Back at the monastery, he poured over theological tomes in search of salvation.
But the current theology simply told him to do his best to earn God's favor
and hope that God's grace would make up the shortfall.
As the theology books of his day expressed it,
do what is within you.
God will not refuse grace to those who do what is within them.
But how will I know, asked Martin,
if I've really done all that is within me?
What's enough?
How will I know that I've done enough to satisfy God with my part
so that his part will kick in?
I hoped I might find peace of conscience with fasts and prayers and vigils
with which I miserably afflicted my body.
But the more I sweated it out like this,
the less peace and tranquility that I knew.
The system of salvation offered to Martin in the monastery
was not working for him.
And the terror of the judgment of God hung over him
like that thundercloud of Stotterheim.
Well, I want for a moment to break from our story
and acknowledge that perhaps this Monk Martin's experience
strikes you, some of you at least,
as completely alien.
Well, if this is so, if this is your reaction,
I guess I want to ask you,
is it really?
Is it really completely alien?
Is his experience entirely different from ours?
Perhaps for some, his terror of the judgment,
fear of having finally to stand before a supreme judge
seems a silly notion,
a relic of a far distant and superstitious past?
Perhaps.
But then again,
in some form or other,
that conviction
that we are in this world
because a supreme being has placed us here
and that that being has expectations of us
and will finally judge us
according to those expectations,
this, or something quite like it,
has been the conviction
of the majority of people
who have ever lived in history
and indeed is the majority conviction
of people alive right now.
Now, truth, of course,
isn't determined by popular vote,
but this recognition
ought perhaps to be sufficient
to give us some pause
if we're inclined to be dismissive
of a notion of judgment.
Perhaps because clothed in the language
of a different time and place
clothed in a cowl and tonsured,
so to speak,
it seems very other.
But the fundamental instinct
to see ourselves
somehow accountable for our lives
seems within humanity
to be a remarkably enduring instinct.
And consider the alternative
that there is and shall be no judgment,
that all the awful mass of injustice
and exploitation and victimization,
all that horribly violates
our deepest loyalty to good
and the right and the true,
will never be called out
and never set to rights.
If there is no final judgment,
what hope is there for final justice
in our world?
It's just an empty dream.
Well, if this is where you find yourself,
I would urge you to recognize
the importance of this question.
Is Monk Martin right about the basic reality
of our lives?
That we are accountable.
Wrestle with that.
Or perhaps you find yourself
in sympathy with the general framework,
a God who will finally judge us
as to our lives lived on earth,
but you find a smile,
maybe even a smirk coming on
at the quaint or bizarre means
that Monk Martin employed
in hopes of gaining God's final favor.
about narrowly religious,
merit and satisfactions,
vigils and macerations.
But come on,
casting off your blankets in winter,
that's supposed to somehow satisfy God?
Or exhaustively parading peccadilloes
in the confessional booth?
Oh, come on.
Yeah, yeah,
there is a certain oddity and alienness
to these particular tactics
to gain God's approval.
They certainly seem bizarre to me.
But what about the strategy?
What about the strategy?
Is this not perhaps more present with us
than we realize?
Practicing our own standards
of respectability or religiosity
and punishing ourselves
when we fall short?
Working hard at keeping up
the respectability,
being a mensch,
being a good guy.
But when I screw up,
sometimes pretty badly,
making myself so miserable,
I've got to be given forgiveness.
Penance.
Perhaps our intuitions are closer
to Martin's cowled colleagues.
Relax, Martin.
God is merciful.
What do you think he expects of you?
And buttressing this kind of breezy security
is often a perception of relative goodness,
relative,
vis-a-vis the crowd of humanity.
I mean, after all,
we make sacrifices,
just like those monks
who would forego
forswear marriage
and meet on Fridays.
We volunteer
at the book bank.
New Haven learns to read,
recycle.
We support an orphanage in India.
Oh, I'm as good as the next guy.
Privately,
we flatter ourselves
that in likelihood
we're a little bit better.
And so we console ourselves confidently
that whatever judgment there is to come,
it will go well with us.
It's what his friends urged Martin.
Well, why didn't this common line of reflection
console Martin?
I mean, was he simply neurotic?
Pathologically unhinged?
The unsettling worry of Martin was this.
Well, it's all well and good
to console myself
that it will go well with me in the judgment
if I'm the one who's supplying the standard.
Be pretty good,
or at least
be better than the worst.
But,
insisted Martin,
surely,
surely the question is,
what is the standard
God will use
to judge?
On what basis
will the real judge
evaluate us?
Now, surely,
whatever he might be wrong about,
Martin's got to be right about that.
I mean,
what does it matter
if we do okay
on our own fancied test
if the real exam
will be something
completely different?
It's like flattering ourselves
with sanguine hopes
for our impending LSAT
because we've practiced up
and do relatively well
at trivial pursuit questions.
And as Martin was aware,
the judge
has given us
his standard.
The law.
Don't steal.
Don't lie.
Don't covet.
Keeping that
is precarious enough.
But the real gutting requirement
for Martin,
and likely for every one of us,
was this.
You shall love
the Lord your God
with all your heart,
soul, mind,
and strength.
No wonder Martin
couldn't be consoled
by lame reassurances.
With such a standard,
Martin's anxiety,
even terror,
in the face of judge
and judgment,
is the height of sanity.
Not neurosis.
Well, we saw
where this left him.
Where does this leave us?
Not in a good place.
With the unsavory dilemma
that if there is no judge,
what hope is there
for the world?
But if there is,
what hope is there
for us?
Well, how did
Monk Martin
get out of this
seeming checkmate?
Back to our storyline.
We left Martin
poring over
his theology books,
which simply urged him
to be sincere
and to do his best.
But that was no help.
How do you know
if you've been sincere enough
or done enough
for God's approval?
The path
to Martin's breakthrough
came when he laid aside
his theology books
and turned
to the Bible.
Now, the Bible
didn't help him either
at first.
Really?
Well, how could that be?
He found it very hard
to understand.
At least,
the bit
that he was reading,
which was Paul's epistle
to the Romans,
particularly
that bit
that we had read
to us
earlier.
Chapter 1,
verses 16 and 17.
Let's take a look
at it again
and see if we can
appreciate
Martin's perplexity.
In the Pew Bibles,
if you have them,
it's on page 939.
So, Romans chapter 1,
verses 16 and 17.
Page 939.
Here was the puzzle.
It opens
by announcing
that with respect
to salvation,
there is
good news.
Do you see
that little word there,
gospel?
There in verse 16.
Well, that word gospel
simply means
good news.
So, you can imagine
how this announcement
would have riveted
Martin's attention.
salvation.
Good news.
Good news about
the prospects
for salvation.
But then,
the very next verse,
verse 17,
explained
that this
gospel announcement
is good news
because
it reveals,
it makes known,
the righteousness
of God.
God.
But how,
thought Martin,
could a revelation
of the righteousness
of God
be good news
for the prospects
of salvation?
That God
is righteous
is no good news
for a sinner.
Surely,
what a righteous
God means
for an unrighteous
sinner
is judgment
and condemnation
and hell.
His righteous
nature
requires
that he require
it of us
and punish us
if we lack it.
I did not
love,
Martin tells us.
Indeed,
I hated
the righteous
God
who punishes
sinners.
Do you see
Martin's
frustration?
Can you,
can you feel
it?
You say
this is
good news?
Where's
the good
news here?
I must
be getting
something wrong.
But Martin
was desperate
to understand
what the
Apostle Paul
could mean
in these verses.
So he kept
wrestling
with this
text of
scripture,
like Jacob
wrestling
with the
angel.
He would
not let
go.
Then,
he saw
it.
The good
news,
unspeakably
wonderful
good news,
came flowing
out as
water from
a rock.
Such
good news
as would
change
Monk
Martin
forever.
So let's
listen as
he tells
us of
this great
moment in
his own
words,
reflecting back
from the
last years
of his
life.
I was
seized with
great
earnestness to
understand Paul
in this
epistle to
the Romans.
One term
stood in
my way,
the
righteousness
of God.
I hated
this phrase,
the
righteousness
of God.
For I
had been
taught to
understand it
as the
active
righteousness
of God,
whereby a
righteous God
punishes
unrighteous
sinners.
However
irreproachable
my life as a
monk,
I felt
myself in the
presence of God
to be a
sinner with a
most unquiet
conscience.
Nor could I
believe him
pleased by my
satisfaction.
I did not
love,
indeed,
I hated
this righteous
God who
punishes
sinners.
I raged
with fierce
and disturbed
conscience in
this way,
and yet I
knocked with
importunity
at Paul in
this place
with a
burning desire
to know
what St.
Paul could
intend.
At last,
God being
merciful,
as I
meditated
day and
night,
pondering the
connection of
the words,
the
righteousness
of God
is revealed,
and the
righteous
shall live
by faith,
I began
began to
understand
righteousness
of God
passively,
whereby God
supplies a
righteousness.
At this,
I felt
myself to be
born anew,
and to enter
through open
gates into
paradise
itself.
This passage
of Paul
became to
me the
gate of
heaven.
What was
it that
Martin grasped
in this text
of the
apostle Paul
that brought
him from
torment and
terror to
peace and
paradise?
peace.
That the
righteousness
of God
does not
simply refer
to God's
character,
but also
to his
gift.
That is,
this
righteousness
of God
should be
understood
as a
righteousness
from
God.
As the
apostle puts
it elsewhere,
a righteousness
that comes
from God.
We don't
have it,
and we'll
never muster
it,
but Jesus
does,
and by
trusting in
him as
Savior,
his righteousness
is counted
as ours.
So our
only standing
and acceptableness,
our only
righteousness
before a
holy God
is the
one,
the
righteousness
that God
himself
provides.
We don't
achieve it,
we receive
it.
It's not
a personal
righteousness,
our own,
it's an
alien
righteousness,
that of
another,
Jesus Christ.
It does
not reflect
our performance,
but his.
It's not
our moral
ledger,
but his.
God's
love
is the
law of God.
In this insight,
Martin realized
that all his
zeal to accrue
merit was
simply running
along the
wrong path.
Accustomed
as he was by
training to
formulate his
insights into
theses,
here is how he
expressed his
newfound
confidence.
righteousness.
The law of God,
although soundest
doctrine of life,
is not able to
bring to
righteousness,
but rather
stands in the
way.
Another,
God does not
find,
but creates
that which is
pleasing in us.
rather than
seeking good,
he bestows
it.
Or again,
the law
says do
this,
and it is
never done.
Grace
says,
believe in
this man,
and immediately
everything is
done.
Immediately,
everything is
done for our
acceptance before
God.
Nothing
lacking that
we must
supply.
No missing
merit to
muster.
For
trusting in
Jesus and
his work for
us, we
receive his
record, and
it's perfect.
Nothing
lacking.
As the
Father God
said of his
son at his
baptism,
this is my
son in whom
I am
perfectly
pleased.
The
verdict that
God the
Father speaks
over Jesus
becomes the
verdict God
speaks over
everyone who
links their
life to Jesus
through faith.
Simple trust
in him.
What is the
verdict spoken by
the judge?
For those in
Christ,
you are
perfectly
pleasing to
me.
Righteous.
As I
see my
beloved son
Jesus, so
I see
you.
And we
then live in
and under
that wonderful
verdict.
Accepted.
Acceptable.
Well
pleasing.
Perfectly
righteous.
Linking our
lives by
simple trust
trust to
Jesus the
Savior.
A wonderful
exchange
transpires.
Think of a
marriage, Martin
would later
explain by way
of illustration.
A husband's
and a wife's
assets are
combined when
they become
one.
And that's
what trust in
Christ does.
It marries
us to
Jesus, so
to speak,
so that our
debts become
his.
And his
wealth
becomes
ours.
Our
failure and
demerit and
desert of
judgment,
Jesus takes.
And in
return, he
gives us
his beloved
favor with the
Father.
There is
then, for
those who put
their trust in
him, no
future thunderstorm
of judgment
to fear.
for our
spouse, Jesus,
has taken that
storm upon
himself and
absorbed its
fury.
The storm has
passed over for
everyone who
simply trusts in
him, taking
him as
spouse.
What peace
and joy is
this?
Upon
grasping this
astonishing
provision,
Martin
sought to
set it
forth in
a crest
that he
designed,
not only
musical, also
artistic, a
crest which he
passed down
through generations
of his
family.
Yes, monk
Martin ended
up getting
married and
had a family,
but that's
another story,
quite a good
one actually,
we'll tell it
some other
time.
His crest
shows,
and imagine
it, shows a
black cross
upon a
white heart
surrounded by
a red
rose.
The black
cross, Christ
cursed for
us, judged
for us, makes
clean the
heart and
brings us
joy forever.
The red
rose.
And so it
was that a
tormented
monk found
peace with
God and
lasting joy
from some
wonderful words
of the
Bible.
Now it
may be that
some of you
are reacting
to Martin's
discovery with
surprise, even
shock.
Really?
Really, does
the Bible say
that?
Did Martin
get it right?
And the
wonderful good
news is,
yes.
Really?
So you're
telling me,
you and
Martin and
the Bible are
saying that if
we simply put
our trust in
Jesus, that
God will judge
us, not on
our record, but
on Jesus'
record?
Yes.
But that's
shocking.
Yes.
I
understand.
It goes
against the
grain of
every expectation,
every instinct,
every experience
that we've ever
had from cradle
to grave.
From cradle
to grave, the
verdicts we
receive, our
acceptableness in
school, in
marriage, on the
playing field,
everywhere, is
always based on
our performance.
What we do and
how well we do
it.
Little wonder that
we would imagine
it's the same with
God.
But the
wonderful good
news is that
it is not
so with
God.
And if you
find yourself
surprised at this,
as well we
should, my
appeal to you
would be, don't
let the story of
Martin or these
words from Romans
simply leave you
in a state of
surprise.
put your trust
in Jesus.
Trust him.
And his
verdict becomes
yours.
May the good
news become
for you, as it
was for Monk
Martin, the open
gate to joy and
peace and
paradise.
Now if all of
this or much of
this is new to
you, you probably
have a ton of
questions.
That's great.
Find me or
somebody else
afterwards and
let's talk about
this together.
We'll get a
drink and we'll
sit down and
we'll think
through this
together.
This is so
vital.
So vital.
But for many
of you, your
reaction to
this discovery
of Martins
isn't surprise.
It's
familiarity.
Oh, that's
old hat.
I've heard
this all my
life.
Am I
acceptableness
is based on
Christ's
performance, not
on my
performance?
I've long
known and
believed this.
Well, so
have I.
But here's
the thing.
Sometimes I
think I know
it theoretically
and it hasn't
really sunk
in.
why would I
say that?
How do I
suspect that I
don't really
get it?
That my
acceptableness
is secured
and secure
in Jesus'
acceptableness?
Because I
often view
the things
in life as
either assaults
upon or
buttresses
to my
acceptableness.
I imagine
that something
I perform
or fail
to
forms part
of the
verdict over
my life
and I
react
accordingly.
Take
marriage,
for example,
and the
criticism
that inevitably
and rightfully
comes from
being intimately
known.
how do I
react
when I
receive such
criticism?
All too
often,
with denials
and evasions,
maybe even
counter-assaults.
No, no,
I never did
that.
Well, yeah,
but the
circumstances
were this,
and yeah,
but what about
you?
Why all the
trauma?
I'm just being
criticized.
It's as if
some national
treasure were
under threat
and I respond
with the
full-armed
might of
the nation.
Well, the
truth is,
a treasure
has been
threatened.
The treasure
of my
reputation
as acceptable,
I've made
my spousal
righteousness
part of
what gets
me the
verdict.
And my
spouse's
criticism
has made
my home-spun
project of
righteousness
vulnerable.
about to
be revealed
as a
house of
cards
and
completely
collapse.
But that
calamity
has to be
averted.
So I
patch and
I repair
and I
prop up
what I've
cobbled
together
like the
Wizard of
Oz
with pulley
and lever
and curtain.
I project
and I
protect
the
treasured
pretense.
It's
pathetic,
isn't it?
but it's
inevitable.
It is
inevitable
unless,
unless I
remember
that my
righteousness
is in
Christ
and his
righteousness.
What happens
when I
remember my
justification
is in
Christ
and I
live out
of it?
Well,
that criticism
can't threaten
the verdict
over my
life.
My
acceptableness
can't
implode
because it's
secured
and secure
in Jesus'
acceptableness.
so I
can drop
my
denials
and my
evasions.
I
can admit
my faults
and failures
and face
them.
Criticism
is no
personal
crisis.
So I
can receive
it
and repent
and grow.
I have
the security
to be
vulnerable.
Wow.
Well,
thank you
for that
observation,
dear.
I think
you might
be right.
I'd never
seen that
before.
That was
wrong.
I was
wrong.
Please
forgive me.
You see,
justification
in Christ
gives us
the freedom
to face
our failures.
And facing
them only
makes God's
grace and
mercy more
electrifying.
God,
wow,
she's
right about
that.
That's the
way I am.
And yet,
he loved
me and
gave himself
for me.
do you
see how
defensiveness
can betray
this
disconnect
with what
we say
we know?
It's not
that I
disbelieve in
the justification
in Christ.
It's my
lack of
deep
belief.
Lack of
deep
belief.
The
leaven
hasn't
worked
its way
through the
lump of
my life.
life.
How about
work?
Not
everybody's
married.
How about
work?
Too many
of us are
workaholics.
We just
can't put
it down.
Did you
see the
recent New
York Times
article
recognizing
our cultural
obsession
with work?
It
mentioned
a lady
who was
giving
birth
and they
couldn't
get her
to give
up her
cell phone.
Couldn't
get her
to put
it down.
I need
this to
take this
call for
work.
I kid
you not.
This is
you.
Why
does work
have such
a stranglehold
on us?
I'm
convinced
it's because
for many
of us,
myself
included at
times,
our work
performance
is where
we toil
to gain
the verdict
of acceptable
over our
lives.
For many
of us,
our relation
to work
is like
Martin in
the monastery
toiling for
that ever
elusive
verdict,
acceptable.
But what
if we
knew and
felt deep
in our
bones
that the
verdict
was in,
I am
acceptable.
I don't
need to
prove
anything.
We would
have rest
from our
toil.
For that
craving
that's
relentlessly
driving the
work,
craving for
gaining and
maintaining
acceptableness,
that would be
gone.
And our
work would
just be about
work and
not about
the verdict
to be
passed over
our lives.
We could
turn out the
lights in the
lab and
go home.
We could
give up the
cell phone
and give
birth.
It's in
remembering
our justification
in Christ
that there
is rest
that remains
for the
people of
God.
I want
to conclude
with a
word
to our
young people,
including the
very young.
I fear
we have
grown-ups
as grown-ups
have given
to you
a world
to grow
up in
in which
it is
very easy
to fear
falling
short.
You hear
at every
turn
that if
you hope
to succeed,
you must
achieve.
It's how
you perform
that will
determine your
worth in
the classroom,
on the
sporting field,
in the
performance
hall,
in fact,
all of life
ahead of you.
That's the
way it is.
Verdicts
are on the
line,
and you
anxiously
ask,
will I
make the
team?
will I
pass the
test?
Will I
get a
spot?
And it's
very easy
to feel
that your
achievements
are your
measure
as a
person.
And that's
scary
and stressful.
love.
And I
want you
to know
that in
Jesus,
linking
your life
to his
in simple
trust,
the only
verdict that
really,
really
matters
is already
in.
You have
the favor
and the
delight
of your
heavenly
father.
and you
can never
lose that
favor and
delight that
he has in
you.
It cannot
be taken
away or
forfeited by
a mishap.
He delights
in you
whether you
pass the
test or
fail it,
whether you
cross the
finish line
first or
trip and
fall and
finish last.
either way,
it will be
and always
be true
what God
says.
You shall
be called
Hephzibah.
My delight
is in her
for the
Lord
delights
in you.
And for
all of you
hoping for
the little
acceptances
in life
that seems
so big,
oh,
that you
would know
and feel
that
surpassingly
wonderful
acceptance
of your
heavenly
father
that you
don't have
to earn
because
Jesus
has earned
it for
you.
An
acceptance
that is
for
always
and forever.
I
remember
first
knowing
and feeling
that kind
of acceptance
as a
little boy.
I felt
it from
my dad.
He was
a great
athlete
and an
excellent
soccer
player
and he
loved
to win.
But as
much as
he loved
to win,
whenever
he would
look out
at the
players to
pick from
when he
was forming
his team,
despite the
fact that
they were
all better
players than
I was
as a
little guy,
he always
picked me.
I can
still
hear his
voice.
I
pick my
son.
He is
my first
choice.
And I
knew
that as
I ran
out onto
the field
to play,
I already
had his
smile
and his
favor.
I didn't
have to
earn it.
Before I
kicked the
ball,
I was
his
delight.
And when
I missed
the ball
and messed
up, I
was no
less his
delight.
See,
playing
from
his love
and acceptance
instead of
for it
made me
run as
fast as
my little
legs could
carry me.
And I
got to be
pretty good.
You see,
I ran
for the
joy
before me
instead of
the fear
that comes
behind.
And that's
how God
wants us
to run
through life,
knowing
and feeling
his
unfailing
favor.
love.
So,
friends,
brothers and
sisters,
won't you
labor to
let this
wonderful
good news
that we
are accepted
in Jesus
work its
way like
leaven
into all
of life
and as
with
Martin,
find it
as the
open gate
to
paradise
itself.
Well,
we come
now
to the
place
where we
are reminded
of the
cost,
the cost
to God
of making
us
acceptable,
the Lord's
table.
You remember
Martin's
illustration
of marriage,
how husband
and wife
are one
and all
that is
his
is hers
and all
that's
hers
is his.
And as
we link
our lives
to Jesus
in trust,
what is
ours
becomes
his
and his
ours.
And we've
spoken mostly
this morning
of the
wonderful
things
that are
his,
that favor,
that become
ours.
But the
bread
and the
cup
remind us
of what
he received
from us
and gladly
received for
us
a broken
body,
shed
blood,
a life
forfeit
because of
sin.
And here
we rightly
measure
God's
love by
what he
gave,
the son
of his
love.
you are
my choice,
you are
my beloved
son in
whom I am
well pleased.
That
son he
gave
that he
might
receive
us
and place
his delight
upon us.
and
what he
does
and
have
fun
and
for
us
to
you
of
see
Hamilton