Mark 4:35-41

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,

Romans 1:16

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.

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.

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.

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,

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

and

for

us

to

you

of

see

Hamilton