Sharing the Spoils

In different ways and for different reasons, the image of Jesus as a victorious leader-king has been for several years the one which strikes me most. As such, Psalm 110 is one of my favorite passages in all of Scripture. It just so happened that it was also the OT reading at church last week, as the sermon text was Mark 12:35-44, in which Jesus refers to Psalm 110:1.

1 The Lord says to my Lord:
“Sit at my right hand,
until I make your enemies your footstool.”

2 The Lord sends forth from Zion
your mighty scepter.
Rule in the midst of your enemies!
3 Your people will offer themselves freely
on the day of your power,
in holy garments;
from the womb of the morning,
the dew of your youth will be yours.
4 The Lord has sworn
and will not change his mind,
“You are a priest forever
after the order of Melchizedek.”

5 The Lord is at your right hand;
he will shatter kings on the day of his wrath.
6 He will execute judgment among the nations,
filling them with corpses;
he will shatter chiefs over the wide earth.
7 He will drink from the brook by the way;
therefore he will lift up his head.

During Communion I had saw this image of Jesus as if he were King Arthur sitting to dine with his comrades, the Knights of the Round Table, after a great victory. It was a merry scene, full of mead and broiled meats. The victorious king had returned from battle and now wanted to share a time of glad rest with his brothers in arms, those for whom he had fought. He sat down to share a lavish meal with them, not as their overlord, but as a friend. In this meal of celebration, the king shared the spoils of his victory with all who were there: gold rings and necklaces, finely embroidered linens, and expertly crafted weapons.

How much so with our King Jesus, whose feet rest on the necks of Satan and his minions and of all the sin, doubts, fears, and failures which plague us. Not all his enemies are under his feet yet; Death is the last foe to be vanquished ("until I make your enemies your footstool"; cf. 1 Corinthians 15:24-28). During our Lord's Supper, he is spreading a table for us to celebrate the rest he has won for us, his people clothed in "holy garments" of his own righteousness (Psalm 110:3; Revelation 7:14; 19:8). Jesus condescends to meet with us in glad fellowship and to enjoy rest together. At the table he is also sharing with us the plunder, the spoils of his victory (Isaiah 53:12). He bestows on us life, cleansing, forgiveness, assurance that we belong to the household of God both now and forever, and spiritual power to fight the good fight of faith (see John 6:51; Matthew 26:28; Luke 15:23-24).

In short, the Lord's Supper can be a time for us when we experience and learn in the present what is true of the church and her king through all ages: "They will make war against the Lamb, but the Lamb will overcome them because he is Lord of lords and King of kings—and with him will be his called, chosen and faithful followers" (Revelation 17:14).

S.W.A.K.

I never grow tired of hearing my wife say, "I love you." Nor do I tire of pledging my love to her as well. (In fact, for some reason, I almost find more satisfaction in the latter.) We could say it ten times a day, and each time would be just as refreshing, just as reassuring, just as meaningful.

Perhaps this is why I never grow weary or bored with Communion. Though we celebrate it weekly at City Church, it's never a rote or ritualistic act. So often, as the bread and wine touch my lips, I hear deep within the Spirit's "still, small voice" assuring me that Christ is mine and I am his, and that all I need in life and in death is in him and is now mine too. The moment of peace, joy, assurance, and rest for my soul may be fleeting, and some weeks it's stronger than others. But I hunger for it without fail, and I'm never left wanting.

* * *

Likewise kissing my wife is an amazing thing. Who knew such a simple exchange could mean so much? The Lord's Supper is kind of like this too. The invisible reality behind the kiss (a covenant pledge of love that exists not only in word, but within our hearts) is illustrated and explained through words ("I love you") and is not only symbolized but actually expressed and conferred or communicated through a physical act (kissing). In the Supper we receive the Lord's love in the same way. He uses physical means (serving bread and wine, which we take into our mouths) to communicate himself to us spiritually (forgiveness of sin, joyful fellowship with him, and strengthening of faith), as explained verbally ("This is my body, given for you. . . . This is the new covenant in my blood, which is poured out for you"). So when we receive the bread and wine, we can know we're receiving God's promises sealed with a kiss.

Home for Dinner

This afternoon during Communion, I had the following thought: There are many activities a family does together and many things its members can point to as valued ways they share life together and love for one another. But what stands out to me is the family dinner. Everyone may be scattered during their rest of the day and evening in their own separate events and goings-on, but during this meal everyone comes together. It shows that whatever else the day may reveal, this moment says these people are a family, a home. The parents have prepared a meal for their children, a time to discuss the day, heal wounds and relieve burdens, mend discord, and share laughter and find delight in one another's company. Even when outsiders such as the children's schoolmates are invited over, it's special to be invited over for a real meal.

I thought of the Lord's Supper in this way. All of us at City Church (enter your congregation's name here) may interconnect and share fellowship and continued relationships in diverse ways throughout the week, but it's really for 90 minutes on Sunday afternoons that we recognize we're all members of the same family together, namely, God's. Discord and squabbles must be dealt with and put away. And like needy children, we eagerly await the delights our parents have worked to prepare for us not only for our nourishment and enjoyment, but also as a context for glad fellowship and time together with them. What good parent does not love to have his whole family together? So it must be with God our Father, our Abba. He loves his children and, in accordance with our ever-present needs, he dishes out not a tuna noodle casserole, but the flesh and blood of his very own Son, through whom we receive forgiveness of our sins and assurance of fellowship with him.

Perhaps this is why when the Prodigal Son returned home (see Jesus' parable in Luke 15), his father made no delay in preparing a rich feast. He hadn't been able to do so for so long, with an empty chair (or mat, in those days) leaving a gaping hole in their home. The meal was not only a celebration of the son's return. It was also an event made possible only because the whole family was back together again. So it will be when in heaven we feast with our Father forever.

How priceless is your unfailing love!
Both high and low among men
find refuge in the shadow of your wings.

They feast on the abundance of your house;
you give them drink from your river of delights. (Psalm 36:7-8)

Christ Decides Our Doubt

Today during Communion we sung an old song by William Cowper called "Decide This Doubt for Me." (Cowper -- pronounced "cooper" -- had a life racked with depression.) The lyrics are about a man who feels lukewarm toward God, wishing to feel great emotion--whether contrition over his sin or joy over God's grace and abiding love--but feels nothing. So he feels confused, perplexed, in pain.

The Lord will happiness divine
On contrite hearts bestow;
Then tell me, gracious God, is mine
A contrite heart, or no?

I hear but seem to hear in vain;
Insensible as steel,
Insensible as steel;
If aught is felt, 'tis only pain
To find I cannot feel,
To find I cannot feel.

. . .

Oh, make this heart rejoice or ache;
Decide this doubt for me.
Decide this doubt for me.
And if it be not broken, break,
And heal it if it be,
Oh, heal it if it be.

This week I have been studying the story of Jesus' encounter with the Samaritan woman at the well in Sychar (Gospel of John, chapter 4). Jesus speaks of the living water he gives, a spring of water that overflows to satisfy our deepest needs and desires. I've read this story so many times it has become cliche. Of course Jesus provides this water, I thought to myself. But I began to feel disturbed inside over this yesterday morning. I knew so little of what Jesus was saying, as if I had never drunk these waters for myself, even though I know I have. But that's the problem--what does it mean for me to taste of his waters today, to drink the "good wine" he makes out of earthly water?

There I sat in my seat with a little plastic cup of wine in my hand and the Cowper hymn entering my ears from the atmosphere. Right as I put the cup to my lips and took in the wine, I heard the prayer: "Decide this doubt for me." And I knew right then that Jesus had indeed done so. Whether or not I had had any recent experience of or thirst for Christ's "living water" didn't matter. I could discount any emotions or feelings, or lack thereof, because in that cup I knew Christ had died for me. As surely as I drank that wine, so surely was my Savior with me, and the blood of his death was present and active for me to give me life by God's sure promise. But I don't mean this in any objective, I-memorized-the-Heidelberg-Catechism-Lord's-Day-28* sort of way. I knew it in my soul. I can't explain it or really put my finger on it, but I felt a deep peace in that moment: a peace that came from resting in the reality and surety of Christ's efficacious, atoning death and the presence of Christ with me and for me at that moment. In the words of the old rites, Communion truly remains a mysterious participation in Christ's blood and a fellowship with our Savior himself (1 Corinthians 10:16-17). I guess I had tasted his "good wine" after all!
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*You can read it here.

Death and Victory: for Oma

Mathilde Margarethe Monika (Steinkohl) Bork, my maternal grandmother, died on Sunday, July 19th--her eighty-fourth birthday. After losing her husband of sixty-one years and in near-blindness and ailing health, "Oma" simply gave up her will to live. She died a peaceful, dignified death, surrounded in her last days by her family and loved ones.

I didn't cry.

After receiving the dreaded phone call from my younger brother Jordan, Olivia and I drove over to the hospital to be with my mom and uncle. We prayed for a while as I stroked Oma's hair and kissed her forehead goodbye.

Staring in the face the reality of death, the only thing I could think about was this: Jesus really rose from the grave. To this day I have no explanation why; even the best apologetics cannot stand. But all I know and am convinced of, without any explanation, is that Jesus is truly living and has triumphed over death itself, making a mockery of it. In what is one of the greatest Easter homilies of all time, John Chrysostom wrote thus:

Let no one fear death, for the Death of our Savior has set us free.
He has destroyed it by enduring it.
He destroyed Hell* when He descended into it.
He put it into an uproar even as it tasted of His flesh.

Isaiah foretold this when he said,
"You, O Hell, have been troubled by encountering Him below."
Hell was in an uproar because it was done away with.
It was in an uproar because it is mocked.
It was in an uproar, for it is destroyed.
It is in an uproar, for it is annihilated.
It is in an uproar, for it is now made captive.

Hell took a body, and discovered God.
It took earth, and encountered Heaven.
It took what it saw, and was overcome by what it did not see.

O death, where is thy sting?
O Hell, where is thy victory?

Christ is Risen, and you, o death, are annihilated!
Christ is Risen, and the evil ones are cast down!
Christ is Risen, and the angels rejoice!
Christ is Risen, and life is liberated!

Christ is Risen, and the tomb is emptied of its dead;
for Christ having risen from the dead,
is become the first-fruits of those who have fallen asleep.

To Him be Glory and Power forever and ever. Amen!

* * *

This Sunday, which will be our last gathered with the saints at New Song, is Communion Sunday. How fitting! For we will feast when God wipes out death (see Isaiah 25:6-9). Death, which once swallowed men in its insatiable appetite (Isaiah 5:14), is now itself swallowed in Christ's victory! I rejoice that what is fed to us by Jesus in this Meal, his broken body and poured-out blood for our forgiveness and life, is what (or rather who) will bring us into the Wedding Feast of life everlasting, where death is abolished. Right now I feel a craving for this meal as the comforting promise of life beyond death--the promise of my life in Christ.

"I thank You for the body and the blood of Your Son, Jesus Christ, my Lord. I go to His holy Supper as though I were going to my own death, so that I might go to my death as though going to His holy Supper. Surely, my cup overflows with mercy, and I can depart in peace, according to Your Word." ("Devotion at the Approach of Death," from The Lutheran Book of Prayer)

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*Other translations of Chrysostom's sermon render "Hell" as "Hades," which is probably more correct. (Chrysostom spoke Greek.) Hades represented not only the dark realm of the dead separated from the joys of life, but also Death itself as a consuming power. To those who think of this as a Greek abstraction foisted upon Christianity from without, you will note that the ancient Hebrew concepts of Sheol (death as a realm) and Abbadon (death as a destructive power) were very similar.

Are the sacraments means of grace?

Stick around something other than an Anabaptist-derived church long enough, and you’ll probably hear the phrase that the sacraments—baptism and the Lord’s Supper (or the Eucharist or communion)—are “means of grace.” This thought used to trip me up a lot, as good Lutherans and Presbyterians would teach that the waters of Holy Baptism, as a means of grace, somehow miraculously channeled salvation-power to little babies and broke the stranglehold of the sinful nature.

This line of thinking sounds rather ludicrous, if not at least difficult to understand, as long we think of God’s grace as some sort of “justification juice.” But grace is not an ethereal, impersonal substance hiding between the layers of matzo your church uses for the Supper. It is rather the personal favor and benevolence of a holy God upon needy sinners. Douglas Wilson, pastor of Christ Church in Moscow, ID, clarifies this:

But how is it possible to see the sacraments as efficacious, which the Protestant fathers certainly did, but at the same time recognize that they have no magical power in themselves? We must not think of ourselves as empty receptacles and the sacraments as filled decanters, full of spiritual juice, which are then poured into us. Rather than seeing the question of the sacraments as this kind as an ontological and metaphysical question, we have to see it as a covenantal and relational question. We are persons communing with God, who is tri-personal, and we do so in the sacraments. They are therefore performative acts. A man might say the words “I do” a million times during the course of his life, but when he says them in a church in front of witnesses with his bride across from him, the words are a performative act, and they change everything.

Grace is not a fluid that can fill up a reservoir. Grace is a covenantal relationship between two persons. Now the Scriptures do tell us that grace can be both added and multiplied. “Grace and peace be multiplied unto you through the knowledge of God, and of Jesus our Lord” (2 Pet. 1:2; cf. 1 Pet. 1:2; Rom. 1:7). But we have to be careful not to fall prey to abstract nouns. If I pray that someone’s marital happiness will increase, I am asking that a relationship between persons will flourish and not that something will happen in their marital “tank,” something that can be checked with a dipstick.[1]

Thus the sacraments are “means of grace” in that by means of them we are offered, free of charge, all that Christ has purchased and accomplished. When we undergo baptism or later on look back upon it, we see God’s favor in including us in his covenant people and promising us remission of sins, holding out Christ’s death and resurrection to us even when we were yet too young to do anything good or bad (Romans 4:5; 5:6-8). We’re like infantile Israel, to whom while still writhing in her placental blood, the Lord said “Live!” (Ezek. 16:6). And when we receive the bread and wine, we eat what Jesus offers to sinners in and through his body and blood, broken and shed for our forgiveness (Matthew 26:26-28; John 6:53-58). Every time we partake of these sacraments, through the eyes of faith we see Christ, and in him see clearly how for us and for sinners the Triune God really is.

We may even do well so as to say that the sacraments aren’t even means of grace, that is, God’s benevolent favor, but rather we might say that they are grace themselves. They are an undeserved gift, because the whole of them bring to us the person and work of Jesus the Son as ordained and offered by the Father and understood and sealed to us by the Spirit, so that we may be brought to faith and nourished in it. “Thanks be to God for his inexpressible gift!” (2 Corinthians 9:15).

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[1] Douglas Wilson, “Reformed” Is Not Enough: Recovering the Objectivity of the CovenantMoscow, ID: (Canon, 2002), 91-2.