Real Peace. Real People.

Romans 8:1–4 Therefore, there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus, 2 because through Christ Jesus the law of the Spirit who gives life has set you free from the law of sin and death. 3 For what the law was powerless to do because it was weakened by the flesh, God did by sending his own Son in the likeness of sinful flesh to be a sin offering. And so he condemned sin in the flesh, 4 in order that the righteous requirement of the law might be fully met in us, who do not live according to the flesh but according to the Spirit.

What if the high school valedictorian and the National Merit Scholar gets a B+ in her first college class? What then? What if the super mom who wore headphones around her pregnant belly that played Mozart; who intuitively knew when to change a wet diaper before her infant would even cry; who potty trained that same child in a day – what if she had just one hair brained moment when she wasn’t paying attention? What then? What if that savvy businessman who spent his entire life building his empire through blood, sweat and tears had it all taken away because of one nasty lawsuit? What then? What if that kid who spent his entire childhood chipping onto greens and honing his swing at the driving range made the tour only to get into a car accident and lose an arm? What then? What if that woman who spent her life trying to make people happy – she just wanted people to like her! – got stuck in an office that had more sharks than a reef in the Bermuda Triangle? What then? What if the pastor who worked his tail off – he just wanted to grow his church! – had people criticize his sermons? What then? What if the things you built your life on were suddenly all taken away?

I have a sense that you know we already know. We’ve known for a long time now. Probably one of the most public ways we’ve found out recently is through a woman named Rhonda Rousey. She might be one of the most recognizable female athletes in the world right now. Incredible MMA fighter. Undefeated. Unbeatable. That whole deal. I even remember reading articles saying that she might be the most talented athlete of our generation. She spent all day every day trying to win at MMA and she did. Until she didn’t anymore. I still remember what happened in the Twitterverse after the Holly Holm loss. The whole world reacted with what I can only describe as unbelief that Rhonda Rousey had actually been defeated. That’s how the world reacted, but it’s not how Rhonda reacted. Something far, far worse happened. In an interview on the Ellen DeGeneres Show she broke down describing what happened to her after the loss. I transcribed editing it only enough to make it appropriate for this audience. “I was like. I was like I was down in the corner and I was like. I was sitting in the corner and thinking about dealing with myself: ‘What am I anymore?’ I was thinking, ‘What do I do anymore? Nobody cares about me anymore.’ I looked up at my man. Travis was standing there. I looked up at him and I was just like, ‘I need to have his babies. I need to stay alive.’”

You know what we call that? We call that justification. She wanted justification for living. No, she needed justification for living. And when MMA was taken from her, she had to jump to a new justification and that’s just what she did. That’s why she said, “I need to have his babies.” Please understand I’m not picking on her. Not for a second. She’s just like us. We all need justification. It’s the most fundamental need our soul has. It’s what defines human spiritual existence. It’s what we’re all pursuing all the time. But then again, don’t take my word for it. Take Paul’s. That’s exactly what he said. He said that everybody wants to justify themselves. He even went so far as to call it a, “law,” (v. 2) or principle in our lives, which he says leads to, “sin and death.” (v. 2) Pretty direct, right? In this case, it’s not quite the spoonful of sugar that makes the medicine go down. Paul wants clarity. That’s the only way to deal properly with the addiction of self-justification. You have to out it. It was just a week ago when I saw how powerful this was already in my three-year-old. She did her cute new shoulder raise and announced, “Daddy, I’m not cute.” My wife, Melanie, and I both heard it and froze. We knew what she wanted. Elliana desperately wanted me to tell her she was cute. To correct her. To tell her she mattered and that she was justified because she was cute. And I couldn’t do it. I knew it would only lead her to spiritual death.

You want to know why? It’s sin. It keeps her thinking that she’s what matters. Not God. And that never ends well for us. Never. It wouldn’t for her either. It’d send her off to school completely vulnerable to the comments an 8th grade girl might whisper about her behind her back or lead her to invest too heavily in what some future guy might think of her. And worse yet, it’d keep her chasing self-justification. It’d keep her chasing her looks or her personality or her success or her smarts for her value. And they all – they all – lead to death. Someone will think she’s not pretty enough. Someone will tell her she’s not smart enough. Someone will remind her she’s not fun enough. And more catastrophic than that, it’d ruin her to God. It would suggest to her that she can meet God’s lawful standards of beauty and smarts and personality, which she can’t. Finally, all self-justification attempts are futile because we can’t meet God’s standards. That’s what Paul meant when he says, “The law was powerless… because it was weakened by the flesh.” (v. 3) Standards can’t help us be beautiful to God when our sin is always tilting us toward the ugly. God’s law can’t help us be pure when our flesh is always pulling away us away from it. Our flesh, the sin in us, is why we’ll never be enough. Not for people and not for God.

Now I understand you may not buy that just yet, but I should tell you your body does. At least, mine does. The new wrinkles, the changing hairline. The heart valve that’s probably narrowing, the barnyard dance with chemo that’s probably coming. It’s preaching to me with great, great clarity, “You don’t deserve the air you breath. You don’t merit the space you take up on this planet. You shouldn’t stick around.” Do you see that? The truth is that justification and death are intimately linked. If my existence is justified, God will have me stick around. Because I deserve the breathes I take. Because I merit the space I’m in. If I’m justified and, therefore, it’s right for God to keep me around, then rest assured he’ll keep me around. But if it isn’t and I’m not justified, then God will allow death to do its work in my body. So while our souls don’t always see it, our bodies always do. And that’s the point of death and decay here. They always preach. Every trip to the ER is another opportunity for death to say, “End whatever self-justification journey you’re on. It’s not working.” And every trip to the doctor is another chance to understand, “I don’t measure up.”

And as strange as it sounds that’s a grace. That’s a grace. Think of it as God’s intervention into our lives to get us to quit the addiction of self-justification cold turkey and get on board with God’s justification of us, which justification he also proved in a body. “He condemned sin in the flesh, in order that the righteous requirement of the law might be fully met in our case.” (v. 3–4) That’s what God did in the flesh of his Son. Our missing spiritual beauty and our existing spiritual ugly, our failed self-justification attempts, our too small smarts, our wrong-headed pride in our parenting, he condemned it in the flesh of Jesus. That’s what happened on the cross. God condemned our self-justification projects in Jesus’ body. That’s why Jesus died. It’s like I said justification and death are linked. Jesus didn’t deserve the space he was taking up here anymore. Not with our sinful baggage on him. Jesus didn’t merit the breathes he was taking. Not when he was carrying our self-justification attempts. God condemned them in Jesus’ flesh. And since Jesus carried it all, we now fully measure up. We meet every righteous requirement of the law. We’re beautiful enough. We’re pure enough. We’re holy enough. We’re justified in Christ Jesus.

And you may be surprised to find out that the Spirit’s whole job is to push that more deeply into us. “Through Christ Jesus the law of the Spirit who gives life has set you free.” (v. 2) It’s, in fact, so the Spirit’s job to inform you of Christ’s justification of you that Paul calls it a law or a principle. In other words, it’s a principle of the Spirit that he’s a justification pusher for justification junkies. Think of it this way: the Spirit’s our new dealer and Jesus’ justification is our new drug. Something has to justify us. And when it can’t be MMA because it leads to death. And when it can’t be having somebody’s babies because it leads to death. And when it can’t be being cute enough because it leads to death. And when it can’t be something – anything – related to ourselves because we’re all already failed justification projects, then it has to come from the outside in. And it has to come from a spirit other than our own. And so it does. On both counts. The Spirit makes it his entire business to push Christ’s justification into us. That’s the Spirit’s entire work. To push Christ into your heart.

And for people who have that Paul says, “There is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.” (v. 1) None. God can’t condemn you for sin in your life because it already condemned Jesus. And nobody can condemn you for a lack of spiritual beauty because our every spiritual ugly already disfigured Christ’s body. And it just expands from there. It’s not just eternal condemnation that can’t hound you anymore. The Spirit’s letting you know that in Christ Jesus there’s no condemnation period. Nobody can condemn you for your smarts (or the lack thereof), your not-so-great career, your personality quirks, or your failed marriage. Nobody. There is no condemnation for those in Christ Jesus. Because our justification does not rest on anything in us or about us. It rests on Christ – on his blood, on his body, and on what he did for us. Do you see what that means? When someone suggests your work performance makes you worthless, they lie. You’re worth the blood of God. When someone texts around pictures trying to make you feel lower than low they couldn’t be more false, Christ makes you more valued than all the gold on earth. And nobody can ever take that from you.

Ever. Do you realize that’s why this Scripture comes up right around Easter? Jesus’ justification is so big that it makes you worth hanging out with forever and ever and ever. Think about that. Jesus’ justification makes you so good that it makes you deserve breathes in the pure air of God’s presence and earns you a room in God’s heavenly mansion. Our spirits know that now. And your body will soon. God will erase the wrinkles and give you a new hairline (if you need one). God will give you a heartbeat that won’t ever quit and eradicate the need for chemo. Because your existence is completely and eternally justified both the breathes you breathe and the space you take. Let me say it another way. God already began his resurrection work in you when he raised up your spirit with Jesus’ justification of you. He’s not going to quit half done. He’ll raise your body too. He’ll have to. Jesus’ justification makes you look far too good to God. You know why we know that for sure? God was so excited about Jesus’ justification of you that he gave it the ultimate stamp of approval. He raised Jesus from the dead. 

My wife, Melanie, and I want that for our daughter. That’s why when my daughter said, “Daddy, I’m not cute.” We both immediately reacted. I suppose there were a lot of ways we could’ve handled it. I could’ve reassured her and said, “No, honey you really are. Daddy thinks you’re the cutest girl in the world.” Then poked her and followed up, “Cuter than the Easter bunny.” And Melanie could’ve said, “Elliana, we love you so much. You’re a beautiful girl.” And I suppose that maybe that would’ve made her smile for a moment. Neither of us did though. It was quite the moment actually. We both wanted to handle it so quickly we ended up talking over each other for a second. I said, “Honey, that doesn’t matter me or God. God loves you and Jesus died for you.” And Melanie said, “Elliana, Jesus will always love you no matter what.” We both did the exact same thing. You know why I think we both did that? It’s not because we’re great parents. Finally, it’s because we’ve both tasted the death our various self-justification projects have brought us. We’ve tried them. Sometimes we still do and they always leave us worse off than before. Our every wrinkle. Our every grey hair proves it. Only one justification doesn’t lead to death: Jesus.

So what if the star student and the National Merit Scholar gets a B+? So what? He still has an A+ in Christ Jesus. So what if the super mom messed up on that one occasion? So what? She’s still washed in the blood of the Lamb. So what if the savvy businessman gets his business empire wiped out? He still has the riches of eternity with the Lord. So what if the PGA golfer loses his ability to play on the tour? So what? He still is one of God’s own. So what if the people in your office don’t really like you? God likes you. So what if people don’t think your sermons are all that great? God thinks you’re so thought provoking he’s going to make you his conversation partner for the next million or so years. So what if something in this life is taken from you? Jesus will never be taken from you. Do you see it? What if we all built our life on that? What if everybody in here thought that that’s what made us special? What if we all became Spirit-led justification junkies who were constantly taking their hits off a justification that big, that lasting, that perfect, and that divine.

I want the people in this church to trust that justification. I want you to believe you matter because God’s Son died for you. I want you to believe you’re holy because Jesus carried your sin in his body. I want you to believe you get to draw breaths forever because God wants you around in eternity. I want you to believe you will take up space in heaven because God can’t stand to miss out on your goodness. I want you to believe you have all that from Jesus. Because then the law won’t condemn you. It can’t. It already condemned Jesus. And nothing else ever will either. Not the lady who gives you a nasty look. Not the B+ in that literature class. Not the parenting you’re finding out isn’t that great. Not the life you wished you had done so differently. Not the tax man. Not that abortion you had earlier in life. Not that marriage that you wish you had made last. Not your conscience. Not sin. Not death itself. There is no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus. There’s only life. Because Christ Jesus gave you his life. That’s why you matter. That’s why you’re valued. That’s why you’re great. And that’s why his justification will finally set you free. The Spirit promises. Amen.  

Luke 23:56–24:12 But they rested on the Sabbath in obedience to the commandment. On the first day of the week, very early in the morning, the women took the spices they had prepared and went to the tomb. 2 They found the stone rolled away from the tomb, 3 but when they entered, they did not find the body of the Lord Jesus. 4 While they were wondering about this, suddenly two men in clothes that gleamed like lightning stood beside them. 5 In their fright the women bowed down with their faces to the ground, but the men said to them, “Why do you look for the living among the dead? 6 He is not here; he has risen! Remember how he told you, while he was still with you in Galilee: 7 ‘The Son of Man must be delivered over to the hands of sinners, be crucified and on the third day be raised again.’” 8 Then they remembered his words. 9 When they came back from the tomb, they told all these things to the Eleven and to all the others. 10 It was Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Mary the mother of James, and the others with them who told this to the apostles. 11 But they did not believe the women, because their words seemed to them like nonsense. 12 Peter, however, got up and ran to the tomb. Bending over, he saw the strips of linen lying by themselves, and he went away, wondering to himself what had happened.

So I promise you that Luke really does want your heart swelling with joy today. Really I promise. I promise you he really does want your eyes to light up like they’ve never lit before. I promise you he wants confidence bursting out of your chest dreaming about dancing with the angels in eternity, reuniting with your grandpa who first taught you the faith, and reveling in the sights and the sounds of Jesus. I promise he wants you trusting that the cross bought you your entrance ticket to God’s forever party he’s throwing. I promise. I promise. I promise. And I suppose that by promising you like that I’m probably already sounding a bit on the defensive side. Like maybe if you read what he wrote that you wouldn’t feel that same way. Like maybe if you thought about Luke’s words for a while you wouldn’t feel quite so hopeful. Like maybe you’d find Luke’s account kind of a downer.

And, yeah, for a guy who’s allegedly an evangelist, he sure has a funning way of showing it. I mean, truthfully, this is not the Easter story I would’ve written. I would’ve told you about how Jesus’ body jumped up and off that cold slab. I would’ve described how powerful and glorious and perfect his new body was. I would’ve told you about the smile slapped wide across his saving face. Or, at the very least, I would’ve put Jesus in it. I would’ve done that at the very least. But Luke? Luke leaves Jesus out. For now altogether. And the only characters in the story? They’re all a mess. Every last one of them. They’re scared. They’re wondering. They’re unbelieving. They’re all a mess. So much for announcing the physical resurrection of Jesus so we can get on with the family Easter Egg hunt and dig into that mouth watering ham in the oven, right? Yeah, not just yet.

It’s still too early. So says Luke. He actually says it was, “deep dawn.” (v. 1) And before you say, “Well, that’s nice. So what?” Think it all through. If you read the rest of Luke’s Gospel, you’d know beyond a shadow of a doubt that Luke’s no novelist who’s trying to stoke our imaginations. There’s just no part of him that says, “Nuts. This is a kind of boring story. How can I add some flair? I know. I’ll write, ‘In the inky grey of coming dawn…’” That just not Luke or for that matter any of the other Gospel writers either. And yet all four of them – did I say all four them? – tell us exactly at what time this all went down. And Luke couldn’t be clearer as to why. What everybody in this story has to come to grips with. What everybody in the story has to deal with. What we must come to understand is that this is much bigger than some one off resurrection event. Luke wants us to know that this is the dawn of an entire era of resurrection.

And, yes, Luke’s correct. It was still deep spiritual dawn for all the people in the story. Did you notice how thoroughly Luke drilled down on that point? It’s embarrassing. Really. It is. I mean. Let’s be honest about this. What those women were up to was rather sweet and beautiful and caring. Clearly, they loved Jesus and obviously their hearts were broken. But you know what else their hearts were? Incredibly ignorant. And horribly stubborn. I hope you don’t think I’m being unfairly critical of them. I’m not. I’m not making any claim to have done any better if I was in their sandals. I wouldn’t have. It’s just that Luke wants us to see that those are the facts of the case. “The women took spices they had prepared to the tomb.” (v. 1) Now I suppose we could say, “They got their tired and emotionally exhausted selves out of bed at the crack of dawn just to anoint Jesus’ body. How nice! How kind! How thoughtful!” Except that’s not exactly what this was. It was actually pretty hard hearted stuff.

And it was. It was really, really wrong. I mean it’s not like Jesus hadn’t clued them in. It’s not like it hadn’t been his thing for three whole years with them. “I’m here to release captives,” he had preached. And then he had. He had driven out the demons. He had made the blind see. He had made that young man in Nain come back to life. He had done it all. And I’m just telling you about the ones that we’ve preached through recently here at Peace. And he had told them – he had told them – this is how it’s going to go down, “I’m going to be handed over. I’m going to be killed. I’m going to rise.” And it’s not like he hadn’t told them more than once. He had. Three times just in Luke. Three times! And, yet, not a word of it made it down to their hearts. So those women with all that data in their heads still roused themselves out of bed thinking they needed to go anoint the dead.

Nobody else in this history is any better either. Keep on reading and you find out really quick what an awful and hot mess everybody else in the story is. It’s incredibly disappointing. The Eleven hear the news from the women and they write them off quicker than we do Peter Pan and Captain Hook. Luke says, “Their words seemed to them like nonsense.” (v. 11) And just when you want to have some hope that Easter will dawn on somebody in the story Peter totally crushes our hopes. You watch him rush off to the tomb after the women report and you hope against hope, “Maybe Peter’ll believe. Maybe Peter’ll get it.” And you’re just crushed because Peter doesn’t get it either. He goes away from the tomb, “wondering to himself” (v. 12) It’s incredibly disappointing stuff. Because Luke would have us get his point. And, yes, it’s a massive diss on humanity. Our hearts can be so ignorant and remain so stubborn even about the most obvious of facts.

That ought to tell us something. Easter really isn’t a head issue. Easter’s not about getting the data into the brain. It never was. It never will be. It’s actually one of the more interesting facts about Easter that Easter actually is historical fact. Easter really isn’t a faith issue. Nobody even debates it anymore. Anybody who knows anything about real history knows that everybody accepts the physical resurrection of Jesus Christ as an actual event. I could cite you probably 10 brilliant and well-respected historians all in a row that will tell you all the exact same thing: the physical resurrection of Jesus Christ is the most well documented event in all of human history. You’ll probably have an easier time trying to prove that the American Revolution never happened or that the Holocaust was some kind of German hoax. Jesus Christ really did rise. Luke is pointing out that the hard part – the part that must be divine – is the part where that data migrates southward into the farthest reaches of our hearts.

That’s not just a simple theological point either. It’s a personal one. At least, that’s what I find. I know I’ve got a heart that wants to believe that dead people stay dead. I know I have a ridiculous gravitational pull in my spirit that screams, “You only live once.” I know it’s in me to think, “This is all there is.” I am to this today perfectly capable of mourning my wife even as she’s still perfectly healthy. I can stand here on Easter Day thinking about how I should dance with my daughter today ‘cause I might not be able to next week. And I know – I know – I’m not the only one with a heart that so strongly believes in death – like it’s where we’re all and only headed. I’ve been in the hospitals and I’ve heard people say, “Pastor, I’m not ready to die yet.” We hold on so tight here. So tight. We revel in this years Master’s and this moment’s retirement and this day’s health and this Easter’s joy because at the end of the day Easter hasn’t fully dawned on us. Our hearts tragically expect to anoint the dead that fall around us.

But the Lord Jesus Christ would have Easter dawn. He’d would have Easter’s data migrate southward to change the heart. And Luke would have you know how that happens. It takes angels. It takes messengers and it takes preaching. Luke would have you know that. It takes angels. It takes messengers and it takes preaching. That’s what finally what began to knock resurrection sense into the hearts of those women. Easter finally dawned on them. Easter data finally migrated south. Easter joy finally began to hit when those angels dropped sticks of dynamite down into the hearts of those women. What were those sticks of dynamite? The dynamite of remembering, “his words.” (v. 8) That’s what did it. That much is clear from Luke. It wasn’t the gleaming of the angels. That just scared them. It wasn’t the pilgrimage to the tomb. That just confused them. What flipped the light on – what brought the women the first rays of Easter dawn were Jesus’ remembered words. That’s what Luke wrote, “Then they remembered his words.” (v. 8) Then and only then did the the first rays of Easter dawn begin to break in on their hearts.

And that’s the Easter story Luke told. 2,000 years later I’m just starting to understand why. For today. For you. Luke wants you to know that Easter’s no cognitive switch that you flip. It’s a profound truth that the human heart learns to trust. To borrow Luke’s metaphor. It’s something that has to dawn in your heart. And perhaps Luke’s greatest and most practical lesson is how that happens. It’s preaching that lobs the stick of dynamite called the gospel into your soul. It’s preaching that happens Sunday by Sunday by Sunday that causes the deep dawn of Easter data to become the sure confidence of Easter noon. That’s the sheer power Jesus’ words have on the human heart. They take data and they make it faith. That’s why here in Luke 24 angels brings Jesus’ words to the women; why the women bring Jesus’ words to the apostles; why Jesus brings his own words, the Scriptures, to those guys on the road to Emmaus; and why the Apostles are then sent to preach Jesus’ words to everyone else. The Spirit wants us to understand that everyone needs an Easter messenger in their life.

You do realize something now, don’t you? The angels told the women. The women told the apostles. The apostles told the ancient world. The ancient world told the not so ancient world. And the not so ancient world told the modern world, which brings us in one long and unbroken Easter chain right up to today. Or to say it another way, those angels may be silent, but I’m not. And the women aren’t here, but you are. So it’s time to wake up and it’s time to celebrate what God’s up to in the here and the now. Today is Easter. Today is Easter. And do you know what God does on Easter? God creates life. Not just new life in Son, but new life in his people. He drops sticks of dynamite called the gospel into hearts that pushes the data south. And today I get to do that.

I want you to hear Jesus’ words again. Remember how he told you. Remember how he said it was all necessary. He would be handed into the hands of sinful men; he would be crucified. Remember that. That happened. Do you know what that means? It means he did it. He really did it. He made you right with God. He made you clean. He calls you forgiven. You’re so forgiven in him that God says he’s going to make you his bride all the way into eternity. His bride. That’s what you are to him. The one he bought with his own blood. The one whose hand he takes with his gospel. Oh, he longed for this moment when he could tell you that. For you. All the way from eternity, he had this necessary plan. I’m going to get my bride. I will have her. I will win her. And he did. That’s not just data. That’s truth.

Remember how he told you that after he bought his bride he’d rise. And he did. That’s not just an historical event. It’s the launch of a whole new era, a whole new epoch, a brand new age, a resurrection world that’s now dawned. You will not die. You will live and live and live and live. Your life will not stop. Revel in that truth. Because it is the truth. You won’t ever run out of time to spend with your believing wife. Ever. You will dance with your baptized daughter before the Lord forever. And the golf courses there? Ha! You will play on courses better than anything Augusta National could ever come up with. And the retirement there? The retirement? Don’t even get me started. Are you hearing me? No stroke can kill you. No heart attack can take you out. They can go ahead and try. That’s not just a data set. That’s truth dawning.

You know what the best part is? God’s just getting started. If your heart did a little leap at your forgiveness. If in your mind you started dancing with the angels in eternity and you reunited with your grandpa who first taught you the faith. If he lit you up like a firecracker and for the first time you started staring down your own death. If you began to revel just a little more in the sights and the sounds of your future with Jesus, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet. Your hope will only become more solid. Your heart will only strengthen. Your joy will only grow. Until they can’t anymore. And there will only be one reason that’s happened. Because you’ve reached the pinnacle. And Easter will no longer be a matter of what Jesus will do for you, but what he already has done for you. That Easter will dawn. For now, this one does – one where he wants Easter dawning in you more deeply, more widely, and more powerfully. Luke’s told you how God does that. He puts people into your life who message you with it Sunday by Sunday by Sunday. Today I got to be that guy. I’m praying I get to that guy next week too. Amen.

Luke 23:56–24:12 But they rested on the Sabbath in obedience to the commandment. On the first day of the week, very early in the morning, the women took the spices they had prepared and went to the tomb. 2 They found the stone rolled away from the tomb, 3 but when they entered, they did not find the body of the Lord Jesus. 4 While they were wondering about this, suddenly two men in clothes that gleamed like lightning stood beside them. 5 In their fright the women bowed down with their faces to the ground, but the men said to them, “Why do you look for the living among the dead? 6 He is not here; he has risen! Remember how he told you, while he was still with you in Galilee: 7 ‘The Son of Man must be delivered over to the hands of sinners, be crucified and on the third day be raised again.’” 8 Then they remembered his words. 9 When they came back from the tomb, they told all these things to the Eleven and to all the others. 10 It was Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Mary the mother of James, and the others with them who told this to the apostles. 11 But they did not believe the women, because their words seemed to them like nonsense. 12 Peter, however, got up and ran to the tomb. Bending over, he saw the strips of linen lying by themselves, and he went away, wondering to himself what had happened.

So I promise you that Luke really does want your heart swelling with joy today. Really I promise. I promise you he really does want your eyes to light up like they’ve never lit before. I promise you he wants confidence bursting out of your chest dreaming about dancing with the angels in eternity, reuniting with your grandpa who first taught you the faith, and reveling in the sights and the sounds of Jesus. I promise he wants you trusting that the cross bought you your entrance ticket to God’s forever party he’s throwing. I promise. I promise. I promise. And I suppose that by promising you like that I’m probably already sounding a bit on the defensive side. Like maybe if you read what he wrote that you wouldn’t feel that same way. Like maybe if you thought about Luke’s words for a while you wouldn’t feel quite so hopeful. Like maybe you’d find Luke’s account kind of a downer.

And, yeah, for a guy who’s allegedly an evangelist, he sure has a funning way of showing it. I mean, truthfully, this is not the Easter story I would’ve written. I would’ve told you about how Jesus’ body jumped up and off that cold slab. I would’ve described how powerful and glorious and perfect his new body was. I would’ve told you about the smile slapped wide across his saving face. Or, at the very least, I would’ve put Jesus in it. I would’ve done that at the very least. But Luke? Luke leaves Jesus out. For now altogether. And the only characters in the story? They’re all a mess. Every last one of them. They’re scared. They’re wondering. They’re unbelieving. They’re all a mess. So much for announcing the physical resurrection of Jesus so we can get on with the family Easter Egg hunt and dig into that mouth watering ham in the oven, right? Yeah, not just yet.

It’s still too early. So says Luke. He actually says it was, “deep dawn.” (v. 1) And before you say, “Well, that’s nice. So what?” Think it all through. If you read the rest of Luke’s Gospel, you’d know beyond a shadow of a doubt that Luke’s no novelist who’s trying to stoke our imaginations. There’s just no part of him that says, “Nuts. This is a kind of boring story. How can I add some flair? I know. I’ll write, ‘In the inky grey of coming dawn…’” That just not Luke or for that matter any of the other Gospel writers either. And yet all four of them – did I say all four them? – tell us exactly at what time this all went down. And Luke couldn’t be clearer as to why. What everybody in this story has to come to grips with. What everybody in the story has to deal with. What we must come to understand is that this is much bigger than some one off resurrection event. Luke wants us to know that this is the dawn of an entire era of resurrection.

And, yes, Luke’s correct. It was still deep spiritual dawn for all the people in the story. Did you notice how thoroughly Luke drilled down on that point? It’s embarrassing. Really. It is. I mean. Let’s be honest about this. What those women were up to was rather sweet and beautiful and caring. Clearly, they loved Jesus and obviously their hearts were broken. But you know what else their hearts were? Incredibly ignorant. And horribly stubborn. I hope you don’t think I’m being unfairly critical of them. I’m not. I’m not making any claim to have done any better if I was in their sandals. I wouldn’t have. It’s just that Luke wants us to see that those are the facts of the case. “The women took spices they had prepared to the tomb.” (v. 1) Now I suppose we could say, “They got their tired and emotionally exhausted selves out of bed at the crack of dawn just to anoint Jesus’ body. How nice! How kind! How thoughtful!” Except that’s not exactly what this was. It was actually pretty hard hearted stuff.

And it was. It was really, really wrong. I mean it’s not like Jesus hadn’t clued them in. It’s not like it hadn’t been his thing for three whole years with them. “I’m here to release captives,” he had preached. And then he had. He had driven out the demons. He had made the blind see. He had made that young man in Nain come back to life. He had done it all. And I’m just telling you about the ones that we’ve preached through recently here at Peace. And he had told them – he had told them – this is how it’s going to go down, “I’m going to be handed over. I’m going to be killed. I’m going to rise.” And it’s not like he hadn’t told them more than once. He had. Three times just in Luke. Three times! And, yet, not a word of it made it down to their hearts. So those women with all that data in their heads still roused themselves out of bed thinking they needed to go anoint the dead.

Nobody else in this history is any better either. Keep on reading and you find out really quick what an awful and hot mess everybody else in the story is. It’s incredibly disappointing. The Eleven hear the news from the women and they write them off quicker than we do Peter Pan and Captain Hook. Luke says, “Their words seemed to them like nonsense.” (v. 11) And just when you want to have some hope that Easter will dawn on somebody in the story Peter totally crushes our hopes. You watch him rush off to the tomb after the women report and you hope against hope, “Maybe Peter’ll believe. Maybe Peter’ll get it.” And you’re just crushed because Peter doesn’t get it either. He goes away from the tomb, “wondering to himself” (v. 12) It’s incredibly disappointing stuff. Because Luke would have us get his point. And, yes, it’s a massive diss on humanity. Our hearts can be so ignorant and remain so stubborn even about the most obvious of facts.

That ought to tell us something. Easter really isn’t a head issue. Easter’s not about getting the data into the brain. It never was. It never will be. It’s actually one of the more interesting facts about Easter that Easter actually is historical fact. Easter really isn’t a faith issue. Nobody even debates it anymore. Anybody who knows anything about real history knows that everybody accepts the physical resurrection of Jesus Christ as an actual event. I could cite you probably 10 brilliant and well-respected historians all in a row that will tell you all the exact same thing: the physical resurrection of Jesus Christ is the most well documented event in all of human history. You’ll probably have an easier time trying to prove that the American Revolution never happened or that the Holocaust was some kind of German hoax. Jesus Christ really did rise. Luke is pointing out that the hard part – the part that must be divine – is the part where that data migrates southward into the farthest reaches of our hearts.

That’s not just a simple theological point either. It’s a personal one. At least, that’s what I find. I know I’ve got a heart that wants to believe that dead people stay dead. I know I have a ridiculous gravitational pull in my spirit that screams, “You only live once.” I know it’s in me to think, “This is all there is.” I am to this today perfectly capable of mourning my wife even as she’s still perfectly healthy. I can stand here on Easter Day thinking about how I should dance with my daughter today ‘cause I might not be able to next week. And I know – I know – I’m not the only one with a heart that so strongly believes in death – like it’s where we’re all and only headed. I’ve been in the hospitals and I’ve heard people say, “Pastor, I’m not ready to die yet.” We hold on so tight here. So tight. We revel in this years Master’s and this moment’s retirement and this day’s health and this Easter’s joy because at the end of the day Easter hasn’t fully dawned on us. Our hearts tragically expect to anoint the dead that fall around us.

But the Lord Jesus Christ would have Easter dawn. He’d would have Easter’s data migrate southward to change the heart. And Luke would have you know how that happens. It takes angels. It takes messengers and it takes preaching. Luke would have you know that. It takes angels. It takes messengers and it takes preaching. That’s what finally what began to knock resurrection sense into the hearts of those women. Easter finally dawned on them. Easter data finally migrated south. Easter joy finally began to hit when those angels dropped sticks of dynamite down into the hearts of those women. What were those sticks of dynamite? The dynamite of remembering, “his words.” (v. 8) That’s what did it. That much is clear from Luke. It wasn’t the gleaming of the angels. That just scared them. It wasn’t the pilgrimage to the tomb. That just confused them. What flipped the light on – what brought the women the first rays of Easter dawn were Jesus’ remembered words. That’s what Luke wrote, “Then they remembered his words.” (v. 8) Then and only then did the the first rays of Easter dawn begin to break in on their hearts.

And that’s the Easter story Luke told. 2,000 years later I’m just starting to understand why. For today. For you. Luke wants you to know that Easter’s no cognitive switch that you flip. It’s a profound truth that the human heart learns to trust. To borrow Luke’s metaphor. It’s something that has to dawn in your heart. And perhaps Luke’s greatest and most practical lesson is how that happens. It’s preaching that lobs the stick of dynamite called the gospel into your soul. It’s preaching that happens Sunday by Sunday by Sunday that causes the deep dawn of Easter data to become the sure confidence of Easter noon. That’s the sheer power Jesus’ words have on the human heart. They take data and they make it faith. That’s why here in Luke 24 angels brings Jesus’ words to the women; why the women bring Jesus’ words to the apostles; why Jesus brings his own words, the Scriptures, to those guys on the road to Emmaus; and why the Apostles are then sent to preach Jesus’ words to everyone else. The Spirit wants us to understand that everyone needs an Easter messenger in their life.

You do realize something now, don’t you? The angels told the women. The women told the apostles. The apostles told the ancient world. The ancient world told the not so ancient world. And the not so ancient world told the modern world, which brings us in one long and unbroken Easter chain right up to today. Or to say it another way, those angels may be silent, but I’m not. And the women aren’t here, but you are. So it’s time to wake up and it’s time to celebrate what God’s up to in the here and the now. Today is Easter. Today is Easter. And do you know what God does on Easter? God creates life. Not just new life in Son, but new life in his people. He drops sticks of dynamite called the gospel into hearts that pushes the data south. And today I get to do that.

I want you to hear Jesus’ words again. Remember how he told you. Remember how he said it was all necessary. He would be handed into the hands of sinful men; he would be crucified. Remember that. That happened. Do you know what that means? It means he did it. He really did it. He made you right with God. He made you clean. He calls you forgiven. You’re so forgiven in him that God says he’s going to make you his bride all the way into eternity. His bride. That’s what you are to him. The one he bought with his own blood. The one whose hand he takes with his gospel. Oh, he longed for this moment when he could tell you that. For you. All the way from eternity, he had this necessary plan. I’m going to get my bride. I will have her. I will win her. And he did. That’s not just data. That’s truth.

Remember how he told you that after he bought his bride he’d rise. And he did. That’s not just an historical event. It’s the launch of a whole new era, a whole new epoch, a brand new age, a resurrection world that’s now dawned. You will not die. You will live and live and live and live. Your life will not stop. Revel in that truth. Because it is the truth. You won’t ever run out of time to spend with your believing wife. Ever. You will dance with your baptized daughter before the Lord forever. And the golf courses there? Ha! You will play on courses better than anything Augusta National could ever come up with. And the retirement there? The retirement? Don’t even get me started. Are you hearing me? No stroke can kill you. No heart attack can take you out. They can go ahead and try. That’s not just a data set. That’s truth dawning.

You know what the best part is? God’s just getting started. If your heart did a little leap at your forgiveness. If in your mind you started dancing with the angels in eternity and you reunited with your grandpa who first taught you the faith. If he lit you up like a firecracker and for the first time you started staring down your own death. If you began to revel just a little more in the sights and the sounds of your future with Jesus, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet. Your hope will only become more solid. Your heart will only strengthen. Your joy will only grow. Until they can’t anymore. And there will only be one reason that’s happened. Because you’ve reached the pinnacle. And Easter will no longer be a matter of what Jesus will do for you, but what he already has done for you. That Easter will dawn. For now, this one does – one where he wants Easter dawning in you more deeply, more widely, and more powerfully. Luke’s told you how God does that. He puts people into your life who message you with it Sunday by Sunday by Sunday. Today I got to be that guy. I’m praying I get to that guy next week too. Amen.

Luke 23:44–46 It was now about noon, and darkness came over the whole land until three in the afternoon, 45 for the sun stopped shining. And the curtain of the temple was torn in two. 46 Jesus called out with a loud voice, “Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.” When he had said this, he breathed his last.

They say that Jesus died of a broken heart. They say that that’s what explains the water and the blood that came out of his chest cavity when the soldier pierced his side with that spear. They say that that kind of blood flow could only come if his heart had been physically broken. That’s what they say. They perform their autopsy across the ages and they say, “Jesus died of a broken heart.” So they say.

They say other things too. They talk about how the nails because of their placement would’ve struck the nerve that travels up the arm, which, in turn, would’ve caused a 9.99 on Jesus’ pain scale. And this only after a night of beatings and a crown of thorns that had been jammed into the sensitive skin around his head, which imagery – let’s be honest –  not a few of us in here have seared in our minds because we watched Mel Gibson’s The Passion of the Christ. We can see the flayed skin and the bleeding brow. And we haven’t talked about why crucifixion was so ingeniously wicked, so incredibly evil; how the muscles around your chest cavity become paralyzed; how you can breathe in but you can’t breathe out; how the Romans bent the victim’s knees just enough so they could push down on those nails and sneak in a shallow breath; how you’d hang until your chest was in so much agony that the lesser pain was to do that; how you’d have to do that kind of suffering calculus as you hung there; and how you’d finally die of asphyxiation, but normally only after the soldiers had clubbed your legs so you couldn’t get your breath anymore. So they say.

But not Luke. Please understand what I’m saying. I’m not saying Luke doesn’t report any blood. He does, but the only blood he reports is the blood that leaked into Jesus’ sweat in the Garden of Gethsemane. I’m not saying Jesus wasn’t beaten. I’m simply saying that Luke has nothing to say about it beyond the fact that it happened. And I’m not saying Luke doesn’t report the crucifixion. I am, however, saying that in no way, shape, or form does Luke describe the crucifixion. Not the hammer strikes. Not the torn skin. Not the angony on his face or the blood running down his sides. None of it. And this is the Gospel of a doctor. Luke was a doctor. He was trained to notice physicality. He was used to spotting symptoms and trying to understand the processes of the body. But Luke has almost nothing to say about any of it. No observations of Jesus’ physical condition. No graphic descriptions of Jesus’ dying process. No diagnosis of what was happening to him. And no autopsy of what finally killed him.

You know what we do get? We get a graphic description of a dying sun. Seriously. That’s Luke’s first and big deal just before he reports Jesus’ death. He describes a dying sun. Or to be more accurate, he describes a dead sun. This wasn’t just a sun hiding behind some clouds or what happens on a foggy day. It wasn’t even a perfectly timed solar eclipse. It couldn’t have been. Because we know the moon was full. And, plus, it was noon. Luke very carefully tells us that. The sun was at its zenith –  the highest, hottest, and brightest time for the sun to be in the sky. It should’ve been so high that there were hardly any shadows and should’ve been frying everyone with its harsh UV rays. But for three hours it was dead. Three full hours. And just so we’re clear. This wasn’t the sun darkening. Or flickering. Or winking. This was the sun being just plain dead. Luke’s exact terminology for what happened is that the sun failed. It’s like somebody had flicked its switch off and, “the sun stopped shining.” (v. 45)

And not only did the sun die, the Temple did too. Quite violently I might add. “And the temple curtain was torn in two.” (v. 45) Not just a little rip. Not just a little snag. We’re talking torn in two from top to bottom. We’re talking no hope of repair. We’re talking about the Holiest Place of the Holiest places being ripped wide open. We’re talking about a place that only the High Priest could enter and that only once a year getting its gate thrown open like suddenly it’s an entrance to Disney World. And please understand what that means. We’re not just talking about the violence that was done to some nicely embroidered Temple curtain. We’re talking violence to a whole system of works and sacrifices associated with the Temple. Suddenly they were being torn from the people’s hands. Suddenly they were all made meaningless and empty, torn in two from top to bottom. Almost like their entire idea of how to approach God had to change. Like it wasn’t their behavior or their sacrifices or their works or anything about themselves at all. Like all of that was getting shredded – torn in two from top to bottom just like that curtain in the Temple.

That’s Luke’s only graphic presentation what died that day. That’s it. A dying sun and a dying Temple. In fact, the only glimpse he gives us of Jesus in the dying process is a Jesus who gets really loud about his inner peace. That’s it. It’s fascinating. All the writers of the first three gospels end up making that same exact point. Just before Jesus dies, they have Jesus getting loud. Really loud. And Luke does too. Luke has him shouting the most incredibly beautiful Psalm you’ll read just about anywhere. Not screaming in agony. Not being loud about his pain. Luke shows us a dying Jesus who’s shouting about his inner peace and his true trust. “Jesus called out in a loud voice, ‘Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.’” (v. 46) Jesus prayed a psalm. A beautiful Psalm. Psalm 31’s not psalm of lament or sadness. It’s one of trust. And of confidence. And even peace. Jesus was rejoicing and trusting and hoping in God’s salvation. Even as he was dying. And, “When he had said this, he breathed his last.” (v. 46)

And that’s our last glimpse of a living Jesus. For now… It’s miraculous really. A dead sun. A dead temple. And a trusting Jesus. That’s what Luke gives us. No graphic flogging. No gashed skin. No descriptions of a beaten up Jesus. Just a dead sun. A dead temple. And a trusting Jesus. It’s miraculous. Because it runs contrary to every expectation we might have. We might expect Luke to pound on us for repentance. To pound our eyes with the sight of blood and our ears with the cries of Jesus’ pain. We might expect him to overwhelm our senses with what no doubt was a violent, and a graphic, and a horror inducing death. And we might expect him to point the rightfully long finger of the law at us and stick it in our chests and say, “This is your fault. You did this. Your unbelief. Your lust. Your idolatry. Your pride. Your ignorance. You. You did this.” We might expect that. And more than just before it’s true. Because it’s what we want. We want him to stick it to us. We want him to let us have it with all the gory detail. Because that’s who we are. We’re addicts. We’re addicts to making our own way to God. We figure, “We may not be perfect. We may be sinful, but we can at least make ourselves pay – do a little penance – by making ourselves feel completely awful for what we did to Jesus.”

But Luke just won’t allow it. There’s nothing for us to latch onto to do that. He only gives us a dead sun, and a dead Temple, and a trusting Jesus. You know why? So we believe that through Jesus that old world (even its sun!) is over. The world of quid pro quo? Torn in two. The world of give yourself to God and then he’ll give himself to you? Dead. The world where you if you’re transformed and revitalized enough you can make God happy? It’s gone. Finished. Caput. Not even the most powerful and most obvious ambassador of that world order, the sun, can function anymore. Not even the Temple with its curtain and its sacrifices will do any good anymore. They’re over. They’re done. Because now there’s Jesus. And now there’s the light he brings. And now there’s the sacrifice he makes. And now there’s the eternal benefits he promises. There’s no Luke here dishing out some guilt trip, “Look at what you did to him.” There’s only a divine and Spirit-led Luke who’s saying, “Look at what he did for you. He brought you to God.” Search long and hard, but you’ll never find a Luke here who says anything like, “It’s so, so tragic. You sure did kill him good.” The only Luke you’ll find is one who says, “It’s so, so incredible. The old way of making God happy is dead. Jesus did everything for you. Trust it.”

And that’s it. Luke doesn’t want to turn us all into triage nurses who understand the graphic extent of Jesus’ wounds or sear into our souls what it all exactly looked like. Luke wants to turn us all into believers. He wants to sear onto our souls the truth. That old world where your sins get you down, turn your body to ash, and condemn you? It’s dead. It’s as dead and as failed as its brightest and most perfect star, the sun, was on that ancient day. Because Jesus was condemned instead you. And that old way of doing things where you’re good and if you’re not you make up for it with sacrifices and revivals and trying hard in your life? It’s over. It’s been torn in two from top to bottom. Because now there’s forgiveness in Christ – that’s the new way to God that’s been opened up wider than an entrance to Disney World. That’s what Luke wants. He wants you to receive the gospel.

They say that Jesus died of a broken heart and they may very well be right. But that’s not Good Friday’s great truth. Not according to Luke. You know what is? It’s not what sin did to Jesus. It’s what Jesus did to sin. He forgave it forever. And he brought people to God. And Luke wants you to know, he did that for you. Amen.

Luke 23:44–46 It was now about noon, and darkness came over the whole land until three in the afternoon, 45 for the sun stopped shining. And the curtain of the temple was torn in two. 46 Jesus called out with a loud voice, “Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.” When he had said this, he breathed his last.

They say that Jesus died of a broken heart. They say that that’s what explains the water and the blood that came out of his chest cavity when the soldier pierced his side with that spear. They say that that kind of blood flow could only come if his heart had been physically broken. That’s what they say. They perform their autopsy across the ages and they say, “Jesus died of a broken heart.” So they say.

They say other things too. They talk about how the nails because of their placement would’ve struck the nerve that travels up the arm, which, in turn, would’ve caused a 9.99 on Jesus’ pain scale. And this only after a night of beatings and a crown of thorns that had been jammed into the sensitive skin around his head, which imagery – let’s be honest –  not a few of us in here have seared in our minds because we watched Mel Gibson’s The Passion of the Christ. We can see the flayed skin and the bleeding brow. And we haven’t talked about why crucifixion was so ingeniously wicked, so incredibly evil; how the muscles around your chest cavity become paralyzed; how you can breathe in but you can’t breathe out; how the Romans bent the victim’s knees just enough so they could push down on those nails and sneak in a shallow breath; how you’d hang until your chest was in so much agony that the lesser pain was to do that; how you’d have to do that kind of suffering calculus as you hung there; and how you’d finally die of asphyxiation, but normally only after the soldiers had clubbed your legs so you couldn’t get your breath anymore. So they say.

But not Luke. Please understand what I’m saying. I’m not saying Luke doesn’t report any blood. He does, but the only blood he reports is the blood that leaked into Jesus’ sweat in the Garden of Gethsemane. I’m not saying Jesus wasn’t beaten. I’m simply saying that Luke has nothing to say about it beyond the fact that it happened. And I’m not saying Luke doesn’t report the crucifixion. I am, however, saying that in no way, shape, or form does Luke describe the crucifixion. Not the hammer strikes. Not the torn skin. Not the angony on his face or the blood running down his sides. None of it. And this is the Gospel of a doctor. Luke was a doctor. He was trained to notice physicality. He was used to spotting symptoms and trying to understand the processes of the body. But Luke has almost nothing to say about any of it. No observations of Jesus’ physical condition. No graphic descriptions of Jesus’ dying process. No diagnosis of what was happening to him. And no autopsy of what finally killed him.

You know what we do get? We get a graphic description of a dying sun. Seriously. That’s Luke’s first and big deal just before he reports Jesus’ death. He describes a dying sun. Or to be more accurate, he describes a dead sun. This wasn’t just a sun hiding behind some clouds or what happens on a foggy day. It wasn’t even a perfectly timed solar eclipse. It couldn’t have been. Because we know the moon was full. And, plus, it was noon. Luke very carefully tells us that. The sun was at its zenith –  the highest, hottest, and brightest time for the sun to be in the sky. It should’ve been so high that there were hardly any shadows and should’ve been frying everyone with its harsh UV rays. But for three hours it was dead. Three full hours. And just so we’re clear. This wasn’t the sun darkening. Or flickering. Or winking. This was the sun being just plain dead. Luke’s exact terminology for what happened is that the sun failed. It’s like somebody had flicked its switch off and, “the sun stopped shining.” (v. 45)

And not only did the sun die, the Temple did too. Quite violently I might add. “And the temple curtain was torn in two.” (v. 45) Not just a little rip. Not just a little snag. We’re talking torn in two from top to bottom. We’re talking no hope of repair. We’re talking about the Holiest Place of the Holiest places being ripped wide open. We’re talking about a place that only the High Priest could enter and that only once a year getting its gate thrown open like suddenly it’s an entrance to Disney World. And please understand what that means. We’re not just talking about the violence that was done to some nicely embroidered Temple curtain. We’re talking violence to a whole system of works and sacrifices associated with the Temple. Suddenly they were being torn from the people’s hands. Suddenly they were all made meaningless and empty, torn in two from top to bottom. Almost like their entire idea of how to approach God had to change. Like it wasn’t their behavior or their sacrifices or their works or anything about themselves at all. Like all of that was getting shredded – torn in two from top to bottom just like that curtain in the Temple.

That’s Luke’s only graphic presentation what died that day. That’s it. A dying sun and a dying Temple. In fact, the only glimpse he gives us of Jesus in the dying process is a Jesus who gets really loud about his inner peace. That’s it. It’s fascinating. All the writers of the first three gospels end up making that same exact point. Just before Jesus dies, they have Jesus getting loud. Really loud. And Luke does too. Luke has him shouting the most incredibly beautiful Psalm you’ll read just about anywhere. Not screaming in agony. Not being loud about his pain. Luke shows us a dying Jesus who’s shouting about his inner peace and his true trust. “Jesus called out in a loud voice, ‘Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.’” (v. 46) Jesus prayed a psalm. A beautiful Psalm. Psalm 31’s not psalm of lament or sadness. It’s one of trust. And of confidence. And even peace. Jesus was rejoicing and trusting and hoping in God’s salvation. Even as he was dying. And, “When he had said this, he breathed his last.” (v. 46)

And that’s our last glimpse of a living Jesus. For now… It’s miraculous really. A dead sun. A dead temple. And a trusting Jesus. That’s what Luke gives us. No graphic flogging. No gashed skin. No descriptions of a beaten up Jesus. Just a dead sun. A dead temple. And a trusting Jesus. It’s miraculous. Because it runs contrary to every expectation we might have. We might expect Luke to pound on us for repentance. To pound our eyes with the sight of blood and our ears with the cries of Jesus’ pain. We might expect him to overwhelm our senses with what no doubt was a violent, and a graphic, and a horror inducing death. And we might expect him to point the rightfully long finger of the law at us and stick it in our chests and say, “This is your fault. You did this. Your unbelief. Your lust. Your idolatry. Your pride. Your ignorance. You. You did this.” We might expect that. And more than just before it’s true. Because it’s what we want. We want him to stick it to us. We want him to let us have it with all the gory detail. Because that’s who we are. We’re addicts. We’re addicts to making our own way to God. We figure, “We may not be perfect. We may be sinful, but we can at least make ourselves pay – do a little penance – by making ourselves feel completely awful for what we did to Jesus.”

But Luke just won’t allow it. There’s nothing for us to latch onto to do that. He only gives us a dead sun, and a dead Temple, and a trusting Jesus. You know why? So we believe that through Jesus that old world (even its sun!) is over. The world of quid pro quo? Torn in two. The world of give yourself to God and then he’ll give himself to you? Dead. The world where you if you’re transformed and revitalized enough you can make God happy? It’s gone. Finished. Caput. Not even the most powerful and most obvious ambassador of that world order, the sun, can function anymore. Not even the Temple with its curtain and its sacrifices will do any good anymore. They’re over. They’re done. Because now there’s Jesus. And now there’s the light he brings. And now there’s the sacrifice he makes. And now there’s the eternal benefits he promises. There’s no Luke here dishing out some guilt trip, “Look at what you did to him.” There’s only a divine and Spirit-led Luke who’s saying, “Look at what he did for you. He brought you to God.” Search long and hard, but you’ll never find a Luke here who says anything like, “It’s so, so tragic. You sure did kill him good.” The only Luke you’ll find is one who says, “It’s so, so incredible. The old way of making God happy is dead. Jesus did everything for you. Trust it.”

And that’s it. Luke doesn’t want to turn us all into triage nurses who understand the graphic extent of Jesus’ wounds or sear into our souls what it all exactly looked like. Luke wants to turn us all into believers. He wants to sear onto our souls the truth. That old world where your sins get you down, turn your body to ash, and condemn you? It’s dead. It’s as dead and as failed as its brightest and most perfect star, the sun, was on that ancient day. Because Jesus was condemned instead you. And that old way of doing things where you’re good and if you’re not you make up for it with sacrifices and revivals and trying hard in your life? It’s over. It’s been torn in two from top to bottom. Because now there’s forgiveness in Christ – that’s the new way to God that’s been opened up wider than an entrance to Disney World. That’s what Luke wants. He wants you to receive the gospel.

They say that Jesus died of a broken heart and they may very well be right. But that’s not Good Friday’s great truth. Not according to Luke. You know what is? It’s not what sin did to Jesus. It’s what Jesus did to sin. He forgave it forever. And he brought people to God. And Luke wants you to know, he did that for you. Amen.

Psalm 24 The earth is the Lord’s, and everything in it, the world, and all who live in it; 2 for he founded it on the seas and established it on the waters. 3 Who may ascend the mountain of the Lord? Who may stand in his holy place? 4 The one who has clean hands and a pure heart, who does not trust in an idol or swear by a false god. 5 They will receive blessing from the Lord and vindication from God their Savior. 6 Such is the generation of those who seek him, who seek your face, God of Jacob. 7 Lift up your heads, you gates; be lifted up, you ancient doors, that the King of glory may come in. 8 Who is this King of glory? The Lord strong and mighty, the Lord mighty in battle. 9 Lift up your heads, you gates; lift them up, you ancient doors, that the King of glory may come in. 10 Who is he, this King of glory? The Lord Almighty— he is the King of glory.

Their voices were so joyful. Their song was so sincere and their praise so beautiful. And the whole thing made Jesus cry for all the wrong reasons. Actually Luke’s a bit stronger about it than that. He says that the people’s joy, the people’s song, and the people’s actions on Palm Sunday rocked Jesus to his core in the worst of ways. Luke very memorably says that, “He wept.” (Luke 19:41) And, no, it wasn’t because Jesus liked music so much and somebody in the choir had accidentally hit a sour note. In fact, Jesus was so uninterested in the pitch and tone of the number that he said he’d even allow stones into the choir if he had to. You know what devastated him so badly? It wasn’t a sour musical note that was in the song. It was a sour theological one. It was the twisting of truth that made Jesus so sad that when they sang it he broke down over it. He broke down even as the people around him joyed. You know what line they sang on that Palm Sunday that really got to Jesus? “Peace in heaven and glory in the highest!” (Luke 19:38)

Now you may say, “Well that sounds fine. What’s so wrong with that?” But did you see what the choir did? You remember the song that the angels sang at Jesus’ birth? “Glory to God in the highest and on earth peace.” (Luke 2:14) Do you see the difference? The heavenly choir sang about peace on earth, but the earthly Palm Sunday choir? It sang about peace in heaven. That was the twisting of truth that rocked Jesus to his core and the idea that stuck sadness deep down in his soul. And please understand this wasn’t Jesus being upset that heavenly copyright law was broken or that plagiarism had been committed. It was quite simply that the Palm Sunday choir had everything 180 degrees wrong in their hearts. They really thought the angels were all wet. That God was the one who had needed to get his act together. That God was now at peace with finally doing what he was supposed to be doing all along: saving them from all the nasty pagans around them. That’s the idea that bugged Jesus. They had no idea what he was doing there. So he wept and he said, “If you, even you, had known on this day what would bring you peace – but now it is hidden from your eyes.” (Luke 19:42)

I think it would’ve made David just as sad. You know why I think that? Because David’s big problem in this psalm is not problem God’s having up in heaven. David’s big problem in this psalm is the problem we’ve got here on earth. And that’s just where David wants us. Here. On earth. Literally. To deal with our problem here. And, no, David’s not talking about an ecological, environmental, or political problem. He’s talking about a spiritual one. In fact, this spiritual problem is all he can really think about. In the Hebrew he goes after it with a head shot. All in one powerful and heavy hitting word he leads off the psalm saying, לַֽ֭יהוָה, “The Lord’s.” (v. 1) It’s the sort of opening that leaves you wondering for a millisecond what kind of possession and lordship he’s about to talk about, but just for a millisecond. Because just a millisecond later David makes the most comprehensive and complete property claim you’ll ever hear. “The Lord’s – the earth and everything in it.” (v. 24) Not just the land. Not just the waters. Everything. And just in case we try to get a little legal – a little lawyerly – and we say, “Well, Lord, you deeded at least the inhabited parts to us, right? And you made us free beings, we can do what we want, right?” David comes back and says, “Actually no. When I said the earth is the Lord’s and everything in it I meant it.”

And, yes, he does have standing to that legal claim. “For he founded it on the seas and established it on the waters.” (v. 2) He really did. It’s hard to fathom it. Impossible really. I can quote facts at you about it. I can tell you that 70% of the planet is covered in water. I can tell you that there is something like 326,000,000,000,000,000,000 gallons of h2o on our planet. (That’s 326 million trillion gallons!) I can tell you stuff like that, but I’m not sure that’s going to make the impact that it should. I think getting caught in a nasty ocean riptide might do it though. Or getting crushed in a submarine at some ridiculously profound ocean depth. Or maybe staring out over the Atlantic as hurricane force winds pummel the shore and threaten to – putting it mildly – give you a little wind burn. My point is that David wants to get us way past the heady statistics. David wants us to fully sense the transcendence and holiness of the Lord – the power and the magnificence of him who corralled every hydraulic power, made all 326 million trillion gallons of water do his bidding, and now lays rightful claim to everything he has made.

And, the fact, that we are the possession of that holy and transcendent Lord and we walk on his planet? David thinks that maybe just maybe we should ponder that for a second. That’s David’s big next point and why he’s pounds us with questions. “Who may ascend the mountain of the Lord? Who may stand in his holy place?” (v. 3) So what are the answers to those questions? Really. What are they? Who can ascend to the Lord? Who should? Who may stand in his holy place? What are the answers? Before you attempt them, I should probably point out that those questions really aren’t God’s way of asking our opinion about who he can or should be buddies with. He’s also not asking us to help him formulate different clearance levels or to help him develop criteria for who should get to ascend to him. In fact, it seems that if we’re people who’ve gotten this far in the psalm that we should have the answers to those questions. The psalm says that you have the right credentials if you’re somebody whose his business and his life has always been completely, לַֽ֭יהוָה, the Lord’s. Because then you have clean hands. You get clearance to ascend to him if you’re a person whose soul has always been perfectly in pursuit of this world creating, hydraulic controlling Lord. Because then your heart is pure.

Like I said, the questions don’t hang there so that by committee we can decide what the criteria should be for a pass up the mountain or so that by teamwork we can decide who gets clearance to God. These questions are here for far more personal reasons. David wants us to ask ourselves, “Am I someone who can ascend to the Lord? Do I have the right credentials? Do I meet the criteria? Can I get clearance?” Or to put it another way, they’re there so we ask, “Do I belong up on the same hill as the God who is so powerful that for him building the Hoover Dam is like playing Legos. Should I be in the same place as the Lord who commands hurricanes to shut down?” Or, to put it plainly, is your spiritual ego big enough to claim that? Do you make the claim that you’ve woken up with joy every morning of your life and proclaimed to yourself, “I can’t wait to read the Word, say my prayers, and live for Lord?” Would you really say that you’ve never pursued your kids or your career or your lust more than your Lord? Would you really say that your heart has never contained a thought that wouldn’t make your grandma turn over in her grave and your mouth has never spoken a word that your mother would take soap to. That’s what I’m asking. Is your spiritual ego that big?

It’s either that or you have to believe you’re eternal toast. Seriously, you have one of those two options. You have to believe you are so unfathomably good that you can waltz your way right on and up to the Lord of heaven and earth. Or you have to believe your eternal toast. At least, that’s the way it would seem. And I think David knows that. And I think that’s why you can sense in this psalm how much awe when the Spirit showed him a third option. He had so much awe that there was a third option that his faith came out of him in the form of a question, “Who is this King of glory?” (v. 8) Who is this one who bridges the gap for me between heaven and earth? Who is this one who is so glorious that he changed for me my eternal math and gave me a third option? Now I don’t have to ask whether or not I’m so unfathomably good that I can waltz my way right on and up to the Lord of heaven and earth. Now I have to ask who it is that is so unfathomably good that he waltzed his way right on down here to me; who it is who is so kingly and glorious that he left heaven to give me this third option. I can believe in the King. I can believe he came from heaven. I can believe he’s here on earth. And I can believe this King fights so I won’t be eternal toast.

And let me tell you, or better yet, let David tell you how this King fights. I’m telling you. Nothing’s been seen like it before in world history. And nothing will be seen like it again. Nothing.  Who is this King? “The Lord strong and mighty, the Lord mighty in battle.” (v. 8) That’s who rode in on Palm Sunday. Nothing less than the Lord in possession of heaven and earth, the Maker of this all. And it had to be him. The Lord so strong that he owns the world and corrals its waves. The Lord so mighty and transcendent and magnificent that everything is properly deeded to him. It had to be him. Because if it was him – if it was him - he would mighty enough and big enough to redeem an earth full of people like us for himself. If he would bleed in a battle for our unclean hands, he would be mighty enough to wash them clean. If he would die in a war for our impure hearts, he would be strong enough to declare ours pure. It had to be him. And so he did it. On Palm Sunday he ascended the hill for us to give us clean hands and a pure heart. Once there he climbed a cross. And there he fought. By not fighting. There he battled. By not battling. He let our unclean hands tack his to the cross. He let our impure hearts take his life.

And when you get that, I mean really get that, then and only then can you get the rest of the psalm. Because maybe you notice David got pretty obsessed toward the end. It’s really pretty crazy stuff. There’s a gate. And then there’s an ancient door. Then there’s another gate and then another ancient door. There there are commands. They come like a drill sergeant from David. Lift up. Be lifted up. Lift up. Lift up. Command. Command. Command. Command. Four times in four verses. And probably our best clue to what’s going on is that as David the drill sergeant issues the commands he calls these doors, “doors of forever.” (v. 7) I think that’s our best clue in figuring out what David’s getting at. I know the translation says, “ancient doors,” but literally the Hebrew word here refers to doors that have immortality. Now I’m not that old, but I’m old enough that no doors here last forever. They decay. They rot. They give out. They get busted in. I know of no doors here that have immortality, but I do know of immortal doors. They’re off on some high holy place. They’re off in the Most Holy Place – with the Lord in eternity. They’re the gates of the Lord’s heaven.

Do you see what David’s after? David wants you to see what Jesus was up to on Palm Sunday. Jesus was busting open the immortal doors of heaven for you. They must part before you like the Red Sea parted for Moses. They must come down for you just like the walls did around Jericho for Joshua. Be lifted up, you ancient doors. Get gaping wide you, you gates. And you have to understand something. They will. They have to. They don’t have a choice. The Lord of glory – the one who owns it all, the one with a hugeness and a magnificence and a power that transcends everything we know here – poured himself out on us in the form of grace. And do you know what that means? Those questions David has us thinking about… who may ascend the mountain of the Lord? Who may stand in his holy place? You may. Because you have the right celestial credentials. And you meet the heavenly criteria. You have hands cleaned with the blood of Jesus. You have a heart made pure by the Lord who owns it all. You may. That’s what David was so excited about. So excited that he stood there barking orders at those gates. Lift up. Be lifted up. Lift up. Lift up. And they will. They have to. Because the Lord of glory, Jesus Christ, rides for you.

And, for the record, that future is what the angels were so excited about on Christmas Eve. They believed in Palm Sunday too. It’s why they sang what they sang in their gorgeous song that still makes hearts glow today, “Glory to God in the highest and on earth peace.” (Luke 2:14) And now the day they had been waiting for had come. Because here he was riding. Here he was climbing the hill. Here he was heading to the holy place ahead of us. Here he was kicking off Holy Week. It’s time for us to kick ours off too. There’s only one proper way. See the King of glory kick in heaven’s gates for you. See the Mighty Warrior make those celestial doors gape wide open before you. That’s what Palm Sunday’s about. It’s the day the Mighty Warrior started his big move. The day that heaven began to do what heaven had come to earth to do. To give you clean hands and a pure heart. So that you could ascend to spend eternity with the Lord who corrals the waters and owns the earth. What do you say to that? How about this? Let’s put a smile on Jesus’ face today. Let’s get the Palm Sunday song right.  Glory to God in the highest and on earth peace. Amen.

Psalm 24 The earth is the Lord’s, and everything in it, the world, and all who live in it; 2 for he founded it on the seas and established it on the waters. 3 Who may ascend the mountain of the Lord? Who may stand in his holy place? 4 The one who has clean hands and a pure heart, who does not trust in an idol or swear by a false god. 5 They will receive blessing from the Lord and vindication from God their Savior. 6 Such is the generation of those who seek him, who seek your face, God of Jacob. 7 Lift up your heads, you gates; be lifted up, you ancient doors, that the King of glory may come in. 8 Who is this King of glory? The Lord strong and mighty, the Lord mighty in battle. 9 Lift up your heads, you gates; lift them up, you ancient doors, that the King of glory may come in. 10 Who is he, this King of glory? The Lord Almighty— he is the King of glory.

Their voices were so joyful. Their song was so sincere and their praise so beautiful. And the whole thing made Jesus cry for all the wrong reasons. Actually Luke’s a bit stronger about it than that. He says that the people’s joy, the people’s song, and the people’s actions on Palm Sunday rocked Jesus to his core in the worst of ways. Luke very memorably says that, “He wept.” (Luke 19:41) And, no, it wasn’t because Jesus liked music so much and somebody in the choir had accidentally hit a sour note. In fact, Jesus was so uninterested in the pitch and tone of the number that he said he’d even allow stones into the choir if he had to. You know what devastated him so badly? It wasn’t a sour musical note that was in the song. It was a sour theological one. It was the twisting of truth that made Jesus so sad that when they sang it he broke down over it. He broke down even as the people around him joyed. You know what line they sang on that Palm Sunday that really got to Jesus? “Peace in heaven and glory in the highest!” (Luke 19:38)

Now you may say, “Well that sounds fine. What’s so wrong with that?” But did you see what the choir did? You remember the song that the angels sang at Jesus’ birth? “Glory to God in the highest and on earth peace.” (Luke 2:14) Do you see the difference? The heavenly choir sang about peace on earth, but the earthly Palm Sunday choir? It sang about peace in heaven. That was the twisting of truth that rocked Jesus to his core and the idea that stuck sadness deep down in his soul. And please understand this wasn’t Jesus being upset that heavenly copyright law was broken or that plagiarism had been committed. It was quite simply that the Palm Sunday choir had everything 180 degrees wrong in their hearts. They really thought the angels were all wet. That God was the one who had needed to get his act together. That God was now at peace with finally doing what he was supposed to be doing all along: saving them from all the nasty pagans around them. That’s the idea that bugged Jesus. They had no idea what he was doing there. So he wept and he said, “If you, even you, had known on this day what would bring you peace – but now it is hidden from your eyes.” (Luke 19:42)

I think it would’ve made David just as sad. You know why I think that? Because David’s big problem in this psalm is not problem God’s having up in heaven. David’s big problem in this psalm is the problem we’ve got here on earth. And that’s just where David wants us. Here. On earth. Literally. To deal with our problem here. And, no, David’s not talking about an ecological, environmental, or political problem. He’s talking about a spiritual one. In fact, this spiritual problem is all he can really think about. In the Hebrew he goes after it with a head shot. All in one powerful and heavy hitting word he leads off the psalm saying, לַֽ֭יהוָה, “The Lord’s.” (v. 1) It’s the sort of opening that leaves you wondering for a millisecond what kind of possession and lordship he’s about to talk about, but just for a millisecond. Because just a millisecond later David makes the most comprehensive and complete property claim you’ll ever hear. “The Lord’s – the earth and everything in it.” (v. 24) Not just the land. Not just the waters. Everything. And just in case we try to get a little legal – a little lawyerly – and we say, “Well, Lord, you deeded at least the inhabited parts to us, right? And you made us free beings, we can do what we want, right?” David comes back and says, “Actually no. When I said the earth is the Lord’s and everything in it I meant it.”

And, yes, he does have standing to that legal claim. “For he founded it on the seas and established it on the waters.” (v. 2) He really did. It’s hard to fathom it. Impossible really. I can quote facts at you about it. I can tell you that 70% of the planet is covered in water. I can tell you that there is something like 326,000,000,000,000,000,000 gallons of h2o on our planet. (That’s 326 million trillion gallons!) I can tell you stuff like that, but I’m not sure that’s going to make the impact that it should. I think getting caught in a nasty ocean riptide might do it though. Or getting crushed in a submarine at some ridiculously profound ocean depth. Or maybe staring out over the Atlantic as hurricane force winds pummel the shore and threaten to – putting it mildly – give you a little wind burn. My point is that David wants to get us way past the heady statistics. David wants us to fully sense the transcendence and holiness of the Lord – the power and the magnificence of him who corralled every hydraulic power, made all 326 million trillion gallons of water do his bidding, and now lays rightful claim to everything he has made.

And, the fact, that we are the possession of that holy and transcendent Lord and we walk on his planet? David thinks that maybe just maybe we should ponder that for a second. That’s David’s big next point and why he’s pounds us with questions. “Who may ascend the mountain of the Lord? Who may stand in his holy place?” (v. 3) So what are the answers to those questions? Really. What are they? Who can ascend to the Lord? Who should? Who may stand in his holy place? What are the answers? Before you attempt them, I should probably point out that those questions really aren’t God’s way of asking our opinion about who he can or should be buddies with. He’s also not asking us to help him formulate different clearance levels or to help him develop criteria for who should get to ascend to him. In fact, it seems that if we’re people who’ve gotten this far in the psalm that we should have the answers to those questions. The psalm says that you have the right credentials if you’re somebody whose his business and his life has always been completely, לַֽ֭יהוָה, the Lord’s. Because then you have clean hands. You get clearance to ascend to him if you’re a person whose soul has always been perfectly in pursuit of this world creating, hydraulic controlling Lord. Because then your heart is pure.

Like I said, the questions don’t hang there so that by committee we can decide what the criteria should be for a pass up the mountain or so that by teamwork we can decide who gets clearance to God. These questions are here for far more personal reasons. David wants us to ask ourselves, “Am I someone who can ascend to the Lord? Do I have the right credentials? Do I meet the criteria? Can I get clearance?” Or to put it another way, they’re there so we ask, “Do I belong up on the same hill as the God who is so powerful that for him building the Hoover Dam is like playing Legos. Should I be in the same place as the Lord who commands hurricanes to shut down?” Or, to put it plainly, is your spiritual ego big enough to claim that? Do you make the claim that you’ve woken up with joy every morning of your life and proclaimed to yourself, “I can’t wait to read the Word, say my prayers, and live for Lord?” Would you really say that you’ve never pursued your kids or your career or your lust more than your Lord? Would you really say that your heart has never contained a thought that wouldn’t make your grandma turn over in her grave and your mouth has never spoken a word that your mother would take soap to. That’s what I’m asking. Is your spiritual ego that big?

It’s either that or you have to believe you’re eternal toast. Seriously, you have one of those two options. You have to believe you are so unfathomably good that you can waltz your way right on and up to the Lord of heaven and earth. Or you have to believe your eternal toast. At least, that’s the way it would seem. And I think David knows that. And I think that’s why you can sense in this psalm how much awe when the Spirit showed him a third option. He had so much awe that there was a third option that his faith came out of him in the form of a question, “Who is this King of glory?” (v. 8) Who is this one who bridges the gap for me between heaven and earth? Who is this one who is so glorious that he changed for me my eternal math and gave me a third option? Now I don’t have to ask whether or not I’m so unfathomably good that I can waltz my way right on and up to the Lord of heaven and earth. Now I have to ask who it is that is so unfathomably good that he waltzed his way right on down here to me; who it is who is so kingly and glorious that he left heaven to give me this third option. I can believe in the King. I can believe he came from heaven. I can believe he’s here on earth. And I can believe this King fights so I won’t be eternal toast.

And let me tell you, or better yet, let David tell you how this King fights. I’m telling you. Nothing’s been seen like it before in world history. And nothing will be seen like it again. Nothing.  Who is this King? “The Lord strong and mighty, the Lord mighty in battle.” (v. 8) That’s who rode in on Palm Sunday. Nothing less than the Lord in possession of heaven and earth, the Maker of this all. And it had to be him. The Lord so strong that he owns the world and corrals its waves. The Lord so mighty and transcendent and magnificent that everything is properly deeded to him. It had to be him. Because if it was him – if it was him - he would mighty enough and big enough to redeem an earth full of people like us for himself. If he would bleed in a battle for our unclean hands, he would be mighty enough to wash them clean. If he would die in a war for our impure hearts, he would be strong enough to declare ours pure. It had to be him. And so he did it. On Palm Sunday he ascended the hill for us to give us clean hands and a pure heart. Once there he climbed a cross. And there he fought. By not fighting. There he battled. By not battling. He let our unclean hands tack his to the cross. He let our impure hearts take his life.

And when you get that, I mean really get that, then and only then can you get the rest of the psalm. Because maybe you notice David got pretty obsessed toward the end. It’s really pretty crazy stuff. There’s a gate. And then there’s an ancient door. Then there’s another gate and then another ancient door. There there are commands. They come like a drill sergeant from David. Lift up. Be lifted up. Lift up. Lift up. Command. Command. Command. Command. Four times in four verses. And probably our best clue to what’s going on is that as David the drill sergeant issues the commands he calls these doors, “doors of forever.” (v. 7) I think that’s our best clue in figuring out what David’s getting at. I know the translation says, “ancient doors,” but literally the Hebrew word here refers to doors that have immortality. Now I’m not that old, but I’m old enough that no doors here last forever. They decay. They rot. They give out. They get busted in. I know of no doors here that have immortality, but I do know of immortal doors. They’re off on some high holy place. They’re off in the Most Holy Place – with the Lord in eternity. They’re the gates of the Lord’s heaven.

Do you see what David’s after? David wants you to see what Jesus was up to on Palm Sunday. Jesus was busting open the immortal doors of heaven for you. They must part before you like the Red Sea parted for Moses. They must come down for you just like the walls did around Jericho for Joshua. Be lifted up, you ancient doors. Get gaping wide you, you gates. And you have to understand something. They will. They have to. They don’t have a choice. The Lord of glory – the one who owns it all, the one with a hugeness and a magnificence and a power that transcends everything we know here – poured himself out on us in the form of grace. And do you know what that means? Those questions David has us thinking about… who may ascend the mountain of the Lord? Who may stand in his holy place? You may. Because you have the right celestial credentials. And you meet the heavenly criteria. You have hands cleaned with the blood of Jesus. You have a heart made pure by the Lord who owns it all. You may. That’s what David was so excited about. So excited that he stood there barking orders at those gates. Lift up. Be lifted up. Lift up. Lift up. And they will. They have to. Because the Lord of glory, Jesus Christ, rides for you.

And, for the record, that future is what the angels were so excited about on Christmas Eve. They believed in Palm Sunday too. It’s why they sang what they sang in their gorgeous song that still makes hearts glow today, “Glory to God in the highest and on earth peace.” (Luke 2:14) And now the day they had been waiting for had come. Because here he was riding. Here he was climbing the hill. Here he was heading to the holy place ahead of us. Here he was kicking off Holy Week. It’s time for us to kick ours off too. There’s only one proper way. See the King of glory kick in heaven’s gates for you. See the Mighty Warrior make those celestial doors gape wide open before you. That’s what Palm Sunday’s about. It’s the day the Mighty Warrior started his big move. The day that heaven began to do what heaven had come to earth to do. To give you clean hands and a pure heart. So that you could ascend to spend eternity with the Lord who corrals the waters and owns the earth. What do you say to that? How about this? Let’s put a smile on Jesus’ face today. Let’s get the Palm Sunday song right.  Glory to God in the highest and on earth peace. Amen.

Psalm 73 Surely God is good to Israel, to those who are pure in heart.2 But as for me, my feet had almost slipped; I had nearly lost my foothold. 3 For I envied the arrogant when I saw the prosperity of the wicked. 11 They say, “How would God know? Does the Most High know anything?” 12 This is what the wicked are like— always free of care, they go on amassing wealth. 13 Surely in vain I have kept my heart pure and have washed my hands in innocence. 14 All day long I have been afflicted, and every morning brings new punishments. 15 If I had spoken out like that, I would have betrayed your children. 16 When I tried to understand all this, it troubled me deeply 17 till I entered the sanctuary of God; then I understood their final destiny. 18 Surely you place them on slippery ground; you cast them down to ruin. 19 How suddenly are they destroyed, completely swept away by terrors! 20 They are like a dream when one awakes; when you arise, Lord, you will despise them as fantasies. 21 When my heart was grieved and my spirit embittered, 22 I was senseless and ignorant; I was a brute beast before you. 23 Yet I am always with you; you hold me by my right hand. 24 You guide me with your counsel, and afterward you will take me into glory. 25 Whom have I in heaven but you? And earth has nothing I desire besides you. 26 My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever. 27 Those who are far from you will perish; you destroy all who are unfaithful to you. 28 But as for me, it is good to be near God. I have made the Sovereign Lord my refuge; I will tell of all your deeds.

There are so many problems with this psalm that I honestly don’t know where to start. There’s the fact that Asaph, the leading professional musician of that time, has people singing in church, “There was a time in my life when I wasn’t so sure about this God stuff.” Then there’s the fact that Asaph says that if he would’ve muttered out loud his devilish doubts that they were so toxic that the next generation, the kids, would have been betrayed. Except that he had already gone ahead and done just that in this psalm. But probably the biggest problem of all is that he writes and sings for the church, a place that’s supposed to be the house of truth. And what he writes contains blatant and clear un-truths. And that’s putting it charitably. Which –  you’d think – would leave us with a psalm that is full of spiritual holes and troubling. Except that it’s not. It’s gorgeous. And by the end of its journey has made our own journey with God perfectly understandable.

Because sometimes the way we experience the world really does leave us with some pretty significant insecurities and with some downright devilish doubts. You know what I’m talking about? You try to convince yourself, “Surely God is good to Israel, to those who are pure in heart,” (v. 1) –  like Asaph did – but at the end of the day you’re not sure you totally buy it. You want to believe that God is the good to his people. But then you notice that one of them is a maid in that multi-million-dollar house. Not the owner of it. And her employer? Well –  let’s just say he’s a less than savory kind of guy who treats his employees like garbage. You want to trust that God is doing his thing for his people and then you notice that one of his own is pounding out that long shift on the factory floor. He’s not the owner of the business. And the owner? He’s so cutthroat you wonder if he’s really even human. And then you spot one of God’s kids driving that limo. She’s not the one in a nice dress sipping Chardonnay in the back. And then. And then? You notice that it’s not just God’s people in general to whom this is happening. No, that would be too clinical. Too cold. Too empirical and scientific to move your heart.

You notice it’s you. You notice you’re the one minding your p’s and q’s as you try to climb the corporate ladder while Kanye gets into vicious Twitter wars and lives it up in the Hamptons. You notice you’re the one with that grind that is your job while you see the Gronk starting his splashy NFL post-season yacht party early. So you say, “Surely God is good to Israel,” and you wish that that belief was deeper in your heart than it actually is. That’s how it was for Asaph. And he admitted it. He wanted to believe. He really did, but devilish doubt was plaguing him. It was all just too much for him. He read his era’s People magazine. He saw the healthy bodies and the glitterati lifestyles of the arrogant. He saw how the wicked swindled and hurt their way to the top. He saw how they talked so big that it was like they, “lay claim to heaven,” (v. 9) and they could, “take possession of the earth.” (v. 9). And as far as he could tell? They were getting away with it. He said, “This is what the wicked are like — always free of care, they go on amassing wealth.” (v. 12) While little ol’ Asaph was meandering through life paycheck to paycheck and hand to mouth. And that huge difference was bugging him.

It felt like the foothold in his faith life was giving out from under him. And he knew why. He said, “I envied,” (v. 3) them. His eyes glommed onto those Mediterranean yachts. His heart was jealous of their beach bodies. And his mind could only think of their skyrocketing careers built on the exploitation of others. And that’s how envy works. It has eyes for what it wants to see. It’s important to think about that. Our observations are never neutral. Never. We humans like to imagine ourselves as impartial observers. We like to think that we’re actually pretty scientific. And empirical and clear thinking. It’s just that we never really are. We bring our biases and we bring our assumptions. And they always color our observations about the world, the lives of others, and our own lives too. In fact, there’s a whole newish field called cognitive behavioral therapy that’s been developed for this exact reason. Asaph is a great example of greatly distorted thinking. He saw what he wanted to see and believed what he wanted to believe. We so often do. Asaph is showing us that was one of Adam and Eve’s kids we live with fallen minds. And in this case, Asaph’s fallen mind allowed him to see only the short term – to see how the wicked seemed to thrive.

And that – that right there! – is why this Psalm comes up right here and right now in worship where it does. You have to understand something. I didn’t pick this Psalm. In a way, this Psalm picked me. Psalm 73 has been preached on at this time of year for a long, long time. Make no mistake. There’s no “cross” talk in the psalm, or prophecies of betrayal, or incredible quotes that Jesus later hauls out in the Garden of Gethsemane. But what we do have in this psalm is a psalm that showcases a problem that runs way deeper than failing to understand our supposed lack of success in this life. Finally, this psalm showcases a problem we have in getting Jesus. Holy Week’s got no yacht. It’s got nails. Holy Week includes no sun tanning or limo rides. It includes suffering. Holy Week’s got no champagne corks popping. It’s got tears and confusion and death. And that’s the key issue. If we approach life sad and ticked off that God hasn’t delivered to us everything we think we should have on a silver platter, then what can we do with a Holy Week Jesus? We say, “God, show me you love me with a vacation like that guy’s going on.” And God says, “I’ve got something even better: a cross.” We say, “God, show me you care about me with amazing health and a huge job promotion.” And God says, “I’ve got a better idea. Here’s a guy with a crown of thorns around his head.”

Do you see the point? Jesus and his suffering gets right to the heart of whether or not we think God is being good to us. Think it through. If you think it’s hard to get why God gives an arrogant guy a sweet yacht while you’re puttering around town in a rusty Honda, then you have to understand that Jesus is the exact same problem on steroids. In fact, that was one of Jesus’ big teaching points just before he died. It’s not just a fun fact that both Asaph and Jesus about human feet having problems with rocks. It’s just that Jesus is much stronger on the point. Asaph’s foot slips on rock foothold while Jesus said he’s the rock itself that some folks will “fall on.” (Luke 20:18) In other words, if you think it’s hard to see God’s love in a rusty Honda or a totally average job, think of how hard it will be to see God’s love in capital punishment Roman style. If you think it near impossible to sense God’s hand in a hospitalization, think of how impossible it will be to sense God’s hand in death by asphyxiation. If you think as God’s child that it’s completely irrational that you don’t own half of South Carolina by now, then you’re going to think it completely haywire to watch God take everything from his Son – even his own life. Here’s the point: according to the dark thinking we got from our father, Adam, Jesus’ cross looks foolish.

But, then again, Asaph knew he was one of Adam’s kids. He knew that his thinking was suspect and clouded. He came to see that even more clearly when he despaired of ever straightening his thoughts out by himself saying, “When I tried to understand all this, it troubled me deeply.” (v. 16) His thinking never changed. His thoughts never straightened out. Not ever. “Till I entered the sanctuary of God; then I understood.” (v. 17) That was the hinge that swung him back to faith. That was the place where he regained his foothold. That was the way in which he got his thinking straightened out. He entered the sanctuary of God. You know why that worked? There the Word gave Asaph perspective. There the Word gave him a bigger, divine, and eternal view. There Asaph saw that life wasn’t about the good of getting a yacht. Life was about the good of being, “near God.” (v. 28). There the Word taught that there’s no job or success or vacation or anything in all of heaven or earth that could hold a candle to God’s great presence. There he came to understand that if only – if only – he could have God be, “my portion forever,” (v. 26) that no suffering and no pain and no deprivation for the time being was too much to undergo. Seeing this life from God’s point of view gave Asaph a way to think clearly about what God was up to in his life.

But even better? There in the sanctuary of God Asaph heard the promises about God’s highest and best and most coherent thought: Jesus. There he came to understand that life wasn’t about him coming to God. As he heard those promises he came to see that his life was all about God coming to him with Jesus. And through Jesus and his promises Asaph learned just how badly God wanted to be with him; how all the way from eternity God had set a plan in motion; how even now Asaph could confidently say to God “you hold me by my right hand,” and, “you guide me with your counsel.” (v. 24) Asaph, in fact, became so confident in the sanctuary of God the he even came out and said to God, “afterward you will take me into glory.” (v. 24) Asaph learned the plan at church. And that plan was executed. There was whipping. There was a crown of thorns. There was a mob. There was a cross – the kind of thing that made Jesus look like the perfect outcast and the ultimate reject. But it was that plan that was his holiest and most central one. God’s greatest thought was that through Jesus he would make Adam’s children his children and then take them to glory – the ones with darkened minds, and distorted thinking. There was just no other way other than through whipping, a cross, and a crown. And so it was. And all for your eternal glory.

That’s what we need to understand. So much of this life is aimed at the next one. So much. That’s what makes sense in the big picture. It’s totally rational to think that God might inoculate us with a needle or two in life if it means we’ll be disease free in eternity. It makes perfect sense for God to deprive us of a thing or two for now if it means we’ll have everything - Him! - forever. I actually think that’s one of the reasons why we love the hymn Amazing Grace so much. Because it reminds us of that. “When we’ve been there ten thousand years, bright shining as the sun, we’ve no less days to sing God’s praise than when we’d first begun.” And whatever discipline or deprivation it takes to get there? Totally worth it. It must be. I think I can prove it too. God’s the only perfectly clear thinking being I know of. And you know what he thought? God, the Enlightened One, thought an eternity with him was worth the cost of his Son. And if God, the most rational being of all, reasons that way, then that prize must be worth every lesser pain too. Every mansion we clean instead of live in; every limo we chauffeur instead of enjoy; every factory line we work instead of own; every bit of humdrum or hardship that God sends our way in this life must be worth it. Hardship must be worth the heavenly stretch limo, the celestial mansion, and the 10,000 years with God that never grows a day shorter.

You know what God would call that kind of thinking? Enlightened. Reasonable. And clear. And, ironically, that’s exactly why this psalm had to have so many problems. It had to have a professional Christian just name his devilish doubt. It had to showcase thinking so toxic that it would ruin the next generation. It had to speak aloud blatant un-truths. To get us to think straight. To push us back to the sanctuary of God. To his heart. To his core. To his Word. And to his Son. So we could think straight about our lives and what God is up to in them. So we could finally be coherent and with every shred of distorted thinking gone realize that there is one thing and one thing alone that matters. And say right along with Asaph, “My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever. (v. 26) A God who would be whipped for me? A God who would bleed for me? A God who would die just for me? Let me tell you that a God like that is a God whom I want to be my salvation, my light, and my portion forever and ever and ever. 10,000 years won’t be too much. I’m pretty sure all of us will just be getting warmed up. Whatever it takes to get there? Jesus is in. At end of the day, nothing could clearer, more enlightened, or more reasonable than that. Amen.

Psalm 73 Surely God is good to Israel, to those who are pure in heart.2 But as for me, my feet had almost slipped; I had nearly lost my foothold. 3 For I envied the arrogant when I saw the prosperity of the wicked. 11 They say, “How would God know? Does the Most High know anything?” 12 This is what the wicked are like— always free of care, they go on amassing wealth. 13 Surely in vain I have kept my heart pure and have washed my hands in innocence. 14 All day long I have been afflicted, and every morning brings new punishments. 15 If I had spoken out like that, I would have betrayed your children. 16 When I tried to understand all this, it troubled me deeply 17 till I entered the sanctuary of God; then I understood their final destiny. 18 Surely you place them on slippery ground; you cast them down to ruin. 19 How suddenly are they destroyed, completely swept away by terrors! 20 They are like a dream when one awakes; when you arise, Lord, you will despise them as fantasies. 21 When my heart was grieved and my spirit embittered, 22 I was senseless and ignorant; I was a brute beast before you. 23 Yet I am always with you; you hold me by my right hand. 24 You guide me with your counsel, and afterward you will take me into glory. 25 Whom have I in heaven but you? And earth has nothing I desire besides you. 26 My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever. 27 Those who are far from you will perish; you destroy all who are unfaithful to you. 28 But as for me, it is good to be near God. I have made the Sovereign Lord my refuge; I will tell of all your deeds.

There are so many problems with this psalm that I honestly don’t know where to start. There’s the fact that Asaph, the leading professional musician of that time, has people singing in church, “There was a time in my life when I wasn’t so sure about this God stuff.” Then there’s the fact that Asaph says that if he would’ve muttered out loud his devilish doubts that they were so toxic that the next generation, the kids, would have been betrayed. Except that he had already gone ahead and done just that in this psalm. But probably the biggest problem of all is that he writes and sings for the church, a place that’s supposed to be the house of truth. And what he writes contains blatant and clear un-truths. And that’s putting it charitably. Which –  you’d think – would leave us with a psalm that is full of spiritual holes and troubling. Except that it’s not. It’s gorgeous. And by the end of its journey has made our own journey with God perfectly understandable.

Because sometimes the way we experience the world really does leave us with some pretty significant insecurities and with some downright devilish doubts. You know what I’m talking about? You try to convince yourself, “Surely God is good to Israel, to those who are pure in heart,” (v. 1) –  like Asaph did – but at the end of the day you’re not sure you totally buy it. You want to believe that God is the good to his people. But then you notice that one of them is a maid in that multi-million-dollar house. Not the owner of it. And her employer? Well –  let’s just say he’s a less than savory kind of guy who treats his employees like garbage. You want to trust that God is doing his thing for his people and then you notice that one of his own is pounding out that long shift on the factory floor. He’s not the owner of the business. And the owner? He’s so cutthroat you wonder if he’s really even human. And then you spot one of God’s kids driving that limo. She’s not the one in a nice dress sipping Chardonnay in the back. And then. And then? You notice that it’s not just God’s people in general to whom this is happening. No, that would be too clinical. Too cold. Too empirical and scientific to move your heart.

You notice it’s you. You notice you’re the one minding your p’s and q’s as you try to climb the corporate ladder while Kanye gets into vicious Twitter wars and lives it up in the Hamptons. You notice you’re the one with that grind that is your job while you see the Gronk starting his splashy NFL post-season yacht party early. So you say, “Surely God is good to Israel,” and you wish that that belief was deeper in your heart than it actually is. That’s how it was for Asaph. And he admitted it. He wanted to believe. He really did, but devilish doubt was plaguing him. It was all just too much for him. He read his era’s People magazine. He saw the healthy bodies and the glitterati lifestyles of the arrogant. He saw how the wicked swindled and hurt their way to the top. He saw how they talked so big that it was like they, “lay claim to heaven,” (v. 9) and they could, “take possession of the earth.” (v. 9). And as far as he could tell? They were getting away with it. He said, “This is what the wicked are like — always free of care, they go on amassing wealth.” (v. 12) While little ol’ Asaph was meandering through life paycheck to paycheck and hand to mouth. And that huge difference was bugging him.

It felt like the foothold in his faith life was giving out from under him. And he knew why. He said, “I envied,” (v. 3) them. His eyes glommed onto those Mediterranean yachts. His heart was jealous of their beach bodies. And his mind could only think of their skyrocketing careers built on the exploitation of others. And that’s how envy works. It has eyes for what it wants to see. It’s important to think about that. Our observations are never neutral. Never. We humans like to imagine ourselves as impartial observers. We like to think that we’re actually pretty scientific. And empirical and clear thinking. It’s just that we never really are. We bring our biases and we bring our assumptions. And they always color our observations about the world, the lives of others, and our own lives too. In fact, there’s a whole newish field called cognitive behavioral therapy that’s been developed for this exact reason. Asaph is a great example of greatly distorted thinking. He saw what he wanted to see and believed what he wanted to believe. We so often do. Asaph is showing us that was one of Adam and Eve’s kids we live with fallen minds. And in this case, Asaph’s fallen mind allowed him to see only the short term – to see how the wicked seemed to thrive.

And that – that right there! – is why this Psalm comes up right here and right now in worship where it does. You have to understand something. I didn’t pick this Psalm. In a way, this Psalm picked me. Psalm 73 has been preached on at this time of year for a long, long time. Make no mistake. There’s no “cross” talk in the psalm, or prophecies of betrayal, or incredible quotes that Jesus later hauls out in the Garden of Gethsemane. But what we do have in this psalm is a psalm that showcases a problem that runs way deeper than failing to understand our supposed lack of success in this life. Finally, this psalm showcases a problem we have in getting Jesus. Holy Week’s got no yacht. It’s got nails. Holy Week includes no sun tanning or limo rides. It includes suffering. Holy Week’s got no champagne corks popping. It’s got tears and confusion and death. And that’s the key issue. If we approach life sad and ticked off that God hasn’t delivered to us everything we think we should have on a silver platter, then what can we do with a Holy Week Jesus? We say, “God, show me you love me with a vacation like that guy’s going on.” And God says, “I’ve got something even better: a cross.” We say, “God, show me you care about me with amazing health and a huge job promotion.” And God says, “I’ve got a better idea. Here’s a guy with a crown of thorns around his head.”

Do you see the point? Jesus and his suffering gets right to the heart of whether or not we think God is being good to us. Think it through. If you think it’s hard to get why God gives an arrogant guy a sweet yacht while you’re puttering around town in a rusty Honda, then you have to understand that Jesus is the exact same problem on steroids. In fact, that was one of Jesus’ big teaching points just before he died. It’s not just a fun fact that both Asaph and Jesus about human feet having problems with rocks. It’s just that Jesus is much stronger on the point. Asaph’s foot slips on rock foothold while Jesus said he’s the rock itself that some folks will “fall on.” (Luke 20:18) In other words, if you think it’s hard to see God’s love in a rusty Honda or a totally average job, think of how hard it will be to see God’s love in capital punishment Roman style. If you think it near impossible to sense God’s hand in a hospitalization, think of how impossible it will be to sense God’s hand in death by asphyxiation. If you think as God’s child that it’s completely irrational that you don’t own half of South Carolina by now, then you’re going to think it completely haywire to watch God take everything from his Son – even his own life. Here’s the point: according to the dark thinking we got from our father, Adam, Jesus’ cross looks foolish.

But, then again, Asaph knew he was one of Adam’s kids. He knew that his thinking was suspect and clouded. He came to see that even more clearly when he despaired of ever straightening his thoughts out by himself saying, “When I tried to understand all this, it troubled me deeply.” (v. 16) His thinking never changed. His thoughts never straightened out. Not ever. “Till I entered the sanctuary of God; then I understood.” (v. 17) That was the hinge that swung him back to faith. That was the place where he regained his foothold. That was the way in which he got his thinking straightened out. He entered the sanctuary of God. You know why that worked? There the Word gave Asaph perspective. There the Word gave him a bigger, divine, and eternal view. There Asaph saw that life wasn’t about the good of getting a yacht. Life was about the good of being, “near God.” (v. 28). There the Word taught that there’s no job or success or vacation or anything in all of heaven or earth that could hold a candle to God’s great presence. There he came to understand that if only – if only – he could have God be, “my portion forever,” (v. 26) that no suffering and no pain and no deprivation for the time being was too much to undergo. Seeing this life from God’s point of view gave Asaph a way to think clearly about what God was up to in his life.

But even better? There in the sanctuary of God Asaph heard the promises about God’s highest and best and most coherent thought: Jesus. There he came to understand that life wasn’t about him coming to God. As he heard those promises he came to see that his life was all about God coming to him with Jesus. And through Jesus and his promises Asaph learned just how badly God wanted to be with him; how all the way from eternity God had set a plan in motion; how even now Asaph could confidently say to God “you hold me by my right hand,” and, “you guide me with your counsel.” (v. 24) Asaph, in fact, became so confident in the sanctuary of God the he even came out and said to God, “afterward you will take me into glory.” (v. 24) Asaph learned the plan at church. And that plan was executed. There was whipping. There was a crown of thorns. There was a mob. There was a cross – the kind of thing that made Jesus look like the perfect outcast and the ultimate reject. But it was that plan that was his holiest and most central one. God’s greatest thought was that through Jesus he would make Adam’s children his children and then take them to glory – the ones with darkened minds, and distorted thinking. There was just no other way other than through whipping, a cross, and a crown. And so it was. And all for your eternal glory.

That’s what we need to understand. So much of this life is aimed at the next one. So much. That’s what makes sense in the big picture. It’s totally rational to think that God might inoculate us with a needle or two in life if it means we’ll be disease free in eternity. It makes perfect sense for God to deprive us of a thing or two for now if it means we’ll have everything - Him! - forever. I actually think that’s one of the reasons why we love the hymn Amazing Grace so much. Because it reminds us of that. “When we’ve been there ten thousand years, bright shining as the sun, we’ve no less days to sing God’s praise than when we’d first begun.” And whatever discipline or deprivation it takes to get there? Totally worth it. It must be. I think I can prove it too. God’s the only perfectly clear thinking being I know of. And you know what he thought? God, the Enlightened One, thought an eternity with him was worth the cost of his Son. And if God, the most rational being of all, reasons that way, then that prize must be worth every lesser pain too. Every mansion we clean instead of live in; every limo we chauffeur instead of enjoy; every factory line we work instead of own; every bit of humdrum or hardship that God sends our way in this life must be worth it. Hardship must be worth the heavenly stretch limo, the celestial mansion, and the 10,000 years with God that never grows a day shorter.

You know what God would call that kind of thinking? Enlightened. Reasonable. And clear. And, ironically, that’s exactly why this psalm had to have so many problems. It had to have a professional Christian just name his devilish doubt. It had to showcase thinking so toxic that it would ruin the next generation. It had to speak aloud blatant un-truths. To get us to think straight. To push us back to the sanctuary of God. To his heart. To his core. To his Word. And to his Son. So we could think straight about our lives and what God is up to in them. So we could finally be coherent and with every shred of distorted thinking gone realize that there is one thing and one thing alone that matters. And say right along with Asaph, “My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever. (v. 26) A God who would be whipped for me? A God who would bleed for me? A God who would die just for me? Let me tell you that a God like that is a God whom I want to be my salvation, my light, and my portion forever and ever and ever. 10,000 years won’t be too much. I’m pretty sure all of us will just be getting warmed up. Whatever it takes to get there? Jesus is in. At end of the day, nothing could clearer, more enlightened, or more reasonable than that. Amen.

Psalm 32 Blessed is the one whose transgressions are forgiven, whose sins are covered. 2 Blessed is the one whose sin the Lord does not count against them and in whose spirit is no deceit. 3 When I kept silent, my bones wasted away through my groaning all day long. 4 For day and night your hand was heavy on me; my strength was sapped as in the heat of summer. 5 Then I acknowledged my sin to you and did not cover up my iniquity. I said, “I will confess my transgressions to the Lord.” And you forgave the guilt of my sin. 6 Therefore let all the faithful pray to you while you may be found; surely the rising of the mighty waters will not reach them. 7 You are my hiding place; you will protect me from trouble and surround me with songs of deliverance. 8 I will instruct you and teach you in the way you should go; I will counsel you with my loving eye on you. 9 Do not be like the horse or the mule, which have no understanding but must be controlled by bit and bridle or they will not come to you.10 Many are the woes of the wicked, but the Lord’s unfailing love surrounds the one who trusts in him. 11 Rejoice in the Lord and be glad, you righteous; sing, all you who are upright in heart!

It didn’t use to be this way. It didn’t used to be that a guy like Lebron James would post a shot of himself standing in front of a gorgeous ocean on Facebook featuring the word “blessed.” It didn’t used to be that celebrities would Instagram one of their physical “assets” and hashtag their posterior or pec with the word blessed. And it didn’t used to be that you could make your braggy post look humble (The internet calls that a humble-brag.) post about your perfect fiancée or your amazing job or your sweet vacation by hash tagging it #blessed. But these days? That’s just what people do. These beatitudes – that’s what a blessed statement is – have been so misused that on the internet that now it’s become a bit of a pastime to make fun of them. It was already back in 2013 when a comedian by the name of Davon tweeted out this joke: “Caught a piece of bacon falling out of my sandwich right before it hit the ground.” #blessed. What the internet has realized all too well is that beatitudes really do matter. They really do grab your attention. They really do draw people to your pec, your beauty, your success, or your vacation. It’s the perfect cover for bragging. Just hashtag your post “blessed” and you’re good to go.

They’re right in a way. Beatitudes are incredibly powerful draws. It’s just that they’re not supposed to draw us to someone’s Caribbean vacation or pectoral muscle or God-forbid a bacon-falling-out-of-sandwich joke. Beatitudes or “blessed” statements are in divine literature to draw us to their truth.  Truths that if they didn’t have #blessed attached to them wouldn’t look nearly so compelling to us. In fact, beatitudes in Scripture are used almost exclusively to draw us to the most difficult of scriptural truth. Truths that are counterintuitive. Truths that seem wrong. Truths that don’t sound right. Like when Jesus tells us, “Blessed are the poor in spirit.” (Matthew 5:3) That actually doesn’t sound true. So Jesus makes it a beatitude. Or when Eliphaz says to Job in his suffering, “Blessed is the one whom God corrects.” (Job 5:17) That doesn’t sound true either especially when you’re the one being corrected. The point? The point is that beatitudes are intentionally exotic and rare in the Scriptures. If everything was blessed – if everything was happy all the time, beatitudes would lose their power to draw us in. So they’re rare.

And they’re here. They’re right here in this Psalm. And, yes, I did say, “They.” Psalm 32 isn’t just a single beatitude. It’s a double. Twice we’re told something is blessed. Twice we’re told something is happy. And, yes, in this case I do believe the psalmist, David, meant happy. Sometimes blessed doesn’t include the idea of happy. Sometimes it just means enriched. But here? This means happy. This means joyful. This means peaceful. All you have to do is keep reading the psalm to discover that. If the end of the psalm is any indication (It is!), this is the happiest condition that a person can have. It leads to rejoicing and being glad and singing. And that’s just one verse of the psalm and not surprisingly also the closing verse of the psalm. So, yeah, I’m pretty sure that this double beatitude includes the idea of being happy. But you know what’s probably most surprising and most compelling about these double beatitudes? They’re not only back-to-back, they’re also about the exact same idea. The exact same idea. The Spirit apparently wants to draw us to one single, important truth. He apparently thinks that we’re going to have an awful hard to believing it without this one-two punch of “blessed” truth right at the outset of the psalm.

What’s interesting is that at first glance these beatitudinal (Is that a word?) truths that Spirit is drawing us toward don’t seem especially counterintuitive. Or hard to believe. Or not true. I mean come on. Who doesn’t believe or understand that, “Blessed is the one whose transgressions are forgiven, whose sins are covered” (v. 1)? Who doesn’t actually think that it’s the most beautiful thing in the world that when I’ve been in out and out rebellion saying, “Lord, I know your rules about who I should love and how, but – well – the heart wants what the heart wants,” that the Lord will forgive that and lift that up and off of me? Who isn’t compelled by the idea that my unredeemed personality that can so often miss the mark with its flaws and insecurities and little miscues is covered up by the Lord himself? Who isn’t captivated by that idea? And who doesn’t love the doctrine of justification that says, “Blessed is the one whose sin the Lord does not count against them” (v. 2)? Who doesn’t want to already know now how they stand with the Lord now and then also on into eternity? Who doesn’t actually want to know how the gavel will come down; how the Lord is going to count the beans of my life? All of this beatitudinal truth is incredibly captivating and happy and beautiful.

You know what isn’t though? That sneaky little line that comes in right at the end of the beatitudes here. That squirrely and uncomfortable bugger that undergirds the entire framework of these beatitudes – the line that says the person is happy, “in whose spirit is no deceit.” (v. 2) That’s the uncomfortable part – the part that has us seeing ourselves clearly and clarifying for ourselves why, in fact, we need this kind of promised triple cleansing that’s here promised. That part? Well – it’s uncomfortable to think about. So we often don’t. David certainly didn’t. He didn’t think of the way he lusted after and then violated another man’s wife. He didn’t think of how he purposely got that woman’s husband, Uriah, sloppy drunk. He didn’t think of his massive misuse of political power with his general, Joab, for which he definitely deserved impeachment. He didn’t think of how it all culminated in him murdering Uriah or how it all started with his lazing around his palace. Or if he did, he someone justified it or minimized it or passed the blame for it or repressed it or suppressed or generally pursued one of about 18 improper ways that humans beings use to deal with their personal rebellion, sin, and guilt.

It’s actually one of the more amazing truths about David that for somewhere around a year David hung on to all that mess. And not once – not once! – during that time did he come to the conclusion that he’d like dump it all on the Lord to be happy once again. God had to send him a prophet for that happen. Think about that. There he was his hands dripping with blood and adultery and evil politics. There he was completely self-deceived. No wiser than a mule or a horse what he was really like as a man – his words not mine. David was so committed to himself that he’d rather have his evil than the Lord’s forgiveness. And that – that right there! – that is a perfect microcosm of the human condition. I remember when I was at the Seminary the dorkiest of us seminarians would send emojis to each other on instant messenger (Remember instant messenger?) every time one of our professors would talk about that. They even had a sweet Latin term for it that got really hot in the Reformation. They called it the opinio legis or the opinion of the law. You know what it is? It’s humanity’s most durable belief system. It’s also every human soul’s factory-made, and default-setting when they come into this world. Our false self-view before the law is this: I’m good and God should like me. “Just look at me. I keep the rules. See?”

Let me make this really simple. You know what we call that? We call that pride. Pride was so important to David that he let his, “bones waste away,” (v. 3) rather than confess to his crime of murdering Uriah. Pride was so important to David that he sat there, “groaning all day long,” (v. 3) rather than admit any wrongdoing about Uriah’s wife, Bathsheba. Pride was so important to David that he wanted “strength sapped as in the heat of the summer,” (v. 4) rather than say anything sincere about any of this to God. Do you see what that means? It’s one of the Spirit’s most massive miracles when we give up our most fundamental belief where we say, “I’m ok. God will accept me the way I am.” And we come to say and believe, “No. I’m not ok. (Insert here whatever sin you know and feel in your heart.) I’m rebellious. I’m the guy who viciously told off his mom in the ninth grade. I’m a sinner. I’m the person who relies obsessively on the approval of people in my life to feel ok. I’m guilty too. God should punish me for a prayer life that looks a lot more like God’s honey-do list than thoughts of thanks and awe for the God of creation and redemption.”  

But that massive miracle called faith does happen. And the Spirit does do his incredible work. And this is what that looks like: The Spirit changes our most foundational belief from one in our own goodness into a belief in God’s goodness. You realize that’s what’s happening when you come to faith, don’t you? When we come to faith we go from believing in our own basic goodness to believing in God’s basic goodness. It’s also when we gush and we come clean and we admit and we confess and we repent, or, call it whatever you want to call it we dump our not-so-good self on an incredibly good God. That’s what’s so awesome about the Lord. It’s not like we don’t know what’s going to happen when we dump on him whatever it is that keeps us up at night. It’s not like we have to guess how he’s going to receive us when we tell him what we did last summer. It’s not like we can’t predict how he’ll treat us once we speak what’s unspeakable about us to him. We absolutely can. There’s nothing he wants you surer about. Nothing. He not only reeling you in with a double beatitude, but he’s also giving you David as the perfect case study of a person who tried it out. When David acknowledged his murder. When he spoke out loud his adultery and pulled out his laundry list of no-noes he had committed, “You forgave the guilt of my sin.” (v. 5)

But, honestly, I didn’t even tell you the best part yet. Seriously, I didn’t. It’s not just a double and back-to-back beatitude and a case study in David that is meant to move you to dump yourself on God’s goodness. It’s way, way better than that. Did I say way better? I really don’t think it’s an accident that when Luke wrote about Jesus and his first reactions on the cross Luke told us two things. #1 Jesus asked for forgiveness for us saying, “Father, forgive them.” (Luke 23:34) You know why I think he did that? So we wouldn’t panic. So we wouldn’t have to think, “Did I confess enough? Did I miss anything? Did I truly repent sincerely enough?” Stop panicking. We definitely haven’t. And we’ve definitely missed stuff. That’s why Jesus asked forgiveness for us. #2 The very next thing Luke reports is that Jesus’ clothes got passed around to his enemies. When I read that I couldn’t help but think of what a gospel note that really is. In a very real way, that’s the heart of the gospel. When we admit we’re not good, God covers us with the goodness that is Christ’s life. That’s how it works. When we come clean, God makes us clean. When we uncover ourselves before God, God covers us with Christ’s robes of righteousness. When we stop hiding from him, God becomes our, “hiding place.” (v. 7)

There’s actually no true alternative for dealing with ourselves. That’s David’s – how shall I say it? – very picturesque point as he finishes out the psalm. We could – I suppose – hold the line on our most durable belief. We could stay at the spiritual factory setting that we entered the world with, “I’m good and nobody will tell me differently.” We could keep believing that way or as David very picturesquely said (Sorry equestrians who are here! BTW dogs fare much worse in the Scriptures.), “like a horse or a mule, which have no understanding.” (v. 9) But that’s no real spirituality. It’s being a spiritual –  well –  mule. And David will tell you from experience it only results in, “Woe.” (v. 10) But the Lord? He wants you covered. He wants you hidden in him. He wants to surround you with, “songs of deliverance.” (v. 7) That’s you. That’s your life. That’s your Jesus. You’ll confess and be covered. You’ll admit your true self only to learn the Lord’s true self. That’s how it’ll always work for you. You’ll come clean only to be made perfectly clean in the blood of the Lamb. You’ll tell him what you did last summer only to be forgiven. You’ll say out loud to him what’s unspeakable about you and you’ll be covered with his Son. You’ll reveal to him what nobody else knows and the Lord will never hold it against you.

You know what the Spirit calls that? #blessed. No Caribbean vacation or physical asset or fiancée or awesome job or piece of bacon-falling-out-of-a sandwich-save can hold a candle to it. So Instagram your forgiveness #blessed. Facebook Christ’s righteousness that you now have #blessed. You know what awesome about doing that? It’s no humble-brag. No doubt, it’s bragging. It’s the biggest brag in the world. It’s just that it’s not about you. Salvation never is. It’s about promoting the one belief that is the most difficult one in the world to believe. God is good. God is merciful. God is forgiveness itself in Jesus Christ. No, seriously, he is. Blessed is the one whose transgressions are forgiven. Blessed is the one whose sins the Lord does not count against them. Two back-to-back beatitudes preaching the exact same thing to open this psalm. Apparently, the Spirit would have you know that more than anything else in his entire book. Because, apparently, he wants to make you the happiest person in the world. That’s why he gave you these beatitudes and David as a case study in forgiveness, but even better? He gave you Jesus. Lebron James standing in front of a gorgeous ocean? Take a seat. I know where my hashtag belongs. Behind my forgiveness in Jesus. That’s happy. That’s #blessed. Amen.