Lutherans are weird

Scripture: Revelation 20:11-15

Being a Lutheran is a strange thing. If you are one you probably know this. We have potlucks and sing German and northern-Europeans hymns; we meet in church buildings with hard-backed pews; we revel in the good ol’ days when confirmation was tougher than school and nobody—and I mean, nobody—dared approach the pastor to ask how he was doing (and it was always a “he”). This is our heritage. It’s very strange, but so are we. Ours is a story of hard work and piety, which is also strange come to think of it, since Lutherans then turn around and preach that nothing we do makes any difference for our salvation.

Weird.

Lutherans live life straddling a barbed-wire fence between grace and good works. Life is much easier if you camp on one side of the fence or the other. One side of the fence is for those who like to demonstrate their faithfulness through action. For these folks, what they do and say defines who they are, demonstrating that they are good people—good Christians. The other side of the fence is for those who believe that God loves them just the way they are, who believe absolutely nothing is required of them, especially when it comes to God’s love and salvation. 99% of the world lives on either side of that fence of good works and grace, but Lutherans are just a little slow. We go out of our way, mind you, to sit on top of the barbed wire, straddling both sides. Culturally we are a people of hard work; theologically we are a people all about grace.

We are so weird.

 In today’s reading we are nearing the end of the story in Revelation and the dead are called out of the depths of the sea and the ground to stand before the throne. There they face Jesus Christ, the Lamb of God, in order to be judged. Books are opened detailing their life’s actions. This is a frightening proposition. Imagine every thing you did, every text message you sent, every tweet or email or letter you composed and hastily deleted or threw in the trash, even every thought that you’ve ever had, right there in front of you eternally written into books that rest in God’s hands.

Yay.

But then there’s another book, placed in the scene almost as an afterthought. John writes, “Also another book was opened, the book of life.” So, even in the midst of the ultimate judgment of the world life is at work. The dead are judged according to their works and nothing good comes of it. Revelation makes no mention of people gaining admittance into the kingdom of God based on the books of their works. The books that chronicle our every action only serve to condemn us. For every good action we have done there have been twenty other thoughtless and downright mean things we have laid upon those we love and those we despise alike. A single sin cannot be remedied by a lifetime of good work, so all of us stand condemned by a full accounting of our actions. And yet, there is something else going on here, because it is not only the books of our works that define us; there is also this other book—the book of life—which seems to be, finally, so important. After all, it is only those whose names are not in the book of life who are condemned. The book of life is a book of grace.

Lutherans love this. We do. We’re the first to point out that the book of life is more important than the books of works—that life is not all about being a good person because that will finally never save you. But then we do the weirdest thing: we go out into our lives and live as if our actions really matter... or at least we do when we’re at our best. One of the challenges facing our churches these days is that the generation of the 1960s and ‘70s and ‘80s got the grace message—they heard the idea that they are saved by grace and they’ve taken it to heart. As Will Willimon has said, “We have given people the theological justification for not going to church.” If nothing we do or say really matters in God’s eyes then why be religious at all? If we’re saved by grace alone—and we believe God in our hearts—then why have any commitment to something so obviously flawed as the church?

This is the history of Lutheranism in the late-20th and 21st century. The problem isn’t that the generation of 30-50 year-olds hasn’t heard the message; the problem is that they heard the message so well that for many of them they no longer feel the immediate need to be present with a worshiping community. We have taught our church that you are people saved by grace through faith in Jesus Christ. And you have heard that message—OK, maybe not you, you’re reading this online, but as a wider body of believers we have heard this message—and we have responded by saying, “OK, then I guess commitment to a church isn’t actually very important… and OK, bringing up my child in the faith isn’t actually that important. Confirmation will make sure my kids belong to the church, and as long as Confirmation tells my kid that they are OK just as they are then we can be happy without the baggage of culture and tradition that the church offers.”

So, here we are. We have decided that God is a nice idea for comfort in trying times; not something to commit your lives to. You see, even Lutherans have grown uncomfortable straddling that barbed-wire fence between works and grace, preferring mostly to follow the path of least resistance and a shallow idea of grace. We have become a church of grace, lacking commitment. And we’ve done this with the best of intentions. We’ve done this crowing that works righteousness is wrong—after all, this was the siren song of the Reformation. But in denouncing works righteousness and promoting “grace alone” we have taught ourselves and our children to be apathetic. We like to make fun of the Joel Osteens of the world for their prosperity gospel, but then we just nod when our neighbors tell us that the church isn’t really relevant in their lives as if the church is something other than you and me. If the church isn’t relevant it means that you are not relevant, because you are the church.

This is a problem.

Revelation tells us—nay, orders us—to get back on that hellishly uncomfortable fence. Get back to fearing God—not because God is some force out to kill you but because the one who created the universe is one worthy of being feared and, moreover, the Jesus we see in the Gospels is not the kind of person you bring home to your mother. A cuddly, best friend Jesus, seems like a nice thing to have, but we know too well what we do with cuddly things—we use, abuse and finally reject them for something more exciting.

At our best, Lutherans are weird, because we tell you that A) you are chosen by God for salvation apart from anything you do, and B) you are not worth all that much. This life is not about you. Your sinful self is rotten and terrible and smelly. Lutherans are great at reminding us that the great Christian virtue is not kindness or chastity or charity or patience; these are things that still allow you to keep your big head. No, the great Christian virtue is humility. And Lutherans, at our best, have cornered the market on humility (irony in making that claim that notwithstanding). As Garrison Keillor once said, “Jesus said the meek would inherit the earth, but so far all we've gotten is Minnesota and North Dakota.” We get that. We really do. But apathy for the church has threatened that meekness.

Today, we are in danger of making this about us—about getting big heads and calling pride a virtue and humility a vice when the opposite is true. Revelation teaches us that the sum of our works are never enough. It simply cannot be about us. Revelation reminds us that the path toward new life is a path of loving your neighbor and doing all those things that stem from the salvation you have received from having your name inscribed in the book of life. Lutherans are weird because we say you are both sinner and saint; saved already and therefore compelled to live out your Christian life. It’s hard to explain why we straddle that fence until we find ourselves before God, because in the end, when all the pride of this world passes away, all that will be left is a spot in front of the throne and a terrible, awful, horrible place for those of us who have tried to justify ourselves by our own merit. All of us stand under condemnation; all of us are saved not by our actions but by the very God who stands in judgment over us. That’s weird. Stranger still, it also means that everything we do and say down here matters, because every little action we take either serves to illustrate that God is king or we are. Out there is a world that clings to pride over humility, a world that reinforces the idea that the purpose of life is to accumulate the most toys.

We either buy into that idea or we don’t. It’s attractive, but so are many things that are destructive. What it comes down to is this: if you come away from Lutheran worship with the idea that either A) you need to do something to be chosen by God, or B) you are free to live whatever life you please, then you don’t get it. Thankfully, that’s why we have worship every Sunday. Come back and see if you can get it the next time around.