Lutheran Pastor (https://sjrl.org), Coffee roaster (https://gillespie.coffee), Media producer (https://gillespie.media), Podcaster (https://1517.org)
On the Sabbath, the Pharisees found a rule to keep and lost the mercy it was meant to carry — husk without kernel. James diagnoses the same disease in the church: zeal that hides self-seeking envy. Christ, the One greater than the temple, was Himself crushed like the grain, so that guilty husk-keepers might be fed with mercy instead of judged by the letter.
The four thousand Jesus feeds in Mark 8 are Gentiles — outsiders with no claim on the God of Israel. Paul says the same of us: once strangers, far off, until brought near by the blood of Christ. What Christ did on that Gentile shore, He does again in the Sacrament, filling those who have no right to the table with more than enough.
This week's class takes up Jeremiah 9, where the prophet names the root sickness twice — **"they do not know Me"** (Jer. 9:3, 9:6) — and hands us the one boast that survives it: **"that he understands and knows Me"** (Jer. 9:24). Paul later routes the whole Gospel through that verse: no flesh may boast, unless it boasts in the Lord (1 Cor. 1:31).
The Gerasene demoniac was a man no one could bind. James names the wisdom that builds a life like that: earthly, unspiritual, demonic, breeding envy and self-seeking until it makes "every evil thing." Then Jesus crosses the sea to unclean pagan ground for this one man, and with a single word, "Come out," He drowns Legion under the water. The man is left sitting, clothed, in his right mind. That is his Baptism, and ours, where the same word of Christ still drowns what binds us and seats us at His table.
Jeremiah 8 is a chapter of missed chances. Judah will not turn back — the stork in the sky knows her seasons, but God's people do not know the time of the LORD's judgment — and the prophets cry 'Peace, peace' where there is no peace. 'The harvest is past, the summer is ended, and we are not saved.' And then the ache that gives the chapter its name: 'Is there no balm in Gilead? Is there no physician there?' — a question the whole Gospel rises up to answer.
Jesus stops the worshiper at the altar: first be reconciled to your brother. The Fifth Commandment reaches the heart — anger, 'Raca,' the grudge nursed since Easter — so no one comes with clean hands, and God will not accept half a sacrifice. But this altar faces the other way: God left His throne and reconciled us by Christ's blood while we were still His enemies. So the righteousness that exceeds the scribes and Pharisees is not one we scrub up in ourselves
This Sunday Jeremiah stands in the gate of the temple and preaches against the one thing Judah trusted most — the building itself. "The temple of the LORD, the temple of the LORD," they chanted, certain God would never let His own house fall, even while they stole, murdered, and burned incense to Baal. But the house is no shelter for the people who profane it. The Lord names what it has become — a den of robbers — the very words Jesus would carry into that same temple, overturning the tables and driving out those who had made His Father's house a market.
Beneath all our Fourth-of-July talk of freedom lies a deeper freedom no fireworks can give and no tyrant can take away. Out on the open sea Simon Peter thought himself free — his own boat, his own water, his own catch, answerable to no one — and pulled up empty nets all night long. Then Christ climbs uninvited into the boat, the nets tear with the catch, and Peter falls down terrified: "Depart from me, for I am a sinful man." The Lord does the one thing the open sea never can: He does not depart, but catches the sinner alive — "Do not be afraid. From now on you will catch men."
St. Jude will not let us grow comfortable: the Lord saved a people out of Egypt and then destroyed those who would not believe. Faith can die, and a baptized man can become a cloud without water — all the look of a Christian with no rain in him. But the same Lord who judged the unbelieving in the wilderness comes down the mountain to a demon-tormented boy and a father who can barely pray, and He is faithful where our faith is little. Our safety is not the strength of our grip on Christ but His grip on us.
You have been somebody's disciple since the day you were born, and Jesus warns that you never rise above your teacher — given enough time, you simply become him. The world is a blind guide that trains us to judge first and forgive slowly, and we have become blind guides ourselves, reaching for the speck in a brother's eye with a plank in our own. But there is another Teacher: Jesus is the Father's mercy in the flesh, who takes our score-keeping heart to the cross and trains us in Baptism, Word, Absolution, and the Supper until we begin to look like Him.
The affliction that sweeps through your life is not a club driving you out but a broom sweeping you home: His pursuit, not your punishment. He answers the charge that He receives sinners with the lost sheep and the lost coin—lighting the lamp of His Word, laying the sheep on His own shoulders rejoicing, carrying you to the rail. You came in a lost coin and go out treasure in the King’s own hand.
The Lord sends Jeremiah running through Jerusalem to find one righteous man so the city may be pardoned—and finds none. The foe gathers from the north and Jeremiah’s vision unmakes creation itself over a people wise to do evil. The one Just Man is found at last outside the walls, and for His sake the city is spared.
For twelve years she had been unclean — exiled from the assembly, emptied by physicians who took everything and healed nothing. So she comes to steal a cure from the fringe of Jesus' garment, certain God's mercy runs out like everything else has. But His power goes out from Him and nothing is subtracted: she came to take a cure and leaves a daughter. There is always more where that came from.
"For My people have committed two evils: they have forsaken Me, the fountain of living waters, and hewn themselves cisterns — broken cisterns that can hold no water." (Jer. 2:13)
You have what Lazarus had. You have a name, given in the water. You have the promise — eternal life on account of the promise, not on account of your merits. You have Moses and the Prophets and the One they promised, who is here, on this altar, in your mouth and in your body.
Riley and Gillespie sit with Bo Giertz and read his open letter to the churches. Crisis, liberal theology, the resurrection as the center of preaching, and the church's endurance through every age.
You went into that water still carrying the old premise — still asking what resurrection could possibly mean, still uncertain whether the age to come is anything more than this age with the dying removed. And you came out having been given something you did not generate, extra nos, outside yourself, from the One whose Name was spoken over you.
Your kid bullied another kid. You said, “Tell him you’re sorry.” You taught him penance, not repentance. Penance trusts the child’s willpower. Repentance kills the old child and raises a new one. New blog: how parents and teachers preach the Gospel in real time.
He who scattered at Babel gathers here at Pentecost. He who divided the tongues there of evil, now unites them here for good. The same Spirit. The same fire. At Babel, God came down and scattered. At Pentecost, God came down to gather, and He gathered by preaching. Not by making the nations speak one language. By making the one Gospel spoken in every language. Every tongue heard the same thing: the Spirit gives you the peace Christ bought.
Take heart. He did not say try harder. He did not say believe more. He did not say feel something. He said take heart. Be of good cheer. Because — and this is the only because that holds — “I have overcome the world” (John 16:33). He has done it. It stands done. It will be done tomorrow morning, and the morning after that, and the morning your believing finally collapses entirely. The I that holds you is not yours.
