What Can a Dead Man Do

What Can a Dead Man Do?

A Sermon on Assurance
a sermon on Ephesians 2.1-10 by David C. Mauldin Westminster Presbyterian Church, Mobile, Alabama

The weekend retreat put on by the campus ministry proved to be a powerful experience. Toward the end came a time in which students were asked to make a commitment to Jesus Christ. One young man decided it was time to rededicate his life. He was wrestling with God. It was not as if he had been wandering far from the straight and narrow. He lived the Christian life as best he could. He even attended church regularly, though many of his Christian friends had become quite lax about going. He had professed his faith in Christ and been baptized at age 9. He rededicated at age 15 in the wake of a youth camp experience. Now he was once again in familiar territory. He felt God moving in his life. He wanted to be the person and the Christian God wanted him to be. His faith had not wavered. And yet he was haunted by uncertainties. Did he get it right? When he made his initial commitment to Christ, did he know what he was doing? When he renewed that commitment before, it was because he was aware at age 15—in a way he had not been at age 9—that he was a sinner in need of grace. But had his repentance been good enough? Had he been sufficiently sincere? He felt frustrated. By now he should be maturing as a Christian, and in some ways perhaps he was; yet somehow he could never be certain he had moved on from square 1. He was nagged by doubts about whether he was, after all, accepted by God, forgiven, and assured of eternal life. He knew God’s promises, and he believed they were for him, but he was a long way from certain. He wondered if he could ever be sure. His own faults and failings raised constant doubts. Did I get it right? Can I get it right this time? How can I know? How can I be sure?

That same Sunday morning, hundreds of miles away, a very different person was sitting in church agonizing over the same problem. She was middle age. OK, if we want to be completely honest she was on the downward side of middle age—about that age when health problems become a reality for most people. She was a life-long Christian. She was born into the church and baptized as an infant. Sunday school, confirmation, and the usual progression had followed. She had been active in church all her life, even if she had not been much of a leader. She wasn’t a teacher, but was usually in class. She didn’t plan events, but few things happened that she was not a part of. Recently the realization that she was closer to the end of her life than the beginning had dawned on her. She was shaken. She was not afraid of death, exactly. That wasn’t the problem. Rather, she suddenly could no longer take for granted many of the things she had always assumed—things such as God’s love. She had always tried to be a good Christian, and she had succeeded remarkably well. Yet she too felt nagged by uncertainty. How could she be sure she was right with God? She didn’t want hope. She wanted certainty. Was this even possible?
Today is Reformation Sunday, an occasion on which we look back to the Protestant Reformation in the 16th century and remind ourselves that we are a church “reformed and always being reformed, according to the Word of God.” In our day most people assume that anything that happened before their lifetime is irrelevant to them. Who cares about political and ecclesiastical squabbles that happened nearly 400 years ago in Europe? I admit politics played a large role in the Reformation, and yet I marvel that most of the issues that moved its key players can be found still today in the lives of ordinary people. The college student and the woman in her pew, for example—and maybe some of you—share the same basic struggle as Martin Luther. The child of God cries out in prayer, “Abba, Father …” yet how can you do that when in your mind God is an angry judge, his gavel poised and ready to strike? There is, of course, much more to the Reformation than Christian assurance. The Reformation was about authority in the church, how God blesses us through the sacraments, and much more. Assurance, however, is enough for today. It is certainly relevant, and it was at the heart of the Reformation.

To understand why, you need to know what the church had been teaching prior to the Reformation. Those of you who grew up on fire and brimstone will easily understand how the whole of Western Christendom teetered on the brink of being neurotic. Preaching, literature, and art were filled with images of judgment. God was, above all else in the medieval mind, a stern, unrelenting judge. To be forgiven and received into God’s good graces, one first of all had to be baptized. This was critical because all humans were believed to inherit not only Adam’s fallen nature, but also his guilt. But baptism was not enough, not nearly. If you sinned after your baptism, and everyone certainly did, then you must get repentance right. Repentance, as the theologians of that era defined it, consisted of three parts. First, contrition of heart—that is, you must be truly sorry for what you did. This left sensitive consciences in doubt. Was I sorry enough? Was I sincere enough? A lot was riding on those questions. Second, you must confess your sin verbally to a priest. The danger here was that you might forget a sin. If you did, and you therefore failed to mention it, God would hold it against you. If it were a minor sin, you would face time in purgatory. If it were serious, you would go to hell. Can you trust your memory? Medieval Christians hoped so because their very salvation could ride on it. Third, satisfaction of works—you had to do something to make up for your sin. It could be as simple as saying prayers, as difficult as a long pilgrimage, as dubious as killing the enemies of Christendom (in the case of the Crusades), or in the case of those indulgences that made Luther’s blood boil, as easy as paying money to the church. Beside the obvious problem with those last two, the whole system created fear because of the reasonable concern: How do I know my penance is enough? How can I be sure my good deeds have made proper satisfaction for my bad ones?

In the Middle Ages, Christians thought their salvation was in their own hands, so naturally they suffered a lot of anxiety. Before you laugh at their naiveté or criticize me for dredging up old theology that we don’t believe anymore, consider this: As a pastor I have seen the impulse to earn or buy God’s favor. Years ago I met a young man who never came to church. Out of the blue he gave a large donation to the church, far beyond his means. Basically he knew he wasn’t right with God. He didn’t want to change his ways too much. He got some sort of settlement check, and he hoped that a big contribution would square things with the man upstairs. You will rarely hear me disparage donations to the church, but it doesn’t work.

Countless times I have seen someone show up at a church and jump into its life with enthusiasm. They go from 0 to 60 in one week’s time: From no participation in church at all to doing everything they possibly can. I often suspect they are looking for certainty or for God’s favor. They get to a point where they realize they need God, but instead of surrendering to his will for their life, they keep running their own playbook and hope God will give them a few breaks. Nearly always they wash out after a while. They hope that if they start living like a good Christian, God will exempt them from struggle and suffering. When God doesn’t come through, they move on.

Most of us are not in that category. We know God cannot be bribed, and yet today’s Protestant can be as anxious about his or her salvation as any Catholic in the Middle Ages. Now, as then, not everyone suffers from an over-active conscience; but we all need to know where we stand with God and how we stand there.

The answer, of course, is grace. The Reformers, drawing on scripture, pointed to God’s free mercy as our only hope and as the solid ground of our assurance. As long as our relationship with God and our eternal destiny depend upon us, they are gravely in doubt. Happily, they do not depend on us. Instead they depend on God. Because this is true, we can live confidently and joyfully, without those nagging doubts.

The Reformation was a return to scripture. Reformers such as Luther and Calvin never expected us to take their word for it. They invited us to scripture, and today’s passage is just what we need. Let’s poke through it a bit, and I’ll share with you some of their insights.

It begins by saying God made us alive when we were dead. Calvin and others made a big deal about that little word dead. What is our spiritual condition without Christ? Are we pretty much OK, capable of doing good or evil, so we need to try to do more good than evil? According to scripture God has a higher standard than that. Plus, we are not morally neutral. We incline toward evil. Or are we sick or broken or some other word that would mean we have a serious problem, but we might yet hope we can overcome it? Again, things are worse than that. Scripture has another word to describe our condition: dead. As far as our standing with God goes, before we know Christ, we are dead. And what can a dead person do to become alive again? Nothing. That’s the point of using the word dead. There is nothing we can do. Not good works, not sincere repentance, nothing we can do or hope to get right, in order that God will be happy with us. We were dead. Yet God made us alive.

Here’s something odd about Presbyterianism you may not have realized. Out of all the religions, philosophies, and ideologies in the world—at least any that I have heard of—the one with the lowest view of human nature is Presbyterianism. It’s true. That’s one thing I like about our church. The longer I live the lower my opinion of human nature falls. Good Presbyterian theology says there is no good in us. Because of our nature is fallen we are incapable of good. Yes, we can do remarkable things, but everything we do is tainted by rebellion against God. Even the noblest action you perform is adulterated with some impure motive. Worse yet, we are largely blind to our own faults. We are totally depraved—dead through our trespasses and sins. Notice we do not believe in utter depravity. We humans are not as bad as we could possibly be. Total depravity means there is no part of us that remains unfallen, nothing untainted by sin. And so, we are unable to please God.

Now you might expect such a sorry opinion of human nature to make us cynical or apathetic. Just the opposite is true. Of all the religions and philosophies, Presbyterianism is one of the most positive about human beings and our destiny. Presbyterians have a high view of humanity. We are made in the image of God. Life and the good things in it are gifts God intends us to enjoy. We always strive to do good and to love others. After all, our destiny is nothing less than to share all the glory that belongs to Jesus Christ. I ask you: How do we get from totally depraved to such lively joy and hope? The answer is: God’s grace. It makes all the difference. We were dead. God made us alive. What you and I were powerless to do—or even to desire!—God gave us through Jesus Christ.

Toward the end of our passage is a familiar verse: “For by grace you have been saved through faith; and this is not your own doing, it is the gift of God—not because of works, lest anyone should boast.” The Reformers were always careful to give God full credit for our changed lives and salvation. It is not that God does the first 20% and we have to follow with the next 80. Nor is it 50/50. In fact, it is not even 99% God and 1% us. God does 100%. Because of this concern, they made everything a gift from God. Salvation is not a transaction, in which you give God something such as faith or good works in exchange for eternal life. It is a gift. It is grace.

We are saved by Jesus Christ. How does he come to us? How do we come to be in him? Through faith. The Reformers said faith is as much a gift from God as it is something you do. You hear the Good News about Jesus—and that’s grace. You believe it—that’s grace too. You repent and give your life to God—that’s grace too. Every bit of it is a gift God gives. Calvin, for example, said that although forgiveness never comes to us without repentance, repentance is not the cause of forgiveness—God’s mercy is. That’s why we do not have to stay awake at night worrying if our repentance is good enough. God’s mercy is good enough, and that’s what matters.

Even faith is a gift. Our passage, by the way, does not say that, although it does not deny it either. When it says, “it is the gift of God—not because of works,” the it refers to our salvation, not to the word faith. We know this because in Greek nouns have gender, and the pronoun it does not match the noun faith. Nevertheless, when you believe the Good News, know with certainty that God’s promises are for you, and trust God to keep them (and this is what faith is), that is always the result of the Holy Spirit’s work in your life. Like repentance, faith is something you do, but it is first and foremost the work of God in you.

The same can be said for good works. When Jesus comes into a person’s life, he changes them. You cannot come to God and remain the same old person you used to be. This does not mean that your new life is the reason God accepts you. Instead, God’s mercy is the reason for your new life. Although Paul says our works are useless so far as our standing with God is concerned—because salvation is entirely a gift of God’s grace—he doesn’t forget the importance of right living. “For we are his workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand that we should walk in them.” Good works follow from our salvation, and they too are the work of God in us. Dr. George Caird, a New Testament scholar, helps me understand this. He wrote: “Salvation may be achieved as a free gift of God, but it is not a thing, an object to be transferred from a donor to a beneficiary; it is a life to be lived, a right access into a presence, a relationship with God” [New Testament Theology, p. 143]. I like that. Salvation is a life to be lived: a life of faith and repentance, a life of doing good and loving God and neighbor, a life that comes to us as a gift from God, an eternal life.

I also like what Paul says in these verses about boasting. It’s a good insight. If people think their salvation depends on how good they are, there will always be some with sensitive consciences, like Martin Luther or the two people in the stories at the beginning of this sermon, who find no peace with God no matter how hard they try. But for every one of them, there are a thousand who sleep very well because they assume they are good enough. They wrongly assume that if you want to be right with God all you have to do is be more good than bad, or mostly good. After all, God can’t set the bar too high or no one gets in, right? So they compare themselves with other people, and they feel pretty good. On the one hand, it is easy to feel morally superior to Hitler, Saddam Hussien, and Osama ben Laden. On the other hand, we humans always find it easy to see our neighbor’s faults and difficult to spot our own. So by comparing the worst in their neighbors with the best in themselves, they think they have a reason to boast. “God must like me,” they say to themselves, “I’m not a bad person. I’m a really decent person—even a good person. Surely I’m going to be all right.”

Grace means more than comfort to the Martin Luthers among us. It means the end of pride and self-sufficiency for the rest of us. It means we go to God empty-handed. We let go of our pretensions and pretending. We leave behind our delusions of adequacy. We embrace Jesus Christ, and in him we receive life.

The problem with theology in the Middle Ages was not that they thought God is a stern judge but it turns out he isn’t. God is a holy and fearsome judge. The problem was they forgot grace—that for those who are in Christ, God is no longer a judge but is a loving Father. This is what Christ does for us. And it is what the Reformation reminds us of.

Let’s end this sermon the way it began, with a question: How can you be certain? Certain of forgiveness. Certain of God’s love. Certain of eternal life, that you will go to heaven and not that other place I preached about last Sunday. Just answer two questions: Did Jesus die for you? The answer is yes, and if that is your answer, then you have faith and even a small, weak faith is faith. Was anything lacking in the satisfaction he made for your sin—anything you would have to jump in and complete—or did he do it all? I hope you know the answer to that one. Christ is sufficient. Christ alone.

Your hope—no, I’ll go further than that—your certainty rests upon the grace of God and the sufficiency of Jesus Christ. Whenever you are in doubt, look to him. You were dead in your sins and trespasses, but God has made you alive with Christ. Live your new life in him with confidence, joy, gratitude, and love. God’s grace makes all the difference. Amen.

rev_mauldin@yahoo.com
October 29, 2006

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