Faithful in the Little While

Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be always acceptable in thy sight, O Lord, my strength and my redeemer. Lord, give us eyes to see and ears to hear, that we may learn Your Word together as a family. We give You all praise and honor and glory, in Jesus’ holy Name. Amen.

Good morning again, Encouragers. This morning’s Collect is plainspoken, but it is not soft. It asks something serious of us:

“Almighty God, who showest to them that are in error the light of thy truth, to the intent that they may return into the way of righteousness; Grant unto all them that are admitted into the fellowship of Christ’s Religion, that they may eschew those things that are contrary to their profession, and follow all such things as are agreeable to the same.”

That is not a prayer about people “out there.” It is not first aimed at strangers to the Church. It is a prayer for us.

For baptized people. Praying people. Churchgoing people. People who know the Creed, hear the Scriptures, come to the altar, and call Jesus Lord.

And the prayer is not, “Lord, begin something in us.” It is, “Lord, keep us faithful to what You have already given.”

Keep us from saying one thing with our lips and walking another way with our lives. Keep us from making peace with things that are contrary to our profession. Keep us in the way of righteousness.

That fits the Epistle and Gospel very closely.

St. Peter calls Christians “strangers and pilgrims.” That is who we are. Not tourists. Not spectators. Pilgrims. People on the way.

We live here. We work here. We love here. We suffer here. But this world is not our final home. And if we forget that, we will start trying to settle down too comfortably in a place we were only meant to pass through faithfully.

Then, in the Gospel, our Lord speaks to His disciples about sorrow.

“A little while, and ye shall not see me: and again, a little while, and ye shall see me.”

They do not understand Him. They are troubled. They are confused. And our Lord does not shame them for being confused. He simply tells them the truth.

“Ye shall weep and lament, but the world shall rejoice: and ye shall be sorrowful, but your sorrow shall be turned into joy.”

That is the Christian life in one sentence.

Not that Christians never sorrow. Not that Easter means there is no grief left. Not that faith makes us numb. It does not.

But in Christ, sorrow is not final. Sorrow is real, but it is not sovereign. It passes through. It is on the clock. It does not get the last word.

That is why our Lord gives the image of a woman in travail. The anguish is real. The pain is not imaginary. But it is pain moving toward birth. Pain with a purpose. Pain that will not end in emptiness, but in joy.

And that is where St. Peter helps us. He tells us how to live in this in-between time. How to live between the Lord’s resurrection and our final rest. How to live as people whose sorrow has already been claimed by Christ, while still having to walk through this present world.

“Dearly beloved, I beseech you as strangers and pilgrims, abstain from fleshly lusts, which war against the soul.”

Notice that phrase: “war against the soul.”

He does not say these things merely bother the soul. Or distract the soul. Or make life a little untidy.

They war against the soul.

There is a battle going on, and it is not only out there somewhere. It is in here.

Pride. Anger. Vanity. Bitterness. Self-will. Secret indulgence. Resentment. Contempt. Unclean desire. The need to justify ourselves. The need to have the last word.

These are not harmless little habits. They war against the soul.

And pilgrims must not make peace with what is killing them.

That is a needed word, because we are often far more patient with our own sins than we are with other people’s. We excuse in ourselves what we condemn in the world.

“Well, that is just how I am.”

But the Collect will not let us hide there. It says there are things contrary to our profession. Contrary. Not neutral. Not harmless. Contrary.

And if something is contrary to our profession, we cannot cherish it without damage. It has to be eschewed. Put away. Refused. Denied.

Not because we are trying to earn God’s favor. We are not. But because we have already been admitted into the fellowship of Christ’s Religion. We belong to Him now. We must not live as though another master still owns us.

Then Peter moves outward.

“Having your conversation honest among the Gentiles.”

That means our manner of life. Our conduct. Our visible, ordinary, everyday way of living. Let it be honest. Let it be clean. Let it have integrity.

Why?

So that even those who speak against you may, by seeing your good works, glorify God.

That matters. Christian witness is not first a matter of cleverness. It is not mainly about winning arguments. It is the witness of a life brought under the rule of Christ.

A life marked by honesty. Humility. Patience. Reverence. Self-control.

A life with less malice in it. Less pretense. Less grasping. Less self-importance.

In other words, a pilgrim life.

Now that does not mean a timid life. Peter is not telling Christians to disappear into the wallpaper. He is telling them to live so truly, so cleanly, so steadily, that even a hostile world has to reckon with the difference.

And that is not easy.

It was not easy then, and it is not easy now. Christians have always had to learn how to live under pressure without becoming bitter. How to live under scrutiny without becoming performative. How to live among those who do not understand us without becoming arrogant on the one hand, or ashamed on the other.

That is where the Old Testament lesson gives us a picture.

David comes to Nob as a man in flight. He is not settled. He is not secure. He is hungry, endangered, and dependent.

He is the Lord’s anointed, and yet he is not enthroned. He is chosen, and yet he is hunted.

That is often the condition of God’s people in this world.

We belong to the risen Christ, and yet we still feel the strain of the wilderness. We have been claimed by the kingdom of God, and yet we still get tired. We still get hungry. We still get frightened. We still become painfully aware that we are not in control.

And there, in David’s need, God provides bread.

Not luxury. Not ease. Not a throne. Bread. Enough.

Holy provision in the middle of distress.

That too is a word for us. The Lord does not promise that His pilgrims will never know fear, hunger, uncertainty, or sorrow. He promises that He will not abandon them.

He will feed them. He will sustain them. He will preserve them. He will be with them in the wilderness, not merely waiting for them at the end of it.

The Psalms say the same thing.

Psalm 113 tells us that the Lord “humbleth himself to behold the things that are in heaven and earth.” He is high, and yet He stoops. He is glorious, and yet He regards the lowly. He is not too great to see His people in their need.

And Psalm 124 says what every faithful soul eventually learns to say:

“If the Lord himself had not been on our side.”

If the Lord had not been on our side, we would have been swallowed up. If the Lord had not been on our side, we would not have made it. If the Lord had not been on our side, the flood would have gone over us.

But He was on our side.

That is Easter faith.

Not a denial of danger, but the confession of deliverance. Not pretending the waters were never deep, but confessing that the Lord brought us through them.

So what does Easter 3 ask of us?

It asks us to live like Christians who know where home is.

It asks us to remember that we have been admitted into something. Into the fellowship of Christ’s Religion. Into a visible body. Into a holy way. Into a life of repentance, worship, obedience, and hope.

It asks us to stop treating sin like an old friend when it is really an enemy of the soul.

It asks us to behave honorably in a world that may not honor Christ.

It asks us to endure present sorrow without forgetting promised joy.

And it asks us to trust that the Lord who raised Jesus from the dead is not absent in the little whiles of our confusion.

That phrase from the Gospel is worth holding onto:

“A little while.”

To the disciples, it did not feel little. Sorrow never does. In fear, a night is long. In grief, an hour can stretch on and on. In uncertainty, we do not know what the Lord is doing, and His words may seem hidden from us.

But Christ knew what was on the other side of that little while.

They did not.

He did.

And the same is true for us.

There are little whiles in every Christian life. Little whiles of waiting. Little whiles of prayer that seems unanswered. Little whiles of pain, loss, loneliness, temptation, and confusion.

But for those who belong to the risen Christ, the little while is not forever.

The sorrow is not forever.

The night is not forever.

“I will see you again,” our Lord says, “and your heart shall rejoice, and your joy no man taketh from you.”

That is not cheap comfort. That is resurrection promise.

And because that promise is true, we can live differently now.

We can live cleanly now.

We can repent seriously now.

We can endure patiently now.

We can walk as strangers and pilgrims now.

Not because this world is easy. It is not. But because Christ is risen, and our future is secure in Him.

So let us ask God this morning not only for comfort, though He surely gives it.

Let us ask Him for faithfulness.

That we may eschew those things that are contrary to our profession, and follow all such things as are agreeable to the same.

And then, when our little whiles are over, when sorrow has done its worst and death has lost its claim, faith shall give way to sight.

We shall see Him again. Our heart shall rejoice. And no man shall take that joy from us.

Amen.

In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.