The More I Loved The World

“O come, O come, O Lord of might, as to your tribes on Sinai’s height in ancient times you gave the law in cloud, and majesty, and awe.”

Lutheran theology takes seriously the human condition, so we’re honest about our propensity to break the rules. The bar is simply too high; “all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God,” as the Apostle Paul puts it.[1] So for Lutherans, the law– that is, the whole collection of commandments in both the Hebrew Bible and the Newer Testament– functions as a sort of mirror, reflecting our frailty and our need for grace. And in so doing, the law inspires humility and compassion for others who are just as imperfect as we are.

That’s not how the people of Israel regard the law, however. Judaism may just as readily acknowledge the human tendency to err, but the law is first and foremost a mark of the covenant between God and God’s people. It’s a sign of God’s faithfulness, and so it’s the people’s primary means of honoring God: “I am the LORD,” God declares in Exodus, “who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of slavery; you shall have no other gods before me.”[2] Notice that God’s directive is tied to God’s saving action on behalf of God’s people: I am and I have set you free, says the Lord; therefore I have expectations of you.

From that perspective, God’s authority is a cause for joy: “I will bless the Lord who gives me counsel,” the psalmist sings; “my heart teaches me night after night…. You will show me the path of life; in your presence there is fullness of joy, and in your right hand are pleasures forevermore.” The psalmist rejoices that the law of the Lord is not finally written on tablets or paper, but on the heart. So, too, does the author of our second reading from Hebrews, harkening to the Prophet Jeremiah[3]: “This is the covenant that I will make with them after those days, says the Lord: I will put my laws in their hearts, and I will write them on their minds… I will remember their sins and their lawless deeds no more.” In the end, the law makes a way for grace. And, our shortcomings notwithstanding, God is intent on loving us all the way to abundant life.

For Christians, that’s where Jesus comes in. He is the Word of God incarnate, a word of both law and grace. “[Lord,] as we know you to be our judge,” we pray on this Second Sunday of Advent, “so we may welcome your reign as it is manifested through Jesus Christ our savior.” As I like to put it, God reserves the right to judge, and thank God the judgment is merciful. Jesus endures all the hostility humankind has to fling at him, yet he responds with only forgiveness; Jesus suffers our violence, nevertheless he offers us his own peace.

So, the Lord’s gracious counsel, which God speaks to the heart– the “path of life” that God reveals to us– is finally the way of love. “All I know now,” writes Spencer Reese, “is the more he loved me the more I loved the world.”[4] Or to quote our reading from Hebrews again: “Let us hold fast to the confession of our hope without wavering, [because] he who has promised is faithful. And let us consider how to provoke one another to love and good deeds… encouraging one another, and all the more as you see the Day approaching.”

Let me to encourage you today with the example of Saint Elizabeth of Hungary, renewer of society, whom the church commemorates on this date each year. Elizabeth was born in 1207 to King Andrew of Hungary, and betrothed as a child in order to seal a political alliance. She was raised at Wartburg Castle with her future husband, Ludwig, and the two grew fond of each other. When Ludwig succeeded his father as Landgrave, or nobleman, of Thuringia, the couple were married and started a family. Elizabeth was renowned for her generosity. On one occasion, she drew down on most of her wealth to stave off a local famine. On another, she provided refuge in her own home to a person suffering from leprosy. Both startling, both life-giving acts of faith.

In 1227, Ludwig died, and Elizabeth left the Wartburg– some accounts say that her brother-in-law expelled her– and went to live in Eisenach. There, on Good Friday, 1228, she renounced her worldly entitlements and took her vows as a devotee of Saint Francis. She built a hospice for the sick, the elderly, and the poor, and spent her remaining years providing for their care. Elizabeth fell ill and died on November 17^th, 1231, at the age of twenty-four.[5]

Like the psalmist, Saint Elizabeth perceived in the word of God the “path of life.” And the more the Lord loved her the more she loved the world. How else could she have faced down her hardships and the hardships of her neighbors with such grace? Friends, the invitation this Second Sunday of Advent is to call on that same Lord for counsel in the face of our own frailty: “O Lord, how shall I meet you, how [shall I] welcome you aright? Your people long to greet you, my hope, my heart’s delight! Oh, kindle, Lord, most holy, your lamp within my breast to do in spirit lowly all that may please you best.”[6]

[1] Romans 3:23.

[2] 20:2-3.

[3] 31:31-34.

[4] Cited by Christian Wiman, My Bright Abyss, 23.

[5] Philip H. Pfatteicher, Festivals and Commemorations, 425-6.

[6] Paul Gerhardt, “O Lord, How Shall I Meet You,” Evangelical Lutheran Worship, Assembly Edition, #241.