https://assets-cdn2.dropwave.io/086174f0-efbe-400f-a3e9-b91549a26ab7/media/Trinity 11 AD 2026.mp3

https://app.dropwave.io/show/our-savior-lynchburg/trinity-11-ad-2026

++ JESU JUVA ++

In the Name of the Father and of the + Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

In this world, there are many altars, many ways a person can worship his god. There is only one true God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. He alone is to be worshipped. And He is to be worshipped only in the way that He proscribes.

When I talk about “ways” of worshipping God, I’m not talking about the outward form or what some might call style. I’m not talking about music or vestments or ceremonies, even though we should exercise discernment in these things. How we use these things flows out of a proper understanding of worship. But that isn’t the conversation for today. Today we are dealing with the content of worship. What is the content of worship that God accepts?

One thing makes worship acceptable to God: faith in what Jesus has offered. Faith alone, apart from any works, makes us acceptable to God and unites us to Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. This means that going to church and helping and serving your neighbor won’t bring you closer to God or make Him more pleased with you — good as those things are. But with faith alone in what Christ has offered, you are justified and the whole keeping of God’s law is credited to you.

Two men went to the Temple. They both come to pray before God. We might rather say that two men went to church. They came to the Divine Service, to the place where God serves His people, proclaims His grace and mercy, and gives out His forgiveness, life, and salvation.

That’s what’s happening in the Temple at that time of day: a lamb was sacrificed. With the blood, the priest would then enter the Holy Place to offer incense and to pray for the people. The Pharisee and the tax collector come with the whole congregation. They offer their own private, personal prayers.

The Pharisee has rehearsed and arranged his prayer. Like his prayer, his life is one of meticulous order. He is upright. He hasn’t cheated his neighbor. He has lived a chaste and decent life in what he says and does. He tithes everything he has.

On the other hand, the tax collector seems doomed even before he enters the temple. First of all, he’s a tax collector — a job well-known for corruption and theft. As a tax collector, it’s surprising that he’s even permitted to enter the Temple. He has no righteousness of his own to bring.

He doesn’t claim to be the one honest tax collector in the world. Nor does he offer excuses. He is afraid and ashamed. He will not even lift up his eyes. He has betrayed his people. He has sold his soul. He has acted on his baser desires, lived by greed, malice, and treachery. He agrees that the law condemns him. He agrees with the Lord’s judgment. Then there’s his prayer. He beats his breast — a sign of profound grief. Full of sorrow, he confesses that he is lost and condemned and cannot free himself. He has a singular and simple prayer: “God, be merciful to me, a sinner!” (Luke 18:13). This means, “God, receive that sacrifice upon the altar and cover my sins with its blood.”

This is a great irony within Christianity: those who are forgiven of their sin, who have been baptized and belong to Christ — these know and feel their sin. They are troubled by it. They are ashamed of it. They speak of it awkwardly. But for those who are in sin, who embrace it and justify themselves — they seem satisfied and comfortable.

Who goes home justified? Whom does God declare innocent and free? The tax collector — the one who brought God only grief and shame for his sins, the one horrified to name the wickedness his hands and heart had done. Why is he accepted? Is it because of his public display of repentance? No. His repentance doesn’t purchase God's forgiveness. His sorrow doesn’t make him righteous. Biblically speaking, tears and repentance often belong together. In Luke 7, there’s a woman so troubled by her sins that she cries so much that she can wash Jesus’ feet. The prophet Joel calls people to repent “with all your heart, with fasting, with weeping, and with mourning” (Joel 2:12).

The tax collector doesn’t get justified because he’s sorry. Sorrow alone doesn’t make one pleasing to God. Saint Peter knows something about that. When he had denied Jesus, he went out and “wept bitterly.” His tears didn’t reconcile him to God. That happened when he heard the word of peace from Jesus. Judas, also, was tearful after his sin,but sorrow without faith in Christ could not save him. You could weep gallons and gallons of tears, and it wouldn’t help you before God. God does not delight in sacrifice (Psalm 51:16). “The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit, A broken and a contrite heart—These, O God, You will not despise” (Psalm 51:17).

There are two kinds of sorrow. Saint Paul writes: “For godly sorrow produces repentance leading to salvation, not to be regretted; but the sorrow of the world produces death” (2 Corinthians 7:10). The Pharisee had the sorrow of the world, and he brought forth only fruits of death. The tax collector had godly sorrow, centered on the shed blood of Christ. He receives life.

One man is rejected. The other man is received. The tax collector goes home worthy of eternal life with God. The Pharisee goes home condemned and cursed.

There’s a painting in the Netherlands that displays this well. It has three panels. The center panel depicts the scene in the Temple. The side panels show what happens afterward. On the right, we see the tax collector content, accompanied by an angel. On the left, the proud Pharisee is overshadowed by a demon.

The difference is in what they have brought and presented to God. The Pharisee has brought in a large contribution to offer God. He offers God dead works. Outwardly appearing good, these works have come from a heart that trusts in its own works and goodness. The heart from which these works come, like the works themselves, has the appearance of life and love, but it’s dead toward God.

Maybe you don’t think you offer God these things, but how often do you offer these things to your neighbor? I know I have. Maybe I’ve done something wrong — and I know it’s wrong — but I don’t want to admit it. So I’ll mumble, “Sorry,” and hope my neighbor will leave me alone about it. I don’t say it because I am sorry. I say it because I’m not. In my pride, I think that mumbling the words will resolve the trouble and everything can go back to normal. I’ve outwardly admitted my guilt — sort of. Inwardly, though, I’m rehearsing all the excuses and working to justify myself.