Thanksgiving is supposed to be a day when we stop and admit something we usually avoid: the best things in life aren’t things we made for ourselves. They’re given. We didn’t invent love. We didn’t manufacture the people who care about us. We didn’t earn the food on our table as much as we like to pretend. Even our breath is borrowed.

And if you can’t forgive—then the place to go is not deeper into your resentment but deeper into Christ. The lack of forgiveness is not a moral deficiency; it is a spiritual emergency. It is unbelief expressing itself in hatred. The fix is not to “try harder.” The fix is to repent—to receive again what Christ won for you on the cross, what He pours on you in Baptism, what He puts into your ears through Absolution, what He sets upon your tongue in the Holy Supper. His forgiveness is the only thing that makes your forgiveness possible.

Forgiveness is the beating heart of the Church. It is the air the Christian breathes. It is the witness the world needs but rarely sees. The greatest scandal in the Church is not that Jesus forgives the wicked. It is that Christians refuse to forgive each other. But not you. Not today. Christ forgives you. All of it. Every debt. Every sin. Every thought you hope no one ever discovers. It is gone. You are free.

¹⁷ But we, brethren, having been taken away from you for a short time in presence, not in heart, endeavored more eagerly to see your face with great desire. ¹⁸ Therefore we wanted to come to you—even I, Paul, time and again—but Satan hindered us. ¹⁹ For what is our hope, or joy, or crown of rejoicing? Is it not even you in the presence of our Lord Jesus Christ at His coming? ²⁰ For you are our glory and joy.

On a day like this, the Word of God must do the heavy lifting. Your hearts carry sorrow, memories, gratitude, and perhaps even a measure of relief that her long journey is now complete and peaceful. But the Lord carries something greater—His promises. And today, we anchor those promises in the confirmation verse Karen confessed many decades ago: “Commit your way to the LORD; trust in Him, and He will act.”

Whatever has withered in you — your courage, your faith, your marriage, your hope — Christ restores. Whatever guilt still weighs you down, His blood cancels. Whatever shame still clings to you, His mercy covers. Whatever sin still chains you, His outstretched arm breaks it open and pulls you into His embrace.

This is where the kingdom begins to break in. And this is where your repayment begins — not in money or reward, but in resurrection, in mercy, in joy that never ends. So when Jesus says, “Invite the poor,” He’s not just telling you what to do. He’s telling you who you are. You are the poor. You are the blind. You are the one who can’t repay. And still, He invites you.

To be a saint is to be a beggar before God. But to be a beggar before God is to be blessed with the kingdom of heaven. Because God fills what is empty. He lifts what has fallen. He gives what we could never buy.“Blessed are the poor in spirit,” Jesus says, “for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” He doesn’t say, “will be.” He says, “is.” Right now. This kingdom already belongs to those who know they’ve got nothing.

For this reason we also thank God without ceasing, because when you received the word of God which you heard from us, you welcomed it not as the word of men, but as it is in truth, the word of God, which also effectively works in you who believe.

But you can’t patch the old with a little grace. You can’t pour the new life of Christ into the old self that wants to run the show. The old self has to die. The old wineskin has to burst. That’s what happens in Baptism. The old Adam is drowned. The new man rises. That’s what happens in Absolution. The old guilt is forgiven. The new life begins again. That’s what happens in the Supper. The old hunger is met with new wine—Christ’s own Blood poured out for you, filling you with His forgiveness and His life.

And here comes Jesus—with no lecture, no conditions, no delay— “Take heart, son. Your sins are forgiven.” That’s not just a kind word. That’s a word that changes everything. That’s a word that moves you from death to life. We might think Jesus got it wrong—this man came for healing, and Jesus gave forgiveness. But that’s the point. Forgiveness is the healing. The real sickness isn’t in the legs; it’s in the heart. It’s the sin that separates us from God. And Jesus cuts straight to it. This isn’t Jesus showing off for the Pharisees or using the man as an object lesson. No, He loves him. He loves him enough to give him what matters most: peace with God.

The Marks of a Living Church

1. Faith – receiving the Word with the Spirit’s power.

2. Love – laboring for neighbor amid affliction.

3. Hope – steadfastly waiting for Christ’s return.

4. Election – grounded in Christ, not in speculation.

5. Conversion – turning from false gods to the living God.

As Gerhard writes, “Where these three—faith, love, and hope—flourish, there the Church is alive, for Christ Himself dwells there through the Spirit.”

You want to talk about weeds? Look at the cross. There’s the Lord of the harvest—hanging among the weeds, counted as one of them, so He could raise up a field of wheat. He took our impatience, our distrust, our self-appointed judgment. He took it all into the ground, and on the third day, the true Wheat sprouted from the soil—first-fruits of a new creation. Now He’s at work in you. In this messy, mixed-up field we call the church, He’s working through His Word, watering you with baptism, feeding you with His body and blood, forgiving, pruning, reshaping, keeping the wheat alive until harvest.

Now you belong to that love. You live from that love. You give what you’ve received — not perfectly, but faithfully. Because the one who loves you doesn’t keep score. He doesn’t measure your worth. He gives Himself to you over and over — in preaching, in baptism, in the Supper — until His love fills every empty space in your heart.

That’s how you learn to love your neighbor — not by trying harder, but by being filled with Christ. You can’t give what you don’t have. You can’t love from emptiness. But Christ gives you Himself — His body, His blood, His forgiveness, His Spirit — so that His love becomes yours.

Thessalonica, a thriving port city and capital of Macedonia (modern Greece), was a Roman provincial capital—wealthy, diverse, and deeply pagan.. Paul had preached there for only a few weeks (Acts 17:1-9) before being driven out by persecution. Many Gentiles and some Jews had converted and were now suffering opposition. Persecution quickly forced Paul to leave. Later, Timothy brought news of their endurance, and Paul wrote this letter to encourage, instruct, and comfort them in their faith.

Because the truth endures when the world forgets. The Word stands firm when everything else falls. And the glory of God — the crucified, risen, forgiving Jesus — is still shining, still calling, still healing, still saving. So look to Him. Not to the crowd. Not to the opinions of others. Look to the One Isaiah saw, the One lifted up for your salvation. Look to His cross, His wounds, His mercy. That’s the glory that matters. That’s the glory that lasts.

Up is down. Down is up. That’s not a clever riddle. That’s how the kingdom of God works. When you keep climbing, you’ll fall. When you bow low, you’ll be lifted high. “Whoever exalts himself will be humbled, and he who humbles himself will be exalted.”

Thesis X — To the preaching office, according to divine right, belongs also the office to judge doctrine, but laymen also possess this right. Therefore, in the ecclesiastical courts and councils they are accorded both a seat and vote together with the preachers.

Follow him, and you’ll lose some things—your pride, your self-importance, your false security. But you’ll gain everything. Because when you have Jesus, even with nothing at all, you are complete. The rich man walked away sad. But you don’t have to. You can walk away free—free to give, free to love, free to live like someone who already owns heaven. Because Christ, the only One who is good, has called you his own.

Death still stings, but it cannot keep you. The grave still claims the body, but not the soul. Christ has made death a servant of life, turning the enemy into the doorway through which He brings His saints home. And so, when the day comes—and it will—when your strength fails and your eyes grow dim, do not be afraid. Christ will be there, as He was at Nain, as He was at the tomb, as He is here now. And He will say to you, not as a command of judgment but as a word of promise: “I say to you, arise!”