I first got to know the name James Nestingen through what I still believe is the best confirmation text ever produced — the first edition of Free to Be co-written with Gerhard Førde. (Jim was unhappy with the later revision of it by AugsburgFortress.)

But while I heard him speak from time to time, the first occasion I spent at length with him was the Lutheran CORE Conference at Lindenhurst, Illinois, on September 28, 2007. Many of Jim’s friends and students describe him with the word “prophet,” and he was certainly in full prophetic mode at that event regarding the directions the ELCA was taking. The event gathered those of us who would lead the response to the sexuality decisions that would be made a few years later, leading to the change in strategy of Lutheran CORE and the formation of the North American Lutheran Church.

Jim represented a somewhat different version of Lutheranism than I had grown up with in my eastern LCA context, and I found it enlightening and refreshing, not to replace but to supplement the ways I had come to understand the faith. I learned from him to say with regularity, “we sinners,” as I would preach and teach. Jim would tell us that we should always listen for a confession in conversations with people. He understood the brokenness of our fallen world, and exulted in the Word of absolution that we dare to speak on the authority of the Son of God Himself.

Not that Jim ever claimed to be anything other than one of “us sinners.” And he could sin boldly from time to time. For him, theology was not an abstract intellectual enterprise, but God’s life-saving intervention in the world with the Word of Life we are empowered to speak through Jesus. He stood on “grace alone,” knowing that even our repentance is God’s gift through the Holy Spirit, channeled through the Word and the Sacraments.

Jim was not given to moderation, because his life was a huge love affair with Jesus. He and I had one difficult time when he demanded that Lutheran CORE rescind our invitation to a speaker with whom he had personal and theological conflicts. When we refused, our relationship was tense for a while, but we both moved beyond it. Lovers sometimes over-react, and Jim threw his whole being into the service of the Lord he loved. He was indeed a jealous lover of the Lord who he knew loved him with the same intensity.

As a speaker, nobody could hold the attention of an audience, lay or clergy, as well as Jim could. His repertoire of Sven, Ole, and Lena jokes along with often-scatological humor (which prevented most preachers from stealing his material) interfaced well with his profound theological insights, always centering on the Word of forgiveness Jesus proclaims through us. His North Dakota Scandinavian farmer persona helped humanize his brilliant teaching, and he could share personal stories of his encounters with real people and how the Word of forgiveness encountered them. Often he and all his hearers were in tears as he recounted these stories, even stoic Germans like me.

I still remember his story of visiting a dying friend, whispering in his ears as he was leaving this life, “The next voice you hear will be Jesus.” That is how real and concrete Jim’s faith was, and I know I became a better pastor because of my contacts with him.

Jim has been bothered these last years by painful ailments, and while he limited his travel he still managed to make it to NALC conferences and events, and to serve on our Commission on Theology and Doctrine (CTD). He arrived early in Dallas for the CTD meeting in November as my deans’ meeting was ending, so we got to spend a little time conversing together. While he was in obvious pain, somehow he found a way to fly there and continue to offer his guidance to the church body he helped bring into existence. I remember with thanksgiving these last conversations I had with him until we two redeemed sinners meet again around the Throne.

His death was sudden, and there was evidently nobody to whisper in his ear, “The next voice you hear will be Jesus.” But Jim already knew the voice of the Good Shepherd whom he loved and served so faithfully, and he surely knew Who was welcoming him into his heavenly home.

Whoever said it, said it well:
without the absolution—“I forgive you all your sins for Jesus’
sake”—Lutheranism has no particular reason to exist.  Every issue of the Reformation, from
preaching and the sacraments to papal authority, revolved around the bedrock
confession that sinners receive mercy through Christ alone.  Luther put it clearly in the Large Catechism:
“Everything, therefore, in the Christian Church is ordered to the end that we
shall daily obtain there nothing but the forgiveness of sin” (Large Catechism,
The Creed).  Forgiveness is God’s
mission, and there is no clearer statement of it than the absolution.   If we want to talk renewal, both in the
Church and in society, it must begin with that justifying word.

For Jesus’ Sake

I see a video of prisoners in
Madagascar crowding around a Lutheran pastor for worship.  What brings them?  I imagine, perhaps wrongly, that they are
like the incarcerated men and women to whom my congregation has
ministered.  Some of them come because
they want a good word, while others are there to look good or because it’s a
break from the cell.  Despite such mixed motives,
they also come knowing something basic about the faith: it’s supposed to be
good for people with problems.  It’s
supposed to welcome people like them.  Why
do they think so?  Where could such a
rumor have started?  “I forgive you all
your sins for Jesus’ sake.”  The Holy
Spirit has fitted those words like a virus to the mixed up ideas and motives of
men.  It seeps through the cracks of all
our walls as a day-long conference on dismantling patriarchy never could.

But now I come to a church near you, the one that promises to welcome everyone.  I spend 65 minutes there trying to be invisible, as I’m on vacation and don’t feel social.  Yet where I usually fail at being invisible, something else succeeds at doing so perfectly well: “I forgive you.”  Where did it go?  Is it still around here somewhere?  Why, yes, it’s buried between two hard covers the color of a Thanksgiving relish, and it stayed there, too.  There was a lot of splashing about at the font — it’s the “Thanksgiving for Baptism,” the bulletin says — but no one ever heard what it’s all about.  Is renewal possible here? 

The absolution is the renewal, for both church and society, for several reasons.  First, it renews the church because it puts the church back where it belongs: in front of the empty tomb, facing the wide-open future that shines in the face of Christ.  Like the empty tomb, forgiveness doesn’t erase the past.  To the contrary, it carries the past forward — He’s still the man who died on the cross, wounds and all — but in such a way that this person with such a past may yet live, love, be worthy, and even rule.   What excitement!  What release! 

Lost in Jesus

So if we want to renew the church’s mind on the matter of sexual ethics, for example, then we need to start talking forgiveness into that subject.   That is, we must show more than how the New-Old Lies, with all their denial of family and creation, drift from the Biblical prescriptions.   We must also carry those prescriptions to their end and show how the New-Old Lies corrupt the proclamation of forgiveness.   Did Jesus die for this or that behavior?  If so, then He died to forgive it, and we must contend for such — Christ’s honor demands it.  “I cannot say it isn’t a sin, for then I would be stealing Christ’s glory from Him.  He died to forgive it, you see.  It’s in His hands, not yours or mine.”  The sin must get lost in Jesus somewhere between Gabbatha and the grave, preached as sunken into His flesh and buried with Him, so that it’s no longer God’s to condemn nor ours to practice.  It’s all on Jesus now—you can’t have it back! 

That kind of absolution-thinking keeps opening a new future to the same old past.  It disarms those who would make our debates a matter of old vs. new, letter vs. spirit, Pharisees vs. Jesus People (the binary couplings that even revisionists can’t kick, apparently), and turns our controverted subjects towards God’s mission, the speaking of the Gospel into every sin and circumstance.  Most importantly, it passes on the rumor that first spread like fire among the apostles: God’s in love with you, and isn’t counting sins against you.  This faith is good for us people with problems. It gives us a future with God and with each other and all of creation—“for wherever forgiveness is, there also are life and salvation” (Small Catechism, The Sacrament of the Altar).

Infectious Rumor of Mercy

Yet this absolution, coming from God, may renew things well beyond the church, because God’s goodness always seems to spill over its borders.  The absolution carries in itself more than a new future and a happy Lord.  It carries also the stamp of that Lord’s virtue and wholesome way.  To trust forgiveness is to trust patience and compassion—who can forgive a sinner without taking the time to sympathize with him?  And for Christians to trust and preach forgiveness is to trust and preach Christ crucified, the very picture of God “counting others better” than Himself (Philippians 2:3).  When that image and rumor of mercy start permeating Christians, and Christians start seeping into society and infecting it, they take that virtue and ethic with them.

I read a poll recently that said
most people think America stands on the brink of a civil war.  The sexes, too, are increasingly estranged,
as young people avoid dating either because they fear relationships or just
getting arrested and sued.  What we do as
children becomes national news and a cause for mockery or hate.  How can it be otherwise in a land that has
mostly stopped hearing absolution?  Roman
Catholics find they can commune just as well without it, and Protestants are
busy casting new visions for ministry or splashing at the font or running a
stewardship drive.  With the gradual
disappearance of absolution and its attendant preaching, so also fades the best
image we have of patience, compassion, humility, and the thirst for reconciliation—and
if absolution fades, can Lutheranism shine?

Renewal in Absolution

I include this latter reflection about
societal renewal because I know that cultural as well as churchly issues lie
heavy on the hearts of Lutheran CORE folk. 
I commend to you the thought that both society and church will find
their renewal in the absolution that we alone may speak: “I forgive you all
your sins for Jesus’ sake.”   Lose that absolution, and you lose the point
of being Lutheran.    Lutheranism is simply being God’s church, and
God’s church exists to preach and believe forgiveness.  Speaking, preaching, and believing it, for
sure, remain the priority.  Consider also
what the absolution teaches about God’s will for His creation and who you are
and what life really is, or how it delivers both righteousness and holiness of
living.  Any Christian or church could
benefit from such reflection on God’s most important word. 

And a good place to start might be,
you know, actually going to confession and hearing it.