Jesus told a parable of man who owned a vineyard. He had a hired vinedresser. In his vineyard was a fig tree. Over the course of three years, day after day, in season, the man went to the tree looking for fruit. He never found any. He told his man to cut it down; “Why should it use up the ground?”

To the man, this tree was a waste of space and resources. He let it live and grow for three years, hoping that it would produce fruit—that it would do what it is supposed to do. It never did. Why should this tree continue to take the time and land away from some other tree or plant that would actually produce fruit? Why should the man bear with it any longer waiting for this fig tree to do the thing for which it was planted.

But the vinedresser had another idea. Give it another year. He would dig a trench around it and fill it with fertilizer. He would pay it some extra special attention, give it some extra care. And if, at the end of that year of more and better care it still did not produce fruit, cut it down. The vinedresser told his master, “Let it alone this year also.”

On this night on which the Lord Jesus Christ was betrayed, on which He instituted the Supper of His body and blood, it would do well to review Lutheran doctrine as it regards the Lord’s Supper.

I’ll begin simply with what the Sacrament of the Altar is. As just said and heard, in fewer words, “it is the true body and blood of our Lord Jesus Christ under the bread and wine, instituted by Christ Himself for us Christians to eat and to drink.” What Luther taught here is confirmed in the words of Christ Himself. Again, these are words you have been taught, the primary text of the Sacrament, and which you hear every Sunday:

YHWH met with Moses on the mountain where He gave him the Ten Commandments. Moses could have taken the dictation in several ways. He could have written it on a papyrus scroll; after all, he just came from the land of papyrus, so the Israelites could have possibly had some. He could have written on clay tablets; clay isn’t a difficult resource to come by. He could have even written it in the sand as a means of helping him to memorize what God had said. But he didn’t record the Ten Commandments on paper or clay or even in the sand; they were carved in stone.

That phrase “carved in stone,” should give you pause. It conveys a kind of permanence. Stone represents endurance, so something written in stone—carved in stone—is longer-lasting than something written on paper, clay tablets, and sand. Something carved in stone is supposed to last. That’s what Job was saying when he spoke about his redeemer living:

Consequently, when you carve something in stone, it conveys an importance because of its permanence. The Ten Commandments are carved in stone.

This is God’s everlasting covenant with His people. His people will obey His will and keep these commandments. These laws are not only for His people, however, but for all mankind, as they are all His creation.

If you’ve broken one, you’ve broken them all. That’s what St. James taught. (cf. James 2:10) A reverse of sorts is also true. If you’ve broken any of them, you’ve broken the first.

The season of Lent is coming to its conclusion, and as has been done throughout the season, you are being confronted with your own mortality and new life, whether you realize it or not: the temptation of Jesus, Nicodemus, the woman at the well, the man born blind. This time, you see your mortality in the events of the little town of Bethany. The wages of sin is death, and Lazarus has received payment; he was lying in the tomb, his body rotting and decaying as the physical effect of sin took its toll—lying there four days, a bad odor had no doubt formed.

Yet, it is not only Lazarus’ life that flashes before your eyes. Jesus was nearing the end of His life on earth. As chapter 10 of St. John’s Gospel comes to a close, the Feast of Dedication had just taken place—Jesus was in Jerusalem for Hanukkah; it was December by today’s calendar. In about three months, Jesus would return to Jerusalem to be “delivered over to the chief priests and scribes, and they will condemn him to death and deliver him over to the Gentiles to be mocked and flogged and crucified.” (Matthew 20:18b-19a) He went to fulfill the will of His Father, Who desires all men to be saved (cf. 1 Timothy 2:4), and die as the once-for-all sin offering.

As I’ve been saying, in the death of Lazarus and the sacrifice of Jesus, you see your own mortality. Like Lazarus, you are sinners, and the wages of sin is death. One day, these bodies will return to the dust from which they were created. Following that, you are confronted with the gut-wrenching truth that the sin which will claim these mortal bodies is the same sin that condemned Jesus to death. Jesus bore the full wrath of God for you, in your place, on your behalf—however you may want to word it—so that you would not have to.