The Invocavit Sermons: Patience and the Slow Work of God: Duane W.H. Arnold, PhD

The Invocavit Sermons: Patience and the Slow Work of God

Last week, while sorting out some books in my library, I came across a volume that contained Martin Luther’s Invocavit Sermons. I had not picked up the book or read the sermons for years. So, as usually happens, I abandoned the work at hand and made my way to a comfortable chair to read and to see what church history might teach me.

In March of 1522, the city of Wittenberg stood in a state of agitation. Luther had been absent for nearly a year, hidden away at the Wartburg Castle after the crisis of the Diet of Worms. During that absence, the Reformation had not stood still. Others had pressed forward, some with enthusiasm, some with conviction, and some with a zeal that outpaced wisdom. Images were being removed from churches, liturgical practices were changing abruptly, and public controversy was increasingly replacing pastoral instruction. The atmosphere had become heated and unstable.

Luther returned to this environment not carrying decrees or ecclesiastical sanctions, but eight little sermons. Over eight days during the season known as Invocavit—the first week of Lent—he preached the series intending not to halt reform, but to restore its center. They were not theological lectures in the academic sense, nor polemical manifestos designed to defeat opponents. They were, for lack of a better term, pastoral interventions. They were attempts to remind anxious and impatient people that the Church belongs to Christ and that Christ often moves more slowly than we wish. That is why the sermons are worth reading today.

History has a way of changing fashion while retaining the same habits. The sixteenth century appears distant from us. Different architecture, different politics, different conflicts. However, human beings have not changed very much. We still become impatient. We still imagine that urgency itself is proof of righteousness. We still assume that if something is good, it must be implemented immediately and, if necessary, imposed forcefully.

Church history is filled with reformers as well as revolutionaries. Occasionally the distinction between the two becomes difficult to see. Reform seeks renewal. Revolution frequently seeks conquest. One builds patiently. The other often destroys quickly.

Luther understood something that many of us forget. He understood that people are not machines. One cannot simply remove one set of parts and replace them with another. Human beings carry memory, affection, fear, and habit. Faith itself does not descend upon us as information alone. Faith enters through a long formation of prayer, worship, preaching, sacrament, and community. In this, the Church is very human.

His response to the turmoil in Wittenberg was strikingly restrained. He did not return demanding submission to his authority. He did not announce punishments. He preached.

Moreover, his confidence was not primarily in himself.

Luther made the remarkable observation:

“I simply taught, preached, and wrote God’s Word; otherwise I did nothing.”

That statement can sound almost absurd to modern ears. We live within a culture of strategy. We measure effectiveness through metrics, outcomes, and visible movement. Churches often become anxious institutions searching for techniques that promise growth, relevance, or, most of all,  influence. We become convinced that if we simply discover the correct model, the proper technology, or the latest program, renewal will follow.

However, Luther believed something else entirely.  He believed the Word itself possesses power.

That does not mean passivity. It does not mean sitting quietly while institutions decay or communities fracture. Rather, it means understanding that transformation occurs from the inside outward. Hearts change before systems change. People become different before cultures become different.

Too often the Church behaves as though changing policies and structures will automatically create holy people. History suggests otherwise.

One may change a liturgy overnight and still not create worshippers.

One may redesign an institution and still not create disciples.

One may win an argument and still lose a soul.

The temptation toward immediacy remains one of the Church’s recurring illnesses. We imagine there are shortcuts to maturity. We assume there are accelerated paths to holiness. We become impatient with slow progress.

However, there are no shortcuts.

Theological education takes time. Prayer takes time. Formation takes time. Daily faithfulness takes time. The Daily Offices become meaningful through repetition rather than novelty. Christian character is built through long obedience rather than occasional enthusiasm.

Perhaps that is why Luther’s eight little sermons continue to speak with such force today. They remind us that God’s work frequently appears unimpressive while it is occurring. Seeds disappear beneath soil before anything visible emerges. Cathedrals rise stone by stone over generations. Liturgies shape souls through repetition that often seems ordinary.

The Church is not assembled in haste like machinery. The Church is formed slowly, like a people.

That truth remains difficult for us because impatience often disguises itself as zeal. We become convinced that speed is faithfulness. We mistake movement for progress.

However, Christ frequently works at a pace that unsettles those of us who prefer efficiency.

The lesson of the Invocavit Sermons may finally be this: reform what must be reformed; however, remember that the Kingdom of God is not built through coercion or panic. The work belongs to God. Ours is to preach, to teach, to pray, and to remain faithful while waiting for the slow and often hidden work of grace.

Duane W.H. Arnold, PhD