Forgiveness: Where The Burden Of Sin Dies

Text: Matthew 18:21-35 

In the name of Jesus. Amen.

We have all said it before, haven’t we? "Jesus died on the cross to forgive me of my sins." Those words come out so easily. We say them in our prayers, in our conversations, and maybe even whisper them under our breath when we mess up. But today, I want to challenge us. I want to ask a hard question: Do we truly understand the power and beauty of this forgiveness?

Let’s ponder this a bit. 

Imagine doing something really wrong. I’m not talking about something like taking a cookie from the cookie jar or spilling a glass of milk. No, I’m talking about something much worse. Something shameful. Something that you wouldn't dare share with anyone. Something that even now might be in the back of your mind. A sin that you hope never gets brought up. A sin that, when you think about it, causes a pit to form in your stomach. A sin that you’ve dressed up with excuses, but deep down you know it was wrong.

Now, think about how that sin rests upon your conscience. It sits there like a lead weight. And when you try to keep it all inside, when you bottle it up and shove it deep down, it does something to you. Your bones ache. There’s a pressure on your chest. Your thoughts become scattered. Your energy is drained. It’s like your soul is dragging an anchor through the mud. Even laughter doesn’t feel light anymore. The joy you once had becomes tainted by the looming reminder that something is unresolved—still festering beneath the surface.

So you try to shake this sin. You tell yourself, 

"I didn’t do anything wrong." 

You try to deny the sin. You rewrite the past in your mind. But the next morning? That burden of sin is back.

So. you try something new: you blame. 

"It was my spouse's fault. My boss provoked me. My parents raised me wrong. Society failed me. The devil made me do it." 

You shift the guilt away from yourself. It works... for a week. Then it comes back again. And when it comes back, it hits harder than before, now tangled with shame over your failed attempts to escape.

Next tactic: comparison. 

"Well, at least I’m not as bad as my co-worker. My brother is far worse. Did you hear what that politician did?" 

You delight in the sins of others to ease the weight of your own. But again, it doesn’t last.

Then one evening, some friends invite you out for drinks. You think, 

"Yes, I could use a break.” 

One beer. Then two. Then three. Then a couple shots of Fireball. The guilt finally dulls... until the next morning. Now the guilt returns with a hangover and regret. You feel like you hit reset, but only to find yourself back at the beginning—only this time with the added weight of shame and physical pain.

So, you decide to do what many famous celebrities seem to do. You say, 

"I’ll make up for it!" 

Good works become your new medicine. You serve at the soup kitchen. You donate. You help your neighbor move. And for a while, you feel better. You’re fixing the scales, tipping the balance! The good works seem to be offsetting your past sin. But then you get into an argument with someone at the food pantry, and everything unravels. 

The guilt returns, heavier than before. You can’t sleep. Your appetite fades. Depression sets in. You pull the covers over your head in the morning and think, 

"Maybe it would be easier if I just weren’t here."

The darkness closes in. What once was a manageable burden now feels like a monster you can't outrun.

* * *

Dear friends, that’s how guilt works. That’s how the burden of sin slowly chokes the life out of us. This isn’t just a problem for pagans out there in the world. This is something that haunts Christians, too. Sin clings. It accuses. And try as we might, we can’t shake sin off ourselves.

* * *

Back to our story.

You are at the end of your rope, and so you meet with your pastor. And the pastor doesn’t hand you a ten-step program. He doesn’t refer you to a life coach or send you to therapy. Instead, he brings you into the sanctuary.

He walks you to the altar.

And there, with trembling lips and heavy heart, you kneel down at the altar and speak the words that haven’t crossed your lips before. You confess. You let it all out. You admit it. No more pretending. No more blaming. No more excuses. Just raw honesty: 

"I did it. I can’t fix it. I need mercy."

You look up, wondering if this moment will bring yet another letdown—or if, just maybe, something real might finally happen.

The pastor looks at you. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t recoil. He doesn’t gasp in disgust.  Instead, he says, 

"Do you believe that my forgiveness is God’s forgiveness?"

With a whisper, you reply, "Yes."

Then he places his hand on your head. He looks you in the eye and declares:

"In the stead and by the command of my Lord Jesus Christ, I forgive you all your sins, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."

He then draws the sign of the cross on your forehead, while saying

"Go in peace."

You look up, confused. 

"Pastor, should we go back to the office and talk about this more?"

He smiles. 

"Talk about what?"

"My sin,” you reply.

He shakes his head. 

"There is nothing more to talk about. You are forgiven."

Still unsure, you say, 

"That’s fine. We can talk on Sunday."

He replies, with firmness, 

"No, we won’t talk about it Sunday. We won’t talk about it ever again. You are a forgiven, baptized saint. As far as the east is from the west, so far has Christ removed your sin from you. The sin is not yours anymore. It belongs to Jesus and He nailed it to the cross - for you."

You begin to understand. The words of Sunday School come back: "Jesus died for my sins." And the pastor leans in one more time and says:

"There is only one thing left for you to do."

"What’s that?" you ask.

"Go home. Live your life. Love your family. Laugh. Work. Sleep. Rejoice. You are forgiven. You belong to Christ."

* * *

Dear friends, this is the essence of the Gospel. This is what Jesus teaches us in the parable of the unforgiving servant. The Gospel is not a to-do list. It is a declaration - you are forgiven.

And this forgiveness doesn’t just scratch the surface. It goes deep. It doesn’t just cover sin’s condemning power like makeup on a blemish. It removes it. It washes the guilt of sin. It drowns it in baptismal water. It separates your conscience from sin’s condemnation and binds you to the righteousness of Jesus.

Baptized Saints, sit up in your pews and listen to this: Christianity is not about tallying up the sins you’ve avoided or keeping score of the good you’ve done. It is not about managing sin. It is not about hiding guilt. It is about one thing: the forgiveness of sins in Jesus. 

In Christ, your conscience is free. In Christ, your sins are forgiven. In Christ, you are not defined by your past but by the righteousness of Jesus.

Baptized Saints, the Gospel says this to you today: 

“You do not belong to sin. You belong to Christ.”

Forgiveness is not some abstract theological idea. It is your daily bread. It is your peace. It is your life. And when that forgiveness is poured into your ears week after week, when you hear it, receive it, taste it, and live in it, it changes you.

The Gospel has a way of forming you. It humbles you. It softens your heart. It makes you patient with others. It teaches you compassion. It instills mercy. It gives you lightness in your steps, joy in the valleys, and rest in a weary world.  

Because, dear friends, only forgiven people can truly forgive.

And you are forgiven of all of your sins – in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.