Reformation Sunday
Rebecca Clancy
Mark 10:46-52
Today is Reformation Sunday. You need not feel sheepish for not knowing that today is Reformation Sunday. We normally do not observe Reformation Sunday; and the reason, quite frankly, is that I have never been quite sure how to go about it. A sermon on the Reformation or it founding figures Martin Luther and John Calvin would not seem the right way -- too antiquarian and scholastic. An even worse way would be to attempt to revive Reformation theology. Historical theology is and must remain theology of its time. And so, Reformation Sunday slips by each year unobserved.
This year, however, I think I have found a way, albeit a roundabout one, to observe Reformation Sunday. A certain general kind of phenomenon that was derived from Calvin’s theology can be brought to bear on this morning’s gospel lesson. Mind you, I am not saying that Calvin’s theology can be brought to bear on this morning’s gospel lesson. I am saying that a certain general kind of phenomenon that was derived from Calvin’s theology – that Calvin never anticipated or knew of, that occurred well after his death -- can be brought to bear on this morning’s gospel lesson. As you can see, I am still not quite sure how to go about observing Reformation Sunday. I realize there are a few kinks in my plan.
At any rate, Calvin was an author of the doctrine of double predestination; that is to say, Calvin believed that from all eternity, some of us have been predestined to damnation and hell fire, and others of us have been predestined to heavenly paradise. Now perhaps you can see why I assert that historical theology is and must remain theology of its time. To us the doctrine of double predestination sounds horrific. The way Calvin saw it though, was that double predestination only underscored God’s righteousness. We are all condemnable, Calvin believed. The fact that any of us at all are predestined for heavenly paradise only underscores God’s sovereign mercy.
A result of the doctrine of double predestination was that believers, with great fear and trembling, sought some indication in their lives that they were among those predestined for heavenly paradise. This drove believers to productivity, because productivity normally results in success and the appearance of favor (indications in their lives that they were among those predestined for heavenly paradise.) The lazy, the vagrant, and the dissolute could only be giving indication that they were predestined to damnation and hellfire. Before long, productivity took on a life of its own, became an end in itself, hence the emergence of the so-called Protestant Work Ethic, which came to be buttressed by the belief that we are justified by our productivity.
Now looking back on it, it all seems, if not horrific, at least a bit silly -- the idea that some us are predestined to hellfire and damnation, the idea that believers were driven to productivity to prove they weren’t, the idea that we are justified by our productivity. Yes – definitely more silly than horrific.
On the other hand, our mistakes are always crystal clear to us in hindsight. This is one of the bugbears of our existence – that our mistakes are always clear to us in hindsight - that we chose the wrong marriage partner, that we took the wrong job, that we bought the wrong house, that we said that wrong thing …..And because our mistakes are always crystal clear to us in hindsight, we may wonder what things we now mistakenly have come to believe we are justified by.
Following the belief that we are justified by our productivity were a whole succession of canards – the belief that we are justified by our productivity was succeeded by the belief that we are justified by our compensation, and this was succeeded by the belief that we are justified by our consumption. This mistake was crystal clear in hindsight in the wake of the recent economic crisis it precipitated.
One thing I’ve noticed we now mistakenly believe we are justified by is the crowds we command. You see this everywhere -- with reference to sports events or concerts, with reference to parties or weddings, with reference to television ratings and movie revenues, even with reference to the mega-church. We believe we are justified by the crowds we command. And we need not be stars or socialites or professional athletes to get in on this. For one thing, we do it in our smaller ways, in our cultivation of popularity or importance. And even when we are among the crowds that another commands, it is likely at some level this indicates that we endorse the belief that we are justified by the crowds we command.
And this, at last, is the phenomenon that was derived from Calvin’s theology that can be brought to bear on this morning’s gospel lesson – this notion that we mistakenly believe we are justified by this or that – by our productivity or compensation or consumption….. or now by the crowds we command.
Jesus, of course, could command crowds with the best of them. Between his preaching, teaching, and miracles he became an overnight sensation. A few days into his ministry, for instance, when Jesus entered Capernaum, word quickly spread where he was dining and before he even finished his meal, crowds jammed the street. In order for a man on a pallet to be carried to him, his friends had to hoist the pallet up to the roof, dig a hole through the thatch, and lower it down on ropes. Shortly thereafter, Jesus was so besieged by crowds that in order to address them he had to climb up a mountainside. And what about the miraculous feeding of loaves and fishes? Immediately prior to it, Jesus was actually trying to evade the crowds. John the Baptist had just been assassinated, and he wanted to be alone to mourn him. He was forced to take to the sea but by the time his boat landed, a crowd of 5,000 were waiting for him. Yes, Jesus could command crowds with the best of them.
But the funny thing is, to say nothing of being justified by them, he wasn’t impressed or gratified by them at all. Not once did he ever remark to his disciples, “Hey, there were 5,000 in attendance at my loaves and fishes bit. I’ve hit the big time.” Jesus knew that crowds came with the territory, and he saw them for what they were.
In fact, he was downright cautious of crowds, for what they were were fickle and unstable -- readily beguiled and easily manipulated. When John the Baptist was arrested, for instance, the crowds who had once followed him were driven to uncertainty about him. They were prone to think that his arrest illegitimated him. They were ready to turn on him. And so Jesus addressed them, “What did you go out into the wilderness to look at? A reed shaken by the wind? What did you go out to see? Someone dressed in soft robes?… What then did you go out to see? A prophet? Yes, I tell you, and more than a prophet….Truly I tell you, among those born of women no one has arisen greater than John the Baptist.” What’s more, Jesus knew he’d receive the same treatment in Jerusalem from the crowds.
No, Jesus did not believe himself justified by the crowds he commanded, and nothing makes that clearer than this morning’s gospel lesson. Jesus was departing from the town of Jericho. It was his last stop before Jerusalem. It was now the end of his ministry, and his capacity to draw crowds was at its peak. And so, as he departed from the town of Jericho, crowds lined the streets.
Among the crowds was Bartimaeus, a blind beggar -- physically blind at least, but obviously sighted in more important ways, because he began to cry out, “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!” But how did he know to call Jesus the Son of David? No one in Mark’s gospel had identified him that way before. Only Bartimaeus, a blind beggar, knew Jesus to be the Son of David, knew Jesus to be the Messiah. How almost inexpressibly ironic, that the blind could see him for who he was. But to the crowds, Bartimaeus was ruining everything. This was Jesus’ moment and theirs too, and he was spoiling it. And so they chastised him and told him, to put it crudely, to sit down and shut up.
But Jesus had no concern for “the moment.” He wasn’t concerned for the crowds. He was concerned for the one. And for Jesus it was always that way. He was concerned for the one. He respected the one. The one, for Jesus, was what counted – be that one a blind beggar or a prostitute or a racketeer or a leper… And so Jesus stopped and with him all the momentum that crowds so thrive on. Jesus stood stock-still and declared, “Call him here.” The crowds then turned on a dime, as they are wont do. “Take heart,” they now said, “he’s calling you.”
And mind you, Jesus to say the least, had better things to do. His face was set to Jerusalem, to his crucifixion. His death was now immanent, and he knew it. He had told his disciples as much, very graphically, not once but twice. And here was but one more blind beggar. He’d healed plenty of them and there were still plenty more to heal out there. Stopping for this one would amount to less than a drop in the bucket.
But that’s not the way Jesus thought. Bartimaeus must have known this when he cried to him. And so Bartimaeus threw off his cloak, sprang up, and ran to Jesus. “Teacher let me see again,” he pled. Jesus said to him “Go, your faith has made you well.” And Bartimaeus immediately received his sight and followed Jesus to Jerusalem. I have a feeling Bartimaeus stood out among the crowds who watched Jesus crucified. He had the eyes to see what was taking place on that cross.
You know, thinking about it, Reformation theology may well be theology of its time. It may be antiquarian or scholastic. It may be impossible to revive. It may be horrific or silly. But now that I think about it, there’s one thing that the Reformation captured. It is something that is so elusive that few eras before or since have been able to do so. The Reformation captured that we are justified not by our works -- by our productivity, our compensation, our consumption, or the crowds we command – but by one thing and one thing alone – We are justified by the faith of Jesus Christ -- by his willingness to make himself a sacrificial atonement for our sin and so bind us all together in loving unity. And only when we learn this will we readily stop as he did for the one by the wayside who cries out to us, “Have mercy on me!” Amen.
Romans 8:25 Waiting on the Lord Many years ago, almost too many to count, I had the opportunity to study the Old Testament at the University of Edinburgh. That means that I had the opportunity to live in Scotland for a time -- so I am here to tell you that there is more to Scottish culture than kilts and bagpipes. There is the Scottish national dish -- Haggis to be precise. In case you’re unfamiliar with Haggis, it is made from the liver, heart, and lungs of a sheep. They pack them into the sheep’s stomach, toss in a little oatmeal, and boil it. I only tried it once. Once was enough. Then there’s the Scottish national flower – the thistle. You see thistles everywhere -- on flags, coats of armor, dishware. They were once even featured on the currency. I would have thought that heather would have been a better contender for the Scottish national flower -- it is everywhere, and it’s much less prickly -- but no one consulted me. Then there’s the Scottish national poet, Bobby Burns. Burns wrote in Old Scottish. I actually picked up quite a bit of Old Scottish during my time in Edinburgh. I pride myself that I can recite much of his poetry by heart. Old Scottish is unintelligible to the modern ear, but the Scots still love him. I used to walk past the Scottish National Gallery of Art on the way to class. You could peer in the front door and see the famed portrait of him. If you’re unacquainted with his work, he wrote, To a Mouse. To a Louse. And, I kid you not, Address to a Haggis. And then, of course, there’s Greyfriars Bobby. I guess you could call Greyfriars Bobby the Scottish national dog. Grayfriers Bobby was a good Scottish breed -- the Skye Terrior. He and his master were inseparable, and after his master’s untimely death, Greyfriars Bobby remained at his master’s graveside -- day in and day out -- for 14 years, until he himself died. Greyfriars Bobby is a testament of devotion and loyalty not just to the Scottish, but to everyone. A statue of Greyfriars Bobby stands in the heart of town. At the funeral of his master, when the casket was being lowered into its final resting place, Greyfriars Bobby gave way to grief. He whined, whimpered and pawed at the grave. Beyond his grief, however, Greyfriars Bobby settled into a daily routine. Every day, when the 1:00 gun was fired, a man by the name of William Dow, who had befriended Grayfriers Bobby, picked him up at the cemetery. They strolled together to a local coffee shop, where Grayfriers Bobby ate his daily meal. After a bit of socializing, they strolled back to the cemetery. Greyfriars Bobby settled back onto his master’s gravesite and watched the sunset. There were attempts to lure Greyfriars Bobby away from his master’s graveside, especially in inclement weather, but they were fruitless. Greyfrirs Bobby refused to leave. Greyfriars Bobby is all the proof I need that dogs go to heaven. Do you really think that he when arrived at the Pearly Gates to be reunited with his master, Peter, who Jesus entrusted with the keys to bound and to loose, turned him away on the grounds that he was a dog? That makes no sense to me. And I’m sure it made no sense to Peter. There’s a lesson we can learn this morning from Greyfriars Bobby. And lest you register skepticism that there’s a lesson we can learn from dogs -- this is the whole point of the book of Ruth – that we can learn lessons in unexpected places. Ruth was a despised foreigner. She was feared. She was suspected. She was accused. Yet there were lessons that the people of Israel learned from her. There are lessons we can learn in unexpected places. At least that’s what the Bible proclaims. And it’s not just Ruth. It’s Ruth, yes. But it’s also the Good Samaritan; it’s the Magi, it's the Roman Centurion, it’s the Canaanite woman, it’s the Ninevites, it’s the Ethiopian eunich, it’s Cornelius. And if the Bible hits you over the head with something that many times, and you still refuse to accept it, you’re just being stubborn. There are lessons we can learn in unexpected places. And the more unexpected the place, the more important the lesson. Sure, there’s a lesson we can learn from Greyfriars Bobby about loyalty and devotion, but there’s also a lesson we can learn from him about waiting for someone. Because if you think about it, we are all waiting for someone. Every one of us. It could be someone who is angry with us – someone who holds a grudge against us, someone who dislikes us, someone from whom we are estranged. It could be someone who is stationed at a far-flung corner of the earth -- someone who is called to serve and sacrifice, someone who has placed himself in harm’s way, someone we may never see again. It could be someone who has fallen prey to an addiction – someone who is facing an uphill battle, someone who has made strides only to fall back, someone whose potential and possibility are under siege. And it could be, like with Greyfriars Bobby, someone that we lost – someone who is irreplaceable, someone who enriched and defined our lives, someone who spared us from loneliness and aimlessness. We are all waiting for someone. And so, we can learn a lesson from Greyfriars Bobby, and it is this. Yes, for a time we grieve their absence. We weep. We mourn. We despair, even. We do all these things…for a time. But then we must get back to the business of living. As Langston Hughes reminds us, Life is for the living. We must get back to the business of living – of caring for others, of speaking the truth, of practicing fairness, of sacrificing for others, of sharing our abundance, of striving for peace – of doing the best we can to prove, day by day, that we have heard the upward call of Jesus Christ. While all the while we are waiting for someone. But here’s the thing. We don’t wait in vain. Because we wait, ultimately, through Jesus Christ -- so we wait for our eternal home in heaven where those for whom we wait are waiting for us. And we will know that joyous reunion that Greyfriars Bobby and his master now know. Amen.
John 20:1-18 But why? Why did Mary stand weeping outside the tomb? There is, of course, the easy answer. Mary stood weeping outside the tomb because, arriving at the tomb, she discovered that Jesus’ body had been stolen. But that’s the easy answer. Easy answers are, as often as not, simplifications; and simplifications are, as often as not, distortions. So, let us look beyond the easy answer and ask again, Why did Mary stand weeping outside the tomb? Mary was one of those people whom nature had favored. And nature does play favorites -- that much is undeniable. Mary was tenacious, discerning, steadfast, spontaneous, courageous – not to mention brimming with natural affections. Yes, she was one of those people whom nature had favored, but sometimes that is not enough. Mary had a bad start in life, and that tends to temper even nature’s most generous gifts. When Jesus first encountered Mary, she was not of sound spirit. She was afflicted and tormented. But Jesus performed a miracle that recalled her to life. She became his passionate and devoted follower. It would seem that her past was behind her. Like with so many others Jesus encountered, Mary had been lost and now was found. But this only led her to the foot of his cross. She had endured the entire spectacle. Dark men – petty, jealous, and scheming -- closed in on him. They subjected him to a farce of a trial, and this only as a formality. They intended to see him executed from the very beginning. The disciples, for their part, panicked and scattered. What if they were next to be targeted? But not Mary. She abided with him those endless hours as he hung on the cross right through to his death agony. She watched from a distance as Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus deposed his body from the cross and laid it in a tomb. Mary was shattered. She was traumatized. She was devastated. She was forced to endure the unthinkable – the death of one deeply beloved, and to malicious violence. But Mary was not entirely bereft. She still had his body. She could cleanse and anoint it, bestow upon it what loving care she could. And going forward she could become that person – the one who visits the graveside, the one who keeps memories alive, the one whose tears are never exhausted. In time she would achieve a sort of notoriety for it, but it’s the kind of notoriety no one wants. But she arrived at his tomb only to discover that his body had been stolen. So why did Mary stand weeping outside the tomb? She stood weeping outside the tomb because she had hit rock bottom. I have never hit rock bottom. If dread keeps it at bay, dread has done that much for me. But I have seen others who have. It’s a terrible thing to witness, much less to experience. A kind of derangement takes hold. They aren’t recognizable. They aren’t themselves. This is why Mary couldn’t add up two and two. She peered into the tomb and saw two angels robed in white raiment. Why are you weeping? They asked. Now they didn’t ask because they wanted to hear her theory about the graverobbers. This was not the sense of their question. Woman, why are you weeping? They were asking to convey that there was nothing to weep about. And it was the same thing when the resurrected Jesus asked the same question. Woman, why are you weeping? There’s nothing to weep about. I am alive. I am here. I am with you. Dry your tears. But Mary had hit rock bottom, so it didn’t add up. But then Jesus said something. Something cataclysmic. Something earth shattering. Something beyond description and explanation. And something right under our noses. If there’s one trait we all share, one thing we are all good at, one thing we are all GREAT at, it’s not seeing what’s right under our noses. Jesus called her by name. Mary! he said. And suddenly the truth broke in on her. Dimly, but at the same time, and paradoxically, with crystal clarity. She knew. She knew how we know most deeply – in our bones, in our guts, in our hearts. This man so beloved by her – her teacher, healer, leader, friend….he was much more than that. He was the one that time could not bind, the one that darkness could not thwart. He was the one over whom death had no dominion. He was the one she declared him to be. He was the Lord. And he called her by name . Rock bottom? There was no rock bottom. There was only hope, consolation, meaning, purpose, direction, relief, and rejoicing. From his height to her depth, he called her by name. Rock bottom? She now had good news to proclaim, and she proclaimed it for all she was worth. Friends in Christ, her good news is our good news. No matter what you’ve done, what you are doing, or what you will do. No matter how low you fall. No matter how deep you sink. No matter how bad you’re stuck. His deliverance has your name on it. His triumph has your name on it. His love has your name on it. So let us call him by name – Jesus Christ, our Lord. Amen.
I Samuel 16:4-5 Matthew 5:9 To set the scene for our Old Testament lesson -- Tension was rife. Anxiety was rife. Dread was rife. And why? It was because there was conflict, and conflict produces tension. Conflict produces anxiety. Conflict produces dread. And let’s not pretend that it doesn’t. The hold outs among us might stick their chests out and assert that conflict has no effect on them -- that they are immune from conflict. But personally, I’m a bit skeptical. As I’ve mentioned before, in my various vocations and avocations, I have been subjected to psychological tests. And not just a few of them. And one of the areas that is tested is how you react to conflict – whether you are conflict tolerant or conflict intolerant. According to the tests, I am conflict tolerant, as conflict tolerant as one can be. According to the tests, there is nothing that makes me more comfortable, and more relaxed, and more at ease than conflict. Conflict? Bring it on. There’s nothing I relish more. At least according to the tests. But why is it that in the face of conflict, I become preoccupied. I can’t get it off my mind. I become sleepless. I toss and turn at night. And I feel an enormous sense of relief when the conflict is resolved. So, in my own experience at least, conflict produces tension. Conflict produces anxiety. Conflict produces dread. And that leads us back to our Old Testament Lesson. Talk about conflict! But to understand it, we must back up a bit. In fact, we must back up quite a bit. We all know that Moses received the Ten Commandments atop Mt. Sinai. We all know that with the Ten Commandments in hand, Moses wandered with the people in the wilderness for forty years toward the Promised Land. But we might not all know what happened next. What happened next is that Moses died. Moses was succeeded by Joshua, who conquered the Promised land. And after that? The people settled onto the Promised Land. Since the people were comprised of twelve tribes they settled into the Promised Land accordingly. Each tribe deployed itself on a parcel of land. And they all lived happily ever after. Or not. Problems emerged in short order. The tribes did not get along. Surprise, surprise, the strong tribes picked on the weak ones. Why is it that at all times, and in all places, the strong pick on the weak? But that’s another question. Bottom line, there was disunity among the tribes. Beyond that, they were twelve tribes who each deployed itself on a parcel of land. But they were surrounded by enemies, enemies that had not been wandering around in the wilderness for the past 40 years. Enemies who were trained to fight. So, the people were threatened from within and from without. The closest thing that they had to a leader was Samuel, so they demanded of Samuel a king, a king to unify them and protect them from their enemies. Samuel listened to their demand and anointed King Saul. King Saul was the man of the hour. He was a standout. He stood head and shoulders above all others, was strikingly handsome, and teamed with charisma. He was clearly meant to be. So once again, they all lived happily ever after. Or not. There was something wrong with Saul. Now sometimes when there is something wrong with someone it’s obvious, it’s easy to name – as in the case with addiction, or physically abuse, or mental illness. But sometimes it’s not obvious. Ask twelve scholars what was wrong with Saul, you’ll get twelve different answers. For whatever reason, he proved not to be the stuff of it. He had some fatal flaw. Was it his temper? Was it his jealousy? Was it his paranoia? Was it his anger? Was it his desperation? Because all those things can prove to be fatal flaws. In that last analysis, it doesn’t matter what was wrong with King Saul – simply that there was something wrong with him. Predictably, those closest to him saw it first. But no one else was inclined to believe them. They believed what they wanted to believe, what was easiest to believe. And this is how it goes. The ones closest see it first, and no one is inclined to believe them. Moveover, they didn’t want to face the fact that King Saul was one big false start. But King Saul had some fatal flaw. And fatal flaws are fatal. King Saul deteriorated. It became increasingly difficult to deny. Conflict was brewing. It was not yet open conflict. Soon it would be and in terms too horrific to describe. But rumors were circulating. The atmosphere became charged, and not in a good way. Not one knew just how the thing would play out, but everyone sensed that it would not end well. And that brings us to our Old Testament Lesson. Samuel arrived in Bethlehem, unannounced, unexpected -- in full vestment and with full retinue. What did he want? Why did he single them out? What had they done wrong? Was he there to exact vengeance? In a spark would they all be dead? To set the scene for our Old Testament lesson -- Tension was rife. Anxiety was rife. Dread was rife. And why? It is because there was conflict, and conflict produces tension. Conflict produces anxiety. Conflict produces dread. And so, the people approached Samuel with a question. It was the right question. It was the key question. It was the decisive question. It was this question: Do you come in peace? If you remember one thing about this passage, if you remember one thing about the whole book of Samuel, remember this question. Do you come in peace? Because the people’s question to Samuel is the people’s question to us. Do we come in peace? In the face of conflict do we come in peace? Do we come in peace, or do we come bearing blame for things for which we know we are full well complicit? Do we come in peace, or do we come exacting retribution demanding an eye for an eye? Do we come in peace, or do we come rehearsing old grievances, resentments, jealousies, and grudges? Do we come in peace, or do we come pressing our advantage -- power up, poised to defeat? Because the people’s question to us is also Christ’s question to us? Do we come in peace? Have we gone that extra mile for the one who has burdened us? Have we turned the other cheek? Have we declined to let the sun set on our anger? Have we made peace with our accusers? Do we come in peace? For Christ declares that the peacemakers would be blest, and that through them, but only through them, would his kingdom grow. Amen.
