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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.
Pharaoh, King of Egypt, enslaved the People of Israel. It was not out, as you might assume, out of cruelty. It was, rather, out of judiciousness. The People of Israel were not Egyptians. They were foreigners. They were the rough equivalent of what we today would call the undocumented. So now as then they were deemed to be threats. Add to this that the People of Israel grew increasingly numerous, as numerous even as the Egyptians themselves. This intensified the threat. In those numbers they could simply take over. Or Egypt’s enemies could induce them to fight for them, as a kind of built in fifth column. Pharaoh, King of Egypt, had to act. And so he enslaved the People of Israel. It was the judicious thing to do. But his judiciousness was not rewarded. In slavery, unpredictably, their numbers only increased. Pharaoh’s patience with the People of Israel grew thin. Judiciousness then crossed over to cruelty. He ordered the Hebrew midwives to murder the infant boys as they delivered them. That would thin their ranks. But the Hebrew midwives refused to do so, and with their refusal, civil disobedience was born. They chose to heed God not man. But Pharaoh King of Egypt was not so easily undone. He ordered his army to search out the infant boys and throw them into the Nile. Thereafter, cruelty no doubt took on a life of its own. Pharaoh King of Egypt rightly ranks with the likes of Caligula, Nero, Hitler, Stalin, and Mao. One wonders why it is that so many who rise to power become murderous and maniacal tyrants. The human cost - the suffering and misery and despair and tragedy -- are unimaginable and incalculable. Against this backdrop, a woman from the house of Levi gave birth to a healthy and beautiful infant boy. It would normally be the occasion for celebration and joy, but it was for her the occasion for anguish. When a child is born, a mother’s first instinct is protectiveness. But how could she possibly protect him? She thought desperately at first that she could hide him, and she did so for several months, but that could not go on forever. He could any day be discovered. The lesser of two evils was to abandon him to his fate. So she plastered a reed basket with bitumen and pitch, and she cast her hope upon the water. Low and behold, the daughter of Pharaoh happened upon the basket. She peered into it, beheld the crying infant, and she had compassion. The daughter of Pharaoh has never received the appreciation and respect she deserves. She is, inexplicably, overlooked. What she did was exemplary. Normally when people enslave others, they find justification for it. The enslaved are not deemed the equal of their enslavers. They are deemed subhuman. Slavery, therefore, is a necessity. More than this, it is morally right. That’s what the South advanced in this country, after all. But the daughter of Pharaoh did not fall prey to justification. She had compassion. And she acted upon that compassion. Here is an important reminder. It is not enough to have compassion. To have compassion, or any other altruistic emotion for that matter, does not make you a good person. You must act upon it. If you have compassion and you do not act upon it, that makes you decidedly less than a good person. As Martin Luther King, Jr. famously declared, “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.” And here is something truly astounding. Her act was to adopt him. That was, to say at the least, a courageous thing to do. It certainly would not have put her in good stead with her father. I can just imagine it. “Father, I have a surprise for you. You have a new grandson.” Such an announcement could only have dumbfounded him, but his confusion would have given way to horror as she went on, “I have adopted an infant boy from among your slaves.” If nothing else, we can now set the record straight. We can give Pharaoh’s daughter the appreciation and respect that she deserves. But we can do more than that. As I said, she is exemplary, and so we can follow her example. We can show compassion to those who have cast their hope upon the water. Yes, a mother forced by dire circumstance to give her child up for adoption, hoping that her child will be loved and cherished. But too, one with an atypical identity, hoping to be accepted for who he or she really is. One of a different race, creed, or income level seeking to relocate, hoping not that she will be welcomed, for that would be too high a hope; but hoping she will be at least be tolerated. One who has transgressed, hoping he will be forgiven. One who has something difficult to impart, hoping she will be understood. We can show compassion for those who have cast their hope upon the water. For someone greater, much greater than Pharaoh’s daughter did the same. “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on us!” “My daughter has just died. Come and lay your hand on her, that she may live.” “Even now I know that God will give you whatever you ask of him.” “Jesus, come before my son dies.” “Lord, if you choose, you can make me clean.” “Have mercy on me, Lord, Son of David, for my daughter is tormented by a demon.” “Lord, have mercy on my son, for he is an epileptic and suffers terribly.” “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom” They cast their hope on him. And he showed compassion for them all. And when we cast our hope on him, he will show compassion for us -- unlimited even by a cross. Amen.
I attended a funeral recently. It was for my high school math teacher. He was one great guy. Everyone loved him. He taught math at my high school for forty years, and he also coached wrestling. By the time he retired, he had become something of a legend in his own time. The funeral was upbeat, not like so many funerals that are so very sad. He lived a full and long life, and we gathered to celebrate that. But for one man – a classmate of mine who wrestled for him. He was absolutely devastated. I approached him in the parking lot after the funeral and asked if he was okay. He broke down. “That man was everything to me,” he said. “I was O.K. so long as he was in the world.” Then he shared his story. His mother died when he was very young. His father was a physically and emotionally abusive alcoholic. By the time he was in high school, he was far down a bad road. He hadn’t the support to do well at school, so he didn’t. He was very angry, so he was a behavior problem. The only friends he could make were kids like himself, so he hung out with a tough crowd. And he had begun to dabble in drugs. He was pretty much a lost cause at the age of sixteen. Enter my math teacher. He approached him one day out of the blue and told him he could tell by his gait that he was born to wrestle. This could only have been a ruse to intervene. Even I, who knows nothing about wrestling, am suspicious that you can identify one born to wrestle by his gait. At any rate, the ruse worked. He intervened. And he made him into a great wrestler. On top of that, he made him into a great young man. His advice, understanding, and support were unwavering. He helped him to deal with his past in such a way that it didn’t destroy him. He filled his present with new found responsibility, purpose, structure, and discipline. And he paved his way to a future. After graduation he went to college on a wrestling scholarship and eventually became a doctor. “I feel so lost,” he concluded his story. “What am I going to do now?” While he was sharing his story, I could not help but think how hard life can be. We here are generally prosperous and privileged, so we can afford to put up a front. But behind that front life can be hard. Because it’s out there -- loss, abuse, addiction, and a host of other afflictions. It’s enough to make you lose your way. And as I said, we here are generally prosperous and privileged. What if the loss, abuse, and addiction are compounded by poverty or racism? Then it’s all but a foregone conclusion. Your way is lost. Yes, life can be hard. Life takes casualties. Lots of them. It can make us feel helpless and overwhelmed. We want to make things better, but what could we possibly do? The answer is no farther away than my late math teacher. What could we possibly do to make things better? We could reach out, like he did. And what is in view here is not merely a good example, although we must never underestimate the power of a good example and must always strive to be one. But there’s more in view than that. It has to do with the Bible. The Bible may seem like a forbidding book. For one thing it’s thousands of pages long. It makes War and Peace look like a short story. For another thing, it’s unimaginably ancient. The Bible’s story begins 2,000 years before the Common Era. I just read that a sizable portion of millennials don’t know what the Holocaust was. To them that’s ancient history - a mere 75 years back. The Bible is more than 4,000 years back. That’s unimaginably ancient. For yet another thing, it traffics in extremely complicated and sophisticated theology, plumbing in its unfolding the depths of such mysteries as our nature, the predicament that our nature has landed us in, and the means of our redemption. And it does so all the while purging itself of false starts or conclusions. So it may seem forbidding. But at the same time, ironically, the Bible lends itself to succinct summaries. Here’s one: God lives. Here’s another: Good triumphs over evil. And another: Love triumphs over fear. And another: Practice universal justice. And another: Love one another. And here’s one that’s right on point: Reach out. The Bible can be summarized in just two words. Reach out. Think about it. That’s what God did. God reached out. God reached out to Abraham and told him that from him would one day issue a nation, and not just any nation, but a nation that would somehow bless all the nations by bestowing upon them redemption. God reached out to Moses and bequeathed him an ethical law so that God’s people could bear his righteousness. God reached out to David and told him that from his descendants would emerge one who would embody that redemption. And that one in the fullness of time emerged. God reach out to his son. He told him that if he would make a great sacrifice, the greatest sacrifice, it would be the means for all people to reach out to one another. In a real way. A way that advanced God’s own being and cause. And his son made that sacrifice. And in his brief ministry that preceded that sacrifice, he reached out to everyone. And I mean everyone. Lepers. Prostitutes. Beggars. Even a bitter little man perched up in a sycamore tree. So reaching out is not just a good example. It is nothing less the mechanism that God that employs to bestow redemption. Yes, life can be hard. Paul knew this. “We would prefer to be away from the body and at home with the Lord.” But Paul goes on. “So we must make it our goal to please him, whether we are at home in the body or away from it.” And this means reaching out. “I feel so lost now. What am I going to do?” asked my grieving classmate. I told him that his coach had already showed him what to do. I told him to reach out. Amen.
Jesus was always one to bring the party. All he had to do was show up, and lots of others showed up too -- eager for engagement, eager for excitement, eager for something new. It was little wonder. Here at last was someone who had something to say. Something different. Something provocative. Something truthful. Jesus had a way of uttering truths that had never been uttered before, but at the same time, were strangely recognizable. And it was happening once again. Once again, Jesus had brought the party. He showed up at the house of Mary and Martha, and suddenly the place was filled with men who immediately took their place at his feet. This gesture was an indicator that they were ready and willing disciples. They wanted him to teach them. And so he began to teach. That was Martha’s cue. She sprang into action. After Jesus’ teaching, it would be fellowship hour, and as we all know, fellowship hour is predicated upon food. And in ancient times, you couldn’t rely on your reserves from Costco. Feeding a room full of men was labor intensive. Animals had to be slaughtered and dressed. Bread had to be baked. Water had to hauled. Martha went directly to work, expecting Mary to fall in place behind her. But what did Mary do? She went and sat at Jesus’ feet with the men -- shirking her role, defying expectations, and leaving Martha to shoulder the burden alone. I can imagine Martha’s frustration. I can imagine her passive aggressive attempts to get Mary back in the kitchen. Staring daggers at her from the threshold. Uttering loud sighs as indicators of her strain. Dropping pottery on the floor to startle Mary to awareness. But Mary took no notice. None whatsoever. Martha should have counted to ten. How much strife could be averted if we could all just remember to count to ten, or perhaps twenty. Martha for her part shot like a rocket from outrage to outburst. “I’m doing all the work in here Jesus, while Mary has yet to raise a finger. It’s hardly fair. And have you even noticed? Do you even care?” And there was doubtless more to it than the fact that Martha had to provide all the hospitality on her own. There too was the fact of what Mary was doing. She not day dreaming or singing idly out the window. She was sitting at Jesus’ feet. She was in there with the men. Martha was doubtless chagrined and embarrassed that Mary did not know her place. It certainly did not reflect well on the family. But Jesus did not vindicate Martha. Jesus chastised her, “Martha, Martha,” (and when someone says your name twice, wait for some kind of a correction to follow) “Why are you so distracted and stressed and scattered? Let it go. Mary’s right where she should be.” We’re left to wonder how Martha felt at that point. I bet she wasn’t happy. She simply didn’t get it or she would not have reacted that way in the first place. Now normally this text is interpreted as a caution against busyness. Martha with all her busyness is a prototype that we should avoid. Not that productivity is a bad thing. Idle hands are the devil’s workshop after all. But there’s a certain kind of busyness that’s not good. It’s when we become enmeshed with worldly or personal concerns and address them with obsessive application – application that mixes with pride, competition, insecurity. It becomes a kind of self-perpetuating force. And it causes us to lose all perspective. It causes us to become disoriented. We forget that we’re supposed to be at Jesus’ feet – his disciples, listening to him. And this is a fair enough interpretation, but I think there’s something else here. An elephant in the living room. Mary was right where she should be. She was at Jesus’ feet, his disciple, listening to him. But Mary was, obviously, a woman. Women did not seat themselves at the feet of rabbis. Women were not disciples. All they needed to know was taught to them by their mothers. Women did not sit side by side with men learning. It was unheard of. It was forbidden. And yet Jesus told Martha that Mary was right where she should be. Her place was with the men. Really Jesus? A woman’s place is with the men? Really Jesus? In first century Judaism? Jesus was a revolutionary and a radical, and don’t ever forget it. All down through history and even to this day there has an unspoken and inviolable code. It could be expressed as a variant of a line from the wedding ceremony. What society has divided, let no one unite. And Jesus was saying the polar opposite. A women’s place is with the men. Think about what this means by extension. Women, your place is with the men. Men, your place is with the women. Whites, your place is with blacks. Blacks your place is with whites. The wealthy, your place is with the poor, and the poor, your place is with the wealthy. The powerful, your place is with the powerless. The powerless, your place is with the powerful. The old, your place is with the young. The young, your place is with the old. Jesus was smashing down all dividing walls. His disciples are to be completely and utterly integrated. This is simply too radical, simply too revolutionary. But that’s who Jesus was. This is why he brought the party. It’s because he spoke God’s truth. Disciples are to be completely and utterly integrated, and this in service to humankind that is to be completely and utterly integrated. That all should be one. But this is so radical and revolutionary that it is very seldom approximated. It’s too hard. But is it really? Is it really that hard to forge the way? Is it really that hard to reach out? Is it really that hard to cross the aisle? To be vulnerable? To be risky? To be open? To be accepting? To be understanding? One thing’s for sure. It’s a lot easier than hanging on a cross in faith it could be so. Amen.
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