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Today is Reformation Sunday, a day that we celebrate the beginning of the branch of the Christian church that spawned us. A day when we remember Martin Luther nailing 95 theses, 95 questions, 95 discussion starters, to the door of the Wittenberg Church. He did this on All Hallow’s Eve (our Halloween) because November 1 was All Saints Day, a day of holy obligation, a day everyone (supposedly) would be coming to church, and might see his notice tacked to the door.
But the Scripture lesson for the day is the story of Bartimaeus, a blind man who sat on the road to Jericho. What does Bartimaeus have to do with the Reformation? And how is it that a story about being blind has engendered a sermon titled “Seeing Clearly”? The more I thought about it, the more it seemed that Bartimaeus is a very good model for Reformation—and a good model for us.
If you think about it, Bartimaeus and Luther have a lot in common.
--They both know that they need something from God to be made whole.
--They both are persistant in the face of discouraging words.
--They both were willing to drop all and follow Jesus.
The more I looked at this story, the more convinced I became that this isn’t primarily a story about healing. It is a story about change, about reformation, about hearing and seeing and responding to the gospel right now.
Here we have blind Bartimaeus on the road to Jericho. He can’t see a thing. But he “sees clearly,”—he knows that Jesus can help him, and he yells to the high heavens. Here we have Bartimaeus who is blind, but he sees more clearly than the disciples, for when Jesus asks him “What do you want me to do for you?” he replies, “Let me see again.”
When James and John had been asked that question, in the story we read last week, they were blind to what Jesus could provide. They wanted power, prestige, fame, fortune. They didn’t even know what they needed. They didn’t know what could make them whole. Bartimaeus was WAY ahead of them.
Martin Luther saw clearly. He was obsessed with the gospel message—that God’s love, that God’s forgiveness were freely given to us all. Being a monk had allowed him to read the Bible for himself, and he was convicted by its words. He wanted that experience for everyone else. He wanted the Bible to be available in the common language—German for him. He wanted the message to be something that was as close to us as breathing. What I didn’t know was that Martin Luther felt music, congregational singing, was almost as important as being able to read the gospel for yourself. In fact, he said,
"Next to the word of God, the noble art of music is the greatest treasure in the world. It controls our hearts, minds and spirits. A person who does not regard music as a marvelous creation of God does not deserve to be called a human being; he should be permitted to hear nothing but the braying of asses and the grunting of hogs!"
This gives me a whole different perspective on Martin Luther’s hymns (he wrote at least 37, and 4 of them appear in our hymnal—an Advent hymn, “Savior of the Nations, Come”; a Christmas hymn written for his children to teach them the story of the pronouncement of the angels called “From Heaven Above”; an Easter hymn called “Christ Jesus Lay in Death’s Strong Bands”; and, of course, the old standard, “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God.”)
Martin Luther felt a blindness around him and he cried out in powerful ways—with words and with song. “A mighty fortress is our God, a bulwark never failing. Our helper he amid the flood of mortal ills prevailing…” Did you know that when Luther was facing some of his toughest times, he and his cohorts sang those words, based on the 46th Psalm, as a comfort and a plea to God? It reminds me of Bartimaeus shouting, “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me.”
F. Morgan Roberts tells a story about Fred Rogers, the Presbyterian minister made famous in “Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood.” Every Sunday Fred Rogers and his wife used to go after service to visit Fred’s favorite professor, Dr. William Orr, at a nursing home. One Sunday the service had ended with Luther’s famous hymn, and one verse kept rolling around Fred Rogers’ mind: “The Prince of Darkness grim, We tremble not for him, His rage we can endure, For lo, his doom is sure; One little word shall fell him.”
So Fred Rogers asked Dr. Orr what that one little word might be, that one little word that could bring down the satanic prince of darkness. Dr. Orr responded, “There is only one thing evil cannot stand and that is forgiveness.” (F. Morgan Roberts, p. 36-37, “28 Hymns to Sing Before You Die”).
Luther ends his magnificent hymn with “That Word” (now become capital W) meaning the Word of God, the Bible, and the Word made flesh, the Word that was in the beginning, Jesus—“That Word above all earthly powers—no thanks to them—abideth; the Spirit and the gifts are ours through him who with us sideth. Let goods and kindred go, this mortal life also; the body they may kill: God’s truth abideth still; his kingdom is forever!”
What does this have to do with us?
We, like the rest of the human race, are often blind—blind to our failings, blind to the needs of others, blind to the condition of our world.
We need to be more like Bartimaeus, recognizing our need, calling out to God for help, and when we are made well, getting up off the side of the road, and following Jesus.
We Presbyterians, like the rest of the world of faith, are often in need of reformation. We get comfortable with the way things are, we forget to ask ourselves hard questions, we are afraid of the future, we no longer “see” clearly.
We need to be more like Martin Luther, hungry for reading and hearing the gospel message for ourselves, ready to upend anything and everything in following Jesus, singing our faith at the top of our lungs, sure that God’s kingdom, God’s truth, God’s forgiveness and love are forever.
We don’t want to be like the rich man and go away empty—we want to be near Jesus.
We don’t want to be like James and John, asking for the wrong kinds of things, misunderstanding what power means in God’s eyes—we want to ask to be made whole.
We don’t want to be like the disciples, hearing about the costly road Jesus is going to walk, and ignoring it for as long as possible—we want to set out on the journey of faith with our eyes open.
So, let us cry out to God, as Bartimaeus did
“Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on us.”
Let us follow where God leads, as Martin Luther did, holding fast to little words and the (big) Word as we know it.
And Let us see clearly who we are:
Children of God
Forgiven and freed
Loved beyond measure
May it be so. Alleluia, Amen.
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