“If the Son makes
you free, you will be free indeed.” (John 8:38)
I like to imagine on this
504th anniversary of the Protestant Reformation what it must’ve been
like to hear Martin Luther preach. I bet the old boy gave a pretty rousing
sermon. With a temperament like his I’ll bet no one fell asleep in church. I
picture the Castle Church in Wittenberg—the gentry seated in cushioned pews
beneath the soaring arches, the poor working stiffs standing in the back, the
air smelling of a mixture of incense, perfume, and b.o. (there being no such
thing as deodorant in those days). I see the corpulent, middle-aged professor
mounting the steps to the pulpit, adjusting his academic gown, wiping a bit of
sweat off his forehead and breathing heavily after his climb (Luther liked his
beer and bratwurst. In his post-monastic career he really packed on the
pounds!). The church, which was rarely completely silent, suddenly falls still
to hear what the great man has to say about the appointed text, John 8:31-38
(Our Reformation Day gospel in the Revised Common Lectionary).
I’m not sure what Luther
might’ve said, but I know he’d want to address the questions of slavery and
freedom. To what were the people enslaved? Sin, of course. (Well, duh! Aren’t
we all?) But he might also like to point out some of the social issues his
congregants faced. They were slaves to the social class into which they were
born—although that was changing for some of them. Many were slaves to the land
they worked. Some worked for themselves, but many were tenant farmers for
wealthy landlords. They were slaves to the whims of their local princes and to
the Catholic Church—a church which frightened them into submission with
horrific visions of a punishing fiery Hell or a few gazillion years in
Purgatory. Most of them were simply slaves to ignorance and despair. The
Medieval life philosophy was pretty simple: you were born, life sucked for a
couple of years, then you died. If you were lucky and good enough, you might
get to go to Heaven.
But now the folks who
herded themselves into the Castle Church like so many sheep into a pen (because
God would be peeved if they didn’t go) were hearing something new. Luther had
the audacity to tell the peasants they were beautiful in the eyes of God just
as they were, and the work they did was just as holy as that done by their
priests and bishops. They had a right and a responsibility to stand up for
themselves and demand their landlords treat them fairly—they wouldn’t go to
Hell if they questioned the social order as they had been told they would. The
Church couldn’t ask them to earn or buy their way into God’s heart—the Son had
already secured their place for them when he died on the cross. And, yes, they
may be ignorant and unlettered, but they didn’t have to stay that way. Their
princes could afford to build schools and hire teachers who would teach their children
to read so they could see the Word of God for themselves.
Can you imagine how those
sixteenth century folks felt hearing good news like that? I’ll bet church
seemed like a pretty exciting place for them. They heard the truth, and it set
them free.
So how about us? What’s
the truth we need to hear all these centuries later? To what are we in
bondage? I wonder how often we’ve sat smugly through a Reformation Day service
thinking, “Slaves? We’re Lutherans and have never been slaves to anyone! We
have correct doctrine!”
(By the way, I’m always
amused by the reaction of the folks in the gospel story when Jesus tells them
they are in bondage. The descendants of Abraham had been slaves in Egypt for
about 400 years. Then they were defeated and enslaved by the Assyrians and the
Babylonians and later became the vassals of the Persians, the Greeks, and
sundry little piddly countries and were, at the time of the gospel, occupied by
the Romans. Somebody else was always calling the shots for these guys. I think,
however, they are saying here that they are direct heirs of the promise God
made with Abraham and not proselytes—as if their DNA was the source of their
salvation!)
But back to our
situation. If Dr. Martin were preaching to us, what do you think he’d call us
out on? Our reliance on the metrics of bucks in the plate and butts in the pews
as a measure of our ministry? Our devotion to practices and traditions which
may no longer serve the gospel? Our current American culture of contempt in
which we gorge ourselves on one-sided news so we can feel superior to others?
Our sense of burn-out which makes us apathetic to social issues? Or just our
vague sense of fear?
If we let Luther preach
to us on the Reformation Day, I’m sure he would remind us of three crucial
gifts we already possess—God’s Word, God’s grace, and our own faith. These
three are the rock we rest on. The scriptures teach us of Christ’s love on the
cross and of his resurrection. There can’t be an Easter without a Good Friday.
Yes, things will change, times will be frightening, and cultures will shift. Luther’s
times were, in some ways similar to our own. Countries were polarized (In fact,
if you held the wrong position in the wrong place, you could find yourself tied
to a pole and set on fire!), enemies threatened, and diseases closed down
churches. Luther himself battled depression. Nevertheless, he always considered
despair a great and shameful sin[i].
The Reformation was an
unsettling time of major change—just like today. Unsettling times call for
boldness and the knowledge that things which change are never as important as
those which endure—God’s Word, God’s grace, and our faith.
[i]
See his explanation to the sixth petition of the Lord’s Prayer (“Lead us not
into temptation”) in the Small Catechism.
