Delivered Sunday, October 27 at Hermon Presbyterian Church, Bethesda, Maryland (during a rainstorm)
Text: Jeremiah 14:7-10, 19-22, 2 Timothy 4:6-8, 16-18
We join today’s text from Jeremiah immediately after the description of a profound drought that has fallen over the land. If you have any familiarity with Jeremiah, you know that this drought, while the immediate problem of Judah, is far from their most significant problem. And you may know as well that Jeremiah has been placed in a frustrating position by God. Jeremiah knows that Babylon is coming, and Jeremiah knows that all of his efforts to warn the people and leaders of Judah will be in vain, but Jeremiah is a man who lives in the moment. Jeremiah sees the people suffering, sees the doe neglect her fawn, the servants and farmers cover their heads in shame, and the ground cracks, and our text picks up as Jeremiah hears the people’s lament that God is not with them, that God is like a stranger, even that God is confused. These are the cries of people who have become afraid to trust in God, cries of a people who do not know where to put their hope.
Jeremiah does not immediately offer comfort: he knows that would be false, because he knows that this drought will last and that after that Babylon will come, and that those who promise a time of comfort and ease are lying. But he also knows that after Babylon, there will be a restoration. Jeremiah knows the exile will be long, but it will not be permanent. After the exile, there will be a return. And Jeremiah knows this as well: no foreign power, no ruler or idol from Babylon can bring the rain. We can only place our hope in God.
This is something many of us in this region, or if not many of us, at least the baseball fans, certainly I, should have known better. If, somehow, you managed to avoid the news, I’m sorry to tell you that the Nats lost again last night. The Astros have tied the series at 2 games apiece. The optimism that we had on Thursday, that led the guy who has been wearing a baby shark costume all season to promise a costumed swim in the Anacostia River has faded…which, at least in his case, is probably for the best. Likely of less interest to all of you here in Maryland, Virginia Football also lost yesterday. I grew up in Charlottesville, and not only did I go to UVa, my father was faculty there, one of my two sisters, her husband, and my wife all went to UVa (though I do feel obligated to point out that my wife has never cared at all about Virginia sports). We are quite the UVa family, and, in recent years, we’ve had a great time in basketball season. Football…hasn’t been our thing. There was a time when I talked to my parents after every game, but over the past decade or so, I just couldn’t keep it up with football: it was too much disappointment and frustration, and I could not manage to keep coming up with the hope that the next play, game, season, player or coach would bring change. Virginia would keep being Virginia, and would keep losing. I’d managed to come pretty-close to forgetting that Virginia football existed. This year started to change things. It started getting a little harder to avoid noticing the change in tone. Virginia Football was ranked! Virginia is at the top of the ACC-Coastal Division (which sounds impressive but is really just a contest to see who gets to be flattened by Clemson in December) They are far from winning me back, but I started to notice a bit of hope placed in the now no longer quite-so-new coach, and started paying a bit more attention…just as they started to lose. I was close to hoping for something different, hoping to come into this Reformation Sunday with news of the Nats sweeping the World Series, or of Virginia Football being something other than Virginia Football, but those hopes were misplaced.
Yes, today is Reformation Sunday—so named because it is the Sunday closest to the anniversary (this year, the five-hundred and second) of Luther’s nailing of his 95 theses to the church door in October 1517…an event that, when described today, always takes a bit more of a dramatic flair than it might have at the time owing to two key facts. First, obviously, is that in deciding to designate “a moment” as “the moment” we force ourselves to do some historical blurring, both of prior reform movements within and on the margins of the Catholic Church in Western Europe, and of the fact that it wasn’t until some 4 years later that Luther and the Catholic Church definitively split. Second, the moment seems more dramatic to modern observers because of something utterly unanticipated to anyone at the time, [at this point in the recording we learn that that one of the children in the congregation was named Luther and wanted to know why I was accusing him of nailing things to the church door] a totally unpredictable and surprising increase in reverence, among both Protestants and Catholics, for church doors. I bring this up only because it was a shortcoming of many of my history teachers who taught this moment as if it was means and placement of distribution that was significant. The church door was the community bulletin of the time, and if you wanted to post something, you used nails. We might as well say that Luther wrote an article in the church newsletter…or he posted it to Facebook…or his blog. The means of distribution, the fact that he nailed it to the church door…that wasn’t a thing anyone at the time would have cared about. What people cared about was the content—both disputing Papal authority and challenging a major method of church fundraising.
The popular image of Luther himself is also often romanticized—casting him as a simple Monk, when, by this point in his career, he was the chair of the theology department at his University, and, far from being a simple monk, was responsible for the administration of 11 monasteries. He was quite well established in the hierarchy of the Augustinian order and the German church of the time.
Perhaps because I am at the beginning of my career, I find myself drawn to a younger version of Luther; or at least, a story about Luther as a younger man.
Luther’s family was solidly what we would call “middle-class.” Luther’s father, Hans, was a miner who had worked his way up until he owned one mine and managed another. Then, as now, it was the ambition of many parents to see their children exceed themselves, and Hans wanted Martin, his oldest son, to become a lawyer. Toward this goal, Martin went to the best schools available, earning a Master’s degree in liberal arts at University of Erfurt in 1505 and then enrolling in the study of Law. Everything looked like it was coming up Hans. Of course, as those of you with children know, they are wildly unpredictable. When Martin was returning to school after a visit home, he was caught in a storm. One bolt of lightening was so close it knocked him to the ground, and he cried out a promise that if he survived this storm, he would become a monk. Not a promise to God, at least not directly, but a promise to St. Anna, the patron saint of miners, to whom his father likely kept a shrine. An interesting start to the religious career of a man whose work would significantly diminish the importance of the saints as intercessors with God. Ultimately, whether with God or St. Anna, Luther considered this a binding agreement, and so, he did what he felt right: sold his Law books, had a huge party, and joined the monastery. His father Hans, by the way, was furious, and accused Martin of wasting his education (by which I think we all know he meant Martin had wasted Hans’ money spent on that education).
I was tempted to call this “Luther’s Damascus Road Moment” but I think that puts too neat a bow on the story: scholars think it likely he was already planning to join the monastery: he didn’t exactly have glowing reviews of the University of Erfurt, or the study of Law. As to the reformation, it would be another 12 years before Luther, having picked up a few more degrees along the way, would post his 95 theses. Luther still had a lot of work left to do.
Paul though, in his letter to Timothy from which we read today, is clearly coming to an end. Our passage opens with a clear image as Paul describes himself as being poured out like a drink. He drives that image home with an explicit statement: the time of my departure has come, and three more images: fighting the fight, finishing the race, and keeping the faith. This letter is written by someone who is alone. The lectionary skips over a section of the text. I want to put it back in. The omitted paragraph reads:
“9Do your best to come to me soon, 10for Demas, in love with this present world, has deserted me and gone to Thessalonica; Crescens has gone to Galatia, Titus to Dalmatia. 11Only Luke is with me. Get Mark and bring him with you, for he is useful in my ministry. 12I have sent Tychicus to Ephesus. 13When you come, bring the cloak that I left with Carpus at Troas, also the books, and above all the parchments. 14Alexander the coppersmith did me great harm; the Lord will pay him back for his deeds. 15You also must beware of him, for he strongly opposed our message.”
2 Timothy 4:9-15, NRSV
I include this section because I think it serves as an important reminder of the humanity of Paul. In this paragraph, Paul speaks of his disappointment in the people who had been with him. Demas, Crescens, Titus, and Tychicus have all left. He later says “At my first defense no one came to my support, but all deserted me.” Paul asks for a cloak—a reminder that he is imprisoned and unable to obtain one for himself. He asks for books and parchments, reading material to pass the time and continue his studies—likely the Hebrew scriptures, but perhaps also early written versions of the Gospels. In perhaps the most human moment the Epistles, Paul spares two sentences to keep a grudge alive: Be careful around Alexander the coppersmith. He knows what he did, and he’ll get his.
I include this paragraph because I think it’s essential for us to remember Paul the human. We need to see that Paul has, at this point, largely lost hope in other people, save perhaps only Timothy, Mark, and Luke. We need to keep this paragraph because without it, Paul’s expressions of hope in the Lord can sound like bluster; like false courage.
As Jeremiah knows that drought and worse are coming for Judah, Paul surely knows that he will soon face execution. He knows that it will take some time for this letter, probably smuggled out of his jail, to reach Timothy, and then more for Timothy to gather the requested items and travel to Paul. Paul knows that God’s help will be needed to make these things happen, but more importantly, Paul knows that Luke, Timothy, and Mark will not save him from the Romans. Paul knows that he has little time left to preach and teach as best he can, and Paul places his hope in God that will be enough.
Paul places his hope in God that there will be something more following his trial and execution. Paul does not have Jeremiah’s knowledge that the exile will end. He does not have the safety of many more years, as Luther did. Paul is a man at the end: his image of being poured out like a libation serves two purposes: it evokes the idea of Paul as a sacrifice to the good of the Church, but I think it also describes a man who is running out of things to give.
And yet that man still places hope in God.