Fools for the Sake of God:
Martin Luther and Others

One of the ideas I've tried to get across in sermons and studies is that the Bible is fun. And not only the Bible, but the history of the church as well. In fact, if you have long suspected the Bible to be peopled with unbearably pious saints leading lives of scrupulous decency, you are in for a shock if you actually pick the thing up and read it.

And if you have long suspected a study of Church History to be as thrilling as trying to get our congregation to clap in time to a hymn, I suggest a look at Martin Luther to change your mind, as those who participated in our Reformation study will attest.

This morning, let me share with you a favourite story of how Luther - Martin Luther, of all people - fell in love.

We don't often consider the romantic Luther; we think of the hero of the church, the monk who turned his back on the establishment and recaptured a vision of what the church should, and must, be. He took many along with him, and so was also faced with the consequences of his task: what to do with the other priests, monks, and nuns who also left the established church?

One such group of twelve nuns of the Nimbschen convent were convinced by Luther's writings. This may not have been difficult, for most of them had not chosen to be nuns but were sent there by their families. They sent letters of hopeful escape to friends outside, and these people turned to Luther for help.

He entrusted the task to a friend, one Leonhard Koppe, a salesman who did business with the convent. The night before Easter, 1523, Koppe kidnapped the virgins, hiding them in empty herring barrels and transporting them through hostile territory in his covered cart. When the light of dawn broke, the valiant Koppe let them out, and together, in a field, the jubilant nuns sang a fragrant Easter service. Upon reaching the city of Torgau, Luther's friend Zwilling greeted them, and after providing them with new clothes and, hopefully, in light of the herring barrels, an opportunity to bathe, the Sisters were fed Easter lamb and Torgau beer.

It was Tuesday when the carriage arrived in Luther's home of Wittenburg. He proclaimed Koppe the "Good Thief" and then got busy matchmaking, for nine of the twelve nuns had nowhere to go. He managed to set most up with friends, but the prize catch, a woman named Katherine von Bora, was more difficult.

Someone jokingly suggested she move into Martin's monastery, the Black Cloister, in which he lived alone. Luther scowled the man down. But the idea did not leave his mind. Although Katherine finally moved in with friends, the Cranachs, Luther began to complain about dishes piling up in the monastery, about holes in his socks, about the general appearance of his almost 20-year old monk's robe, the only clothes he owned. When a visitor to the Cranachs presented Katherine with a gift, Luther flew into a rage, and when he calmed down, he realised it was too late. He banged his fist down on the table, and proclaimed that he would marry Kate "just to spite the devil." This announcement, of course, was no surprise to Katherine, or to the Cranachs - they had laid their trap well.

Shortly thereafter Luther had a marriage bed made for the Cloister and he and Katherine were joined together. As was custom, they climbed into bed together and held hands as a symbol of their consummation. Witnesses reported that Luther looked deadly serious, and Kate smiled more widely than ever before. Soon thereafter, Luther wrote to a friend, "There is a lot to get used to in the first year of marriage. One wakes up in the morning and finds a pair of pigtails on the pillow which were not there before." But get used to it he did; Martin and Katie's marriage and home went down in history as one of the happiest that ever was. "I'm a fool to marry," said Luther, "the Pope and I agree on this. But never was a fool so blessed as I."

From the Reformers to the Scriptures, from Adam standing alongside Eve as she reached for the fruit, to Noah getting pie-eyed when the Ark finally ran aground, to Abraham setting his own Sarah up with Pharaoh, to David rubbing out a rival in love; the whole Bible gang reveal themselves as less than perfect, as capable of questionable actions and appalling decisions, of succumbing to the siren song of temptation, of having everything going for them and still managing to whine and complain and generally mess up. In short, they are a people not out of place with us, here, now, at Guildwood Community Presbyterian Church.

But they are also a people who have generally proven themselves worthy and capable of one or two acts of true compassion, of self-sacrifice, of pure devotion, of unbridled courage, of reckless love. And although it has been their failures which have convinced us of their humanity, it is their moments of holy abandon, of doing the right thing in the eyes of God, no matter haw crazy or unlikely or ill-advised to their neighbours, that convinces us of their sainthood.

To follow God is to be open to the preposterous; to be a saint is to run against the grain of our world, for one brief and shining moment; to dance to the music of Heaven, to be a fool for the sake of God.

Now this may sound distinctly un-Presbyterian, a denomination which prides itself on doing everything decently and in good order, and perhaps it is. But to take another view, our Presbyterian conservatism can act as a grey and solid backdrop against which acts of reckless love might, like splashes of colour, shine all the more.

It is the firm, unshaking base from which we might make our leap to the heavens. For although "decently and in good order" is commendable, the risks are what make us holy. To be holy means to be set apart, to break away, and that is what the Bible is about, over and over again.

Noah builds his ark miles and miles from the sea. "He is crazy," laugh his neighbours, as they check the sky for rain. Abraham sets out for the Promised Land when his friends are just settling in for a retirement rest, plans for a child when he and his Sarah are so old and worn by the sand and the sun that at the thought of a pregnancy, Sarah almost dies laughing. So nine months later, it is Isaac, they call the boy. "Laughter."

Moses, king of the slaves, clothed in sandals and sackcloth, smelling of sheep and sweat, stands toe to toe and eye to eye with the most powerful man in the world, and stutters, "Let my people go." David, King David, conquers Jerusalem, jewel of the land, and for his victory procession dances in his underwear before his army, his people, his wife, so offending her sense of royal decency that she vows never to be seen with him again.

And these are the folks with a special place in the Word of God, with a special place in the heart of God.

"But," you say, "these are all Old Testament folks. What about the New?"

Well, here is a fool's gallery if ever there was one. Remember, we are dealing with people like John the Baptist, who ate locusts and honey, dressed like a wild animal, and thumbed his nose at the authorities with such vigour they grew apoplectic with rage, removing his nose along with his head in the bargain.

Or Matthew, who left behind a wonderful tax racket of vice and extortion, of wine, women and song, to follow a dusty teacher down an uncertain road.

Or Thomas, who oft and again seemed like the only one who thought for himself; doubting, cynical, suspicious: who followed, and followed to the end.

Or Peter, our friend Peter, the man with one foot in his mouth and the other walking on water; the back-woods fisherman with the impulsive heart who is handed the keys to the Kingdom of God.

Or Joseph, or Mary, or Silas, or Paul; the list is as endless as the story is long. All risked, all chanced, all stepped into the unknown in faith; all were fools for God. And never were fools so blessed.

Now, let me clear something up. Being a Christian doesn't mean taking risks for the sake of taking risks, or being reckless for the sake of being reckless, or being foolish for the sake of being foolish. I would never want to say that. Instead, being a Christian means taking risks, being reckless, being foolish for the sake of God. The official theological word for such behaviour is Faith. After all, God was willing to play the fool for us. And thank God he did. After all, look at the plan he came up with.

This is the God who put himself in the precarious position of being born to a young kid named Mary in a dirty stable in a dusty, no-account village, far from her home and the stigma of a pregnancy of highly unusual circumstances.

The God of the universe, the prince of peace, the mighty king, encapsulated in an impoverished, squalling, red-faced infant, wrapped in swaddling clothes. Preposterous.

Jesus' step-dad was a small-time carpenter who owned a hammer, a saw and a mule, and that was about it. The only protection he could give Jesus was taking flight when things got tough, and off they went to Egypt, of all places.

They returned and settled in Galilee, so that Jesus would have a funny accent and be the butt of ethnic jokes. Jesus chose his followers, his disciples, his twelve man army who would change the world, from fishermen, riff-raff, and disciples of the even more unlikely John the Baptist. Then Jesus began his ministry by preaching in such a manner that even the home-town crowd wanted to throw him off a cliff.

He ridiculed the religious establishment, he flaunted the religious laws, he taught by telling funny stories which people found hard to forget. He wandered from town to town, healing people and setting them free, and then warning them not to tell anybody, not just yet.

He fed thousands, and when they wanted to make him King, he fled into the hills. He hung around with questionable women, criminals, unsavoury sorts, and when the decent people warned him against it, he told them that these are the folks God has a soft spot for.

He loved children, and when his disciples tried to shoo them away, pointed out that the Kingdom of Heaven belongs to children, and you had better become like one, if you hope to have a hope of getting there.

Finally, he was arrested, tried and convicted in a kangaroo court, beaten, tried again, beaten once more, brought before Pilate who seemed more than eager to release him, yet then refused to speak in his own defence, so was beaten again, thoroughly this time, and then, at the insistence of the people he loved and came to save, was crucified, died, and was buried.

And along the way, saved the world. Changed the world. Turned the world upside-down. And came right back to life.

"Surprise!" said God. "Surprise!" said Jesus. And the world was never the same again. And when we believe this story, when we buy into this wild tale, the Holy Spirit stuffs us full of faith and life, and waits to see what we do next.

Most often, of course, we do nothing. Most often, we keep it a secret. Most often, we try to hide it behind a facade of decency and good order, two things which Jesus seemed to know nothing about, thank God.

That is the story we are left with.
That is the Gospel.
That is the Word of God.
And so, on behalf of the saints who have gone before, on behalf of our Fathers and Mothers in the faith, I would make an appeal. Not for my sake, but for the sake of all who have gone before, all who have taken a chance, all who have lived a little recklessly for the sake of God; from Noah and Abraham and Sarah and Ruth to Mary and Joseph and Peter and Paul to Luther and Katie and the rest: take a chance.
For the sake of God, take a chance.
Take a chance with your time.
Take a chance with your money.
Take a chance with your life.
Take a chance with your love.
Reach out in faith to someone around, and share the Good News with them.
Bring them some muffins.
Bring them some friendship.
Bring them to church.
Bring them to life!
Risk looking stupid.
Risk looking foolish.
Risk doing something, anything at all, but do it for God.
Join the long line of saints, who have gone before, who will come again, who risked their lives for the sake of God, and who found true life in the bargain, fools for the sake of God. And never were fools so blessed.

"Where is the wise man?" writes Paul, "Where is the scholar? Where is the philosopher of this age? Has not God made foolish the wisdom of the world?... For the foolishness of God is wiser than man's wisdom, and the weakness of God is stronger than man's strength."

Do something.
For the sake of God, do anything.
And whatever you do, in word or deed, do it all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through him. ~ Amen.