A God Who Suffers With Us
Sermon
Sermons On The Gospel Readings
Series II, Cycle A
Object:
Sometimes you have to wonder. Sometimes all you can do is shake your head about the things people say and the things people think and the things they reveal to us about them.
A friend of mine has multiple sclerosis (MS), a chronic disease that gradually weakens and paralyzes the body. She tells me the things people say to her, the advice she gets, and you wouldn't believe it. Here a short sampling:
"You must really like being sick; you bring so much of it on yourself." That comment came to her from a close relative who has never so much as sent her a get-well card.
"The reason I have such good health is that I think right; nobody gets sick unless they think wrong." That came from another relative. Wouldn't you like to be in that family?
"I know just how you feel being crippled; I had a bad case of tennis elbow last month." Great, that helps a lot.
"Your present improvement is just wishful thinking." How's that for encouragement? Or, how about this one?
"God must really cherish you a lot to trust you with this burden."
The things people say and the things people think and the things they do reveal to us who they really are. The story from today's gospel reading is no exception. It all began with a question, seemingly a simple inquiry. "Who sinned," the disciples asked Jesus, "this man or his parents that he would be born blind?" A question, which on the surface seems simple enough, but when you think of it, how ridiculous it sounds. What kind of God did those disciples believe in? What kind of God did they follow? Did they really think that God looks down from heaven and says, "All right, fellow. I've seen you cheating on your taxes; I've seen you skipping church. So I've decided to make the precious baby of yours be born blind."
What kind of God would do that? Why would the disciples think that way? And yet as shocking as it sounds, many people view God in precisely those terms. The ancient Jews dealt with illness and suffering much differently than we do. In fact, it was common belief that illness and especially physical deformity were evidence of sinfulness and so upon seeing the blind man, the disciples naturally asked, "Who brought this suffering upon him? Was it something his parents had done that caused God to do this? Or did the man sin himself and cause it?"
To our modern ears, this line of questioning sounds incredible. We wonder who would think such a thing. And better yet, who hasn't? When tragedy strikes or when suffering comes calling, when misfortune hits or when death makes its solemn visit, who hasn't asked the question, "How come?" Who sinned? Whose fault is this? Why would God allow this to happen...?
For (we think):
• if God is in charge, how can this tragedy happen?
• if God is so loving, why must I suffer loss?
• if God is kind and all knowing, why not prevent this from happening? • if God is almighty, all-powerful, all-loving (or all-whatever else) ... if God is any of these things or even just one of them, why should this happen?
Charles Hall blows up bombs for a living. He is a part of an EOD team -- an Explosive Ordinance Demolitions team. He is paid $1,500 a week to walk the sands of post-war Iraq, to patrol the fields of war-torn Bosnia, or to search the killing fields of Cambodia for land mines, discarded grenades, and unexploded bombs. Richard Lowther is another EOD specialist. Together with Hall they have spent years blowing up thousands of deadly devices left behind by the carnage of war. Hall often says, "Every time I pick up a newspaper and read of a war someplace, I think, 'Great. More work for us.' "
Now, you and I have a lot more in common with Hall and Lowther than you may think. Making our way through this world, journeying along the pathway of life can be just as treacherous as any trail through an abandoned mine field. The threat of violence or random crime, the anxiety of illness or suffering, the sudden grief of death and loss are just as much a part of our world as any remnant of war. For like that demolitions team, we often find ourselves in a mine field not of our making, in a battle with sickness that we did not cause, struggling against tragedy that is beyond our controlling.
And all too often when we come face to face with this minefield of life, we find ourselves asking (as did the disciples): How could God have let this happen? Who sinned? What did I do wrong? Today's scriptural question of the disciples is our question as well.
You see, from the time we are children onward, we learn to admire power. We stand in awe of things that are big and loud and mighty looking. We honor the victor. We congratulate the one who outsmarts the system. And with our gift of imagination, we project these images out beyond ourselves, magnify them to eternal dimensions, and call them "God."
• God, the most powerful of all.
• God, the mastermind of everything that is.
• God, the clever controller of everything that happens.
• God, who can do whatever we imagine.
• God, who can fix whatever that's wrong.
Get God on your side (we think) and you can't lose. Get God behind you (we believe) and everything will be all right. When we encounter illness or suffering, when we come face to face with tragedy; when we pray for healing or comfort, and it doesn't happen, out pops the question, "Who sinned?" What went wrong? How could this happen? For after all, if God were on his side, he wouldn't have been born blind.
Who sinned, this man or his parents? It's the difficult question of the problem of suffering, perhaps the most difficult question any human being can face. And we must be careful to avoid an easy answer. That's what the disciples did. Who sinned, they asked, this man or his parents? If only the answer were as simple as that. If only we could trace the source of suffering as directly as that. But we know it's not as easy as that. We know the answer is more difficult than that.
I read not long ago about a new digital recording device being marketed that allows the user to program it to record a movie and edit out the commercials at the same time. I'd get one, but I'm afraid I'd goof it up and record the commercials and edit out the program.
And yet, how often we wish our faith were like that digital recorder. We want easy answers for everything. We'd like to program out the unexplainable and attribute the good to God's will. We'd like to have life clearer, more easily understandable. But life is not like that. Bad things happen to good people. Some prayers are answered and others seemingly are not. People suffer. Misfortune happens. Tragedy strikes and we are left only with questions. As Saint Paul says, "We see in a mirror dimly ..." (1 Corinthians 13:12).
In the midst of a life filled with questions, in a world that often confounds us with no answer, we turn to the One whose love we can trust. In this season of Lent, we draw near the cross and there we are comforted. For ours is a God who suffers with us. Ours is a God who embraces our tears. Bishop John Baker says in his book, The Foolishness of God, that the only totally accurate picture of God that we have is the crucified Jesus. Or as another theologian puts it, "The only omnipotent power of God that really matters to us is God's almighty power of enduring love."
If God is in Jesus, if we believe that God was present in the sufferings and death of Christ, then we must believe that God is present with us in our suffering, as well. Remember how Jesus answered the disciples? Who sinned, he was asked. "Neither this man nor his parent sinned; he was born blind so that God's works might be revealed in him" (John 9:3). Somehow there is a purpose in this. Somehow God's mercy will be revealed. Now I don't know if the blind man was happy to hear that answer or not or if he even understood it. But I do know this. Jesus' answer can have deep meaning to us.
For when all is said and done, even as suffering, tragedy, misfortune, and loss remain a mystery for us, the source of healing, the source of comfort, the source of strength and hope need not be. For ours is a God who shares our suffering. Ours is a God whose love never ends. And ours is a God who stands within tragedy, who upholds us in loss.
Let me share with you a story that can perhaps help make this clear. The shock of the events of the past few hours overwhelmed Jim. His body was numb and while the world moved on, he felt detached from it. Jim and his wife, Connie, had just lost their beautiful four-month-old son to SIDS -- Sudden Infant Death Syndrome.
Just the previous afternoon, Jim had driven to the babysitter's house to pick up Joshua. It was a routine trip he made five days a week after work. Routine, until he arrived and little Joshua could not be awakened from his nap. The next hours were a blur. Wailing sirens, swift-moving paramedics, emergency room doctors, and reassuring nurses. All efforts to revive little Joshua all failed. There was no brain activity and the decision was made to remove life support. Little Joshua was gone. Yes, they wanted all his organs donated. That was not a difficult decision. Other more difficult decisions awaited them.
Telephone calls, funeral plans, notifying family and friends. Strangely, for some reason, this morning Jim felt he needed a haircut and being new to the community, Jim's brother volunteered to call his hairdresser for an appointment. Her schedule was full, but after a few words of explanation, the salon owner said, "Send him right over. I'll work him in."
Exhausted from a night of no sleep, Jim settled into the chair and began to reflect on the events that had happened, desperate to have them make sense. How could this have happened? The questions kept coming; the pain was still there. Just then Jim remembered the words of the hospital chaplain, "Sometimes we just don't know what part we have in God's plans. Perhaps Joshua's part was already done."
The hairdresser expressed her sympathy and Jim found himself relating the events. Somehow it helped to tell the story. Perhaps if he did it enough, some sense would come of it. As Jim mentioned the organ donations, the hairdresser stopped, motionless. After a few moments she spoke, her voice barely a whisper. "You're not going to believe this," she said, "but only an hour ago the customer sitting in this very chair wanted me to hurry so she could get to Children's Hospital. She was so full of joy, said her prayers were answered. Her new baby granddaughter was receiving a desperately needed transplant, a heart valve that would save her life." And at that moment, Jim's healing began.
Jim's story echoes what Jesus tells us today. When heartache comes, as it surely will, when suffering and tragedy befall us as often happens, let us not cry, "Who sinned? Whose fault is this?" But let us by faith be drawn closer to God. Let us remember that we have a God who suffers with us, a God who shares our pain. In Jesus' name. Amen.
A friend of mine has multiple sclerosis (MS), a chronic disease that gradually weakens and paralyzes the body. She tells me the things people say to her, the advice she gets, and you wouldn't believe it. Here a short sampling:
"You must really like being sick; you bring so much of it on yourself." That comment came to her from a close relative who has never so much as sent her a get-well card.
"The reason I have such good health is that I think right; nobody gets sick unless they think wrong." That came from another relative. Wouldn't you like to be in that family?
"I know just how you feel being crippled; I had a bad case of tennis elbow last month." Great, that helps a lot.
"Your present improvement is just wishful thinking." How's that for encouragement? Or, how about this one?
"God must really cherish you a lot to trust you with this burden."
The things people say and the things people think and the things they do reveal to us who they really are. The story from today's gospel reading is no exception. It all began with a question, seemingly a simple inquiry. "Who sinned," the disciples asked Jesus, "this man or his parents that he would be born blind?" A question, which on the surface seems simple enough, but when you think of it, how ridiculous it sounds. What kind of God did those disciples believe in? What kind of God did they follow? Did they really think that God looks down from heaven and says, "All right, fellow. I've seen you cheating on your taxes; I've seen you skipping church. So I've decided to make the precious baby of yours be born blind."
What kind of God would do that? Why would the disciples think that way? And yet as shocking as it sounds, many people view God in precisely those terms. The ancient Jews dealt with illness and suffering much differently than we do. In fact, it was common belief that illness and especially physical deformity were evidence of sinfulness and so upon seeing the blind man, the disciples naturally asked, "Who brought this suffering upon him? Was it something his parents had done that caused God to do this? Or did the man sin himself and cause it?"
To our modern ears, this line of questioning sounds incredible. We wonder who would think such a thing. And better yet, who hasn't? When tragedy strikes or when suffering comes calling, when misfortune hits or when death makes its solemn visit, who hasn't asked the question, "How come?" Who sinned? Whose fault is this? Why would God allow this to happen...?
For (we think):
• if God is in charge, how can this tragedy happen?
• if God is so loving, why must I suffer loss?
• if God is kind and all knowing, why not prevent this from happening? • if God is almighty, all-powerful, all-loving (or all-whatever else) ... if God is any of these things or even just one of them, why should this happen?
Charles Hall blows up bombs for a living. He is a part of an EOD team -- an Explosive Ordinance Demolitions team. He is paid $1,500 a week to walk the sands of post-war Iraq, to patrol the fields of war-torn Bosnia, or to search the killing fields of Cambodia for land mines, discarded grenades, and unexploded bombs. Richard Lowther is another EOD specialist. Together with Hall they have spent years blowing up thousands of deadly devices left behind by the carnage of war. Hall often says, "Every time I pick up a newspaper and read of a war someplace, I think, 'Great. More work for us.' "
Now, you and I have a lot more in common with Hall and Lowther than you may think. Making our way through this world, journeying along the pathway of life can be just as treacherous as any trail through an abandoned mine field. The threat of violence or random crime, the anxiety of illness or suffering, the sudden grief of death and loss are just as much a part of our world as any remnant of war. For like that demolitions team, we often find ourselves in a mine field not of our making, in a battle with sickness that we did not cause, struggling against tragedy that is beyond our controlling.
And all too often when we come face to face with this minefield of life, we find ourselves asking (as did the disciples): How could God have let this happen? Who sinned? What did I do wrong? Today's scriptural question of the disciples is our question as well.
You see, from the time we are children onward, we learn to admire power. We stand in awe of things that are big and loud and mighty looking. We honor the victor. We congratulate the one who outsmarts the system. And with our gift of imagination, we project these images out beyond ourselves, magnify them to eternal dimensions, and call them "God."
• God, the most powerful of all.
• God, the mastermind of everything that is.
• God, the clever controller of everything that happens.
• God, who can do whatever we imagine.
• God, who can fix whatever that's wrong.
Get God on your side (we think) and you can't lose. Get God behind you (we believe) and everything will be all right. When we encounter illness or suffering, when we come face to face with tragedy; when we pray for healing or comfort, and it doesn't happen, out pops the question, "Who sinned?" What went wrong? How could this happen? For after all, if God were on his side, he wouldn't have been born blind.
Who sinned, this man or his parents? It's the difficult question of the problem of suffering, perhaps the most difficult question any human being can face. And we must be careful to avoid an easy answer. That's what the disciples did. Who sinned, they asked, this man or his parents? If only the answer were as simple as that. If only we could trace the source of suffering as directly as that. But we know it's not as easy as that. We know the answer is more difficult than that.
I read not long ago about a new digital recording device being marketed that allows the user to program it to record a movie and edit out the commercials at the same time. I'd get one, but I'm afraid I'd goof it up and record the commercials and edit out the program.
And yet, how often we wish our faith were like that digital recorder. We want easy answers for everything. We'd like to program out the unexplainable and attribute the good to God's will. We'd like to have life clearer, more easily understandable. But life is not like that. Bad things happen to good people. Some prayers are answered and others seemingly are not. People suffer. Misfortune happens. Tragedy strikes and we are left only with questions. As Saint Paul says, "We see in a mirror dimly ..." (1 Corinthians 13:12).
In the midst of a life filled with questions, in a world that often confounds us with no answer, we turn to the One whose love we can trust. In this season of Lent, we draw near the cross and there we are comforted. For ours is a God who suffers with us. Ours is a God who embraces our tears. Bishop John Baker says in his book, The Foolishness of God, that the only totally accurate picture of God that we have is the crucified Jesus. Or as another theologian puts it, "The only omnipotent power of God that really matters to us is God's almighty power of enduring love."
If God is in Jesus, if we believe that God was present in the sufferings and death of Christ, then we must believe that God is present with us in our suffering, as well. Remember how Jesus answered the disciples? Who sinned, he was asked. "Neither this man nor his parent sinned; he was born blind so that God's works might be revealed in him" (John 9:3). Somehow there is a purpose in this. Somehow God's mercy will be revealed. Now I don't know if the blind man was happy to hear that answer or not or if he even understood it. But I do know this. Jesus' answer can have deep meaning to us.
For when all is said and done, even as suffering, tragedy, misfortune, and loss remain a mystery for us, the source of healing, the source of comfort, the source of strength and hope need not be. For ours is a God who shares our suffering. Ours is a God whose love never ends. And ours is a God who stands within tragedy, who upholds us in loss.
Let me share with you a story that can perhaps help make this clear. The shock of the events of the past few hours overwhelmed Jim. His body was numb and while the world moved on, he felt detached from it. Jim and his wife, Connie, had just lost their beautiful four-month-old son to SIDS -- Sudden Infant Death Syndrome.
Just the previous afternoon, Jim had driven to the babysitter's house to pick up Joshua. It was a routine trip he made five days a week after work. Routine, until he arrived and little Joshua could not be awakened from his nap. The next hours were a blur. Wailing sirens, swift-moving paramedics, emergency room doctors, and reassuring nurses. All efforts to revive little Joshua all failed. There was no brain activity and the decision was made to remove life support. Little Joshua was gone. Yes, they wanted all his organs donated. That was not a difficult decision. Other more difficult decisions awaited them.
Telephone calls, funeral plans, notifying family and friends. Strangely, for some reason, this morning Jim felt he needed a haircut and being new to the community, Jim's brother volunteered to call his hairdresser for an appointment. Her schedule was full, but after a few words of explanation, the salon owner said, "Send him right over. I'll work him in."
Exhausted from a night of no sleep, Jim settled into the chair and began to reflect on the events that had happened, desperate to have them make sense. How could this have happened? The questions kept coming; the pain was still there. Just then Jim remembered the words of the hospital chaplain, "Sometimes we just don't know what part we have in God's plans. Perhaps Joshua's part was already done."
The hairdresser expressed her sympathy and Jim found himself relating the events. Somehow it helped to tell the story. Perhaps if he did it enough, some sense would come of it. As Jim mentioned the organ donations, the hairdresser stopped, motionless. After a few moments she spoke, her voice barely a whisper. "You're not going to believe this," she said, "but only an hour ago the customer sitting in this very chair wanted me to hurry so she could get to Children's Hospital. She was so full of joy, said her prayers were answered. Her new baby granddaughter was receiving a desperately needed transplant, a heart valve that would save her life." And at that moment, Jim's healing began.
Jim's story echoes what Jesus tells us today. When heartache comes, as it surely will, when suffering and tragedy befall us as often happens, let us not cry, "Who sinned? Whose fault is this?" But let us by faith be drawn closer to God. Let us remember that we have a God who suffers with us, a God who shares our pain. In Jesus' name. Amen.
