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Sermon October 22, 2006 |
A Sermon Preached at
A worried mother was watching for her seven-year old to walk home from the school just two blocks away. It was a stormy afternoon: torrents of rain, huge crashes of thunder and bright flashes of lightening. After some anxious moments the mother set out toward the school and found the little girl about a block away walking slowly and smiling from ear to ear as she ambled along. The mother scooped the little girl up and scolded, “Where have you been! With all this thunder and lightening you could be killed!” “But Mom,” replied the wide-eyed little one, “this is neat! There are all these puddles to jump into, all this rain and all the booms, and besides, God is taking my picture!”
In the Rite of Holy Baptism, immediately after we have baptized new members of the Christian family, we give thanks that they have been raised to the new life of grace, and we pray that they may receive the gifts of the Holy Spirit, not the least of which is the “gift of joy and wonder in all your works.” As the little girl in the rainstorm reminds us, when it comes to children, that’s a gift that sometimes comes built in—all of life, even the wet and frightening parts can be full of awe and wonder. But surely as time goes on our expectations change and we are only willing to experience joy on our own terms. Even the most sophisticated among us come to associate the glory of God’s presence in life with the things we like. A few may be tempted by the crude notion that if we are prosperous and blessed with material wealth, then God is with us. But even if we find that theology too simplistic, we tend to associate our happiness with the presence of God. The deepest faith of our tradition asserts that this is not the case. Instead God is with us even in the wet and frightening parts of life.
There’s a primitive strand of the Bible that puts forward a theology of rewards and punishments, offering the notion that godly people are rewarded by long life and happiness and that only ungodly people experience suffering. The Book of Job was written to counter that notion. Against it, the author offered an ancient folk tale of a very good man who suffered heart-breaking calamities in spite of his righteousness. In our reading from Job last week, we heard Job complaining that if only God would speak to him directly, he could get an explanation for his suffering. In today’s reading, God does suddenly appear to Job directly, but instead of a cozy conversation, God makes clear that no human being, not even a very good one like Job can possibly understand the meaning of life. Speaking with the voice of a hurricane, God says, in essence, “O.K., smarty, you wanted to reason with me? Let me ask you a few questions. Were you around when I created the complexity of life on earth? Do you have the power to control the weather? Can you provide for all the creatures of the world?” The answer, of course, is “No.” The majesty and mystery of creation is too vast. The only proper response to all this mystery is awe, not a sense of deserving, but simply a sense of awe.
Albert Einstein, who perhaps came as close as anyone in recent history to understanding the world, put it this way: “The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious side of life. It is the deep feeling, which is at the cradle of all true art and science. In this sense, and only in this sense, I count myself amongst the most deeply religious people.”
What, then, are we ordinary people to do with the hard parts of life? Like Job, we can’t help but complain about the unfairness of things. Nobody wants to suffer and nobody wants to see others suffer. Canadian author and clergyman Jim Taylor suggests that part of the answer is to be willing to see God at work in human responses to pain. Taylor relates, “At a workshop I led a few years ago, a woman described the many people who had intervened helpfully in her life: the aunt who rescued her from an abusive home, the school teacher who took time to encourage an introverted young girl out of her shell, the boss who saw talents that she didn't know she had, the husband whose unfailing love gradually dissolved her memories of childhood abuse… ‘But,’ she said, ‘those were all people. I don't see how God was involved at all.’” We are quick to blame an uncaring God for the abuse, and for poor self-esteem. Perhaps we need to be quicker to admit of the possibility that God may be working in the midst of tragedy and confusion, if we only had eyes to see—and the courage to get involved ourselves.
The great Jewish theologian, Martin Buber, points out that at least some of the meaning of tragedy may be found in our response to each other. Buber tells the story of the Rabbi of Sasov who entered deeply into the sorrows of the people around him. Someone once remarked to the Rabbi that he had a remarkable ability to share in another’s troubles. “Share?” the Rabbi replied, “What do you mean by ‘share?’ It is my own sorrow. How can I help but suffer it?” Sometimes I think that railing about the sorrows of the world is a great excuse for NOT feeling the vulnerability that come with being human.
Another Martin Buber story summarizes what I’m saying. A central European rabbi surprised a gathering of scholars by asking, “Where is the dwelling of God?” They laughed at him: “What a thing to ask! Is not the whole world full of God’s glory?” Then the rabbi answered his own question: “God dwells wherever human beings let God in.”
May we strive to let God in: to experience the joy and wonder in all of God’s creation. And even in the sorrows of life, may we be alive to God’s glory working in human caring. AMEN