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A Quiet, Bold WitnessOctober 08, 2006 Eighteenth Sunday after Pentecost Why do bad things happen to good people? This is a timeless question that has consumed simple and great minds alike. Yet, no matter how often we ask it, no matter how often Rabbi Kushner’s bestseller is leafed through, the answer is elusive. We can’t understand it. At times, we can’t take it. And, the absence of a reasonable explanation often makes us numb. Much has been said of late concerning a phenomenon coined “compassion fatigue.” The assumption is that there has been a succession of human tragedies in recent years that have overwhelmed our capacity to feel and to respond adequately. We just can’t take more human misery, tragedy, disaster, or crisis. We’re worn out psychologically and emotionally, and so the front page headlines fail to impact us in compassionately appropriate ways. (One commentator noted this past week that after what has been the bloodiest month on record in Iraq, life goes on at home as usual. It is perhaps the first time in American history, he said, that we are engaged in a war that takes thousands of young American lives, not to mention Iraqis, and yet we back home are not asked to sacrifice, are told to go on as if all were normal, and are protected and shielded from grief as the coffins of fallen soldiers are hidden from public viewing. The assumption is that Americans just can’t take it.) [1] I hope there was a crack in the wall of compassion fatigue this week, especially because of the numerous tragic events involving children. Aren’t Jesus’ words from today’s gospel poignant in light of recent events? “‘Let the little children come to me; do not stop them; for it is to such as these that the kingdom of God belongs. Truly I tell you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God as a little child will never enter it.’ And he took them up in his arms, laid his hands on them, and blessed them.” Words are inadequate to rationally describe the tragedy of the invasion of an Amish schoolhouse in Pennsylvania. And, sadly, our senses have been so numbed by the pervasive violence of our culture that two other school shootings last week hardly shocked us. The sordid affair involving former Congressman Mark Foley and his lurid attempts to seduce a teen-aged page is almost expected in a culture of corruption and scandal. But, with the Amish, a people whose way of life is so peaceful, so rooted in Jesus’ way of non-violence, it is enough to make us pause, hopefully even to shock us out of our numbness. If the sheer violence of that event wasn’t enough to awaken us, perhaps the ensuing events were. Watching CNN earlier this week, I will never forget the dumbstruck look on the reporter’s face while accounting that as the family of one of the little girls killed in the schoolhouse was preparing her body for burial, her grandfather was reminding his family that they must not think evil of the man who did this and that they must forgive. Later, they even invited the widow of the gunman to the funeral, the burial procession passed by the widow’s home, and later the family publicly declared that they hoped she would continue to live in the community. The reporter noted that this kind of forgiveness seems beyond comprehension. On the subway just a few days ago I couldn’t help contrast that family’s ethic of forgiveness with the prevailing notion of revenge in our culture. Two women were standing next to me on the train. One said to the other, “Can you believe what happened at that schoolhouse in Pennsylvania. It’s crazy.” And her friend responds, “And did you see that the families say they forgive the man who killed their little girls. That’s crazy! If someone did that to my little girl, I’d want him to burn in hell.” I understand the sentiment-- five precious lives; innocent, young, and vital. They are lost forever to their families, friends and community. As a father of two little girls I can’t imagine mustering the fortitude to forgive on that scale. It would be a mistake to romanticize the Amish; certainly they are experiencing a full range of emotions at this time. But at their core, they are a people bound to Jesus and his ethic of love and forgiveness. It’s not crazy – it’s faithful; it’s Christ-like. Their way is a wonderful antidote to the religious climate in our world that responds to violence with more violence. In an eye-for-an-eye world, the Amish remind us of Jesus’ way and his words spoken long ago: “You have heard that it was said, 'You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy.' But I say to you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.” In grief, the Amish are teaching us to take seriously the words Jesus taught us to pray: “Forgive us our sin even as we forgive those who sin against us.” That Amish grandfather’s witness has nothing to do with his hat, or his beard, or his horse and buggy. It has more to do with the fact that he is a person who lives his faith passionately and bravely in the face of adversity, and means it when he quotes from St. Paul’s letter to the Romans, “Bless those who persecute you; bless and do not curse them…Do not repay anyone evil for evil…Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.” Nothing I’ve said so far explains why bad things happen to good people. Our Old Testament lesson for today doesn’t attempt to do that either. In the story of Job we are confronted with the fact that there is always an unexplainable element in suffering. Elie Wiesel imagined Job, surviving his catastrophe, hurling a barb at God; "Very well, I forgive you, but what about my dead children? Do they forgive you?" [3] The Bible doesn't explain suffering. It never tries to answer the question, “Why do bad things happen to good people?” Instead, in the Bible, people frequently cry out in agony, storming heaven with their protests. “How long, O Lord, will you ignore the suffering of your people?” “How long, O Lord, will you allow my enemies to pursue me?” Jesus cries out from the cross, “My God, my God! Why have you forsaken me?” Job himself, after experiencing senseless agony, cries out, “How long will you torment me, and break me in pieces with words? Even when I cry out ‘Violence!’ I am not answered; I call aloud, but there is no justice.” There is also no answer. There is always an inexplicable element to suffering, and we will not make peace with that by finding an answer to life’s most perplexing question. That’s far too impersonal for God’s taste. We will make peace with that inexplicable element by finding our voice and a defiant spirit. Scripture tells us that is exactly what faithful response looks like. The followers of Jesus never stop being outraged at what is evil, and shame on us for reducing suffering to an intellectual question or problem to be answered. Jesus didn't explain evil, he resisted it! [4] And this week we learn his way of resistance in the lives of simple, country folks. They resist evil with love and forgiveness. That way is filled with deep pain and loss, but it’s the only way we know to stop the cycles of violence and hate we cannot seem to break. Love and forgiveness are a form of protest. Love and forgiveness are a form of resistance. They are a way of expressing our hatred of evil and senseless suffering. Love and forgiveness are actually the way of freedom, offered by people truly liberated from the dungeons of resentment, victimization and retaliation. It’s not the easiest way, nor the most immediately gratifying way. But it is the only way that will bring about the kind of world we long to inhabit; and it is the only way that will open within us a space for God’s abiding peace. Near the end of A Farewell to Arms, Hemingway wrote, "The world breaks everyone, and then some become strong in the broken places." We hang on. We bank our faith upon this God who knows reality and hears our protests. We become strong. And we look for others who are broken, and we love them. [5] That’s what Jesus did. That’s about the best we can do. _____________________ Previous sermon: On Fundamentalism • Next sermon: Three Witnesses All past sermons |
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