The Tragic and the Gospel

[This sermon was originally delivered years ago but updated in light of the shooting at the Tree of Life Synagogue in Pittsburgh, PA.]

“For in hope we were saved. Now hope that is seen is not hope. For who hopes for what is seen? But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience.” (Romans 8:24-25)

A couple of years ago, I ran into a woman in a local coffee shop right after yet another mass shooting had resulted in the tragic loss of several innocent lives. She commiserated with me, offering that having to preach about such things must be a nearly impossible task. And yet, as awful a task as it is, that event and others like it are part and parcel not only of the world in which we live but the gospel’s relevance and significance to everyday life.

This past Saturday our nation once again was visited with yet more sickening, malevolent violence.

At such times, we can’t help wonder about such tragic events. We wonder about the ongoing persistence of evil in a world created and sustained, presumably, by an all-knowing and all-loving God. The difficult questions tumble forth. Just how are we Christians supposed to respond to these events? And how are we to understand God’s place in a world where the dark, blunt force of evil so willfully and forcefully snuffs out innocent life in the blink of an eye? What is the spiritual meaning of it all?

I’m reminded of a PBS documentary originally aired on the first anniversary of 9/11, entitled Faith and Doubt from the Rubble. The scenes and images shown in the documentary were moving, poignantly chronicling the surreal and horrific loss of so much innocent life.

Mainly, though, as the title implies, the program sought to answer the question many of us have found ourselves asking since: how could an all-powerful, loving God allow such things to happen? Where was God in all this unmitigated evil?

By the end of the program, after interviewing a number of religious observers from various faith traditions, the conclusion was incontrovertible: doubt, not faith, is the only intelligent, viable response to the heartbreak of tragedy.

The value of traditional theological reflection, in other words, was deemed insufficient, displaced in favor of a less defined, more mystical set of questions (rather than answers). The consensus was that in light of such events, the Bible, for one, simply has no answers, or at least any that are the least credible. No, in the face of such suffering, our experience of profound loss, and its accompanying sense of meaninglessness and doubt, can be the only honest and authentic response to evil.

I immediately thought of the writings of Elie Wiesel on the salvific power of biblical faith in a Nazi death camp. Or of Dietrich Bonhoeffer, whose sharp and confident faith led to extraordinarily selfless acts of courage and sacrifice in the face of Hitler’s genocidal madness. In comparison to the thoughts and actions of these giants of the faith who stood face-to-face with evil, Faith and Doubt from the Rubble had a decidedly shallow and hollow ring to it.

I attribute some of this to the freedom and relative historic isolation of modern America from such evil happenings. I also confess to wondering about an America that seems to know so little about deep and profound suffering and the sacrifices required by it; not to mention the internal spiritual struggles that flow naturally from such suffering, struggles that starkly reveal, perhaps like nothing else, who we really think God is, or whether, deep down, we even believe there is a God.

I also couldn’t help thinking that having no story, no narrative within which to place evil and the suffering it produces, is precisely the modern story, the modern narrative: that there simply is no greater narrative, no wider framework, no other context within which to place tragedy other than our own momentary experiences and subjective feelings. Alas, when tragedy strikes, we moderns are left without resources; we have no story, no narrative, no framework within which to understand experiences of loss and fear.

So what is this biblical story/narrative/framework that does provide meaning to our suffering, pain, and loss? The Parable of the Weeds in Matthew 13 is instructive.

This parable, in short, is about how God created all things good, as the One who sows good seed in his field, the world. But while everybody is asleep, we are told, an enemy, the devil, comes under the cover of darkness to sow weeds among the good seed.

Here the reality of evil in our world is named. But it’s not that the world is inherently evil, as life-events otherwise might force us to conclude. Rather, evil has been introduced into the mix from beyond.

So when the workers returning from the field report back to the Sower that they have discovered weeds, that they have, in effect, discovered evil, they naturally seek an explanation from the Sower as to why it is allowed to exist, as do we, for they and we know it should be otherwise.

The Sower tells of a time, in the future, at the harvest, when this evil will be judged and rooted out, even as the good grain will be gathered safely into the barn.

It is important to note that evil and the suffering it produces isn’t really explained; all we know is that it simply is. Which is very much like the way we actually experience evil in our lives. We don’t know exactly where it comes from or why. And we don’t really know why it’s allowed to exist, either. Yet we experience it in very real, very personal terms, as if it is being done from outside of us, to us, by some malevolent someone. We know how it leaves us feeling abandoned, with a fearful apprehension that can take our breath away.

The apostle Paul, discerning the significance of Christ’s resurrection, itself the culmination of a gospel story that proclaims God’s sure and ultimate triumph over evil, says this to the faithful struggling in the field while they await the harvest: “I consider that the sufferings of the present time,” he assures, “are not worth comparing with the glory about to be revealed to us.”

His words echo Jesus, about how evil is real and how it has subjected an otherwise good creation to futility “not of its own doing,” he says, “but by the will of the one who subjected it.”  Paul then compares our present suffering to labor pains, labor pains that will result ultimately in a new creation. Those of us who have received the Spirit of Christ, who have received the first fruits of this coming harvest, “groan inwardly” as we await its completion with a certainty that knows how every season of growth is followed invariably by the season of harvest and feasting.

Regarding this certainty, Paul utters one of his most famous lines: “For in hope we were saved. Now hope that is seen is not hope. For who hopes for what is seen?  But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience.”

Despite evidence to the contrary, despite our momentary sense of loss and futility, a mature faith waits patiently, knowing the eventual outcome. Into this larger story/narrative/framework, our personal suffering gains context and meaning. Just as a mother about to give birth accepts her suffering and pain without any real understanding of why it must be so, the faithful trust God to make something of their suffering. For the faithful live in the assurance of this hope.

Part of why we in the church often fail to understand our suffering as Paul does could be due to something we see in the Book of Proverbs, part of the Old Testament’s so-called wisdom literature, which presents life as a series of do’s and don’ts.  If, we are told, you do things right, life will work out splendidly; if not, it won’t. If you do A, B & C, you will prosper – in body, mind and spirit. Your barns will be full, you will know abundance and health, life will be sweet. If, however, you do X, Y & Z, you can expect the worst. Failure to live a godly, moral life, in other words, will visit upon you poverty, disease, and misfortune.

Within this mindset, it was not uncommon for people to see the poor or ill or those who were suffering as immoral and rejected by God. If you were healthy, wealthy and wise, on the other hand, God obviously was quite pleased with you.

In time a counter-voice emerged which challenged these questionable theological assumptions. One such example was the Book of Job. Written also in the form of wisdom literature, the Book of Job turned the prevailing assumptions of the day on their head.

Job presents the story of a man who was exemplary in every way – a true man of God, a man of honor and conviction.  In the eyes of everyone, including God and Satan, he is the model of what it means to be good.

One day, though, Job’s life begins to fall apart – and for no apparent reason. In rapid succession, Job loses his wife, his children, his health, his business, and his land – everything dear to him. Virtually overnight, he goes from having it all to having nothing whatsoever, including his now uncertain faith.

Thrust into despair and grief, he searches but cannot find God, the same God who previously had blessed him so richly. In his sorrow he lashes out and demands that God hear him. He wants an explanation and will not rest until he gets it. He talks with his friends, some of whom try to convince him that surely he must have sinned; otherwise God would not have let these things befall him.

But Job refuses such nonsense, for he knows he is blameless and therefore entitled to God’s unending security and protection. But, alas, God’s silence remains. Job’s entire faith life, cultivated and nurtured through persistence, hard work. and honest trust is now shattered and seemingly lost forever. Perhaps it was all a lie, this God-business. After all, how could God be God when such bad things happen to the upright and faithful?

Then, suddenly, God comes to Job, in the midst of a whirlwind, not with specific answers, but with hard speech challenging Job’s audacity and impertinence. God reminds Job in no uncertain terms just who God is; that it is God who created the world and that it is God who remains in charge of it. It is not for Job to understand it all, for it is far too awesome and wonderful for him to grasp. Duly chastened, Job re-affirms his trust in the Lord, convinced anew of God’s goodness, convinced that God is able to do far more than he, Job, previously had realized or imagined. And as it turns out, at story’s end, Job’s fortunes are restored.

Now while we might question the manner in which God speaks with Job in this fable, who, after all, it would seem, has every reason to be displeased, the author’s intent is clear: that when it comes to suffering, tragedy, and loss, no one is spared, not even the upright and faithful, for the rain falls on the just and the unjust alike. And each of us, deep down, knows this to be so. We know about suffering. While Job learns that belief in God does not always protect him from sorrow or grief, he also learns in the midst of that sorrow and grief that God is both present and at work, even if momentarily experienced as hidden, just as an ever-present sun is momentarily obscured by dark rain clouds.

In the end, of course, it is not just Job who is wrong. For the Book of Job reveals also just how wrong the devil’s wager with God is. For Satan had argued that it is only natural for people to have faith in God as long as life is good. But take that good life away and bring punishing and senseless hardship upon these same faithful, and surely they will fall away.

Satan assumes, in other words, a naïve and fickle faith that believes religion will protect us always from hardship and tragedy; that the faithful will be spared suffering and grief. Yet the kind of faith Job ultimately experiences, a far more mature faith, knows that grief and loss can and do visit us all at some point or another; that none can escape it. Job’s newfound faith, in the end, is stronger, more resilient, more trusting; in the end, he emerges more fully alive, as only those who have survived such spiritual crises so often seem to be.

But Satan is wrong for another reason. Specifically, he misses the whole point of the ancient biblical story, which, from beginning to end, tells of how Satan, of how evil, though it might rage and strut for a time, cannot and will not stand. Satan shall reign but for a moment. For the die is cast; Satan has lost.

Bringing things back to the poignant sorrows of our day, it is not that it is wrong to doubt or ask why; but neither is it theologically precise, in light of the biblical story of God’s victory on the cross, for our ever-shifting doubts to become the principle and guiding force of our lives, as ends unto themselves, leading to the illogic of bitterness and despair. Job’s doubt, in the end, proves a temporary way station along the path to recovery, his doubt serving more as a fervent struggle to understand and to reclaim his faith.

Doubt, in other words, doesn’t get the last word.

Such a view, I suppose, may appear to minimize the tragic and its consequent brutalities and horrors. But this is not so. For if innocent suffering and tragedy negate biblical faith and negate what the church throughout the ages has proclaimed, then surely Jesus’ death on the cross has no meaning whatsoever.

For the cross makes known concretely our Creator’s fateful decision to live sacrificially among us – as one of us – to experience and suffer our deepest, darkest pains and sorrows, revealing not just the infinite compassion and mercy of the divine, but also the truth of the biblical story most clearly expressed in the resurrection: the total and absolute victory of God over evil and over death, humanity’s greatest foes.

Bearing the first fruits of the harvest, we, therefore, wait with patience and a certain hope. For just as the resurrection frames and purposes Jesus’ suffering, so, too, is our suffering made both meaningful and intelligible and not in vain, drawing us ever closer to God, and ever deeper into the mystery that is faith.