Reversing the Trend

PROPERS:          PENTECOST, YEAR C 

TEXT:                GENESIS 11:1-9; ACTS 2:1-12

PREACHED AT ST. PAUL’S, MOBILE, ON SUNDAY, JUNE 8, 2025.

 

ONE SENTENCE:        The Feast of Pentecost expands the reach of God’s covenant to world at large.

 

         Picture this vivid scene in your mind’s eye:

 

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            Thousands of people – masses of humanity, from many nations, with many languages – are crowding narrow streets.  The one-mile square walled city of Jerusalem – literally a fortress – is packed for the sacred feast day of Shavuot. The festival commemorates the divine gift of the Torah – the first five books of the Jewish scripture. The Books of Moses.

 

            It’s like Mardi Gras is taking place on the eight-foot wide, narrow, winding streets of Jerusalem.  So thick were the crowds on the tiny, steep streets, you couldn’t stir them with a stick.

 

            The day would also be called Pentecost, but no Christians were celebrating the festival. The small band of Jesus’ followers were cowering in a closed and locked room.  They had seen what had happened to their rabbi on the last festival – Passover – and they didn’t want to be the next group nailed to a Roman cross.

 

            They were afraid.  The doors were closed. They wanted no part of the festival in the streets.

 

            Then, it started.

 

            First, there was a breeze. Then a gust. Then a whirlwind like the one that had taken Elijah into heaven. Flames appeared and danced on the heads of the frightened disciples. Their fear was transformed. They grew bold. Their spines stiffened. They no longer cowered. The Spirit had come.

 

            They flung open the doors.  They walked out… into the crowded streets. They were not intimidated by the mixed multitude… the hordes of humanity.  Language barriers did not matter. They were united by the Spirit. They proclaimed what would be known as the Good News.

 

            The story of Jesus Christ was loosed into a diverse world.  The Tower of Babel collapsed. The story of God’s love was meant to unify. Instead of a covenant with a chosen people, the net was cast into the waters of all humanity. It’s all in our second lesson -- the second chapter of Acts.

 

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         Today we celebrate the Feast of Pentecost. Fifty days after Easter Day. One of the great feast days of the church year.  The birthday of the church.

 

            But we have a curious first lesson – completely at-odds with what this day means. Consider this:

 

            In our reading from Genesis, we are told the story of Babel – not the computer software, but the tower. The passage seeks to explain why the known world, which has its roots in a small number of human beings, devolved into a mixed multitude with many languages.

 

            The story is that the people – speaking one language – aspired to build a great city, with a tower into the heavens. Their plans, it seems, troubled God – because there would be no limit to their ambitions in such a case.

 

            God, we are told, said “Let US go down there,” scattered the people, provoked a variety of languages, and threw the multitudes into chaos.  All to divide… and to spoil their plans of omnipotence. Confusion reigned.

 

            It was the divine wish to scatter the people. Compare that divine action to scatter to the story from Acts of the first Christian Pentecost.

 

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            Archeologists tell us that the remains of the ancient tower associated with the story of Babel can be found today in the ruins of Babylon, some 90 miles from Bagdad, Iraq.  It is symbolic of the arrogance of humanity in a part of the world where so much division and violence have been sown.

 

            But that was not the last word.

 

            Just a short distance away, in another country and city, we are given the example of God’s ever-expanding mission. Not to divide people, but to unite them.

 

            Four weeks ago, we heard the words of John, written on the island of Patmos, from his ecstatic vision we call the Book of Revelation:

 

“I looked, and there was a great multitude that no one could count, from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and languages, standing before the throne and before the Lamb, robed in white, with palm branches in their hands.” 

 

            As Jody reminded us last week, words matter.  They can divide or unite.

 

            Unity is the reason we are here today.  That is the reason the churches down the street and across town gather.  It is the reason we do what we do and why they do what they do. Because we are all one people.  We are all God’s children. All. Everyone. 

The Kingdom: Here and to Come

 

PROPERS:          FOURTH SUNDAY OF EASTER, YEAR C 

TEXT:                REVELATION 7:9-17

PREACHED AT ST. PAUL’S, MOBILE, ON SUNDAY, MAY 11, 2025.

 

ONE SENTENCE:        The Kingdom of God, as embraced by John, is at hand – both the now and the future.

 

            We tend to think of the Christian scriptures – the New Testament – as something that came to us whole, in one fell swoop. But, in reality, the canon of New Testament scripture – all the books – were not listed together until St. Athanasius’ Festal Letter in 367 A. D. – 330 years after Jesus’ earthly ministry.

 

            There had been much discussion as to which books would be included. Ultimately, there would be 27 books. The last books added were the Epistle to the Hebrews and the Revelation to John – a portion of which we heard today in our second lesson.

 

            In seminary we participated in rotating groups which designed the weeks’ services for the academic community.  Each team was called a “rota”.

 

            We were discussing the lessons for a community Eucharist during my middler year.  One wag posed a question about the assigned lesson from Revelation and asked, “Do we end the lesson with The Word of the Lord… Maybe?”

 

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            Our second lesson is, of course, from the last book of the Bible, the Revelation to John. It recounts his ecstatic vision of God’s kingdom.

 

            William Alexander Percy, the Greenville, Mississippi poet, lawyer, and author, described John, the youngest disciple, in Hymn 661: “Young John, who trimmed the flapping sail, homeless in Patmos died.”

 

            John had been sentenced by Rome to isolation on that small island in the Aegean Sea, hard between modern-day Turkey and Greece.  There he lived out his life of seclusion, where tradition holds that he died as the last of the disciples.

 

            Tradition also holds that one gospel, three epistles, and the Book of Revelation came from John’s hand. Scholars are not so sure. Some other writer may have had the name.

 

            But in the Revelation to John we have what Winston Churchill said of Russia – a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma.  It is highly symbolic. For 2,000 years scholars have sought to decode its images. Books and movies have proliferated.

 

            It still remains to be fully understood.

 

            But we know this:  It is a polemic against the Roman Empire of that day, and a vivid description of a Kingdom of God, including a New Jerusalem.

 

            John was a solitary figure on the island of Patmos.  When one is alone for a long period of time, the mind can begin to play tricks.  Dreams become delusions. The solitary figure is open to visions. Like prophets of the past, God may speak. The land on which one stands becomes a thin place – a place very near to the Holy.

 

            John had such a vision, and we hear a portion of it today.  He points us toward the world to come – with angels, multitudes of faithful, and ultimately, a New Jerusalem.

 

            As we age and face our mortality, we take great comfort in John’s vision.  That is the reason that portions of the Revelation to John are included in our burial liturgy.  It gives us a glimpse of the next world as we stand at the foot of the grave of a loved one… or we face our own.

 

            But clearly the Kingdom of God is about much more.  As scripture says, the Kingdom is at hand.  It is near to us.  It is both here-and-now and in the reality we will ultimately face.

 

            It is not a choice. We will not be a Christian in one and not another.  We can and should embrace both. We can live into Christ’s teachings and ethical mandates to enrich the here-and-now.  Where we are at this moment. The world around us becomes a better place for all God’s people.

 

            And then, when we cross the Jordan for the last time, we can share in John’s vision.  We can be a part of the divine mystery in which there is neither suffering nor pain, neither sighing but life everlasting.

A Whole New World

PROPERS:          SECOND SUNDAY OF EASTER 

TEXT:                JOHN 20:19-31

PREACHED AT ST. PAUL’S, MOBILE, ON SUNDAY, APRIL 27, 2025.

 

ONE SENTENCE:        The resurrection of Jesus introduced a whole new reality into the world; we can never see the world the same.     

 

            Let me take you back a few years.  Eighty-six years to be precise.

 

            We go to the silver screen – and one of the two big motion pictures of 1939. One, of course, was Gone With the Wind.  The other one – and the one to which I refer – is The Wizard of Oz.

 

            People still get the heeby-jeebies about the black and white images of Margaret Hamilton taking Dorothy’s dog, Toto, away in a bicycle basket. And many of us had our first encounter with tornadoes in the scene which follows.  Frightening for young viewers – images that stay with us for a lifetime.

 

            But I want to focus on a different scene – immediately after Dorothy’s house, swept up by the tornado, has been transported to Munchkinland.

 

            Dorothy tentatively steps out of her house.  And suddenly her black-and-white world erupts into a world of color.  The flowers, the trees, the munchkins – they are all vividly colorful.  It is the same for the viewer.

 

            We could never see the world the same again.

 

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            The apostle Thomas in today’s gospel is clearly still residing in the tornado-tossed house.  He has not yet opened the door. He is sticking with what he knows.

 

            Thomas gets a bit of a bum rap for his skepticism.  How many of us would not share in those doubts?  Could we really believe that someone who had been crucified – and who was truly dead – had come back… and had been revivified.

 

            Doubting Thomas shared something with us.  He would not know the term nor would he know the names, but he was hamstrung by a post-Enlightenment world view. He believed that the laws of nature – defined by Newton, Einstein and others – always overruled the miraculous.

 

            In short, he was being asked to believe something that the rules of the world he had known precluded.

 

            Then, the door to the house opened.

 

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            John Claypool, the noted Episcopal priest and Baptist preacher, wrote a book called Opening Blind Eyes.He recounted an experience when symbolic scales fell from his eyes and he saw the world anew. He was never the same.

 

            Thomas – enclosed in a locked room for fear of safety – had a similar experience. His world was transformed when the Risen Jesus appeared in that locked room.

 

            Like Dorothy’s experience in The Wizard of Oz, Thomas’s world would never be the same.  Both what he knew to be and his expectations had been shattered into a million pieces.  Like Dorothy, his monochromatic world had been transformed into a palette of brilliant colors.  He was not in Kansas anymore.  Theologians would later call this a new creation.

 

            We are called to join Thomas. We are invited into that same world view.  When we experience losses… when we try and fail… when we stand at the grave of a loved one… when we encounter our human limitations… we are called to be like Thomas. 

 

            We are called to look through a new prism – the eyes of faith – and see God’s work in our midst.  As Jesus says in the Book of Revelation, “Behold, I make all things new.”

 

            Let the scales fall from your eyes. Greet the New World in which you live. 

Signs of the Times

PROPERS:          GOOD FRIDAY 

TEXT:                JOHN 18:1 – 19:42

PREACHED AT ST. PAUL’S, MOBILE, ON FRIDAY, APRIL 18, 2025.

 

ONE SENTENCE:        The cross is about self-sacrifice and the tender love of God, and not about the acquisition and exercise of power.  

 

            From my childhood in the Methodist Church, I recall a hymn, “the Old Rugged Cross.” I remember, too, gathering around my great-grandfather’s piano as my aunt would play that hymn… and we would sing.

 

            Those words come back to me today: “On a hill far away, stood an old rugged cross, the emblem of suffering and shame…”

 

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            Yet, today, on a hill near my home stands another symbol.

 

            It is a billboard – two matching billboards, as a matter of fact.  They are promotional signs for a local religious radio station.

 

            I find them heretical.

 

            They depict a cross, emanating bolts of lightning.  The station advertised as Power 88.  A cross emitting lightning.  Think about that.

 

            We just heard the passion gospel read. Nowhere within those chapters is the power of Jesus mentioned. Because it is not there.

 

            The King of Love.  The Prince of Peace. The Word of God.  The Good Shepherd. The Son of God. Emptied of all worldly dignity – he is nailed to a cross.  And there he dies a criminal’s death.

 

            Where is the power in that moment?

 

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            Christianity, from early roots on that lonely hill outside the walls of Jerusalem, has been counter-cultural.  Compared to religious and political systems of his day, Jesus was revolutionary – non-violent with a small R.

 

            Christianity continued on that track, shunning power and influence, for the first three centuries.  Any idea where the word martyr came from?

 

            All that began to change with Emperor Constantine and the embrace of Christianity by the Roman Empire.  Power had become the church’s – and it has been downhill since. Think of the Reformation, religious wars, the Inquisition, and the Holocaust… just to name a few.

 

            What we witness and what we worship today is a God who so loves the world that he allowed himself to be stripped of his humanity so that we would realize twenty-two hundred years later the immensity of his love for this rebellious world.

 

            And it is love that is not manipulative – love that does not thirst for or wield power. I read an article years ago written by a Jesuit scholar.  The name of the article was “God’s love is not utilitarian.” God’s love – as shown by the cross – testifies to his tender love for this world – just like the father looked longingly down the road for the Prodigal Son. He doesn’t expect a return on investment. He just wants us to accept it.

 

            The cross is a symbol of sacrificial love, because that is the nature of God.

 

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            When I say a blessing over a child not receiving communion, I first pronounce the blessing and then I add “Remember that God loves you.”

 

            We cannot hear that enough. It is evidenced in the life and death of Jesus. And he calls us to share that love.

 

            Just ponder this: What difference would it make if you heard those words, God loves you, again and again and again. 

A Gentle Nudge

 PROPERS:          THIRD SUNDAY IN LENT 

TEXT:                EXODUS 3:1-15  

PREACHED AT ST. PAUL’S, MOBILE, ON SUNDAY, MARCH 23, 2025.

 

ONE SENTENCE:        God’s movement is frequently subtle and awaits our need for him.

 

 

            The first lesson today, from Exodus, is certainly one of the most familiar scenes in all of scripture.  The calling of Moses.

 

            Moses… rescued from the bullrushes… former prince of Egypt… is now tending the flocks of his father-in-law Jethro in the desert wasteland of the Sinai.

 

            You likely know this scene well – even from childhood. After all, a talking, burning bush is hard to forget. God is acting very dramatically to touch Moses.

 

            Would that all divine nudging would be so dramatic.  Usually, it is subtle. Here and there. Now and again. A faint whisper in our hearts, which can easily be denied.

 

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            As Paul Harvey said, “page two”: 

 

A thirty-year-old woman lived a secluded life near the North Sea in England.  She was a nun who took her vows seriously and would be secluded in her cell throughout her life. 

 

These were dark times in her community.  The Black Death had ravaged her town. She found herself ill… desperately ill.  Near death, she had a divine vision.

 

Against all odds, she survived.  Years later, Julian of Norwich would write these words: “All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.” The year was 1373. Her account of the darkness of that experience became known as Revelations of Divine Love – a classic which transcends the centuries.

 

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            Now, “page three”: 

 

The 32-year-old Anglican priest had been educated at some of the finest schools, including the prestigious Lincoln College in Oxford.

 

            He answered a call to foreign lands and set sail for Georgia – with instructions to evangelize the indigenous people.  He fell in love with a young woman in his parish, but refused to marry, believing in a call to clerical celibacy.  When the target of his affections married another man, he excommunicated her – and soon felt the wrath of the law.

 

            He sailed back to England, a failed pastor.  When he got to London, he attended a prayer meeting on Aldersgate Street.  Hearing the preface to Paul’s Letter to the Romans read, he felt his “heart strangely warmed.”

 

            In his failure, the Second Great Awakening was born – as was the Methodist movement. John Wesley’s life pivoted.

 

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            “Page four”: 

 

Drafted into the Nazi armed forces at age 16, the teenager knew little of faith.  His German family had not been religious.

 

            When World War II ended, he was taken prisoner of war in Belgium at age 18.  He and his fellow POWs were confronted with stark images of the horrors of Auschwitz and Bergen-Belsen. They were devastated by what had been done in their name.

 

            Soon he was transferred to another POW camp, this time in Kilmarnoch, Scotland. In the depths of his despair, a chaplain gave him a small New Testament.  He read it voraciously, and his life changed.

 

            Some years later, Jurgen Moltmann, one of the greatest theologians of the 20^th century, wrote A Theology of Hope.Hope emerged from the ashes.

 

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            In hearing the account of Moses’ call, we are tempted to expect God to move in something akin to a burning bush. Yes, sometimes – but typically, not so.  God’s movement is usually much more subtle, nuanced.

 

            One of the great spiritual movements of the past 100 years has been the 12-step programs. For healing to be true and deep, a person needs to “hit bottom.”  Like the struggling father said in the Gospel according to Mark: “Lord, I believe! Help my unbelief!” 

 

Tired. Frustrated. Broken. Shattered relationships. At wit’s end. At that point, the addict is open to God’s movement in his or her life.  New life is available.

 

            Addicted or not -- we are no different.  It is when we are most lost, tending our father-in-law’s sheep at Mount Horeb, in the daily grind of life, we are most open to God’s movement.

 

            It happened with Julian of Norwich, John Wesley, and Jurgen Moltmann – it can happen to you.  No flashing lights… no lightning strikes… no burning bushes.  It is in the midst of human brokenness that God can move. Just the subtle, quiet nudge of God in your life.

Beyond the Community

 

PROPERS:          SEVENTH SUNDAY AFTER THE EPIPHANY 

TEXT:                LUKE 6:27-38     

PREACHED AT ST. PAUL’S, MOBILE, ON SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 23, 2025.

 

ONE SENTENCE:        An essential lesson of the Gospel is to treat one another with respect.

 

            I want to share a secret with you.  I know you can keep it.

 

            We clergy are not perfect.  Big surprise, huh?

 

            Garrison Keillor once said that if a minister made such a confession, you immediately start wondering who he is having an affair with and for how long.

 

            But let me burst your bubble.  No such confession is forthcoming.

 

            I merely wanted to say that we are not perfect. But we are BIG projection screens.

 

            In my prior vocation as Canon to the Ordinary, I worked closely with clergy. I tried to impart to them some semblance of wisdom distilled from many years in the ordained ministry.  In many cases, it was worth exactly what they paid for it.

 

            But I hold on to one bit of insight: We clergy are not as good or as bad as people might think. We are human beings.  As such, we have certain faults – all of us.  We also have certain gifts – gifts that we try to exercise for the good of the Body.

 

            Honestly, people tend to either put us up on a pedestal or see us as the devil incarnate.  And face it – some of us are uniquely gifted and some are just plain duffeses. Regardless, there is a tendency to either project our fondest thoughts or our most scurrilous suspicions onto clergy.

 

            Neither is accurate.  Even the most gifted among us has shortcomings. And even the most misbegotten have some gifts to share.  I know that, after consulting with congregations and clergy over 16 years. There may be real problems, but almost certainly there will be projections of our own personal perspectives involved.

 

            Trust me.  It’s a fact of life.

 

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            Bishop Sean Rowe, the presiding bishop of the Episcopal Church, preached recently at National Cathedral – some two weeks after Washington Bishop Mariann Budde set the internet on fire with her sermon at President Trump’s National Prayer Service.

 

            Bishop Rowe, who I knew when he was what we call a “baby bishop”, told a story I have told many times.  Jody probably heard it when he was in Fresh Start in Mississippi.

 

            It goes this way:

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            It seems that an old monastery had fallen on hard times.  Whereas many years earlier it had been a thriving monastic community in the countryside.  Many prospective monks had made their vows and exercised their vocations there.

 

            But no longer.  Only three or four monks remained.  The abbot – the head of the monastery – was bereft.  No matter what he tried, hard times continued.

 

            At a loss as to what to do, the abbot decided to go talk with a wise of old Jewish hermit who lived near the village.  He would seek the wise old man’s wisdom.

 

            When they met, they shared a drink, and the abbot unburdened himself.  Then they both wept.

 

            “I’m sorry”, the old man said, “but have no advice for you. I do not know how to solve your problems.”

 

            The abbot stood to leave. As he walked to the door, the old man said, “I do have one insight for you.  You should know this: The messiah is one of the monks in your community.”

 

            Walking home, the abbot thought: “Curious.  Who could it be? Not me. O God, not me! And certainly not Brother Bob!  But who?”

 

            Befuddled and mystified, he got back to the monastery and told the remaining monks what the old man had said.  They, too, were curious. They wondered. They looked at their colleagues differently.

 

            Something strange happened.  In the days, weeks, and months ahead, the monks treated one another with great kindness, gentleness, and courtesy. After all, the messiah was in their midst.

 

            And as their perspective changed, they began to attract new novices to their order. Families came from the nearby town to picnic on their grounds.  The monastery flourished.

 

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            St. Paul’s is a very loving community.  As a result of the respect we show one another, our parish flourishes. Trust me – I’ve seen the dark side of many a parish’s life.

 

            But we don’t dwell here 24/7.  We all have our lives.  We walk out of here after service on Sunday, and that is when the rubber of our faith meets the road.

 

Jesus said, "I say to you that listen, Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you. If anyone strikes you on the cheek, offer the other also; and from anyone who takes away your coat do not withhold even your shirt. Give to everyone who begs from you; and if anyone takes away your goods, do not ask for them again. Do to others as you would have them do to you.”

 

            Those are the first words from our gospel lesson today – from the Sermon on the Plain, Luke’s version of the Sermon on the Mount. They are Jesus’s words to those who would be citizens in the kingdom he was introducing.

 

            They are a high standard.  They go against our very nature.  But they are words of life.  Words of hope. Words for a New Creation.

 

            Our various communities.  Our circles of friends.  The strangers we encounter.  Our families.  All would flourish and prosper if we went against the norms of the world and lived the words of Jesus. Forgive. Turn the other cheek. Give freely.

 

            His words… his life… his example… are the way, and the truth, and the life.

From Out of the Whirlwind...

 

PROPERS:          THIRD SUNDAY AFTER THE EPIPHANY 

TEXT:                NEHEMIAH 8:1-3, 5-6, 8-10  

PREACHED AT ST. PAUL’S, MOBILE, ON SUNDAY, JANUARY 26, 2025.

 

ONE SENTENCE:        We look through a glass darkly at the movement of God in our lives.   

 

            This past Thursday was a little-acknowledged feast day in the church year.  It was our annual commemoration of the man who was, perhaps, the greatest preacher in the history of the Episcopal Church.

 

            Philips Brooks was the rector of that well-known parish in Boston – Trinity Church, Copley Square.  It is a massive edifice in downtown Boston, and Philips Brooks preached there for 22 years.  He was elected bishop of Massachusetts in 1891 – a post he held for only two years before he died.

 

            It should be noted that one contribution he made to our tradition is that he wrote “O Little Town of Bethlehem.” He is a towering figure in our church history.

 

            Another, lesser-known fact is that this past Thursday, the feast day of Philips Brooks, was also Jody Burnett’s birthday.

 

            O rector, my rector – happy birthday!

 

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            We come face-to-face today with another little-known fact – the first lesson, from Nehemiah.

 

            We regularly read or listen to scripture passages on Sunday that we do not understand.  Their background, their meaning, their significance are lost on us.  We don’t know how to unspool them to find the meaning deep within.  This passage from Nehemiah is just such a lesson.

 

            Let me place it in historical context for you.

 

            There are two deeply significant events in the Old Testament. One is the original Passover in Egypt and the deliverance at the Red Sea.  Anyone who has watched Charlton Heston as Moses in The Ten Commandments is familiar with that event.

 

            The other event is much less known.  It transpired in 587 BC. King Nebuchadnezzar and his Babylonian army laid siege to the Holy City of Jerusalem and leveled it – including the sacred Temple built by Solomon. Stone from stone.

 

            Blood ran in the streets and the people of Jerusalem were taken into exile.  It was the beginning of the Jewish diaspora, when the Jewish people were dispersed throughout the Western World – especially Eastern Europe. Sadly, it laid the early foundation for the Holocaust. It was a turning point in Judaism. The nation of Judah was ravaged and ceased to exist.

 

            The scriptural perspective is that the people had turned away from God’s law and the result had been divine, retributive action by the Babylonians.

 

            But history has a funny way of turning on worldly powers.  Babylon was defeated by Persia – modern-day Iran – and the fate of the Jews rested in the hands of Cyrus the Great, King of Persia. I would note he was the predecessor – by 2,000 years – of the ayatollah.

 

            Cyrus released the Jews to return to Jerusalem.  And they did.  Nehemiah, the governor, and Ezra, the priest, were responsible for reintroducing God’s law and rebuilding the city.  It is at that point that we find them today. They are reintroducing the Law to God’s chosen people in the Holy City of Jerusalem.

 

            Ultimately, they will succeed.  The city will be rebuilt.  A magnificent Temple will be constructed – a Temple where Jesus will teach 600 years later.  It will be that new Temple – originally built by Nehemiah’s workers and made grand by Herod – from which Jesus would eject the money changers.

 

            And it is that Temple that will fall to the Roman legions in AD 70.  They, too, will raze it, stone from stone.  Once again, the people will be vanquished… and weep for the loss of their holy place. Forty years after Jesus’ crucifixion.

 

            One would not blame the Jews for the ultimate theological question of theodicy – why is there injustice, tragedy, loss in God’s creation?

 

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            In 1948 the nation of Israel came into being.  The Temple Mount and the adjacent Wailing Wall were recaptured in 1967. I was there on the 50^th anniversary of the nation’s founding. Israel lives today – despite the horrors of history.

 

            We will endure losses – personally, as a people, as a nation. When the winds of change or loss hit us as individuals or sweep through us as a people, we can and should grieve.  That is a reasonable human reaction – it is not to be dismissed or minimized.

 

            But neither should we vanquish hope.  Despair is not our friend in faith. While we may question the justice of the loss of a loved one, the seeming triumph of an unjust cause, or some sort of cataclysm which rocks our community.  We need to recognize that we do not understand the trajectory of history; we do not see the end result off in the mists of the future.

 

            We do not fully understand or grasp God’s ways.

 

            My point?

 

            All this reminds me of two things…

 

First, in the book that bears his name, Job bitterly complains that bad fortune had befallen him, and had lost family, flocks, crops, fields, and wealth.  He had lived a sterling life.  Is there no justice?

 

In the 38^th chapter, God answers Job’s accusations of the lack of justice in life: 

 

Then the Lord answered Job out of the whirlwind:

² “Who is this that darkens counsel by words without knowledge?
³ Gird up your loins like a man;
    I will question you, and you shall declare to me.

⁴ “Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth?
    Tell me, if you have understanding.
⁵ Who determined its measurements—surely you know!
    Or who stretched the line upon it?
⁶ On what were its bases sunk,
    or who laid its cornerstone
⁷ when the morning stars sang together
    and all the heavenly beings^[a] shouted for joy?

 

            This is core to my theology – we see through a glass darkly. Now, we do not understand.  Our vision is limited. Neither we nor Nehemiah could understand what would transpire in the coming years, decades, or centuries.

 

            At the same time, though, I embrace the hope of faith that is found in Martin Luther King’s sermon at Washington National Cathedral five days before he was assassinated in Memphis: “The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.”

 

            Job, Chapter 38, and the quotation from Martin Luther King. They summarize my faith.  That is my hope. On Christ the solid rock I stand…