Grace to you and
peace from God our Father and our Lord and Savior, Jesus the Christ. Amen
“Rabbi, who
sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?”
Underlying this
question is the simple fact that sometimes life seems unfair, even cruel, and
it leaves us struggling with the question “Why?”
When Jerry and
Susan spoke to me they left me speechless, simply not knowing what to say, and
when I tried to say anything they had to correct me.
I didn’t know
what SMA was. Spinal Muscular Atrophy.
It’s a genetic
mutation that results in a progressive deterioration of the nerve function,
until in the end, a person is rendered incapable of all the vital things for
life, like breathing.
When a child is
born with SMA they may live a year, or two.
Jerry and Susan’s
newborn Spencer had just been diagnosed.
He would live but a year.
They tried again
to have another child. Andrew was also
born with SMA, and died following his first birthday.
Life is cruel.
And
we ask why.
Ben was the
husband of my youth director, Kirsten.
A young man, a
good husband, a new father.
In my office one
day, they shared that he was seeing a doctor because of a weakness that had
developed in one of his legs.
They were afraid
that it might be something horrible like brain cancer.
Trying to calm
their fears I remember offering the observation that when faced with the unknown
we almost always fear the worst, and rarely does the worst happen.
Above all, I wanted
to reassure them that “it’ll be ok.”
Two months later
Ben died of a highly aggressive form of brain cancer.
Life is cruel.
And
we ask why.
About the same
time Brad, my doctor, and a member of the congregation in Sandpoint, had a
seizure.
His colleague and
close friend performed some tests, including an MRI on his brain.
Together they
looked at the results: three small
tumors.
Inoperable.
That began a two
year journey of a slow decline and death.
One of the things
he lost was his short term memory.
He would get up
in the morning and call into work to see what he had on his schedule for the
day, not realizing that hadn’t worked for over a year.
When Brad died he
left behind a dear wife, and three young boys.
Life is cruel.
And
we ask why.
“Rabbi, who
sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?”
There is a desire
within us to find a reason, because if we can find a reason for our suffering,
the world seems more fair, and just, less arbitrary and cruel.
I remember
telling Brad as he shared the news with me that if our roles had been reversed,
it would make more sense.
Afterall, I’m the
one who smoked, and drank, and quite frankly didn’t live all that healthy of a
life style.
Brad, on the
other hand, did everything right.
Were I diagnosed
with cancer everyone, myself included, would simply point to the choices I have
made and said: “He should have know
better.”
But Brad did
everything right.
There was nothing
fair or just about his death.
He'd done nothing
to deserve that fate.
And so we ask
why.
Likewise with
Ben, and Spencer and Andrew.
There is no
reason to make sense of their deaths.
Their's was a
completely innocent suffering and death.
Why?
“Neither this man
nor his parents sinned; he was born blind so that God’s works might be revealed
in him.”
Jesus’ words work
well, when he is there to heal the blind man.
He was blind, but
now he sees.
If every time we
faced a grave illness or injury God would respond with a miraculous healing we
wouldn’t ask the question why so much.
But people die,
for no reason.
And we are left
with our grief. And our questions.
As I look back
over nearly thirty years of ministry, what I find myself going back to, time
and time again, is a simple truth.
We are
mortal. And life is fragile.
And try though we
might we cannot pray ourselves out of our own mortality.
At the same time,
I also am reminded of how many times the words of Psalm 23 were present amid
all this suffering.
Words of comfort
and hope.
I believe that
Psalm 23 is to be read from the inside out.
We begin with
where we too often find ourselves.
Though
I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil; for you
are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.
The Valley of the
shadow of death.
Faced with our
own mortality. Struggling with the death
of others.
I preached many a
sermon on the 23rd Psalm during funerals.
I read it many
times during hospital visits.
I shall fear no
evil.
Why?
Because we are
not alone. Christ is with us.
And the rod and
the staff, shepherds tools that would be used to protect his flock, these give
us comfort. Just the knowledge that the
Lord is there protecting us from evil, comforting us in our distress, provides
hope.
Why is it that we
can be reassured and find hope?
First because of
what God has already done.
We remember,
looking back over the course of our lives, and take comfort in all the ways God
has provided for us.
The
LORD makes me lie down in green pastures and leads me beside still waters. You
restore my soul, O LORD, and guide me along right pathways for your name’s
sake.
One of the rich
blessings of growing old is the recognition that “this too shall pass”.
I will always
treasure the insights of my parent's generation when faced with
difficulties. They had grown up in the
great depression. They faced all sorts
of hardship. And when that passed, they
had to deal with WWII.
Through it all
came a recognition that God continued to provide for them and care for them in
the most uncertain of times.
“We may not have
had much, but we had love, and that was enough.”
And then, as we
remember all the ways that God has been with us in the past, we look forward to
the promises of what is to come:
Surely
goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in
the house of the LORD forever.
Faced with our
own mortality we take comfort in being an Easter people.
Death will not
have the final word, God will.
And by the
goodness and mercy of God we are promised a place in the house of the Lord,
forever.
In a few moments
we will gather around the altar, receive the bread and wine, and here get a
foretaste of the feast to come.
The psalmist
writes:
You
prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; you anoint my head
with oil, and my cup is running over.
We come to the
table Christ himself has prepared, and we join in a feast of celebration of the
victory Jesus has won.
This we do, even
as death, our age old enemy, still rages all around us and in us.
One of the
special moments I remember with Brad, was that every Christmas Eve he would
assist me in communion. It was his
thing.
And then, that
final Christmas Eve, when he could no longer come to worship, we celebrated
communion with him at his home.
Riddled with
cancer, clinging to what life was left in him, we celebrated the victory.
This is my body.
This is my blood.
Given,
Shed,
For you.
There was the
assurance of forgiveness.
There was hope.
And most of all,
there was life in Christ, the assurance that even as we die with Christ, and
Christ with us, we will also be raised with him, and we will dwell in the house
of the Lord forever.
Amen
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