 |
|
Where Are You, God?
|
|
30 November 2008 Not long ago, Helen Hanes introduced me to a book I’d somehow missed as I was growing up, and as our children were growing up: Bartholomew and the Oobleck. I’ve never been sure who has more fun with Dr. Seuss–kids or adults, but I know for a fact that when I left it out on the kitchen table, our twenty-something kid snatched it up just as quickly as I did. If you haven’t read it, ask Helen if you can borrow her copy. Mine’s on order from Amazon. When it comes in, you may borrow mine. Of course, Bartholomew works for the king who has everything, and because he has everything, he is bored. He’s tired of sun and rain and snow. He wants something more. So the court magicians go to the most dangerous of their magic and create...oobleck. Sticky, gooey, green glop that plops from the sky...and multiplies, so that eventually it covers and invades everything. Everything. Threatening life as everyone knows it...from the scullery maid right on up to the king. There are jillions of ways we can read Dr. Seuss, but for today, it’s an apocalyptic story. Biblically, the apocalypse refers to the final destruction of the world...and certainly that’s what nearly happens in Bartholomew’s world. The oobleck keeps multiplying and growing over every surface possible, paralyzing communication, making it impossible for people to protect themselves or warn one another. Just in time, Bartholomew is able to warn the king and beg him to admit his mistake. Just in time, the king follows Bartholomew’s advice and asks forgiveness. It’s a children’s story. It takes us right up to overwhelming danger, but then resolves into a happy ending. The Bible makes no such concessions. Just after our Call to Worship today, Terri led us in portions of Psalm 80, a lament. At the very beginning of our service, we engaged in what was was a corporate crying out to God in what for ancient Israel is a national lament voiced in a time of grave danger.[2] It’s definitely a churchly thing– something that those outside the church are likely to write off as an exceedingly strange way to begin a new year. Growing up in the West as we do, we are more likely to associate the new year with loud horns, banging pots, silly hats, and crowds of people celebrating its arrival, often toasted with copious amounts of alcohol. Don’t misunderstand me; there’s nothing wrong with celebration! But even at its most common level, celebrating that we have survived another calendar year has buried within it the recognition that this is not something any of us can take for granted entirely. And it is precisely this recognition to which the language and theology of our faith give voice. This is the first Sunday of the new Christian year. In a quick review of the past year, our minds may go immediately to the first African American elected to become President of the United States, perhaps even to the first-ever glimpses of glaciers on Mars, but it isn’t long before we also return to the worst economy this nation has seen since the Great Depression, to pirates operating with impunity off the coast of Somalia, a bloody three-day siege of Mumbai, a fragile planet careening toward ecological disaster, two wars, and scores of conflicts from Mexico to Thailand to Congo. Nearly everywhere, disruption rends the social fabric and open conflict threatens to overwhelm. So at this beginning of the new Christian year, our scriptures from both psalm and gospel call us to set aside the silly hats, and instead, challenge us to raise our eyes to those parts of God’s creation that no one–especially God–can look at in their current state and call them good. At the beginning of the new Christian year, this time we call Advent, we are challenged to faithfully examine the realities of life in this world and “to practice hoping bigger hopes,”[3,78] as professor Richard Swanson phrases it. This practice does not come out of thin air, but is rooted deep within the ancient Jewish faith that provides the foundations for our own. In Mark’s telling, the little apocalypse is Jesus’ final word before his passion; it comes as he leaves the temple in Jerusalem for the last time before his death. Jesus, who grew up in the religious shadow of the temple, also lived late in the messy aftermath of the Maccabean rebellion, under the full imperial might of the Roman Empire. The messianic expectations fanned by the Maccabean rebellion over 100 years before Rome smolder during Jesus’ lifetime, and find expression in Jewish revolt against Rome in 70 CE. By the time of Mark’s writing, the temple itself is a heap of rubble, utterly destroyed. This reality has enormous impact on Mark’s audience. The story which warns of the destruction of the temple is the story which mirrors their experience. “Now they wait, somewhere, shaken by the experience, expecting something more out of all the expectations stirred by Jesus.”[3,79] We know in our most truthful moments that the destruction of which today’s story speaks mirrors our experience as well. These are sobering times. From the twin towers in New York to the Taj Mahal Hotel in Mumbai, experiences of destruction and carnage shake us to our core, and we hear the thrice-uttered words “Keep awake” with an urgency that demands response. One response is to stockpile weapons. But our Judeo-Christian faith calls us to practice bigger hopes. We’re not talking here about karma. We’re not talking about fate, a hopeless acceptance of life’s events. Ours is a faith that chooses hope. We can choose to hope; we can practice hope. Howard Friend, an author, suggests that we actually choose to choose. ‘Choosing to choose’ can seem awkward and redundant, but it may be a necessary first step in the search for a genuine hope....Choosing to choose is different from merely choosing. It evokes a sturdy intention...is resolute and determined. Merely choosing can be unreflective and impulsive, while choosing to choose is reasoned and measured.”[4] The story we tell each Sunday is a true story. It is a story that demands thought while simultaneously speaking to the dimension of our soul. It is a story that envisions a God who creates and calls it good, a story that affirms God’s goodness in spite of unspeakable brutality within the human family, a story that tells us that love brings healing to brokenness, and resurrection even in the face of death. It is a story that calls us to the practice of hope that is as fundamental to our faith as the belief that God is good. And it is a story that is told and retold in countless forms–including the story of Bartholomew and the Oobleck. That story runs on the hope that a change in one person’s actions can lead to a new and positive outcome. Our faith practices hope and calls us to bear it witness. It is the perfect message for the beginning of a new year. Thanks be to God! *** [1] Craddock, Fred B., et al, Preaching Through the Christian Year, Trinity Press International, © 1993. “To keep awake is to be faithful in our work, as though we were already in the presence of the One for whose coming our hearts are eager.”[1,7] |