Sermons

Mar 11 - The Rev. Brian C. Taylor - 3rd Sunday of Lent

The 3rd Sunday of Lent
The Rev. Brian C. Taylor
Exodus 3:1-15, Psalm 63:1-8, I Corinthians 10:1-13, Luke 13:1-9

The season of Lent is a time when we pay particular attention to sin. We begin with the Litany of Penitence on Ash Wednesday – naming the many kinds of sin we usually don’t think about, but which every one of us commits: self-indulgence, indifference, envy, greed. We remember that we are only human, after all. Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return.

Like everyone else, we are born into a web of imperfection and dysfunction; we are affected by other’s imperfections before we know what hit us, and we affect others, in turn. This is what we traditionally call original sin. We never get out of this web of inter-related harm as long as we live. We can try all our lives long to be good, even to be perfect, but we will keep coming up against that wall of imperfection. Of course we’re good as well; but we’re human, very human.

In Lent we also pay attention to suffering. The morning paper gives us plenty of motivation to pray for those who are in misery. Some of our Lenten materials in the narthex from Episcopal Relief and Development educate us about poverty and disease, and how we can help. And as for whatever personal cross we bear – in Lent we move towards Good Friday, to join with Jesus in his suffering and surrender.

If we’re at all curious, we wonder why we must sin, and why we must suffer. Today’s gospel deals with this question. Jesus is approached by a group of people, and what he says to them in a few short sentences is surprisingly complex.

Apparently they were wondering about the spiritual meaning of a horrible event: a group of Galileans were engaged in the act of prayerful sacrificing at the Temple in Jerusalem, and Pilate had them slaughtered, mingling their blood with the blood of their sacrifices.
Perhaps they assumed what many of us do: that somehow these unfortunate people brought this tragedy on themselves. Maybe they were zealots, in trouble with Rome. Perhaps they were sinners, and God struck them down as they worshiped.

Blaming the victim is one way that we humans delude ourselves that everything happens for a reason, that there is no random suffering that can just strike innocent people for no good cause. But even more to the point, we imagine that we are safe as long as we remain good people. And when bad things do happen to us, we often go immediately to the question What did I do to deserve this? Why me?

Here is Jesus’ answer to the crowd that day, and also to us: Do you think that because these Galileans suffered in this way they were worse sinners than all others? No, I tell you. Jesus seems to be saying that sometimes things just happen. A brutal leader like Pilate just kills a bunch of pious Galileans in the Temple. A leader gives the order to use guided missiles or carry out a suicide mission against perfectly good and innocent civilians. A tower falls over on 18 people at Siloam, or a tornado blows through a High School building; they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. These things happen. It isn’t their fault. It isn’t even God’s will that they die; it isn’t part of a divine Master Plan. Not every form of suffering happens for a reason.

But then Jesus complicates the issue. He turns to the group that has approached him and reminds them that there is another kind of suffering that does happen because of our sin. He says Unless you repent, you will perish.

We know this to be true. If our life is dominated by anger, greed, indifference, addiction, or hatred, we will not only cause suffering for others; we will suffer ourselves. Sin brings about suffering. There are some forms of suffering that are our own fault; there are some kinds of misery that we bring on ourselves. And to this kind of suffering, Jesus can only say Unless you repent, you will perish. This isn’t a matter of God’s punishment; it’s simply the reality of consequences.

And so, as Lent reminds us, there is the inescapable fact of sin and consequences. There is also the reality that random, unjust suffering happens. And the pain of it for us is that we cannot eliminate either. We would like to be perfect, to never experience again or inflict on others the damage that comes from our sin. We would like to be protected from ever being the victim of events beyond our control. But we cannot prevent either. What do we do with this poignant fact of life? What do you do with it?

One answer that helps me enormously is found in our first reading, from the book of Exodus. The Hebrew people had been laboring hard and suffered much under the whip of the Egyptians. I’m sure that the Hebrews were wondering why they suffered so, and what sort of master plan might bring them meaning. But instead, this unknown man who was in fact a criminal on the run – Moses - had a vision of a burning bush. A mysterious voice said I AM WHO I AM. Follow me into the desert, right behind this criminal here. Right.

But as we know, this unknown I AM would turn out to be, for those who placed their faith in him, the very source of life. I AM would free them from bondage, give them sustenance in the desert, guide them safely through the perils of an unknown land, and bring them into a place of plenty. I AM would always remain unknown, a God whose ways are far beyond human comprehension and control, but who would nevertheless give meaning and hope, and through the covenant, a just and harmonious way of living. In the face of the Hebrew’s suffering, the only meaning they get, the only divine Master Plan, the only revelation and explanation is this: I AM; follow me into the unknown desert.

This is all we get, too, and it is enough. In the face of random suffering and tragedy, in the midst of our inescapable sin, we look for control and for explanation. Instead, we are given the gift of mystery: God is. Follow him into the unknown. Open your heart. Trust and be patient.

What good is this mysterious gift? Well, there will always be plenty of time and energy for self-improvement and making changes to alleviate suffering for ourselves and for the world around us. But when this doesn’t work, there is only one thing for people of faith to do.

We turn to the God who simply is, and are lifted up. It is at this point that God gives us the gift of self-transcendence. Whatever your imperfection is, whatever unjust and inexplicable thing is going on in your life, God still is. Life is still good. And you are still capable of love, even of joy and hope. Forget yourself, forget your circumstances, forget how good or bad you are. This isn’t about you. It is about the great I AM.

Follow this God into the desert of uncertainty, without a plan, without an explanation, without any promises that you will finally be rid of your sin and any future tragedies. Drop your demand for life to make sense and seek this un-nameable One who gives life and hope.

Life does not always make sense, and we cannot always be good. And so life’s uncertainty and our imperfection is not the place where we will find true happiness. Our contentment comes from seeking and opening our heart to something beyond us, something that transcends our circumstances, something that has nothing to do with how good or bad we are.

Mary Oliver put it best for me, in her poem Wild Geese. I’ve read it to you before, but it bears repeating.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting-
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.