April 21, 2013 – 4 Easter C
© 2013 Evan D. Garner
It’s been a strange, sad
week. By the time I heard the news that there had been an explosion at the
Boston Marathon, it was almost time for Vestry. Although I wasn’t dismissive of
the tragedy, a full day without any time in front of the television or a
computer screen meant that I wasn’t able to absorb the impact that the bombings
would have on our country. Then, as the days unfolded, I—like almost everyone—became
increasingly obsessed with the incident. I listened with a deep emotional
connection to reports of the injuries and deaths. I watched and waited for news
of the perpetrators and stared intently at the television when the video clips
were released by the FBI. All day on Friday, while the citizens of Boston were
hiding in their homes, sheltering in place, I left the news on in case
something exciting enough to pull me away from my Friday-routine happened. I
live in Alabama; I had that luxury.
On Thursday morning, I
woke up and read of the explosion at the fertilizer plant in West, Texas.
Actually, I saw a video of it first—that clip of the man in the blue jeans
sitting in his car and filming the flames just as the explosion ripped through the
air, turning over his car, and leveling buildings all around. Instantly, I thought
of Boston and wondered which tragedy would be more devastating. A conversation
at Theology on Tap later that night revealed mixed feelings among our
parishioners. Some of us were touched more deeply by the threat of terrorism,
while others felt especially vulnerable to an accident in a manufacturing
plant. Ultimately, of course, there is no way to compare the significance of
disasters. Body counts and reconstruction costs can’t convey the real loss we
all experience when things in the world go wrong.
All week long I’ve been
interested in how people deal with incidents like these—tragedies that happen
in far-away places yet leave their mark here at home. With a terrorist attack,
are we supposed to stop everything and give it our full attention in order to
honor the suffering of our fellow Americans? Or are we supposed to go about our
lives, refusing to allow the terrorists to disrupt our routines any more than
necessary? I felt mixed feelings when I saw a news channel show an entire
hockey arena singing the National Anthem in an overwhelmingly patriotic display.
In this time of national vulnerability, was that populist appeal only supposed
to boost ratings, or was it intended to boost morale?
On Friday, as I listened
to NPR, I heard a story of two senators that really grabbed my heart. Senator
Ted Cruz of Texas reflected on a visit he paid to Senator Elizabeth Warren of
Massachusetts. I don’t have to tell you that these days senators from Texas and
Massachusetts don’t really agree on much. As the commentator made clear, these
two elected officials represent opposite poles of a widely divided electorate,
yet Cruz focused on what held them together. He talked about how strikingly
similar Warren’s sentiments were to his own as each dealt with disaster in his
or her own state. And that’s the message that has carried me through these last
few days. I don’t have a lot in common with Bostonians or the residents of
West, Texas. I don’t always gush at sentimental displays of patriotism, and I
often disagree with the politics of senators from all states. But, no matter
what I believe, I’m still an American and a human being, and that’s what unites
me to those who suffer in Massachusetts and Texas.
So why can’t Christians
be the same?
One winter, during the
celebration of the Dedication of the Temple, which we now call Hanukkah, Jesus
was walking through the portico of Solomon. Some of the religious authorities
came up to him and asked, “How long will you keep us in suspense? If you are
the Messiah, tell us plainly.” Jesus looked at them wistfully and said, “I have
told you, and you do not believe.” And why didn’t they believe? Because, as
Jesus said to them, “You do not belong to my sheep.”
This story comes in the
middle of Jesus’ earthly ministry. For quite a while, he had been explaining to
the people where he had come from and why God had sent him. But he wasn’t
telling them what they wanted to hear. As the Feast of the Dedication would
suggest, his interrogators were hoping for a political and military leader—one
sent by God to overthrow the Roman occupation. But Jesus came to preach peace,
and his words fell on deaf ears. So no matter how hard the religious
authorities tried to make sense of this Jesus of Nazareth, they were not able
to recognize him for who he really was.
But the same can be said
for us.
What does it mean to believe
in Jesus? How can we make sense of a messiah who came to save the world but
died trying? What does it mean to believe in a king whose crown was made of
thorns and whose throne was a hard wooden cross? We say that Jesus came to
deliver the world from sin and death, but sin and death still seem to reign in
places like the finish line of the Boston Marathon and the factory floor of
that fertilizer plant. We’re supposed to believe in a God who is all-powerful and
all-loving yet who watches tragedies unfold every day without reaching down to
stop them. How are we supposed to make sense of that? How are we supposed to
believe?
Jesus said, “My sheep
hear my voice. I know them, and they follow me.” Being a Christian isn’t about
believing the right things or making sense of who God is and how he works in
the world. Being a Christian is about belonging to Jesus. It’s that simple. It’s
about hearing him say to us, “You are mine. You belong to me.” We can’t follow
Jesus until we recognize that we belong to him. Belonging always precedes
believing. Jesus’ isn’t asking us to figure everything out before we can call
ourselves his disciples. He’s claiming us for his own and asking us to believe because we belong to him.
We don’t have to be able
to make sense of weeks like this one. As Christians, we aren’t supposed to
understand why these things happen. But we are supposed to know that, no matter
what occurs, we belong to God, and he will never forsake us. God is with us in
the midst of our tragedies. Nothing can separate us from his love. And that’s
the place where belief begins. It starts when we know what it means to belong
to Jesus. He chooses us before we choose him. No one stands at the front door
of the church and turns away any who aren’t able or willing to profess the
Christian faith. Instead, we open wide our doors and welcome any who come in
because in Christ God has called each of us by name and made us his own. We are
Christians—not because of what we say or what we believe. We are Christians because
we belong to Jesus. Amen.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.