Not a Sermon - Just a Thought - March 2, 2007
Tsunamis, cancer, violence, and war.
Poverty, hunger, and homelessness.
All of these are symptoms of a world limping along in desperate need of healing & wholeness. In the classic blues tune It’s Bad You Know, R.L. Burnside rants in pained monotone his agreement that suffering stinks. Simply and repeatedly, he says, “It’s gettin’ bad, you know.” Hardly any other lines in the song, he sums up the state of things.
The most pressing question in all of the Christian faith is why God allows so much suffering if God is all-powerful and all-loving. I don’t believe we’ll ever fully understand this, but I also believe that parts of the answer can be found. For example, Isaiah 52 and 53 offers a prophetic look at the role that Jesus would fulfill in his life and death. It is also a graphic portrait of his suffering and glory. Verse 5, my emphasis added, reads:
5 But he was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was upon him, and by his wounds we are healed.
It is troubling to know that our actions can cause pain and suffering to happen to anyone, but we humans are capable of that. For our iniquities, for our transgressions, the scriptures say that Jesus was wounded, and perhaps more profoundly we discover that because of his wounds, we are healed. Beautifully, the King James Version renders this idea, "by his stripes we are healed."
Isaiah 53.11 goes on to say this, again with emphasis:
After the suffering of his soul, he will see the light of life and be satisfied.
By allowing these two verses to frame the suffering of Jesus we are able to get a glimpse into one of the most troubling questions of Christianity: Why is there suffering?
For Jesus, the suffering and "wounded-ness" that he endured brought peace and forgiveness to the world. After his suffering, says the Bible, he was able to see the light of life and be satisfied. In the life of Jesus, there was purpose to his suffering, purpose on a grand and cosmic scale. I'm convinced that if we are indeed co-heirs in Christ as the Bible teaches, then the suffering which we endure on this earth must have a purpose also.
It may not be on the grand and cosmic scale of Jesus', but in discovering the reasons for suffering you and I are able to live more fully, freely, and joyfully-even when life is crushing in upon us on all sides. This Sunday we'll draw from the Isaiah 52 and 53 texts to think about the purposes of suffering. Suffering in our life, when properly observed, can sharpen our character, increase our sensitivity to God's work in our lives, and can be used to accomplish good.
Bringing a good word for hard times,
Pastor Gary
Not a Sermon – Just a Thought is a weekly e-column written by Gary Long, pastor of Willow Meadows Baptist Church, Houston, Texas. You can subscribe or unsubscribe to this column by emailing me at glong@wmbc.org.
Here are the upcoming sermon topics at WMBC during March:
Series Title – Wounded Light – Making Sense of Suffering
March 11
The Waiting Room of Life - How Do I Find Strength in Suffering?
Scripture: 2 Corinthians 12:7-10
Three times Paul asked God to relieve him of the mysterious "thorn in the flesh" and three times God said no. In effect, Paul hears God saying, "My grace is sufficient for you, my power is made perfect in weakness." Paul had to endure suffering and hardship and we can learn from his model that finding strength in suffering comes through waiting strong with God.
March 18
Singing the Blues
Scripture: Psalm 22
David sang the blues, the children of Israel sang the blues, Job sang the blues. Even Jesus, on the cross, sang the blues. Giving voice to our suffering-making a groaning lament-is sometimes good for us because it acknowledges our pain and helps us to remember that suffering is common to all humans, that it doesn't last forever, and that God is right there with us, even when we sing the blues.
March 25
Don't Waste Your Suffering
Scripture: Romans 8:28
Suffering has an end and a purpose, though they are difficult to see when you are in the midst of suffering. The benefits of suffering are wasted if you believe it to be a curse and not a gift, if you allow it to drive you to solitude rather than into deeper relationships, and if you allow it to drive you away from God rather than toward God. Suffering should invite reflection and changes in our lives as we respond to the difficulties of life by the power of our relationship to Jesus Christ.
Showing posts with label Wounded Light. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Wounded Light. Show all posts
Friday, March 02, 2007
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Wounded Light
Ash Wednesday, 2007
Ash Wednesday is one of my favorite worship services of the Christian year. I know that’s dark, rather like saying I like bitter wine or funerals. Ash Wednesday is a time of confession. It’s also a harsh time. We dwell on our sin, we contemplate our mortality.
It’s got all the angst of a teenager watching a Fellini film after a break up. It’s like that line between Gomez and Morticia from the Addam’s Family. He asks her about the nature of her labor pains and she replies, “Exquisite.”
So why would I say this is among my favorite worship services? There are several reasons.
One is that I am able to experience the exquisite rush of forgiveness that only a follower of Jesus can know. Because of these moments wherein we identify with the atoning death of Jesus, I am transported over time and across space and beyond geography. In my soul I am with Christ in his suffering, and I see the wondrous love in his eyes. I bear witness to the power of the cross and the pain which Jesus endured so I might be able to stand before God, forgiven and free.
Another is that I learn better each Ash Wednesday how to mark my time on this planet. “Dust you are, and to dust you shall be returned,” says the minister when the ashes are imposed. When those grave words are uttered I feel my mortality, my finitude, and my finality. Man’s days are numbered, and they are fleeting. Ash Wednesday reminds me that each trip I take around the sun is a precious gift, and the people with whom I share the journey are equally precious. Ash Wednesday reminds me that each trip I take around the sun is pregnant with possibility and that without God can be barren of meaning. Ash Wednesday reminds me that each trip I take around the sun is mine to spend as I choose, so the ponderous weight of free choice presses down on my soul.
Another reason I like Ash Wednesday is unique to the office of pastor. As I impose the ashes I watch the face of each person. They all respond to this so differently. Some wish for eye contact with the minister, signaling something that seems like an assurance of the pardon I am promising from God. “Can this forgiveness be real?” their eyes question.
Still others look into the bowl of ashes and oil, contemplating who knows what? Their mortality? Their brokenness? Their breakfast?
Some approach the ashes dignified and somber, fully “in the moment” and steeping in the ritual and reality of the truth about the chasm between us and the lives of promise that God would lead us to if we’d only follow.
But all of these people remind me that what I like about Ash Wednesday is that we walk through our darkness and brokenness in community. Ash Wednesday reminds me that loneliness has its place in the Christian journey, but so does community. When I impose ashes on you it says, “You belong to this family. You belong to me. I belong to you. At our very core we see and say, “You’re not so different from me after all.””
Most of all, the reason I like Ash Wednesday is in the way it brings us to places of healing. It marks the beginning of Lent, a season of penitence, fasting, praying, and self-denying. Like the relief that comes from a lanced boil or wound, there is a painful letting and a powerful healing. Always, Ash Wednesday marks the doorway to Lent, which is the path to Easter. The older I get, the more convinced I become that the way of suffering, loss, and pain leads to deeper joy, gladness, and contentedness.
Once, my friend Lucinda told me that no minister was worth his salt unless he’d been through some suffering and loss. She said it helped the minister understand the pain of the persons for whom he cared. Not long after that, my mother passed away. And though it was not the first time I’d experienced grief, there was much pain because of the suddenness, and because of the state of my relationship with her.
It’s a kind of wounded light like we read of in Isaiah’s prophecy about Jesus:
Isaiah 53.5
But he was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was upon him, and by his wounds we are healed.
And in 53.11 we read:
11 After the suffering of his soul, he will see the light of life and be satisfied;
Wounds that heal, suffering that brings light to life. I like that.
As I have healed over the years I’ve come to believe that Lucinda is correct. Suffering produces something in our lives that compares to nothing I know. Ash Wednesday calls us into the suffering of Christ, into the suffering of our world, and into the suffering heart of God.
And by going into these dark places we more clearly see goodness, justice, and mercy. By going into the dark places of death and despair we more clearly see the bright light of the resurrection story that will be told at the end of the journey we begin today.
Ash Wednesday is one of my favorite worship services of the Christian year. I know that’s dark, rather like saying I like bitter wine or funerals. Ash Wednesday is a time of confession. It’s also a harsh time. We dwell on our sin, we contemplate our mortality.
It’s got all the angst of a teenager watching a Fellini film after a break up. It’s like that line between Gomez and Morticia from the Addam’s Family. He asks her about the nature of her labor pains and she replies, “Exquisite.”
So why would I say this is among my favorite worship services? There are several reasons.
One is that I am able to experience the exquisite rush of forgiveness that only a follower of Jesus can know. Because of these moments wherein we identify with the atoning death of Jesus, I am transported over time and across space and beyond geography. In my soul I am with Christ in his suffering, and I see the wondrous love in his eyes. I bear witness to the power of the cross and the pain which Jesus endured so I might be able to stand before God, forgiven and free.
Another is that I learn better each Ash Wednesday how to mark my time on this planet. “Dust you are, and to dust you shall be returned,” says the minister when the ashes are imposed. When those grave words are uttered I feel my mortality, my finitude, and my finality. Man’s days are numbered, and they are fleeting. Ash Wednesday reminds me that each trip I take around the sun is a precious gift, and the people with whom I share the journey are equally precious. Ash Wednesday reminds me that each trip I take around the sun is pregnant with possibility and that without God can be barren of meaning. Ash Wednesday reminds me that each trip I take around the sun is mine to spend as I choose, so the ponderous weight of free choice presses down on my soul.
Another reason I like Ash Wednesday is unique to the office of pastor. As I impose the ashes I watch the face of each person. They all respond to this so differently. Some wish for eye contact with the minister, signaling something that seems like an assurance of the pardon I am promising from God. “Can this forgiveness be real?” their eyes question.
Still others look into the bowl of ashes and oil, contemplating who knows what? Their mortality? Their brokenness? Their breakfast?
Some approach the ashes dignified and somber, fully “in the moment” and steeping in the ritual and reality of the truth about the chasm between us and the lives of promise that God would lead us to if we’d only follow.
But all of these people remind me that what I like about Ash Wednesday is that we walk through our darkness and brokenness in community. Ash Wednesday reminds me that loneliness has its place in the Christian journey, but so does community. When I impose ashes on you it says, “You belong to this family. You belong to me. I belong to you. At our very core we see and say, “You’re not so different from me after all.””
Most of all, the reason I like Ash Wednesday is in the way it brings us to places of healing. It marks the beginning of Lent, a season of penitence, fasting, praying, and self-denying. Like the relief that comes from a lanced boil or wound, there is a painful letting and a powerful healing. Always, Ash Wednesday marks the doorway to Lent, which is the path to Easter. The older I get, the more convinced I become that the way of suffering, loss, and pain leads to deeper joy, gladness, and contentedness.
Once, my friend Lucinda told me that no minister was worth his salt unless he’d been through some suffering and loss. She said it helped the minister understand the pain of the persons for whom he cared. Not long after that, my mother passed away. And though it was not the first time I’d experienced grief, there was much pain because of the suddenness, and because of the state of my relationship with her.
It’s a kind of wounded light like we read of in Isaiah’s prophecy about Jesus:
Isaiah 53.5
But he was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was upon him, and by his wounds we are healed.
And in 53.11 we read:
11 After the suffering of his soul, he will see the light of life and be satisfied;
Wounds that heal, suffering that brings light to life. I like that.
As I have healed over the years I’ve come to believe that Lucinda is correct. Suffering produces something in our lives that compares to nothing I know. Ash Wednesday calls us into the suffering of Christ, into the suffering of our world, and into the suffering heart of God.
And by going into these dark places we more clearly see goodness, justice, and mercy. By going into the dark places of death and despair we more clearly see the bright light of the resurrection story that will be told at the end of the journey we begin today.
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