A Sermon For Saturday
Sermon
Rejoicing In Life's 'Melissa Moments'
The Joys Of Faith And The Challenges Of Life
What do you do when there is nothing more you can do? You have gone as far as possible, and still the dark night of the soul continues. You have tried everything, but the pain of the body persists. This is a difficult and delicate subject. The gospel is good news. Here I am about to suggest that sometimes the bad news prevails. Knowing that I cannot speak the whole truth and nothing but the truth, perhaps it would be better not even to suggest that times come when salvation is far away. Four points made quickly will help clarify what I am about.
1. No trick lurks in the question. Do not expect that in the last five seconds, I will attempt a 75-yard homiletical field goal and turn what looked like certain defeat into glorious triumph. I do not have a hidden theological rabbit that I will suddenly pull with rhetorical magic out of nowhere just in the nick of time. I do not propose at the end to say that despite everything there is actually one more thing you can do that will finally work. The last line of this sermon will not be "and they all lived happily ever after."
2. A sermon like this takes the risk of emphasizing the negative. We are commissioned to preach the gospel, to proclaim good news. Enough bad news we have already. Cynicism, doubt, despair abound. Hope is what we need. Really now, must we submit to the proposition that patches of darkness may come along that no light can penetrate? It is especially risky for a theological professor to tackle this problem. The word already is abroad that frequently we put too much lemon in the tea. Nevertheless, at least once in a lifetime, a chance must be taken to walk to the very edge of realism even though one risks falling from the cliff into the abyss of despair.
3. A further risk is the danger of confirming our tendency to avoid responsibility. Sometimes when I say there is nothing more I can do, I could do something. But it is difficult, and I don't want to do it. I had rather enjoy my bad health than take the bitter medicine that is sitting on the shelf with the power to cure. The difference between "unable" and "unwilling" is not easy to figure out. At some point one slides into the other no matter which one you start with.
I have no desire to encourage escapism either in myself or in others. Nevertheless, I am going to be stubborn in my claim that sometimes "unable" really does mean that a given person has done all that he or she can do. Still the agony will not abate.
4. A final hazard is that we are prone to give up too soon. We have tried 98 different formulas. Still the iron has not turned to gold. We have read 47 books. Not one has offered an encouraging word. The skies are still cloudy all day. If at once you don't succeed, try, try again. Lo and behold, the ninety-ninth formula or the forty-eighth book may come up with something that works. Sometimes when we have tried psychiatry with no avail and have tried prayer with no answer, it may be that a little common sense insight and a little chicken soup will do the trick.
Yes, we often give up too soon. No sadder story has ever been told than that of the mountain hunter caught in a blinding blizzard. He gives up and dies in the darkness eight steps from the door of his warm and safe cabin. Oh, had he but tried just a little bit longer and stumbled just a few feet farther, he would have been saved after all. That is not the message of the day. In my story the storm is fierce, the night is dark, the wanderer is cold and exhausted. No living soul can be found anywhere. No warm cabin exists for miles around.
It should be clear by now that I intend to pursue my thesis all the way without blinking. My point is simply this: A Saturday comes between Good Friday and Easter Sunday. Sometimes that is where we find ourselves. The crucifixion lies in the past. The resurrection lies in the future and is but still a hope. The present moment is darkness and death.
I do not wish to deny that in the fullness of faith, we can rise in hopeful affirmation to join Paul in saying that we rejoice even in our sufferings. I do not wish to deny that suffering may produce endurance, and endurance may produce character, and character may produce hope that does not disappoint because God's love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit (Romans 5:1-5). I do wish to proclaim that suffering may produce exhaustion, and exhaustion destroys character. The loss of character produces despair, because hatred toward God is being poured into the heart by a cynical spirit toward life.
I do not wish to deny that Christian faith can rise to marvelous heights and face tribulation, distress, persecution, famine, nakedness, peril, and sword and conquer them all. I do not wish to deny that faith can conquer all in the assurance that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depths, nor anything else in all creation can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord (Romans 8:35-39). I do insist that it is not always so.
What do I do in those moments when I am being conquered in body by disease or in spirit by despair? What do I do when I am being separated from the love of God by circumstances far less threatening than famine or sword or far less capable of destruction than supernatural devils and demons?
We are reaching the crucial point. We are in the vicinity of the treasure of truth we are seeking. When I say I am unable to rejoice in my suffering, the descendants of the friends of Job gather round. They have an answer. When I say I am being less than a conqueror and that I am separated from the love of God, priests and preachers, theologians and therapists, point their fingers at me. They have a solution. I listen to their answers. I receive their solutions. At last perhaps I can be free from my burden and, like them, know how to slay the dragons. As the answers come in from the friends of Job and as the solutions pour forth from priests and preachers, from theologians and therapists, frequently are heard two discouraging words. My face gets cloudy for the rest of the day. Just when I thought I was going to find out what I could do in my distress, I heard those two words. Again and again, I heard them. Those who said them seemed not to notice that these two little words are the most important of all. You can rejoice in your sufferings, if only you get right with God. You can experience the love of God, if only you will believe. You can be healed, if only you have faith. You can be free from your guilt, if only you will accept your acceptance. You can overcome your depression, if only you will express your buried anger. You can be saved, if only you will accept the Lord Jesus as your personal Savior. You can have the gift of grace, if only you will receive it. Yes, you can do anything, if only. That's what I hear from the friends of Job, from the theologians and the therapists, from the preachers and the priests.
Wait, I say! Stop! Back up! Come again, once more, slowly, with your answers and your solutions. This time, tell me how I do all those things that come after those two little words, if only. Don't you see, that's my problem. If I could do all those things, if I could believe, trust, accept, receive, get angry, etc., etc., etc., my predicament would be a lot less serious than it is.
More than three decades ago I was involved in some group therapy. After a few sessions, some members of the group told me they were unable to be of much help to me. I was not expressing any deep feelings. All they got from me were words that came from the top of my head and not feelings from deep in the gut. They were right. Here were those two words again. If only I would pour out my feelings to them, we could make some progress. My response was that if I were free and spontaneous with my feelings, if I could get in touch with my buried anger, if I could vomit up the garbage in my guts, then, of course, we could move ahead. I don't seem to be able to. That's my problem. Can you help me with that? Can you help me do what comes after the "if only"? It may be that I was not unable to get in touch with my feelings but just unwilling. Nevertheless, I seemed stuck.
When I was a child, I was told that I could catch a bird. All I had to do was sprinkle salt on its tail. Wow, I thought! I can catch birds in my hand. There was just one little problem. Every time I slipped up on a mockingbird to perform the magic ritual, the little critter flew away. I was left standing there on one foot like a fool, salt shaker poised in mid-air. I could catch birds, if only I could get close enough. Yes, you too can catch birds today by just sprinkling salt on their tails. Don't ask me how you can keep them from flying away before you get close enough with the salt. You will have to figure out the details for yourself.
Yes, there is a Saturday between Good Friday and Easter Sunday. Sometimes some of us find ourselves between crucifixion and resurrection. My hero today is the author of Psalm 22. This agonized soul knew what living on Saturday is like. "My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?" It was these words that Jesus uttered from the cross just before he died. Frequently, exegetes feel a need to explain these words away. Jesus must not be allowed to utter those awful thoughts. Surely Jesus did not feel forsaken by the Almighty even in this hour of extremity. No, Jesus must have a faith unmarred even by temporary doubt.
So the experts rush in to remind us that Jesus was beginning to quote Psalm 22. While it begins with estrangement, it ends on a note of praise. Supposedly I should feel better knowing that had Jesus quoted the whole Psalm, the sting of his opening words would be modified. Somehow I do not feel better. Something in me wants to side with those interpreters who speak of this cry of dereliction as expressing a genuine sense of loneliness and despair. For in those dark moments of the soul, these awful words from the cross provide the point at which we can most fully identify with Jesus.
I do not feel comfortable when I hear Jesus urging me to love my enemies. I have difficulty enough putting up with my friends. I am threatened when I take seriously his words about taking up the cross. I am alienated by the command to go the second mile with the oppressor. I don't even want to go the first mile. This Jesus lays on me more than I can bear. I would like to live the life of a comfortable middle-class professional. All these radical demands about selling all, giving all, forsaking everything and following him, loving neighbors equally with myself, keep threatening to break into all the nice little compromises and rationalizations with which I defend my affluence and privilege and soft living.
Yet when Jesus seems most vulnerable and to be touched with the dread of ultimate despair that unites him most with the rest of us, some of the experts would take it away. They would have us believe that Jesus didn't really mean it. Surely, they say, he did not really feel forsaken after all. Yet it is from Jesus that we get the imagery of the Saturday of death before the resurrected life of Easter Sunday. It is from this very Jesus who in his utmost extremity at the point of disgraceful death cried out, "My God, my God why hast thou forsaken me?"
So I repeat, my hero for this hour is the author of the Psalm itself. This unknown soul can find no relief even though praying earnestly for mercy and healing. The agony of body and spirit is immense. No relief is in sight. Two things stand out.
First, our author remembers times in the past when God's goodness and saving power were manifest. Reference is made to the Psalmist's ancestors who trusted God and were delivered from their distress. There is also mention of the author's own early life. "Yet thou art he who took me from my mother's womb; thou didst keep me safe upon my mother's breast" (Psalm 22:9).
Secondly, the Psalmist promises that if God will bring relief now, a service of public praise will be held. Gratitude to God will be offered. God's goodness and mercy will be extolled. A hymn glorifying God will be sung. This hymn promises future generations that God can be counted on. Posterity will serve God and continue to proclaim deliverance to generations yet unborn.
What happened to this poor soul we do not know. Maybe the suffering wretch died in misery and without relief. Even in the midst of unabated pain, alienation, and abandonment, the Psalmist remembers past mercies to God's people, begs earnestly for a present renewal of those mercies, and promises to praise and serve God in the future if deliverance finally comes. If this unknown fellow sufferer can do this much in this midst of burdens far heavier than most of us bear, surely we can do no less.
Unless you think that despite everything I have tried to give a happy ending to the story, let me remind you that as the sermon comes to a close it is still Saturday. The author of Psalm 22 is still crying out, "My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?"
1. No trick lurks in the question. Do not expect that in the last five seconds, I will attempt a 75-yard homiletical field goal and turn what looked like certain defeat into glorious triumph. I do not have a hidden theological rabbit that I will suddenly pull with rhetorical magic out of nowhere just in the nick of time. I do not propose at the end to say that despite everything there is actually one more thing you can do that will finally work. The last line of this sermon will not be "and they all lived happily ever after."
2. A sermon like this takes the risk of emphasizing the negative. We are commissioned to preach the gospel, to proclaim good news. Enough bad news we have already. Cynicism, doubt, despair abound. Hope is what we need. Really now, must we submit to the proposition that patches of darkness may come along that no light can penetrate? It is especially risky for a theological professor to tackle this problem. The word already is abroad that frequently we put too much lemon in the tea. Nevertheless, at least once in a lifetime, a chance must be taken to walk to the very edge of realism even though one risks falling from the cliff into the abyss of despair.
3. A further risk is the danger of confirming our tendency to avoid responsibility. Sometimes when I say there is nothing more I can do, I could do something. But it is difficult, and I don't want to do it. I had rather enjoy my bad health than take the bitter medicine that is sitting on the shelf with the power to cure. The difference between "unable" and "unwilling" is not easy to figure out. At some point one slides into the other no matter which one you start with.
I have no desire to encourage escapism either in myself or in others. Nevertheless, I am going to be stubborn in my claim that sometimes "unable" really does mean that a given person has done all that he or she can do. Still the agony will not abate.
4. A final hazard is that we are prone to give up too soon. We have tried 98 different formulas. Still the iron has not turned to gold. We have read 47 books. Not one has offered an encouraging word. The skies are still cloudy all day. If at once you don't succeed, try, try again. Lo and behold, the ninety-ninth formula or the forty-eighth book may come up with something that works. Sometimes when we have tried psychiatry with no avail and have tried prayer with no answer, it may be that a little common sense insight and a little chicken soup will do the trick.
Yes, we often give up too soon. No sadder story has ever been told than that of the mountain hunter caught in a blinding blizzard. He gives up and dies in the darkness eight steps from the door of his warm and safe cabin. Oh, had he but tried just a little bit longer and stumbled just a few feet farther, he would have been saved after all. That is not the message of the day. In my story the storm is fierce, the night is dark, the wanderer is cold and exhausted. No living soul can be found anywhere. No warm cabin exists for miles around.
It should be clear by now that I intend to pursue my thesis all the way without blinking. My point is simply this: A Saturday comes between Good Friday and Easter Sunday. Sometimes that is where we find ourselves. The crucifixion lies in the past. The resurrection lies in the future and is but still a hope. The present moment is darkness and death.
I do not wish to deny that in the fullness of faith, we can rise in hopeful affirmation to join Paul in saying that we rejoice even in our sufferings. I do not wish to deny that suffering may produce endurance, and endurance may produce character, and character may produce hope that does not disappoint because God's love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit (Romans 5:1-5). I do wish to proclaim that suffering may produce exhaustion, and exhaustion destroys character. The loss of character produces despair, because hatred toward God is being poured into the heart by a cynical spirit toward life.
I do not wish to deny that Christian faith can rise to marvelous heights and face tribulation, distress, persecution, famine, nakedness, peril, and sword and conquer them all. I do not wish to deny that faith can conquer all in the assurance that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depths, nor anything else in all creation can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord (Romans 8:35-39). I do insist that it is not always so.
What do I do in those moments when I am being conquered in body by disease or in spirit by despair? What do I do when I am being separated from the love of God by circumstances far less threatening than famine or sword or far less capable of destruction than supernatural devils and demons?
We are reaching the crucial point. We are in the vicinity of the treasure of truth we are seeking. When I say I am unable to rejoice in my suffering, the descendants of the friends of Job gather round. They have an answer. When I say I am being less than a conqueror and that I am separated from the love of God, priests and preachers, theologians and therapists, point their fingers at me. They have a solution. I listen to their answers. I receive their solutions. At last perhaps I can be free from my burden and, like them, know how to slay the dragons. As the answers come in from the friends of Job and as the solutions pour forth from priests and preachers, from theologians and therapists, frequently are heard two discouraging words. My face gets cloudy for the rest of the day. Just when I thought I was going to find out what I could do in my distress, I heard those two words. Again and again, I heard them. Those who said them seemed not to notice that these two little words are the most important of all. You can rejoice in your sufferings, if only you get right with God. You can experience the love of God, if only you will believe. You can be healed, if only you have faith. You can be free from your guilt, if only you will accept your acceptance. You can overcome your depression, if only you will express your buried anger. You can be saved, if only you will accept the Lord Jesus as your personal Savior. You can have the gift of grace, if only you will receive it. Yes, you can do anything, if only. That's what I hear from the friends of Job, from the theologians and the therapists, from the preachers and the priests.
Wait, I say! Stop! Back up! Come again, once more, slowly, with your answers and your solutions. This time, tell me how I do all those things that come after those two little words, if only. Don't you see, that's my problem. If I could do all those things, if I could believe, trust, accept, receive, get angry, etc., etc., etc., my predicament would be a lot less serious than it is.
More than three decades ago I was involved in some group therapy. After a few sessions, some members of the group told me they were unable to be of much help to me. I was not expressing any deep feelings. All they got from me were words that came from the top of my head and not feelings from deep in the gut. They were right. Here were those two words again. If only I would pour out my feelings to them, we could make some progress. My response was that if I were free and spontaneous with my feelings, if I could get in touch with my buried anger, if I could vomit up the garbage in my guts, then, of course, we could move ahead. I don't seem to be able to. That's my problem. Can you help me with that? Can you help me do what comes after the "if only"? It may be that I was not unable to get in touch with my feelings but just unwilling. Nevertheless, I seemed stuck.
When I was a child, I was told that I could catch a bird. All I had to do was sprinkle salt on its tail. Wow, I thought! I can catch birds in my hand. There was just one little problem. Every time I slipped up on a mockingbird to perform the magic ritual, the little critter flew away. I was left standing there on one foot like a fool, salt shaker poised in mid-air. I could catch birds, if only I could get close enough. Yes, you too can catch birds today by just sprinkling salt on their tails. Don't ask me how you can keep them from flying away before you get close enough with the salt. You will have to figure out the details for yourself.
Yes, there is a Saturday between Good Friday and Easter Sunday. Sometimes some of us find ourselves between crucifixion and resurrection. My hero today is the author of Psalm 22. This agonized soul knew what living on Saturday is like. "My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?" It was these words that Jesus uttered from the cross just before he died. Frequently, exegetes feel a need to explain these words away. Jesus must not be allowed to utter those awful thoughts. Surely Jesus did not feel forsaken by the Almighty even in this hour of extremity. No, Jesus must have a faith unmarred even by temporary doubt.
So the experts rush in to remind us that Jesus was beginning to quote Psalm 22. While it begins with estrangement, it ends on a note of praise. Supposedly I should feel better knowing that had Jesus quoted the whole Psalm, the sting of his opening words would be modified. Somehow I do not feel better. Something in me wants to side with those interpreters who speak of this cry of dereliction as expressing a genuine sense of loneliness and despair. For in those dark moments of the soul, these awful words from the cross provide the point at which we can most fully identify with Jesus.
I do not feel comfortable when I hear Jesus urging me to love my enemies. I have difficulty enough putting up with my friends. I am threatened when I take seriously his words about taking up the cross. I am alienated by the command to go the second mile with the oppressor. I don't even want to go the first mile. This Jesus lays on me more than I can bear. I would like to live the life of a comfortable middle-class professional. All these radical demands about selling all, giving all, forsaking everything and following him, loving neighbors equally with myself, keep threatening to break into all the nice little compromises and rationalizations with which I defend my affluence and privilege and soft living.
Yet when Jesus seems most vulnerable and to be touched with the dread of ultimate despair that unites him most with the rest of us, some of the experts would take it away. They would have us believe that Jesus didn't really mean it. Surely, they say, he did not really feel forsaken after all. Yet it is from Jesus that we get the imagery of the Saturday of death before the resurrected life of Easter Sunday. It is from this very Jesus who in his utmost extremity at the point of disgraceful death cried out, "My God, my God why hast thou forsaken me?"
So I repeat, my hero for this hour is the author of the Psalm itself. This unknown soul can find no relief even though praying earnestly for mercy and healing. The agony of body and spirit is immense. No relief is in sight. Two things stand out.
First, our author remembers times in the past when God's goodness and saving power were manifest. Reference is made to the Psalmist's ancestors who trusted God and were delivered from their distress. There is also mention of the author's own early life. "Yet thou art he who took me from my mother's womb; thou didst keep me safe upon my mother's breast" (Psalm 22:9).
Secondly, the Psalmist promises that if God will bring relief now, a service of public praise will be held. Gratitude to God will be offered. God's goodness and mercy will be extolled. A hymn glorifying God will be sung. This hymn promises future generations that God can be counted on. Posterity will serve God and continue to proclaim deliverance to generations yet unborn.
What happened to this poor soul we do not know. Maybe the suffering wretch died in misery and without relief. Even in the midst of unabated pain, alienation, and abandonment, the Psalmist remembers past mercies to God's people, begs earnestly for a present renewal of those mercies, and promises to praise and serve God in the future if deliverance finally comes. If this unknown fellow sufferer can do this much in this midst of burdens far heavier than most of us bear, surely we can do no less.
Unless you think that despite everything I have tried to give a happy ending to the story, let me remind you that as the sermon comes to a close it is still Saturday. The author of Psalm 22 is still crying out, "My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?"
