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“The Good, the Bad, and God”
A sermon by Dr. Scott Spencer
First Baptist Church, Richmond, Virginia
on the Sunday following the shooting at Virginia Tech
April 22, 2007
Genesis 1:1-5,
26-28, 31; 4:3-15; 6:5-8, 11-13
When hit with news of a devastating
event, as we were this week—particularly with the vividness and immediacy our
modern media provide—it’s natural to respond both globally and personally.
Globally—My God, My God: what kind of
world are we living in? Throw in the carnage in Iraq, the genocide in Darfur,
the “inconvenient” corrosion of our ecosystem—and even the most optimistic among
us entertain an apocalyptic thought or two.
Personally—we move pretty quickly to how
a publicized tragedy affects me and mine. It’s not that we don’t care
about the victims or that we’re a bunch of self-absorbed narcissists. Our
natural instincts for self-preservation and protection just kick in.
I confess that my personal reactions this week
first swirled around my own children—who were perfectly well and safe, busy
about their own business, but I couldn’t help worrying.
I have one daughter away at
college—eleven long hours away by car at Indiana University in Bloomington. Not
Virginia Tech—but close enough—large public university; 30,000 students;
normally peaceful, idyllic college town. If it could happen in Blacksburg, it
could happen in Bloomington; and I can’t do a thing to stop it. Even if I were
there—walking her to every class, shadowing her every move—I’d be no match for a
madman with two semi-automatic weapons. Upon hearing news of the shootings, I
settled for an e-mail warning my daughter to be on the lookout for “copy-cat”
attacks. I felt a little better—but not much.
A couple of days later, when the
victims began to be identified—one of the youngest ones was 18 year-old Reema
Samaha. Learning about her from an unbelievable interview with her father
(which I couldn’t fathom being able to do) I couldn’t help thinking about my
other daughter. Reema was gunned down in French class. The weekend just before
she presented a dance performance. Her parents came down from Northern Virginia
to see it. And after the tragedy her father spoke, from Blacksburg, about how
dance had been his daughter’s life and how the elegant, vivacious image of her
performing was emblazoned in his mind and sustaining him through the grief.
My heart went out to him. As it
happens, my younger daughter studies French in school and loves dancing with the
Richmond Youth Ballet, had a performance this week. Ballet was not remotely on
my radar until she got interested in it, and now I’m mesmerized with the power
and beauty of the art and cannot imagine not being able to see her dance
any more. How can something so hateful and ugly as cold-blooded murder be
allowed to stop something so graceful and beautiful?
Apart from thinking about my own children, I
was also personally overwhelmed by the oldest victim—76-year-old Liviu
Librescu—a professor shot multiple times and killed in his classroom. A
professor—like me—but that’s where the comparisons end. He was still going
strong at 76 (not quite sure I’ll make it that long) as an expert in
aeronautical engineering (which I know nothing about). Remarkably, Librescu
stood against the door of his classroom blocking the gunman’s entrance while
urging his students to get out the window. They managed to escape while he gave
his life for them. I don’t know how I would’ve reacted if it had been my
classroom—but I do not presume I would have been that courageous.
There’s more to Librescu story: this was far
from the first violent crisis he had faced. He was a native Romanian Jew, who
survived the Holocaust as a youth during World War II. As fate would have it,
the day before the Tech shootings—the same weekend Reema Samaha was dancing—Jews
were observing Yom HaShoah—Holocaust Remembrance Day.
The bitter irony of these circumstances is
almost unbearable. A man who’d made it through one of the most brutal
extermination campaigns in human history dies 60 years later in an absurdly
random act of violence one day after Holocaust Remembrance Day, when God’s
people desperately pray that such barbarism never happen again.
It’s too much to take in. It defies
explanation. And yet we need something to hold onto—if not answers, at least an
honest airing of the questions. At least two inevitably press in at times like
these.
The first I’ve already suggested: What kind of
world is this where this kind of stuff happens—keeps happening?
And the second: Where is God in
all of this? If God can’t or won’t stop this kind of insane violence, what does
that say about God? Where was God at Auschwitz or Dachau or Treblinka—and now,
on a smaller but no less distressing scale: Where was God at Columbine or the
West Nickle Mines Amish School or Virginia Tech?
It’s not just skeptics and
unbelievers that ask such questions. Seekers and believers do, too—and they
should. Asking “Where is God in all this mess?” is not a way of dismissing
or discounting God. For the hardcore atheist, God’s not in the equation at
all—so why bring God up? It’s like asking, “Where’s the tooth fairy in all
this?” Who cares?
But for people of faith,
precisely because we care very much, because we believe in a loving God and have
experienced God’s nurturing presence in our lives—we seek to find God in all
situations, not least those that appear most UN-godly. We cry out with the
Psalmist, “Where are you O Lord?” not out of disrespect or disbelief, but out of
deep longing and necessity. Lord, we can’t make it through this without you.
This is your world, O God, and we are your people. We’re not going to rest until
we hear a word from you, until we feel your reassuring love, until we receive
the surpassing peace only you can give beyond our limited understanding.
Tough questions: (1) What kind of
world is this that spawns such deadly havoc, and (2) what does God have to do
with it? Such questions are as old as Genesis. From its opening pages, the
Bible wrestles with the presence and purpose of God in a violent and volatile
world.
“In the beginning, God created
the heavens and the earth”—not out of thin air (as commonly assumed) but out of
the thick mire of watery chaos—dark, deep, devoid of life. Into this chaotic
cauldron—God speaks: Let there be light—and land and sky, plants and animals.
And it was so and it was good, good, good, good—the refrain reverberates day
after day throughout the whole creative process. In the beginning God brought
good out of bad, life out of death.
On the last, crowning day, God
made us, human beings—male and female—created equally in God’s
life-giving and sustaining image—and charged to be fruitful in reproducing life
and taking care of God’s world. Partners with God in giving and nurturing
life. Amazing: the God of the universe entered into a covenantal partnership
with us for the purpose of populating and maintaining a good world—more
than that, a very good world: “God saw everything that God had made and
indeed it was very good.”
That’s the kind of world God
freely gave us to live, love and grow in with God. BUT we—not God—we
soon betrayed our good God and good world. We abused our freedom, took
matters into our own greedy hands, fouled our own nest. The rest of Genesis,
the rest of the Bible, the rest of human history struggles with this problem of
our evil bent in God’s good world.
Shockingly, the first fruit from
the divine-human creative partnership—chooses to become a killer. The very
first first-born son, Cain, murders younger brother Abel.
Why? We don’t know the whole
story here, just the final precipitating incident. The Lord liked Abel’s
offering better than Cain’s (for reasons that remain unclear), but in any case
Cain got angry and then depressed—apparently because he thought Abel was being
unfairly favored over him. God steps in and confronts Cain with his anger and
depression—attempts to point him down a healthier path. But Cain responds by
taking his brother out to the field and killing him.
And where was God? Right
there—still confronting Cain and now, tragically, also hearing the plaintive
voice of Abel’s blood crying out to God from the ground.
Why, then didn’t God stop Cain
from committing this awful act? Because Cain was a free human being—not a fixed
robotic machine. This is real life, not artificial. God desires a “real”
relationship with us, not a “rigged” one. Did God take a big risk in creating
us this way?—you bet—and God’s heart has been breaking ever since when we
choose to spurn God’s love and goodness.
But what about poor Abel? Where
was God for him? Again, right there—in stunned shock and horror as Cain
assaulted him; God was there sympathizing, agonizing with Abel’s anguished
cries, dying with him as his blood seeped into the earth.
That’s all well and good—so God
feels our pain—but we want action. We want to insure this never happens again.
What can be done? WE can do something.
WE can be what Cain
refused to be: our brother’s keeper . . . and our sister’s. God created
us in community—and with God’s help WE must draw close, watch out and
care for one another. As we pray “May the Lord bless you and keep you”— WE
who are molded in God’s image, must bless and keep one another. “Am I my
brother’s keeper?” Oh yes, yes, you are. WE are each other’s keepers.
But how can we “keep” someone
like Cain? He doesn’t kill himself as some sort of “final statement.”
Actually, Cain’s rather anxious about “keeping” his own life. He’s worried that
as he wanders about someone might kill him—and he should be. It takes
time for us to get over a tragic loss—we don’t immediately rush to peace and
forgiveness. Anger begets anger. Someone’s to blame here. Somebody needs to
pay. We need justice here.
Again—natural, understandable
responses. But that’s precisely why God steps in and puts a mark on Cain—not a
bull’s eye, however, for retaliators to take aim at, but quite the opposite—a
mark of protection: you kill Cain and all you’ll do is set off more
violence—seven times over. God’s not letting Cain off the hook. God’s not so
much protecting Cain as the rest of humanity for generations to come. Violence
is a never-ending, escalating cycle, stoking the fire seven times hotter with
each reprisal.
Somebody’s got to stop the
cycle—and that’s what God’s trying to do here.
Sadly, however, despite God’s
best efforts, the violence doesn’t stop. As more and more people populate the
earth, more and more violence erupts—so much so that by the time of Noah, we are
told: “the earth was filled with violence.”
So where’s God now? Still
right there seeing the world fall apart, seeing the life-giving image of God
dragged through the mud. And God is sorry. God is heartsick.
God can’t believe it. This is what has come of God’s good, good, very
good world. God is sorry he ever got into the world-making business. That’s
what the story says.
That may not comfort us so much
at first. Rather than God’s feeling sorry for us, with us, we might rather God
get mad and mighty and stop the violence. Well that’s part of the story,
too—though we might lament it comes a little late in the game. But God finally
says, “Enough!” I’m going to put a stop to this. “I have determined to make an
end of all flesh”—and the floodgates of heaven open and swallow up this violent
generation.
A return to watery chaos. A
massacre of global proportions—GENOCIDE. BY GOD??? No,
no, no . . . . Please no. The flood was the last thing God wanted to do. As I
read it, this is not a huffy, indignant God saying, “There, you bloodthirsty
ingrates—Take that!!” Rather it’s a sorry, devastated God pulling the plug on a
world and civilization (if you can call it that) fast destroying itself.
We’re back to a sorrowful,
brokenhearted God. Is that comforting? Is that hopeful at times of tragic
loss? I think it can be. We might prefer that God snap His Almighty fingers
and make it all better, but in fact God is not a Cosmic Mr. Fix-it for the fixes
we find ourselves in. God is more like a loving parent agonizing with her
children’s mistakes and misfortunes, aching as much or more than they do, and
providing hope and strength within the crisis, in the midst of our
suffering and sorrow.
In Christian terms God got
so involved in the human condition as to become one of us—taking on the full
mantle of human frailty in Jesus Christ—suffering in every possible way that we
suffer and then some—even to death on a cross.
As the writer of Hebrews puts it,
in God’s Son Jesus “we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize
with our weaknesses, but we have one who in every respect has been tested as we
are, yet without sin.” Christ came through the horrors of abuse,
violence, and injustice “without sin”—without losing his perfect humanity as
well as divine love for all who suffer.
Without sin—but also without saving from a horrible
death—no angelic SWAT team, no last second “beam me up Gabriel”—no rescue
mission: Jesus drank the full cup of suffering.
BUT that wasn’t the end of the
matter. After the crushing blow of crucifixion that surely ripped God’s heart
apart with sorrow as deep as that in Noah’s day, after all this—God raised
Jesus from the dead. No rescue—but there is resurrection, restoration,
renewal.
Thousands of years before—out of
a world gone mad with violence, “Noah found grace in the eyes of the Lord.” And
out of a watery grave flooding the earth, God brought Noah and his family to
start over again. And out of dark skies God shone a rainbow of hope and pledged
anew God’s commitment to sustain life and goodness in an evil world.
God’s not naïve—God knows “the
inclination of the human heart [will continue to be] evil.” But God’s not going
to pull the plug again—however bad it gets. God will be our eternal “life
support system.”
Noah found grace to start over.
Jesus found grace to live again. How do we find grace this difficult day? By
turning to this grace-filled Christ who knows first-hand what we’re going
through.
When the risen Christ stopped the
murderous Saul on the Damascus Road he said: “Saul, Saul, why are you
persecuting me?” When you hurt my people, you hurt me. When you kill
them, I die all over again.
Christ knows . . . Christ feels .
. . Christ cares. So . . . in the words of Hebrews again:
Since we have a high priest who
sympathizes wholeheartedly with our weaknesses, let us therefore
approach the throne of grace with boldness, so that we may receive mercy and
find grace to help in time of need.
Turn your eyes upon Jesus. Look full in his
wonderful face. And the things of earth—even the most horrible things—will
grow strangely dim in the light of his glory and grace.
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