Lisa and I are currently in negotiations concerning where we might celebrate Thanksgiving this year. My parents have invited us up to their house in Center Tuftonboro. That’s always nice. We have an invitation from some friends here. Tempting. We considered having a meal here at church, and inviting anyone who isn’t traveling to family this year. A Messiah family Thanksgiving. That could be fun. Then, making the decision even more difficult, the “kids,” Erik and Sarah, invited us down to Gettysburg for their first ever major holiday as a married couple. Sounds exciting. But Gettysburg—that’s a long way to go for turkey. Pizza maybe—but turkey? That’s a hike.
So, I thought—well, we’ll just buy them some airline tickets, and they’ll celebrate with us here. But, no—Sarah’s parents had already accepted their invitation to Gettysburg. And anyway—I forgot—Sarah, like a good number of other people, doesn’t fly.
And who can blame her? I mean—just look at an airliner. Who would ever believe that such a contraption would be able to lift off the ground and travel through the sky? Inconceivable! C’mon! Admit it—you’ve sat in the window seat of a 727 at take-off and prayed to God that the miracle of flight might occur again. It seems so unlikely. Oh, I know there’s science to it. But conventional wisdom dictates that heavy objects fall from the sky. And yet… (make swooping motion and jet noises). You might say it flies in the face of logic.
Defies logic. Like this equation: 1 + 1 = 3. How can this be? Even a fifth grader knows it just ain’t so. It’s two! It’s 1 + 1 = 2, not 1 + 1 = 3! But it is 3—for those who believe it to be true. Again—how? Well, I’ll tell you… later. But I will tell you this right now. It flies in the face of logic.
And we don’t like things like that. We like things to be tied up neatly in proven facts, or at least in well thought-out, logically coherent theses. We like logic. In fact we’ve invented a whole science and language of logic—with proofs and theorems and formulae (thesis – antithesis – synthesis) It’s all quite complex. A nightmare for us who are mathematically challenged, but a dream come true for those who, immersed in geekdom, consider a good old, knock-down, drag-out battle of the brainiacs to be the best thing since the graphing calculator.
But this isn’t a new phenomenon—this liking for logic. People have been that way for centuries—even back to Old Testament times—and they even applied it to God. They (Israel) firmly held to the logic that, when they were afflicted or oppressed Yahweh would avenge and restore them. So A, if they held to the commandments, and B, cried out to God for help, then C—God would come to their aid.
This theological system of divine retribution is shaken to the core by a story like Job’s. Job, of course you know, was faithful to God—a good person in every way. But, on a dare, God afflicts him—and man, oh man, does God ever afflict him. So, Job cries out to God, but God does not restore or avenge him. He just afflicts him some more. His friends insist that Job must have done something to deserve his fate, at the very least caused his continued suffering by chiding God and not acting humble enough. Nice friends. But they cannot wrap their heads around what’s occurring, or even more so—they cannot comprehend Job’s unshaken conviction that in the end, even despite his death, God will not abandon him. For Job friends, this flies in the face of logic.
For us too. For we share in the confusion that results when the realities of life crash headlong into what we thought we knew about God. Almost from birth we are told that God will care for us and protect us, and we believe it—until we get a bad diagnosis, or a pink slip, or our marriage falls apart, or a loved one suffers. Then we may have our doubts about God. And we’re taught that God listens to and answers our prayers. And we believe that—until prayers for an end to suffering go seemingly unheard. Then perhaps we’re not so sure about God. The God we thought we knew, the ways in which we believed God would act—should act—turn out to be not so mathematically predictable. The logical equations we relied upon are suddenly more complicated if not invalid.
And the only way to hold it together is to have faith. To trust, as Job did, that we will be delivered, if not in this life, then in the next. To believe, contrary to the affliction and oppression that you are experiencing, to believe that God does care and protect and answer prayers. This stance is, as Mr. Spock would put it, “highly illogical” from our human vantage point. It’s 1 + 1 = 3. To trust like this flies in the face of logic.
And we like logic. So instead of just trusting, instead of letting God loose—to be and act in the word as God sees fit, we scramble to shore up our logical construction of God, adding points and factors and if-then’s that seek to corral God into acting more predictably. The arguments become highly nuanced as we try to force God back in the box we’ve fixed up for him. And woe to anyone or anything that serves to upset the applecart.
In Jesus time, the Sadducees were folks who could appreciate such finely-tuned logical rhetoric. They were the brainy, righteouser-than-thou, Jewish sect that adhered to the letter of the law as found exclusively in the first five books of the scripture. If it wasn’t in Genesis – Deuteronomy, they didn’t believe it. Their counterparts, the Pharisees (sssiiissss-boooooo!) looked to all of scripture plus the layered on traditions of the elders as their norm. Both groups crossed dialogical swords with Jesus at certain points in the gospels.
In today’s reading the Sadducees are looking to take this itinerant rabbi, Jesus, down a few notches utilizing their superior intellect. Obviously a lot of the things Jesus taught were outside that “Five Books of Moses” boundary that the Sadducees had erected. That made Jesus an irresistible target for them. So, the Sadducees pick one such teaching for their sneak attack. Resurrection. It flew in the face of logic for them.
Now, in retrospect, it is laughable that the Sadducees chose to debate the resurrection of the dead with the one destined to be the first fruit of the dead himself.. But they didn’t know. All they did know was that they could prove, they could prove, logically, that there was no such thing. So they ask Jesus a carefully formulated question about one bride for seven brothers in the resurrection. To them it’s a fool-proof question—the remarriage of the woman is according to levitical law, so how can Jesus possibly talk himself out of this logical corner?
Of course, Jesus’ answer flies in the face of logic.
What he basically says is this. You can’t compare this (get apple) to this (get orange). They share some points of reference—seeds, skin, they’re both fruits—but ultimately, an apple tastes like an apple and an orange like an orange. Likewise the earthly life and the resurrected life will share some points of reference—God is here and there, so are we—but the resurrection changes everything. The ways we interact will be different.
So, not to worry about whose wife the woman shall be. The resurrection will be what it will be (despite how we might try to shoehorn it into our logical systems—but that’s another sermon). No.. Better to hold fast to that illogical trust in God, and concentrate on the things we can effect in this world. We can help alleviate people’s suffering through our stewardship of resources—food, medical care, water. We can stand by the sick—visiting them, sending cards, running errands, or simply coloring a picture for them to hang up in a stark hospital room. We can speak out for the oppressed, make voices for peace and justice be heard over the rattling of sabers. We can tell our stories of how God did not abandoned us in times of need but was there in ways we didn’t recognize at first. We can act illogically towards one another, standing in each others shoes and forgiving the perceived slights, omissions, and sins, based not on retribution but on Jesus’ modeling of mercy and grace.
We can do these things. And in doing so God acts to care and protect us through us. Now, the rest of the world will look at us like we’re crazy, but we can still do them. Not because they make sense to us, but because they make sense to God. It’s a tough journey, coming around to this way of thinking. It takes time and energy and compassion and not a little bit of risking oneself.
That’s the kind of trust and faith Job had. That’s the faith and trust that Paul encouraged his churches to have. Faith and trust in a God who is predictably unpredictable. Faith and trust in a God of the living, whose illogically wonderful kingdom can’t be compared with the world we live in—but whose promised new life in Christ spills over into our reality wit love and care and grace and mercy and peace. Faith and trust that, flying in the face of logic, gives us the strength we need to hold fast to God’s, and gracefully turns frowns upside down! Amen
Oh yeah. Check it out. “Whenever two or more gather in my name, there I am also.” 1 + 1 = 3.. I told you it was true. Amen again!
No comments:
Post a Comment