Acts 9.36-43 | Psalm 23 | Revelation 7.9-17 | John 10.22-30
Our world’s been a scary place this past week. The small town of West, Texas was rocked by the explosion of a fertilizer plant that left at least a dozen dead and more than two hundred injured; fifty homes were also destroyed by the blast. There remains much uncertainty surrounding the event, including whether or not it was the result of criminal activity. In another story, the FBI confirmed Thursday that letters sent by a Mississippi man to a U.S. senator, a judge, and President Obama contained ricin, a highly toxic and potentially-lethal poison. But at the forefront of the news headlines was of course the bombing that took place at the Boston Marathon. Two explosions near the finish line of the over twenty-six mile event left three dead, and more than one hundred and seventy-five injured. One of the suspects was killed in a shootout with police; the other, his brother, was apprehended Friday.
The truth is, we
encounter stories like these all the time.
Daily, in fact. But it makes them
no less difficult to hear. It makes the
heinousness of the perpetrators’ actions no less difficult to comprehend. Often, when such tragedies occur, we’re left
with far more questions than answers.
And just as often, as we see the appalling evil of which people are
capable, we’re tempted to abandon hope in humankind.
And as I contemplated this mere days ago, I came
across a Facebook post from actor and comedian Patton Oswalt, who’d offered
some thoughts regarding the Boston Marathon in particular and the condition of
humanity in general. In it, he writes:
I don’t know what’s going to be revealed to be behind all of this mayhem. One human insect or a poisonous mass of broken sociopaths. But here’s what I DO know. If it’s one person or a HUNDRED people, that number is not even a fraction of a fraction of a fraction of a percent of the population on this planet. You watch the videos of the carnage and there are people running TOWARDS the destruction to help out. This is a giant planet and we’re lucky to live on it but there are prices and penalties incurred for the daily miracle of existence. One of them is, every once in awhile, the wiring of a tiny sliver of the species gets snarled and they’re pointed towards darkness. But the vast majority stands against that darkness and, like white blood cells attacking a virus, they dilute and weaken and eventually wash away the evil doers and, more importantly, the damage they wreak.[1]
And I do believe I concur with the overarching
message Mr. Oswalt is attempting to convey.
Of course there are persons and groups, with whom we share this world,
whose will is sometimes bent toward the malicious. Such persons and groups seemingly thrive on
creating havoc and perpetuating fear, through violence and devastation of
various stripes. They’re the ones Mr.
Oswalt so astutely observes as being “pointed towards the darkness.” But “the vast majority stands against that
darkness.” They stand against evil, and
stand instead for the good. They run
toward the destruction. Beloved
children’s show host Fred Rogers said something similar: “When I was a boy and
I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the
helpers. You will always find people who
are helping.’”[2]
And as I consider the thoughts these men have shared,
I find that this truly is how darkness is dispelled: through those who act selflessly,
giving out of concern and for the benefit of others. Both the Revelation and gospel text for this
morning give us images of Christ as the shepherd: one who cares for and tends
to his flock. In the gospel, this image
is transmitted by inference, as Jesus speaks of his sheep: those whom he knows,
and who follow him. The Revelation passage,
however, explicitly names Christ as shepherd: as the one who guides his people—those
who’ve “washed their robes and made them white”[3]—“to
springs of the water of life,”[4]
where they’ll be sheltered, fed, and comforted.
But what I find most compelling about that image of
Christ as shepherd is its connection to (and its being preceded by) the image
of Christ as “the Lamb.”[5] The lamb, who will be the shepherd. Sounds a bit paradoxical, doesn’t it? And yet this is precisely what the revelator
tells us. The one who is the lamb (an
image of innocence, of meekness, and of purity—but perhaps most significantly
of sacrifice) will be the shepherd: the one who leads and protects. In other words: by virtue of Christ’s
selflessness, he leads those who would follow him. And he leads them to give themselves, in
love, for others—just as he gave himself, in love, for the whole of humankind.
This, I think, is what Jesus means when he speaks
about those who belong to his sheep: those who hear his voice, and follow. And this morning’s text from Acts gives us a
good example of what this looks like, and one who lived into it. Her name was Tabitha, and she’s named as a
disciple—or pupil—of Christ: as one who’d learned from him. And though her story’s brief, we hear in what
we’re told that the way she learned was the way of self-sacrifice: the way of loving
service to her neighbor. The scripture
plainly tells us that Tabitha was one who “was devoted to good works and acts
of charity.”[6] Though we aren’t given a complete rundown of
all she did, it’s apparent she touched many lives—especially the lives of the
widows in Joppa. For upon her death,
they stand weeping at her bedside: mourning their friend, and showing St. Peter
the garments she’d made for them.
And this isn’t insignificant; that widows are
well-cared for is explicitly commanded in the Torah, and so the early Church
(which was composed mostly of Jews) likely would’ve understood tending to such
women as a top priority. The problem, as
we find earlier in the book of Acts, is that it wasn’t being done very
well. Widows, some of the most socially
and financially vulnerable people of the day, were frequently overlooked. It might be difficult for us to imagine the
sort of emptiness in which the widows lived, as most of us will never know the
degree of discomfiture they experienced: being very near the bottom of the
social ladder and among the poorest of the poor—economically, politically,
culturally, physically, and most probably spiritually. But Tabitha saw their plight, and lifted them
up. She reached out for them with
tenderness and generosity, embracing them in a way that communicated the love
of Christ. In a sense, she ran toward
the destruction; she fought their darkness.
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| Tabitha, Trinity Church (Boston, MA) |
A more contemporary example might be seen in film
star Bradley Cooper. You may not
recognize his name, but he’s been in a number of hit movies, such as The Hangover, Limitless, and Silver Linings
Playbook, the latter earning him a nomination for an Academy Award. Jeff Bauman, on the other hand, is pretty
much a regular guy. Not a Hollywood
type. Not a celebrity. Not having much that would draw attention to
him—until the day of the marathon. Jeff
was one of the victims of the blast, wounded so badly that he ended up losing
both legs. His life will forever be
different because of that moment. But in
the midst of his pain, he wasn’t alone.
Upon hearing of Jeff’s bravery, and the ways in which he helped to
identify the bombing suspects, Bradley Cooper (who just happens to be one of
Mr. Bauman’s favorite actors) showed up in his hospital room to pay him a visit
and to say thank you. He ran toward
destruction; he fought that darkness.
And that’s what those who belong to Christ—those who
are led by him—are compelled to do. We
run toward the destruction. We combat
the darkness. In short, we’re
ambassadors of the Gospel: one which proclaims and makes tangible the truth
that even in the “valley of the shadow of death,”[7]
we needn’t fear—for God is with us. And we
do this not for any sort of acclaim or praise or reward. We do this not even simply because we “have
to” or are “instructed to.” But because
Christ did, and—in response to the gracious love we’ve been shown by God
through him—we resolve to do the same.
I’m not naïve enough to believe there’ll never be
people who allow their hearts to be swayed toward wickedness. I’m not so foolish to think that, one day,
we’ll all get along and coexist in perfect harmony. It’s a beautiful thought. But it isn’t sensible. The unfortunate reality is there will always
be persons who permit sin to take root within them. There will always be persons whose
inclination is to that which is evil.
There will always be persons who, by what they do (or by what they
refuse to do) propagate a culture of death.
And as long as our Maker sees fit to grant us days, we’ll continue to
witness and to hear about the darkness when it rears its ugly head—seeking to
devour who it can. In such moments, we
need to pray. But as we pray for the
hurting, I’d remind us to pray as well (as hard as it might be) for those
who’ve caused the hurt; for all life is precious in God’s eyes, and God doesn’t
will that any of us be lost.
My word of encouragement to you, dear ones, is to not
lose faith when the darkness descends: to not grow weary. Rather, when tragedy strikes and devastation
comes, look for the helpers: for those who are charging headlong into the
chaos. For they are the surest sign that
there’s still much good left in the human heart, and that God hasn’t abandoned
that which God has made. And, as God
gifts us with opportunities, may we be
the helpers; may we be those who run toward the destruction in whatever form we
find it, and respond in love—however we’re able—to the desolate and the
desperate and the hurting, that we might wipe away the tears and chase away the
shadows with the eternal light of Christ.
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