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Running Toward Destruction



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.

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.




[2] Fred Rogers, The Mister Rogers Parenting Book (Philadelphia: Running Press, 2002), 107.
[3] Revelation 7.14
[4] Revelation 7.17
[5] Ibid.
[6] Acts 9.36
[7] Psalm 23.4

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