H. Michael Brewer
Crescent Springs Presbyterian
11 September 2005
PONDERINGS ON TRAGEDY AND COMEDY
Psalm 30
I used to think that once in a lifetime some catastrophic event came along and reshaped history,
making an indelible mark on that generation.
I was wrong.
The catastrophes are coming in rapid succession these days. Four years ago today, terrorists
attacked the Pentagon and knocked down the World Trade Center, harrowing the soul of this country.
Last Christmas, the second largest earthquake in recorded history spawned a tsunami that wreaked
unspeakable devastation in Asia, creating a death toll somewhere in the neighborhood of 300,000.
And less than two weeks ago, network television began chronicling Katrina’s assault on New Orleans
and general destruction spanning roughly 90,000 square miles along the Gulf Coast. Thousands are
dead and a million more displaced. The economic impact of Katrina is as incalculable as the sum of
human suffering caused by the storm.
Even the most practical and down-to-earth people are inclined to ask these days, “What’s going
on? What’s happening to the world? What’s next?”
I don’t have any great wisdom to share on the matter, but I do know a few Bible stories. I know the
story of the first two people in the world living in Paradise, living in peace and plenty and communion
with God—and constrained by only one restriction. “Don’t eat the fruit from that tree,” God told them.
Why was that tree there in the first place? Because real freedom requires real choices. And genuine
choices beget genuine consequences, or else the whole thing is a sham. So Adam and Eve exercised
their freedom to eat the forbidden fruit, and ever since we’ve had to deal with hunger and cold and
disease and war and crime and death.
So when we recall 9-11 or ponder the attacks in London or the nerve gas assault in the Tokyo
subway or the bombing in Oklahoma City, we must recall the riskiness of freedom and the
consequences of bad choices, sometimes bad choices that reach across generations and centuries, the
way slavery continues to haunt us 150 years later, the way the Crusades taught Muslims to hate
Christians, the way we’re going to be a long time paying off the few bucks we saved on levee
construction in Louisiana.
I also know the story of Esther, a pretty Jewish girl who wins a beauty contest to become the wife
of the King of Persia. No one in the royal palace knows that Esther is Jewish, so when a vicious court
official creates a plan to murder all the Jews in the empire, Esther can rest easy between silk sheets. She
is absolutely safe and beyond the reach of danger. Esther might well have kept her peace and watched
her people slaughtered except for a visit from her Uncle Mordecai, “Perhaps God has made you queen
over this empire just so you can stand up for your people in this time of catastrophe. Who knows but
that you were born for just such a time as this?”
I can imagine Esther, frightened and worried, praying to God, “O Lord, do something to save your
people!” And I can imagine God saying to Esther, “I’ve already done something; I’ve put you there.”
Whatever meaning or cause we may discern in human suffering, there’s no ignoring our responsibility to
respond to that suffering. Remember when Jesus was in the wilderness with a great crowd of people
and the disciples came and said, “Master, people are getting hungry. Do something.” And Jesus said,
“You give them something to eat.” That’s a quote from Mark 6:37.
We weave wonderful prayers to show our compassion: “O merciful God, have compassion upon
those who lack their daily bread.”
And God says, “You give them something to eat.”
Every tsunami and flood, every war and act of violence, every homeless person and hungry child is
an opportunity for us to be the body of Christ, to become the people we were meant to be, to do what
we were put here to do: to alleviate suffering, to lift the fallen, to befriend the orphan, to make due with
less so that others may have enough, to feed the hungry, to build a just society and a compassionate
economy.
And I know the story of the carpenter who was nailed to a cross for no reason. He hadn’t done
anything wrong. He hadn’t hurt anyone. He lived a good, decent, loving life, and he still ended up with
nails driven through his hands and feet. It was a terrible death and he hung there a long time. He hung
there long enough to wonder why this should happen to him, to wonder why life is so often unfair, to
wonder why innocent people suffer, to wonder where God was while all this was going on. Not that we
really know what he was thinking. We only know what he said: “My God, why have you forsaken me?
Why have you turned your back on me?”
But even in that terrible moment, it was still “my God.” Even feeling forsaken by God, Jesus wouldn’
t forsake God, and that, too, is a choice available to us mortals. Paradoxically, suffering can drag us far
from God or draw us near to God. Or put it another way. When we are slapped in the face by pain and
grief—whether our own or someone else’s—we can become bitter and angry and push God away as
far as we can. Or we can acknowledge our neediness and throw ourselves into God’s arms. The cross
does not explain suffering, but it does reveal that suffering can be a meeting place with God, the God
who is no stranger to grief and heartbreak.
Indeed, to take it a step further, how deeply could we love God if life were only milk and honey?
Love becomes stronger and truer when it stands its ground in spite of disappointment and hurt.
Remember Job? He lost his money, his reputation, his children, his health—all swept away in a matter
of hours. In the midst of all this Job cries out, “Though (God) slay me, yet will I trust in him,” Job 13:15
(KJV). What an amazing expression of faith and love. I wonder if Job was capable of such faith while
life was rosy or was it the pain that strengthened his love? Perhaps love without a cross is not quite love
yet.
But the story of the cross doesn’t end on the cross. It ends with a sunrise, an empty tomb, a promise
of victory, and a risen, eternally triumphant Lord. That says to me that life is a not a tragedy; life is a
comedy. I use the words in their literary sense. Life is not a story that ends in sobbing despair, but
rather a tale that closes with laughter and the satisfaction of all things redeemed and fulfilled as they
should be. In spite of all the shocking and heart-rending scenes we have witnessed in our time, life is not
Hamlet, the curtain ringing down on a stage littered with corpses and betrayal and justice miscarried.
No, life is a wonderful Shakespearean comedy. Life is “All’s Well that Ends Well,” and on the other
side of confusion, pettiness and grief, all does end well in God’s good providence: true identities are
restored, evil is vanquished, and love prevails.
That’s the meaning of Easter—that God will provide a good ending. That’s also the meaning of
Revelation in which John gives us a visionary preview of the big final scene: “And I saw the holy city,
the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her
husband. And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, ‘See, the home of God is among mortals. He
will dwell with them as their God; they will be his peoples, and God himself will be with them; he will
wipe every tear from their eyes. Death will be no more; mourning and crying and pain will be no more,
for the first things have passed away.’ And the one who was seated on the throne said, ‘See, I am
making all things new.’
“I saw no temple in the city, for its temple is the Lord God the Almighty and the Lamb. And the city
has no need of sun or moon to shine on it, for the glory of God is its light, and its lamp is the Lamb. The
nations will walk by its light, and the kings of the earth will bring their glory into it. Its gates will never be
shut by day—and there will be no night there.” (from Revelation 21 NRSV)
Or as the Psalmist has it: “Weeping may linger for the night, but joy comes with the morning. You have
turned my mourning into dancing; you have taken off my sackcloth and clothed me with joy, so that my
soul may praise you and not be silent. O LORD my God, I will give thanks to you forever.” (from
Psalm 30 NRSV)
So I’m remembering 9-11 today, and the tsunami, and the folks on the Gulf Coast. But I’m also
remembering those old Bible stories. I’m remembering Adam and Eve and the terrible freedom God
has given us. I’m remembering Esther and how God calls us to do something about suffering. I’m
remembering the cross and how God can meet us in the midst of pain. And I’m remembering Easter
and God’s promise of a good ending, a joyful and glorious ending on the other side of suffering.
Soli Deo Gloria!