Good morning!  I cannot tell you how thrilled and happy I am to finally be here with all of you!  It doesn’t seem possible that it was only three months ago that I stood in this pulpit – it seems so long ago, and so much has happened in the meantime – certainly in my life, but also in the life of this church!! 

 

We celebrated Christmas and welcomed in the New Year.  You said farewell to Don Bizer after his interim ministry here with you, and I said good-bye to my church family at The Congregational Church of Topsfield.  We made it through the Blizzard of 2005, and celebrated the Patriots’ Super Bowl win!! 

 

But there has also been suffering and heartbreak since we were last together.  I know that some of you have been ill, have been struggling with difficult diagnoses and circumstances, have lost loved ones.  And since we were last together, there have been an unusual number of natural disasters.  In California, a series of storms caused flooding, landslides, and avalanches and killed 18.  In Europe, wild storms killed 19.  In Pakistan, heavy flooding killed more than 500.  In Iran, an earthquake killed more than 500.  And on the day after Christmas, a giant tsunami left over 234,000 members of God’s family dead in Southeast Asia. 

 

Yes, the mood is different mood since I was last here, and it’s not just events in the world; it is also the season.  During Advent, we wait in hopeful anticipation for the coming of the Christ Child, and we celebrate hope, peace, love, joy.  But during Lent, our lexicon goes decidedly downbeat.  Denial and discipline, sacrifice and suffering become our focus, and we know we must journey with Jesus to the foot of the cross before we can taste the sweet joy of Easter. 

 

At the time our gospel lesson for this fourth Sunday of Lent takes place, Jesus has already spoken of the inevitability of his rejection and death, and the religious authorities have tried and failed to arrest him.  As Jesus leaves the temple where he is about to be stoned, he and his disciples come upon a blind beggar.  The man has been sightless since birth, and -- unable to work in the fields or learn a craft or hold a job -- he must rely on the generosity of others to eke out a living. 

As they pass him, the disciples ask Jesus, "Who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born thus?"  Who is responsible?  Where can we place the blame?  How can we make sense of his suffering?  The disciples want to know, and we ask the same kind of questions. 

From the earliest of times, people have tried to find some kind of order woven into the fabric of life, some moral arithmetic in which the guilty are punished and the good are spared.  It’s really about our desire for control; in a confusing and chaotic world, we want assurance that as long as we are good and upright, only good things will happen to us.  It is frightening to think that, for no good reason and totally outside of one's control, one might be born deaf, or blind, or handicapped; that one might be stricken with cancer or Parkinson's or Alzheimer's; that one might be killed or maimed in an accident – or drowned in a giant tsunami.  If suffering is caused by sin, then we may have some control over it; we may have a chance at preventing it.  But when suffering happens randomly and everyone is vulnerable, then we feel helpless.

And so, while we can usually explain scientifically why a baby might be born without sight, or a giant tsunami can kill a quarter of a million people, what we are really looking for is a moral explanation – a correlation between the event or condition, and the victims’ behavior.

“Who sinned?” ask the disciples.

When things go well with us and in the world around us, it is not hard to believe in a loving, just and powerful God.  But when we experience tragic suffering in our own lives and see it in the world, we begin to have doubts and question our beliefs.  We want a world that is orderly and balanced and fair.  But life doesn’t work that way. 

Of all the questions that pastors get asked, either directly or implicitly, the one that is most on the hearts and minds of people of faith during a time of suffering or struggle or tragedy is, “Why do bad things happen to good people?”  Why do some people suffer more than others?  Why do some have more tragedy in their lives than anyone should have to bear?  Why the debilitating disease, the tragic accident, the death of a young person whose life is just beginning?  The questions are endless.

And the answer?  I could stand here and talk about the frailty of our mortal lives, or the fragility of the order of creation, or the consequences of human irresponsibility -- and perhaps we would be able to come up with some partial explanations.  But in the final analysis, the answer is: we just do not know.

 

I think, in the end, if there is any response to the problem of unjustified suffering, then it is this:  for most of us, the worst thing that can happen is not to suffer without reason, but to suffer without God, to suffer without the hope or consolation or promise of new life that God offers.  I believe this from the bottom of my heart, because I have experienced it.

 

I hope that over the next two or three decades that we are together, we will have an opportunity to share our stories and faith journeys.  And this morning I’d like to share a personal story with you.

 

Many years ago, I watched my young husband suffer for 21 months with terminal cancer.  Darcy and I had been married only eight months when he was diagnosed and given less than two years to live.  That diagnosis dashed the hopes and dreams we had of a lifetime together, of children, of a future bright with promise.  I confess that there were times I asked why God had doomed Darcy to an early death, why God would allow Darcy to suffer so, and why God would leave me a widow at age 27.  At times I wondered if God had not just let Darcy suffer and die, but had indeed made him suffer and die.  I closed my heart to God’s healing love and presence – and when I did that, I had nothing left -- no hope, no future, no strength or desire to go on. 

 

But even though I had turned my back on God, God had not abandoned me.  Even in my loneliness and isolation, God was there at my side.

In his Sermon on the Mount, in the poetic verses called the Beatitudes, Jesus says, "Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted" [Matthew 5:4].  The literal meaning of the word translated into English as “comforted” is “to be called to the side of.”  When we are in mourning and in pain, we are called to the side of God.  We are called to the side of God not only in our times of unwavering faith and spiritual devotion, but perhaps even more in our times of doubt and questioning, our times of confusion and suffering.  Blessed are those who mourn, for in our sorrow, sadness, and grief, God is right there next to us.

It was through my experience of loss and grief that I was finally able to open my heart – and my eyes – to God’s presence and working in my life.  God buoyed me in my sorrow, giving me the courage and strength to move on and create a new life for myself.  And God has abundantly graced my life in the ensuing years, bringing restoration, renewal, and rebirth in ways I could never have imagined.  I have two beautiful children, a vocation I love, a wonderful new church home and family, and this coming Friday, I marry my best friend and the love of my life. 

The disciples ask, “Who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?”  And Jesus answers them, "It was not that this man sinned, or his parents, but that the works of God might be made manifest in him." 

Two modern Bible translations put Jesus’ response this way:  "You're asking the wrong question.  You're looking for someone to blame.  There is no such cause-effect here.  Look instead for what God can do.”[1]  “Because of his blindness, you will see God work a miracle for him.”[2]  In other words, God does not cause human pain and suffering, but every situation of human pain and suffering gives God an opportunity to make visible God’s power to heal, redeem and make new.

And that’s how we can make meaning of undeserved suffering – to see it as an occasion for God’s revelation, as a means of grace.  Thus, rather than suffering being devoid of God, it turns out to be – for those who can see – full of God.

The paradox of suffering – and the lesson of the story of the man born blind -- is that our moments of pain and struggle and loss can be turning points in our life.  The death of a friend or family member, a divorce or separation, even a job loss can cause us to re-evaluate the meaning of our lives, to question our priorities, and to examine our values.  Such events can lead to our experiencing life from a deeper, fuller, more profound vantage point, for they can open our eyes to the depth of God’s grace, love, and transforming power. 

 

The man born blind is healed by Jesus, but he receives must more than physical sight; his eyes are opened to seeing Jesus as the Messiah, and he professes his faith with the words, “Lord, I believe.”  The man who was blind lived in darkness; then Jesus comes along and opens his eyes to the Light of the World.

 

The season of Lent transforms our perspective, gives us new eyes with which to see, and helps us to remember that all things are being made new in Christ.  Through the lens of Jesus’ cross, Christians see life not only as it is, but also as it could be – and will be – when love’s redeeming work is complete.  Lent gives us a vision of eternity’s wholeness beyond time’s brokenness, of Easter’s triumph beyond Calvary’s tragedy, and Lent affirms that God is not absent but is continually seeking us out.

 

It can be in our loneliness and desperation, in the most heartbreaking moments of our lives, that we find God.  As we stand in our need and our brokenness, Christ reaches out to us -- and when our eyes are un-blinded and opened, we can finally recognize the face of Jesus, who brings possibility out of impossibility, hope out of hopelessness, and life out of death.  That is the journey of Lent.  And that is the promise of Easter.  Amen.