Numbers 21 4-9 eSER 2

Persevering In The Faith
Sermon by E. Carver McGriff

Many years ago, a friend of mine remarked that several years earlier he and his wife had quit attending church. I asked him why. He explained that his wife had become quite ill and, as they were occasional church attenders, they decided to pray for healing. As part of this effort, they attended worship every Sunday, became otherwise involved in their church, doubled their pledge, and in general made church and prayer a central part of their lives. However, as time went on, the wife became sicker. There was no healing. At last, they both concluded that Christianity had been misrepresented to them so they ceased their church relationship and had never gone back. Their patience had run out. Look at the Bible text for a moment. Quite frankly, it presents some problems of interpretation. We could become bogged down in some largely meaningless examples of superstition in religion, mixed with ancient concepts of the nature of God. This is not unimportant inasmuch as it is part of the historical context of Christianity. However, the passage will not seem germane to most of us now -- except for one phrase. The writer states: "The people became impatient on the way." Ah, yes. My friend could have belonged to that group: "Impatient on the way." Frankly, I suspect the same could be said of most of us at times. We've all heard about the fellow who prayed, "Lord, give me patience, and give it to me now." Living as we do in an era of high pressure urgency, it's easy to expect our religious faith to satisfy our needs on our own schedules. But truth to tell, it doesn't work that way. Let's use a homey analogy. Imagine yourself the parent of a couple of pre-school children. One sunny, late spring day, you let the children out in the fenced-in backyard to play. Before long, one little fellow trips over the garden hose and skins his knee. At nearly the same time, a bee stings your little girl rather painfully on the arm. Both are in tears. It's all complicated by the fact that your seven-year-old son is quite upset because you have said "no" to his repeated request for roller skates so he can play in the street with some older kids down the way. Now imagine those two little ones in the backyard in heated conversation (we'll cast their thinking in adult terms for a moment). "What kind of people are these parents of ours? They knew these things could happen to us. Why would they put us out here in such a dangerous environment? My arm hurts, and look at your knee, all bloody. And Mother is there in the house and she does nothing but apply a little soap and water and a kiss." So says Daughter. And your son, agreeing, adds: "Yeah, it's Dad's fault for leaving the hose out here. And also, they keep telling Brother he can't have roller skates, while they seem to have money for whatever they want. It's all so unfair." Is it unfair? Of course not. If those two little ones are ever to be prepared for a sometimes threatening and at times painful world, it has to start here, now. It will be many years before these little tykes discover how protectively mother hovered by the window, carefully making sure that her beloved children were all right. But she knew these hurts were part of their development. There would be much worse later. And as for the roller skates, Mom and Dad would have been glad to give their son something to make him happy. But two things stopped them. One, he isn't old enough yet to skate in the street. There's more to learn and experience, or else he could be seriously injured or worse. Second, a child must not be allowed to grow up thinking his or her every wish is to be immediately answered. Part of maturity is to learn to do without, to live with many a "no" in life. So the impatience of childhood is part of the growth process. One of literature's classic novels is Aldous Huxley's Brave New World. It depicts a man from our own era cast forward in time to a world in which all problems have been solved. Drugs have done it, mainly. Not the street drugs we first think about, but sophisticated drugs, much advanced versions of our tranquilizers. So, if a loved one dies, the survivor, rather than be overcome with grief, takes a beta pill and presto -- everything is fine. If a man wrongs his wife terribly, then on reflection is assailed by overwhelming guilt, he takes an alpha pill and all such negative feelings vanish. No anxiety. No depression. No worry. Life is a constant happy party devoid of inward pain. One effect of this is the disappearance of the Bible, except for one preserved as an artifact of an earlier era. And the native of our world? He can't stand it. No one has any depth, any character. Everything is flat and one dimensional. At last, unable to endure this empty existence, he takes his own life. Huxley may have had other points in mind as well, but he clearly demonstrates that a world set free from emotional and physical pain becomes a world without character. This is a faithful biblical insight. No one can say for sure why it has to be this way, but the Christian faith clearly assumes that suffering is part of the human developmental process. As Peter wrote, "... if you endure when you do right and suffer for it, you have God's approval. For to this you have been called, because Christ also suffered for you, leaving you an example, so that you should follow." Paul made a powerful point of this in his letter to the Romans when he wrote: "...suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character...." And, of course Jesus said, "If anyone would come after me, let him take up his cross...." Clearly, whatever else may be said about the purpose of human life, it must surely be true that growth and the development of character is part of our mission, and sad to say, suffering and privation are an indispensible part of this process. And the point of my homey little analogy in the backyard is to say that God is very much involved with us in the process. A world in which all our prayers for immediate rescue from our troubles were answered to our satisfaction would almost surely thwart the divine plan. No. Patience is a necessary part of the dynamic of faith. But that doesn't mean God is unaware or doesn't care. A number of years ago, a book was published, Take One Step, written by the mother of a little girl who had suffered a terribly disabling injury. Doctors assured the mother that while their daughter would live, she probably would never walk again. One day, when the child had finally been allowed to go home, the mother took her into the family room, pinned a five dollar bill on a curtain at the end of the room, and told her daughter that if she could walk over and retrieve the money, they'd go out shopping for some doll clothes. The child therefore tried to stand, but fell. Time after time, fighting back the tears, the child tried and failed. Time after time, the mother, fighting back her tears, encouraged the child to try again. It was surely heartbreaking work for both of them. Any outsider could have wondered how a mother could be so callous as to drive a crippled child to such effort. But the mother wouldn't give up. This all went on for days, then weeks. But the day did come when the child managed a few halting, stumbling steps before falling. Then one day, she almost made it, falling at the last and pulling the curtains down on top of her. Patiently, mother restored the curtain, replaced the five dollar bill, dried some tears of frustration on dear little cheeks, and urged the child to try again. Only those two could know the physical and emotional exhaustion these efforts involved. Maybe it would take a deeply loving mother to understand the price being paid by that mother as well as the child in the effort to accomplish that walk. But the day came. One glorious, celebrating day, the little girl walked to the curtain without falling. What a wondrous shopping trip that must have been! And the child has been walking ever since. Can we see a parallel to the nature of God? Can we possibly believe that a God of love who would be eternally patient and forgiving, as we see God revealed in Jesus, would ignore our suffering, would desert us in our losses, our infirmities? Surely not. But there's a price to be paid. Jesus paid it. God surely suffers in the way that mother surely suffered. But it's how it all works. We will make it through. Over and over again, the gospel promises us light beyond the darkness. Of course, sometimes God answers our prayers in the here and now, though often in ways we least expect. Those of us who have lived longer, look back and marvel at the way in which seeming disaster and misfortune have become life's richest blessings. Prayer is, indeed, a powerful force in our lives. But it's through patient perseverence in faith and prayer that we discover how true this really is. Perhaps the apostle Paul's most sublime word to us is found in his letter to the Romans, the eighth chapter: "We know that all things work together for good for those who love God...." There it is, then. For a time, perhaps, we must gird ourselves to confront the unpleasant aspects of our daily lives. Yet, if our faith is true, something wonderful is going on beyond our view. A pastor told of the Easter Sunday in his church when a little fellow not more than five came dashing out of Sunday School. He saw his mother and dad at the other end of the hall, heading his way. Joyously, he held up the little ceramic rabbit he had been making during Lent. Shaped by his own two hands, painted and varnished and fired until the clay was hard as glass, it was his own special gift for his mom and dad. And as he raced toward them to deliver his treasure, he stumbled and fell, the precious rabbit crashing to the floor, shattered into a hundred shapeless shards. As both parents raced to their son, the boy stared for a moment of uncomprehending shock. And then he began to cry, his sobs echoing down the hall. Dad was the first to arrive. He put his arms around the boy, held him for a moment, then said, "It's all right, it's all right. It doesn't matter." Then Mom arrived. She knelt before her brokenhearted son. Slowly she drew him close. Knowing just a bit more than Dad about such things, she said to him "Oh, Son, it does matter. It matters a lot." Can we understand this? Things do get broken. Our pain and sense of loss can't always be removed at once. But the One who loves us more than any other is there, telling us "it does matter."

TIMES OF REFRESHING, E. Carver McGriff, CSS Publishing Company, 1996, 0-7880-0774-2