Wednesday, November 25, 2020      (today’s lectionary)
The best kind of theodicy
Through seven angels and seven plagues, God’s fury is accomplished. But in the fog and in the mist I see a plane of glass mingled with fire. Men and women are standing on that glass holding God’s harps, singing the song of Moses and the song of the Lamb.
Won’t we be standing on that glass? Join the heavenly host singing Hallelujah? How do you hold a harp while standing? What part will I sing in the choir? I’m in between tenor and baritone, I think. I hope there’s an instruction manual.
I wonder if the glass is slippery. I imagine we’ll be sliding around a little on our tears of thanksgiving and praise. Maybe our noses will be running just a bit. This is a big crowd we’re talking about. I hope there are angels walking around offering Kleenex, mopping up the floor, picking up those of us who slipped. Those angels, they love us so much.
I don’t ask myself many questions about these revelatons, just go with the flow of the story. It is good to remember that we are fearfully and wonderfully made. God is our mother and our father, and we are loved.
Great and wonderful are your works, and just and true are your ways, Lord God Almighty. You alone are holy, and your righteous acts have been revealed.
After the pilgrims and natives shared a table together in 1621, then in 1789 President Washington proclaimed Thanksgiving official in the new United States. But in the midst of Civil War President Lincoln proclaimed it again in 1863, “a national day of thanksgiving and praise to our beneficent Father who dwelleth in the Heavens.” War-weary Americans needed something to turn their hearts toward heaven.
Sing to the Lord a new song. His right hand, his holy arm has won victory. Â So now let the sea resound, and everything in it, and the world and all who live in it. Let the rivers clap their hands, and the mountains come together and sing for joy.
Seven years later President Grant proclaimed Thanksgiving yet again, and President Roosevelt settled any remaining questions in 1942. In Washington, no one could even seem to agree on Thanksgiving.
Jesus warned them. They will seize you and persecute you. It will go from bad to worse, dog-eat-dog, everyone will be at your throat because you speak my name. Some of you will be turned in by parents or relatives or friends. You’ll end up in court and be called to testify. Make up your mind right now not to worry about that. I will give you words to speak that will reduce your opponents to helpless stammering.
I am prone to self-pity and self-righteousness, and feeling sorry for myself, and all sorts of ego-driven self-made pain. Jesus agrees that there is trouble, and there will be trouble, and I’ll be in the midst of it. Pain enough for all of us. He does not apologize or pull the wool over my eyes. He also does not tolerate my self-pity or my self-righteousness. Get over it. Make up your mind right now not to worry about that, he says.
You might be killed, you might be hated by all … but not a hair on your head will be destroyed. Be faithful. You won’t be sorry. You’ll be saved. (The Message, Luke 21)
Jesus reconciles being killed with being protected. That’s the best kind of theodicy. Jesus tells me that suffering is the way through suffering, that death is the way into life. He knows every hair on my head, and gives me words to say and pray when I can’t find them myself. When I can’t even find a comb.
When I fail, God does not. The truth of these words is only obvious and visceral when it’s my story in the flesh … when it’s my heart, my skin, my fear, my wordlessness that God turns into prayer.
Remain faithful unto death, and I will give you the crown of life.
(Revelation 15, Psalm 98, Revelation 2, Luke 21)
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