Things Too Wonderful

Sermon for the Twenty-Second Sunday after Pentecost

Episcopal Church of St. Paul & St. James | New Haven, CT

Twenty-Second Sunday after Pentecost (Year B; Track 1)

Job 42:1-6, 10-17

Psalm 34:1-8, (19-22)

Hebrews 7:23-28

Mark 10:46-52

The lessons we have just heard tell us a great deal about the nature of faith.

Job rather helpfully sums things up for us:

“Therefore I have uttered what I did not understand,

things too wonderful for me, which I did not know.”

This pretty well covers all the bases. Job just comes right and says it. Any insight that might be added eventually returns to this admission: I uttered what I did not understand. I did not know.

We are presented with two stories this morning. A story about Job and a story about Bartimaeus. In both we find the presence of human affliction and of divine healing. In both we find the presence of uncertainty and of faith.

What I find myself pondering is this: What does faith look like in the face of affliction and uncertainty? Here’s what I’d like to suggest this morning: The presence of certainty is the absence of faith. To put it differently: Faith in God becomes possible through human uncertainty. Our first story is from the final chapter of Job. Now, if this were the season finale of a TV series, we’d get something like a “Previously on The Story of Job” recap—just to make sure we remembered all the confusing plot twists, and the friends and frenemies made along the way.

So, to briefly paraphrase the 'The Story of Job,’ it goes pretty much like this:

Chapter 1, Part I: There once lived a man named Job. Life was good for Job.

Everyone could tell Job was blessed: He had a large family! He had many servants! He had property and thousands of livestock! Job was a good guy.

Chapter 1, Part II: One day, Satan—after returning from a business trip—is hanging out in a heavenly lounge. His recent search for faithful humans to torment didn’t go quite as planned.

So, God says: Have you heard about Job? He’s a good guy.

Satan says: Come on, Job?, anyone would be faithful with riches and comforts like his. Hey, here’s an idea: let’s mess around with Job— then we’ll see whether he really is such a good guy. And God says: Okay!

Chapter 1, Part III: Job loses everything. Suffering and sorrow seem to rain down like fire from heaven. Eventually: it’s all gone. The savings account, his family, the property, his livelihood— gone. Without warning, every marker of Job’s greatness is burned away like chaff.

Chapters 2—37: Job curses the day he was born. One-by-one, Job’s so-called friends cross- examine him. Job desperately pleads for mercy. And God is silent. God, it would seem—is nowhere to be found. For 36 chapters (or episodes, if you prefer), God doesn’t utter a word.

Then, finally, God speaks and has God’s say. Job is reminded of his utter smallness.

Okay, we’re caught up now. So, here’s this morning’s season finale: Job is humbled—and then God vindicates Job: first by humiliating those obnoxious friend’s of his, and then by restoring to him twice as much as all that he had lost.

Job lives happily ever after. And then: Job dies. The end. This is like one of those films that ends abruptly and you’re left thinking...that’s it!?

It’s almost comical. In this tragic whirlwind saga, there is no lack of uncertainty. So, what’s the point of this? Is this really how Job’s story ends—without any real explanation why he endured so much suffering? And, finally, is this really how God works?

Well, let’s hold onto those questions for a moment... Mark’s Gospel tells the story of Bartimaeus. Bartimaeus is a man known as the blind beggar. Really, his story is not too dissimilar from that of Job’s: Bartimaeus is afflicted, he desires the restoration of his sight, he pleads for mercy.

Bartimaeus is in need. He’s desperate. Now, who this Bartimaeus was before he became reduced to this status as ‘the blind beggar’ is not clear. But it’s notable he is given a name in the Gospel story, and that his familial origin is known. But whatever the previous circumstances of his life were, Bartimaeus’ life is reduced to begging on the side of the road. Each day, he relies on others to meet his need. Bartimaeus does not hold to any delusions of self-sufficiency.

This is one thing Bartimaeus seems to understand quite well: he has no ability to heal himself. He desires to see—and yet he is powerless to restore his own sight. And then along comes Jesus. In his pleading, Bartimaeus recognizes and proclaims that Jesus is the Christ. So, after he is silenced by the crowd, Bartimaeus persists. His insistence catches the attention of Jesus. And in this encounter: Bartimaeus is healed. Now, what do Job and Bartimaeus tell us about the nature of faith?

There is indeed no lack of options for how we might understand these stories. So, let me suggest two common ways of moralizing them which I think are especially unhelpful.

The first is this: God blesses Job because Job’s a good guy.

In this understanding, Job experiences tremendous affliction. Ultimately though, he proves himself faithful—and so God rewards him. In the end, all things work together for good. Which sounds pretty nice. However, this would seem to suggest God is some sort of cosmic vending machine. If at any point we experience afflictions in life, all we need to do is simply scrounge together a few coins of personal righteousness (with humility, of course). And then, once we deposit or piety coins, we’ll be rewarded with a comforting and carbonated can of bubbly blessings.

This is a fairly insidious way of understanding “faith.” Also, while this transactional exchange is enticing and efficient, I’m personally not very interested in having a this kind of relationship with God. Which isn’t to say I haven’t tried. The second (unhelpful) way we might think about these stories is this: Bartimaeus is healed because of his own persistence; Job is vindicated because of his own persistence.

With this emphasis, our attention moves to these two men. We admire the conviction of Bartimaeus. We commend Job’s steadfastness.

We might affirm Job’s raw honesty—because even in the grittiness of his deep sorrow and simmering anger, he never ceases to be certain that he will be vindicated. We might aspire to the conviction of Bartimaeus—because even though he is silenced, he never ceases to be certain that his sight will be restored.

Now, the problem in this interpretation isn’t that Job and Bartimaeus don’t display an authentic faithfulness. For the record, I believe they do. The issue is that when we get caught up in the human virtue of these stories, any semblance of faith becomes merely secondary icing on the cake. We don’t really need the cosmic vending machine anymore, what we really need is a five-step wellness formula to follow (with an accompanying 30-day devotional workbook).

So, let’s be frank here: this is idolatry. In all of this fervor: God is nowhere to be found. Somewhere along the way, God quietly fades out of the picture—and no one seems to notice. If the stories of Job and Bartimaeus are about nothing more than the merit of two good guys, then we have no real need for the grace of God. If we’re honest, I wonder how often that is actually what we’d prefer. Now, we can treat God like a vending machine. We can rely on our five-step wellness formulas...

But what really just doesn’t work in all of this... No matter how sufficiently we convince ourselves we’ve mastered our fate, life still happens: a job is lost, the pregnancy miscarries, divorce papers arrive, the COVID test is positive, a loved one dies.

Eventually, when the jig is up: we arrive at the awareness that we did not understand. Things were too wonderful for us. And this is precisely the place where faith begins. When our entire existence is brought to a halt, when the foundations shake, faith becomes possible.

Because faith is not the presence of knowledge—or the absence of doubt. And faith is not the absence of affliction—or the presence of blessing.

Faith is the awareness of our humanness—and in that recognition: turning toward God. But in denying the uncertainty inherent in being human, faith is suffocated. To be honest, for me, this is the maddening part of the Christian life: I don’t want to go of certainty. I don’t want to surrender—because I don’t want to be vulnerable.

In my fear of being vulnerable, of being small, of being human: I reach for certainty. It makes me feel safe. It makes me feel comfortable. In attempting to convince myself I’m in control of my circumstances, I pretend I've somehow conquered the inconvenient need for God.

But playing God involves keeping way too many spinning plates in the air. It gets tiring.

So, here’s some good news for us this morning: We are not God. None of us is God.

This is good news—and is is the nature of faith. In confessing our humanness—with all of its uncertainty and vulnerability—we are free to orient our lives toward something beyond ourselves.

After admitting his lack of understanding, Job utters these words:

“I had heard of you by the hearing of the ear,

but now my eye sees you;”

In his encounter with God, Job learns to see. Even with all that remains unknown, Job catches a glimpse of God. And there Job discovers rest.

And when Bartimaeus encounters Jesus, he proclaims that he is the Son of David—the Christ. Bartimaeus beholds God. And in his faith: Bartimaeus is made well.

Pretending we are not human won’t lead us to faith. Rather, faith begins in accepting the uncertainty, unknowing, and vulnerability that is part of what makes us human. And in faith: the grace of God waits to offer rest.

So, in offering to God the fullness of our human selves, may faith make us well.

Amen.