What then did you come out to see?

Matthew 11.7

Over my years of teaching Buddhism to the children in School, there’s a story that I have grown particularly fond of. It’s a fairly well known one but, just in case you have never heard it, I thought I’d tell it this morning. If it is a story that you know, I hope that it’ll bear repeating.

There once was an old Chinese farmer. One day, his horse ran away. All the villagers came by and said, “What bad luck this is. You don’t have a horse during planting season.” But the farmer responded, “Bad luck. Good luck. Who can say?” Days later he looked up and saw his horse returning to him. But the horse was coming back with two other horses. All the villagers came by to congratulate the farmer and said, “You are now a rich man. What good luck this is,” But the farmer responded, “Good luck. Bad luck. Who can say? When the farmer’s son came to visit, while trying to tame one of the horses, he fell and broke his leg. The villagers came by to commiserate and said, “It is planting season and now there is no one to help you. This is truly bad luck.” Just as he did the first time, the farmer responded, “Bad luck. Good luck. Who can say?” The very next day, the emperor’s army rode into the town and conscripted the eldest son in every family. Only the farmer’s son with his broken leg remained behind. Soon the neighbours arrived. Tearfully, they said, “Yours is the only son who was not taken from his family and sent to war. What good luck this is…” And you know the farmer’s response by now… “Good luck. Bad luck. Who can say?”.

Each time that I tell this story it strikes me as being particularly difficult to tell as a Christian. I can see what it’s getting at, of course, but it always leaves me with a question. Where is God in the story? As a Christian, am I to read the story as an invitation to see that, even in the most difficult of circumstances, I need to remain hopeful that God is at work and eventually I’ll see what was really going on? Actually, I’m disinclined to do that. There are plenty of dreadful things that go on in our world that I’m content to think are actually not part of any divine plan. So when I hear the story, I want to stand with the farmer: working hard for my own good and the good of my family and the wider world while at the same time wondering, where is God in all this?

I suspect that that’s exactly where John the Baptist was as he questioned from his prison cell, “Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?” John’s world was one of personal and political turmoil. The temple system was seen by so many as rotten to the core. High priests living in palaces, offering the promise of redemption at a cost that kept many in spiralling poverty. The local king, Herod, was a toxic blend of political corruption, personal ambition and sexual licentiousness. And all of this existed under the cosh of Roman control, which saw global stability as being only available through constant aggression, both threatened and realised. And it was in that environment that John had worked for justice, in a very literal way putting his neck on the line to cry out in challenge. John had exhausted himself trying to bring salvation to his own personal and political world. And this morning, we find him in prison, both literally and metaphorically. John is imprisoned by his own loss of hope: “Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?” Where is God in all of this?

And in to John’s prison cell, Jesus speaks. “Can’t you see it?”, he says, “everything that Isaiah promised, even in this very moment is coming true, if only you have eyes to see it.” Jesus words are a reminder that the whole of the story of God is reflected in every part of every story, even in those places where it becomes difficult to see God. “What then did you come out to see?”, he says. What were you hoping for? Look again. Jairus’s daughter is raised, Zacheus is forgiven, fishermen and tax collectors are called to be friends, the Syrophonecian woman knows her worth, Bartimaeus can see. In Jesus’ few short words, we see the whole of the story of God: that it is in the reality of life that we are called to glimpse the presence of God. The brokenness of the cross and the glory of the resurrection, together in this and in every moment.

And Jesus doesn’t hold back: “among those born of women no one has arisen greater than John the Baptist; yet the least in the kingdom of heaven is greater than he.” John’s relentless work for justice is important. But when he has exhausted his own attempts to bring salvation to the world and finds himself imprisoned in his own loss of hope, Jesus reminds him that better still is to see glimpses of a Kingdom that is already here.

So, this morning, what then did you come out to see? Perhaps you too are here trying to make sense of your own personal and political situation. Perhaps you lament that our world is still like John’s: a world which excludes refugees, tolerates those who abuse high office, believes in violence as the only way to peace, and turns a blind eye to suffering, poverty and exclusion. Or perhaps you are struggling to make sense of your own situation: working hard to bring stability to the lives of those around you or stumbling as you learn to tell the story of your own past without the pain of guilt or shame, anger, recrimination or victimhood. Yes, you and I, like John, are called to work for transformation. But perhaps you too are exhausted by your own attempts to bring salvation to your world and are now asking that same question: where is God in all this?

It is into this that Jesus speaks a reminder that the whole of the story of God is reflected in every story, including in those places where it becomes difficult to see God. The whole Gospel is in each and every story, even yours. You and I are called to glimpse the whole life of God in tiny moments. The All in the small. God is there in the lives of those who have been released from the burden of addiction and the stigma of labels and who have learned to accept who they are so deeply that their very being becomes a blessing to the world. In the moments when we embrace personal cost or the possibility of rejection in order to reach out in friendship or invite one another into our homes, share our stories and our lives as we break bread together? At those times when we reach across our own divisions and brokenness to make others whole. In the welcome of the stranger and refugee and in the moment when those struggling with issues of identity can finally delight in who they are. In the lives of those who die with such grace that it makes the living rejoice.

Deep down, we know that it is only when we are deeply connected to ourselves and fully connected to one another that we can claim to be wholly connected to God. So the question is, can we see God in our own lives and in the lives of others? My prayer today is that this might be a place where we can.

“What then did you come out to see?”

Amen.