Beloved, do not be surprised at the fiery ordeal that is taking place among you to test you, as though something strange were happening to you. But rejoice insofar as you are sharing Christ’s sufferings, so that you may also be glad and shout for joy when his glory is revealed [1 Peter 4:12-13].
Earlier this week, a friend and I were exchanging some rather light-hearted theological banter (observing safe-distancing, of course; we communicated via e-mail), when suddenly, the friend’s “tone” became quite serious. He wrote,
I was reading ahead among the scriptures appointed for this upcoming Sunday, and I saw references in First Peter to suffering, to the devil, and to a “fiery ordeal.” Tom, I’m wondering: With all this COVID-19 stuff going on, do you think these are “the End Times?” Is this the “fiery ordeal” that Peter is speaking about?
I was tempted to be a smart-aleck and refer him to the readings for Ascension Day (tomorrow — 21 May), particularly the passage from the first chapter of Acts:
So when they had come together, they asked him, “Lord, is this the time when you will restore the kingdom to Israel?” He replied, “It is not for you to know the times or periods that the Father has set by his own authority [Acts 1:6-7].
Instead, I endeavored to put on my “pastor’s stole” and take his question seriously. In the world around us, there is, of course, a lot of suffering going on. These are indeed unusual times. I wasn’t just whistling in the darkness; I told my friend that in spite of evidence to the contrary, COVID-19 isn’t in charge. Our Lord is!
My friend is trying to find answers to unanswerable questions. Although he’d never use the word, he’s searching for theodicy, the term philosophers and scholars use for the vindication of God and God’s principles. Hundreds of books have been written on the subject. Why do bad things happen to good people? Don’t get me started.
My modern-day friend is actually echoing the questions offered to Peter by those in the early Christian church. Within his first epistle, Peter was likely describing the beginnings years of persecution faced by those who called themselves Christians. Particularly for those early Christians in and around Rome, they faced a dilemma. All they had to do was bow their knee and utter three simple words, “Caesar is lord.” For the Christian, however, the statement was a lie: Jesus Christ was/is Lord. Those who refused civil society’s simple demand were made to suffer.
For some in Peter’s day, the suffering was merely economic — one couldn’t get the lucrative government contract unless one swore allegiance to Caesar. Today, we sometimes call it, “Pay to Play.” For others, it was physical. Some were tortured, others were burned. Still others were used as entertainment; they were ushered into the Roman coliseum to face gladiators or wild animals.
The suffering must have been rampant around Peter; he used the word we translate as “suffering” twelve times in his short epistle. And so, back to the theodicy, how could a loving God allow such suffering to go on? How could a caring Messiah not lash out at the church’s enemies? How could the One who could call down angels not react to the plight of His devoted disciples? How indeed?
Looking at the world around us, many are asking similar questions. We’re concerned about the sort of suffering that is currently rampant in America’s ICU wards (and wards beyond our borders) or in nursing homes around our nation. We’re worried about households in which a family member has had to postpone diagnostic tests or cancer treatments for fear of viral infection. Many of us who are relatively well off find it difficult to comprehend the pain and anguish of those who worry if, when the economy reopens, they’ll have a job to which they can return.
There are two types of answers to this sort of theodicy. The first is simple and subtly profound. Uttered by many, including our Grandmother Lib, the response becomes, “God is God, and we are not.” Put another way, in an online conference yesterday led by Will Willimon and Stanley Hauerwas, “God’s freedom makes many of us nervous.”
I don’t think Peter would disagree with the first sort of theodicy. Within this Sunday’s text, however, Peter points us in a different direction. If one wants to see just how unjust the world can be, all one has to do is look at the Cross, where the only innocent human being was killed as a common criminal. All one has to do is look at Golgotha, where he was flogged and spit upon, where he was nailed to a tree and stuck in the side with a spear. If one is searching for theodicy, walk the Via Dolorosa, or try to find it near the Cross.
As difficult as it seems, Peter’s answer to the suffering around him was indeed to look to the suffering of Christ Himself. “Rejoice insofar as you are sharing Christ’s sufferings, so that you may also be glad and shout for joy when his glory is revealed” [1 Peter 4:13]. For Peter, who, of course, would “share” Christ’s suffering by becoming one of the early Christian martyrs himself, the issue wasn’t/isn’t so much one’s suffering as it is one’s reaction to it.
Peter knew the level of Christ’s suffering well since, of course, he had been one of its causes. Not only had his Lord suffered the spiritual anguish of being betrayed Judas, He had been denied by another, to-wit; Peter himself. Jesus had been abandoned by virtually all his “friends” on Golgotha. Of the Twelve, only John was present to see Christ die (as were a number of the women).
Jesus also had been made to suffer through the rejection of his ideals. Lest any of us forget, Jesus was crucified because He offered an alternative to the established church and the established civil world. He stood for — stands for — the dignity of the lives of those who are marginalized by and within civil society.
Having set up his suffering talk metaphorically as a “fiery ordeal” [1 Peter 5:12], Peter then purposefully moved on so as to mix his metaphors. Those within the early church [the so-called “modern” church] should discipline themselves and keep alert, since “[l]ike a roaring lion your adversary the devil prowls around, looking for someone to devour” [5:8b, emphasis added].
In our world, discipline often carries with it a negative meaning. For some it wreaks of militarism, of rules, of authority, and even oppression. And yet, does it not also form the basis for centering prayer? It’s at the core of a nightly reflective period shared by many of us who try (and often fail) to live faithfully — the Examen [ex St. Ignatius of Loyola (1491-1556)]. Ask me about it sometime. Discipline is the thread that ties together the Lectio Divina. It’s the sort of care and practice that allowed one of my grandmothers to teach Sunday school for 59 years, and that allowed the other to learn the Psalter, although she never learned to read.
Paul reminds us that discipline is waking up early every morning because there is something special that one is endeavoring to learn or do. Discipline is reading one’s Bible, praying, and, yes, in good time, gathering for worship. Discipline allows us to stand strong against any enemy — even the devil — in order that we might become a part of establishing God’s kingdom on earth.
Take heart, dear friends, for as our brother Peter assures us, even the fiery ordeal lasts but “for a little while.” Peter gives us a special blessing as well, “The God of all grace, who has called you to his eternal glory in Christ, will himself restore, support, strengthen, and establish you. To him be the power forever. Amen [1 Peter 5:10-11].
Indeed, Amen!
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