Sam Bush, “God’s Commencement Speech”
In 1913, a newly elected Democratic president Woodrow Wilson said that it would be the greatest irony if his presidency was shaped by foreign affairs because all of his preparation was in domestic matters. One year later, World War I began. Fast forward fifteen years to the 1928 Republican National Convention when Herbert Hoover declared that the country was “nearer to the final triumph over poverty than ever before in the history of any land.” One year later was the Great Crash, when most Americans could not even support a family.
This weekend, there will be countless speeches across the country telling college graduates that they can do anything they set their minds to and that they can change the world. It’s a wonderful thought – I just wish it was true – but the actual world does not often accord with the world we think we are going to shape. What big claims have you made that have been dismantled? Whether it’s your health or your love life or marriage or raising children or aging, things rarely go the way we think they will go.
Our reading from 1 Peter speaks directly to Christians whose plans have been dismantled. Before his ascension, Jesus had promised his followers that he would return. They’ve all been holding their breath and it’s been a couple of minutes (like 30 years). Some of the church’s members are starting to die. Meanwhile, the Roman authorities are pressing down on them. The water is rising. They’re wondering if they are going to make it.
And how does Peter encourage them? He says, “Beloved, do not be surprised at the fiery ordeal that is taking place among you, as though something strange were happening to you.” Of all the responses to the fiery ordeal of life, what is the one emotion Peter discourages? Not disappointment, not sadness, not grief, not anger, but surprise. According to Peter, being surprised at hardship suggests a false perception of reality.
This past Holy Week, each member of our family fell like dominoes to a ruthless stomach bug. Being the spiritual role model that I am, I spiraled into self-pity. “We can’t get sick now; I’m doing God’s work! (And I don’t know if you know this but Holy Week is the one week when I actually have to work!)” That’s when my wife, sipping some watered down Gatorade from behind a mountain of laundry, casually quipped three short words: “Welcome to life.” It was a very rude thing to say.
Today’s reading throws cold water on the illusion that life is either progressively improving or will ever permanently level out. Suffering is not a strange intruder; it has a permanent residency here on earth.
Suffering does not rob us of whatever security we had; it shows how little security we ever had to begin with. Writing in 1939 about WWII, C.S. Lewis said this: “The war creates no absolutely new situation: it simply aggravates the permanent human situation so that we can no longer ignore it. Human life has always been lived on the edge of a precipice.” Suffering and hardship simply remind us of that.
In truth, if we actually grasped the depth of human brokenness, we would not be shocked when a married couple separates, or when our neighbor cheats on his income taxes or when our coworker says something inappropriate. If we understood our mortality, we would not be surprised when a person dies. It’s a big “If” isn’t it? Because we are always surprised. But, to believe that life should go according to our plans is to believe the lie whispered by the serpent in the garden that we will not die and that we will be like God.
This is why Peter tells his readers, “Humble yourselves under the mighty hand of God.” He is warning us from any type of glorified destiny that we have in mind. Have you ever watched a period drama set in colonial times? People always use the phrase “God willing!” as if no one could ever speak confidently of the future. Our modern language does not allow us to say, “I’m so excited to go to that concert tomorrow, God willing I’m still alive by tomorrow!” This little phrase reminds us that we are not steering the ship but simply along for the ride. Everything hinges on the will of God.
As creatures, our role is to trust the Creator. Peter writes, “Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you.” Not only is he in charge, but He is completely unsurprised. In fact, the fire is somehow his tool to draw us toward Him. John the Baptist goes so far as to say Jesus baptizes us in the fire. Amidst your fiery ordeal, God promises not to save you from the fire, but to save you in the fire. Left to our own devices, you and I cannot take the heat. Our false hopes and grand illusions burn up in the flames. God, however, took the heat on our behalf, undergoing the most excruciating suffering imaginable, the word “excruciating” literally meaning “out of the cross.” Peter later says the one thing that has not burned up is God’s promise to restore, support, strengthen and establish you.
The theologian Frederick Buechner once described the dual nature of life as tragic and comic. The tragic, he says, is the inevitable. The diagnosis, maybe the divorce, the death and decay. The comic, however, is the unforeseeable. The new growth forrest after the fire, the forgiveness of sins, the laugh that comes in its wake. When your plans are thwarted, God does not laugh at your own expense, but at his expense in order to restore and establish you as his beloved child.
In the beloved novel by Leif Enger, Peace Like a River, there’s a story about a school janitor, Jeremiah Land, who is a man of God. After several people hear him praying charismatically in the school basement, he is accused of drinking on the job. During lunchtime, the superintendent enters the cafeteria. The superintendent is a cruel man, his face covered with scars and boils which would fester and get inflamed giving him a constant red complexion. He publicly ridicules and fires Land in front of the students, one of which is Land’s own son, Reuben. As his classmates are ushered out, Reuben walks toward his dad who, he says, “stood in rapt surprise facing the superintendent.” The boy Reuben says, “As I approached, Dad lifted his hand, sudden as a windshift, touched the superintendent’s face and pulled away. It was the oddest little slap you ever saw. The superintendent quailed back a step, hunching defensively, but Dad turned and walked off; and the man stood with his fingers strangely awonder over his chin, cheeks and forehead. Then I saw that his complexion – that face set always at a rolling boil – had changed. I saw instead skin of a healthy tan, a hale blush spread over cheekbones that suddenly held definition… With one touch, he had been healed. He didn’t know what to make of it; he looked horrified; he covered his face from view and slunk away.”
This is often how we respond to the surprise of grace. We don’t know what to make of it. It throws off our understanding of deservedness, of how we think things should go and how life should be. As the comedian Kyle Kinane says, “A miracle is the world letting you know it can still surprise you.” Between Good Friday and Easter morning and everything in between, God has enough tricks up his sleeve that one could easily take them for granted. But the gospel is a surprise that will get you every time.
So, to you, Class of 2026 (I’ve always wanted to give a commencement speech - never been asked!), I have a word far more hopeful and more powerful word than the false illusion that you can do anything you set your mind to and it’s this: God has already done everything and he has set his mind on you. And through his death and resurrection he has not only changed the world but saved the world so that you do not have to live in fear of the future or shame of the past. He is with you in the present. Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you
Amen.
