For God’s Glory?

I am finding myself troubled by an assertion about God’s purposes in last Sunday’s lectionary Gospel that is repeated, and even intensified, in the Gospel for this coming Sunday. Since this seems to be central to Jesus’ understanding of the glory of God, I am also troubled about my troubled response.

In John 9:2-3 the disciples asked Jesus who sinned that a man was born blind. Jesus answered that no one sinned but he was born blind so that God’s works might be revealed. “Reformed” as my theology is, I have a hard time accepting that God’s sovereignty specifically designated this man to be born blind (and his parents to have that anguish). My theology suggests that such tragedies come with human brokenness which God is redemptively healing. I easily accept Jesus acting in that way when he heals the man. Yet, the wording of the text seems to indicate purposefulness in the man being born blind. What troubles me is considering the apparent cruelty of inflicting this on that man (and his parents) for who knows how many years, just so Jesus can heal him.

My concern is heightened in the story of the raising of Lazarus where Jesus specifically said that Lazarus’ fatal illness was for God’s glory (John 11:4). John seems to have recognized this problem to some extent when he reported that though Jesus loved Martha and Mary, he purposely delayed going to Bethany (vv. 5-6). When explaining to his disciples, Jesus told them he was glad he was not there, so the disciples could believe (v. 15). Both Martha and Mary seemed to be hurt by Jesus’ delay as they each say, “Lord, if you had been here my brother would not have died” (vv. 21, 32). That John made note of this so closely together in his Gospel (which we get two Sundays apart when following the lectionary) suggests to me that he was aware of the tension between God’s glory and God’s (and Jesus’) compassion.

I am very aware of the standard explanations for this difficulty. First, that when the blind man was healed and Lazarus raised, the previous anguish faded in the joy of the healing and raising. Second, there is the amazement of having been a channel of God's glory. Third, and perhaps both more significant and more troubling, is that God’s glory is of such greater magnitude than human suffering, that struggling with this betrays an inadequate appreciation of God’s glory. I will own up to this, if I am also allowed to wrestle with the incongruous anguish of juxtaposing God’s glory and human suffering.

I don’t want to compare my personal difficulties, or those of my family and friends, or those of people in the congregations I have served specifically with the man born blind and the death of Lazarus. However, I would have to say that I have experienced and accompanied others through these sorts of very human pains. As a pastor and spiritual director, I often ask myself and those who are struggling were or how they recognize God at work, especially when the desired and prayed for outcome does not materialize. Cliché answers do not satisfy, true though they may be (strength to endure, compassionate companions on the way, preparation to minister to others). At some point we recognize that in Jesus, God is with us in the dark night of the soul. In the NIV, Psalm 88:18 ends with “darkness is my only friend.” And Psalm 139 affirms that though I make my bed in Sheol (shadowy place of the dead in ancient Hebrew thinking), God is there (v. 8), and even when the darkness covers me, the darkness is not dark to God (vv. 11-12). The lectionary Psalm for this coming Sunday is 130, which invites us to cry to God out of the depths, and encourages us to wait for the Lord.

I come to no conclusion here, nor do I make some sort of pastoral resolution. Rather, I take this reflection as God’s invitation to wrestle and question in painful darkness. I love the Giotto painting of the raising of Lazarus for its expressiveness. Several people are covering their noses from the stench of Lazarus’ decay, and Lazarus seems to be quite surprised to be there smelling his own rot too.