The Pain

Text: Romans 9:1-5
Theme: “M7: The Pain”
7th Sunday after Pentecost
July 31, 2011
First Presbyterian Church
Denton, Texas
Rev. Paul R. Dunklau

IN THE NAME OF JESUS

1 I speak the truth in Christ—I am not lying, my conscience confirms it through the Holy Spirit— 2 I have great sorrow and unceasing anguish in my heart. 3 For I could wish that I myself were cursed and cut off from Christ for the sake of my people, those of my own race, 4 the people of Israel. Theirs is the adoption to sonship; theirs the divine glory, the covenants, the receiving of the law, the temple worship and the promises. 5 Theirs are the patriarchs, and from them is traced the human ancestry of the Messiah, who is God over all, forever praised. Amen.

In the interest of ministerial openness, transparency, and full disclosure, the following announcement is made: I have a booboo; I have an ouchy. Have you ever had one of your fingers – more specifically, your fingertip and fingernail bed – caught between the proverbial rock and a hard place? Most of you probably have had the experience, and, believe me, it is not a pleasant experience, and I hope that the memory of the aforementioned experience isn’t all that you take out of this sermon this morning!

At any rate, it hurt when it happened. Fortunately, my dear wife was on hand to apply ice at precisely the right time to bring down any possible swelling. Yet, it looks as though the healing process will take awhile. In short, a new fingernail may have to grow in. When I press it a bit, it still hurts, but I’m convinced that, having had a similar booboo before, the pain will disappear over time.

Contrast this sort of located, physical pain to another kind of pain I’m about to describe. On my way in to church this morning, at about 6:30 AM, I got a call from Presbyterian Hospital. (It’s my week to serve as on-call/after-hours chaplain, so I wasn’t surprised at getting the call.) A patient was dying. I entered the room on a quiet corridor and introduced myself to people I’d never met at one of the worst moments in their lives. Yes, the patient was sick but family members had hoped their loved one would return home from the hospital. That wasn’t to be the case. The pain the family experienced on account of this news – the pain of impending separation -- was a mixture of confusion, anger, and grief. Offering these emotions to God, I prayed that a special measure of divine compassion and love be given to these people in a time of immense pain.

I suppose there are some who think that there’s only one thing to do with pain – in whatever variety it comes in: relieve it. And hey, I see the point. I’m a bit of a wimp when it comes to pain. But sometimes pain -- physical, mental, emotional, spiritual -- lingers. What then?

Singer/song-writer Mac McAnally envisions a time when there won’t be pain anymore. In a song entitled “Blame it On New Orleans” he writes: “There will come a day, I’d like to think, when War’s a song and a hurricane’s only a drink.”

But Mac McAnally knows, as do we all, that such a day isn’t here yet. There are wars; there are hurricanes. Painful realities remain that pester and poke and nip and nag and chip away at the fabric of our country, the health of our bodies, and the periphery of our souls.

Even some well-meaning churches, inadvertently I hope, respond to the reality of pain by offering an hour of spiritual escapism each week. Church becomes, for all intents and purposes, a kind of religious “happy hour”. I’ve never forgotten the story of the minister who stood up one Sunday morning, at the beginning of a worship service, and, with his Pepsodent smile, said: “Let’s all give each other a happy hug in the name of Jesus.” What the minister didn’t know, however, was that one his parishioners sitting in the back pew had just learned that her husband had only six months to live. Do you think she was in the mood for a happy, choreographed hug with a Pepsodent smile to boot?

I’m not suggesting that churches should be all about doom and gloom at all. I am, however, calling upon the church to be honest. The apostle Paul certainly was in our text for today.

Last week, we heard him declare, in one of the most powerful and joy-producing sections of Holy Scripture, that “nothing can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.” “I am convinced,” he wrote, “that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, no any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.” That’s powerful stuff, and, dare I say, it makes us feel good.

But, oh, what a difference a week makes. As he ended chapter eight on such a high note, he swings into chapter nine – the next set of verses – and completely switches gear. He writes: “I speak the truth in Christ – I am not lying, my conscience confirms it in the Holy Spirit – I have great sorrow and unceasing anguish in my heart.”

This comes from a man who was 100% convinced that nothing could separate him from the love of God. But this does not mean, as he makes abundantly clear, that there is not going to be some great sorrow and, indeed, unceasing anguish in life. And Paul has the nerve, the guts, the moxie, and the spiritual inspiration to explain it. Some of his own people – those from his own Jewish religious and ethnic background – did not receive, believe, and live the truth that Jesus Christ is the Messiah and Savior of the world. It pained him to realize that not everyone would respond to the Gospel as he had. He was so pumped up, so stoked, so on fire for the love of Jesus Christ that he could not understand why others wouldn’t have the same reaction. It tore his soul to shreds. They were among his people. He went so far as to say, “I wish that I myself were cursed and cut off from Christ for the sake of my brothers, those of my own race.” In short, his joy in knowing Jesus Christ was immense, powerful, and impressive. But his sorrow, his anguish, and his pain were also part of the mix and not to be discounted. He made no bones about it.

Folks, that is gut-level honesty; this is as real as it gets. This is not doom and gloom and “Oh, poor pitiful me.” But neither is it cotton candy, pie-in-the-sky, Pepsodent smile spirituality. This is reality expressed vividly by the apostle Paul.

This acknowledgment of sheer joy in God that is coupled and linked with the acknowledgement of sorrow, pain, and anguish, gives to the church – and, therefore, to the church’s mission – a priceless gift: 20/20 vision! It gives clarity to faith, purpose to life, grounding in reality, and a readiness to meet anything and everything that comes our way. It gives our mission its force!

Amen.