I like the story of the boy who came to his father and asked, “Dad, who made God?” The father, engrossed in reading the news on his phone, responded, “Beats me, son.” The little boy would not be put off. “Dad, why is the earth round?” The dad answered, “I don’t know, son.” The boy played for a minute, then asked, “Dad, is there life on other planets?” The father patiently answered, “Nobody knows the answer to that.” Finally, the boy asked his father, “Dad, do you mind me asking you all these questions?” The father put down his paper. “Why, not at all, son,” he said, “How else are you going to learn?”

The story is funny. And questions are an important part of life, in order to glean knowledge and wisdom. But it is also true that part of what we have to learn is that there are questions to which there are no answers.

“Why did she get sick?”

“I’m a good person, how did this happen to me?”

“What does all this mean?”

As we journey through life we are confronted with limits to what we can know. We come face to face with deep mystery. In the presence of such unanswered questions, we have a choice about how we face them, how we move forward. We can become angry, or cynical, or bitter. Or we can allow mystery to become holy ground.

You and I both know that the Christian faith is not a tidy system that answers every “why.” It is a relationship with the living God revealed in Jesus. And that means we do not worship certainty — we worship the One who holds us when certainty collapses.

There are things we cannot know: why illness comes, why suffering strikes unevenly, why some prayers seem unanswered. But we do know this: in Christ, God has entered our suffering. The cross tells us that God is not indifferent to our pain.

The father in the story was right in one sense: questions are how we learn. But sometimes what we learn is not an answer. Sometimes what we learn is how to lean. And in the leaning — in the praying, in the waiting, in the refusing to let go — we discover that the God we cannot fully explain is the very God who refuses to let us go.

Let us pray: Eternal God, You are holy, and You are a mystery. And yet, You are loving and as near as our next breath. Guard our hearts from bitterness, and grant us the faith and the courage we need to face the hour — trusting that you are with us even now. Amen.

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Today’s message was written by my friend Rev. Roger Kunkel, founder of Dial Hope.

One of the greatest truths of the Bible is… We — you and I — are made in the image of God. Talk about a miracle! God made cats and dogs, hummingbirds, red cardinals, squirrels, elephants, giraffes, pelicans, dolphins, and the duck-billed platypus. God made the trees, the flowers, and the skies. God made all of it and said, “That’s good! Now, that’s good!” And to cap it all off, God said, “Now, for the masterpiece: I am going to create something like myself!” And God made you! You see, it is a sin for us to say, “Well, I’m only human.” If you want to see one of God’s miracles, don’t gather pine cones, don’t look at the Milky Way, don’t capture a squirrel, don’t find a picture of a trout stream, just look at the person next to you. There is God’s miracle! There is the crown of God’s creation!

Let us pray: Creator God, we marvel at your small wonders and your overarching grandeur. We crouch down to examine a centipede and we stand on a mountaintop to try to take in the Milky Way. We listen to the tiny cry of a newborn kitten and we cringe in the face of the roar of the thunderstorm. We are small indeed in the scheme of the universe, but we are grateful that you have made us in your image. When we are weary, give us energy. When we are sad, give us comfort. For all those who are suffering loss, who wonder what will happen next, we pray that you will walk before them and enable us to be companions along the way. Now “raise us up on eagle’s wings, bear us on the breath of dawn, make us to shine like the sun, and hold us in the palm of your hand.” (On Eagle’s Wings, based on Psalm 91). We ask this in Jesus’ name, the friend of all.

Amen.

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A while back, I was trying to write a sermon on joy. However, in the back of my mind was the conflict in the Ukraine and, closer to home, a recent school shooting. That week, it was very hard to feel joyful. I found myself wondering: How can I talk about joy in times like these? 

The truth is, however, Christians have always spoken about joy even in times of intense sorrow or loss. In lived experience, joy does not come from escaping suffering or hardship. It often comes unexpectedly as a gift, even in the midst of it.

Barbara Brown Taylor describes the experience of joy as “almost irreverent.” She writes, “Joy has never had very much to do with what is going on in the world at the time. This is what makes it different from happiness, pleasure, or fun. All those depend on positive conditions… The only condition for joy is the presence of God… which means that it can erupt in a depressed economy, in the middle of a war, or in an intensive care waiting room…”

A few years ago, I received an email from my friend Charley Landreth, who had a stroke and lost much of his ability to speak. We hadn’t seen each other in a while, and he wrote this: I am happy, feel fine, and receive excellent care. I still have difficulty speaking… However, (and he put this all in caps) I AM FILLED WITH JOY! 

Those who know Charley, know it’s true…

Paul wrote from prison: Rejoice in the Lord always! Again, I say rejoice! On his way to the cross, Jesus said, “I have told you all of this so that my joy would be in you and that your joy would be complete. 

My prayer for you today is that you would keep an open heart. Pay attention to the blessings around you, gifts even in amid the darkness.

Let us pray: We thank you, O God, for inviting us to find joy in daily living. We remember that there are other invitations out there - invitations that can take away our joy. There is the invitation to be constantly productive, the invitation to be constantly entertained. There is the invitation to cynicism, to bitterness, the invitation to give into our fears or to allow our grief or pain more time than it deserves. We don’t want to answer those invitations, just yours. Despite our outward circumstances, we turn to you again this day, asking you to fill us with joy. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.

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Author Robert Fulghum once wrote about a time when he was in Greece, and he heard a lecture by philosopher and politician Alexander Papaderos. At the end of the talk, Papaderos asked the audience if there were any questions. Fulghum raised his hand. “Yes,” he replied. “What is the meaning of life?” You can imagine the groans. But Papaderos had an answer. Fulghum writes:

“Taking out his wallet, he brought out a round mirror about the size of a quarter… and said, ‘When I was a child, we were very poor. One day, I found a broken piece of a mirror on the road. I tried to find all the pieces and put them together, but that was impossible, so I kept the largest piece. I began to play with it as a toy and became fascinated that I could reflect light into dark places… It became a game for me to get the light into the most inaccessible places I could find.

“‘As I was growing up, I would take the piece of mirror out in idle moments and continue the challenge of the game. As I became a man, I grew to understand that this was not just a child’s game, but a metaphor for what I might do with my life. I came to understand that I am not the light or the source of the light. But light – (that is) truth, understanding, knowledge is there – and will only shine in dark places if I reflect it. I am a fragment of a mirror whose whole design and shape I do not know. Nevertheless, with what I have, I can reflect light into the dark places of this world, and perhaps others may see and do likewise. This is what I am about. This is the meaning of life.”

Reflecting on this, I’m reminded that the world around us is desperately in need of that light and love. I found Papaderos’ answer quite compelling and quite beautiful. 

Let us pray: Loving God, in Jesus you came as the light of the world. Shine your healing light upon us. Teach us to receive so we too might shine. Amen. 

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Many years ago, a Korean pastor in our Presbytery approached me about the possibility of his new church development sharing space within the church I was serving. He further broached the idea of shared ministry, shared worship, and potentially even a shared leadership board. Initially, my thoughts were a little territorial. We need that space! And then I focused on logistics: How would that ever work? Culturally, we are so different. Language barriers… 

As we were talking this over, I raised my concerns. In response, he asked me, “Joe, what do you imagine the kingdom of God looks like?”  

“Well, in theory…,” I started. 

“No. In the Bible, they will come from east and west. They will come from north and south. There will be people from every nation, speaking every language, from every race…”

“Is that just in heaven?” 

“Thy Kingdom come. Thy will be done. On earth, as it is in heaven.”

Oh. That’s true, isn’t it?

I wonder what you think about when you think about the Kingdom of God. I wonder what glimpses you have seen throughout your life. I wonder when you have noticed the in-breaking of God’s reign here on earth. And then I wonder, how you respond…

Let us pray: Holy God, draw us closer. Renew us and heal us. And then grant us eyes to see, and hearts to follow. We ask in Jesus’ name. Amen. 

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