The Foolish Wisdom of the Cross of Christ

Stories of survival have long captivated our imaginations and conjured up our inner fears of not knowing how we might fare if lost out in the wilderness, left alone and injured, washed out to sea by a rip tide, or thrown overboard having to clutch onto the side of a boat for hours and even days. There are entire shows on television that teach viewers how to make do and survive out in the wild: informing us what to eat, how to find shelter, how to conserve energy and body heat and the best way to signal for help.

Just a few weeks ago two current NFL football players and their two friends set off for a typical day of fishing out in the Gulf of Mexico off of Clearwater, Florida. At first, the waters were calm and the men were enjoying the day. But then a storm rolled in and the waves and winds picked up and a 15-foot wave flipped the anchored fishing boat and the four were thrown into the sea. Nick Schuyler, the lone survivor, clung to the capsized boat for two days in open water waiting to be rescued. He told the Coast Guard that a helicopter shined its lights in their direction on the very first night, but to no avail. The other men, it was reported, could not hang on through the long hours as the waves battered the boat through the storm. As hours passed, the men were separated from the capsized boat and each other: three of the men drifted off. Two days later the search was called off and the men were presumed to have died at sea.

Stories of survival and loss are well known to us. One of my formative memories growing up was the death of my best friend’s father and brother during a sail boat race on Lake Erie. The shallowest of the five Great Lakes, Lake Erie is known for its sudden storms and ferocious waves. The waves and winds forever changed the life of my friend, and devastated an entire community.

The apostle Paul also experienced his own dangerous winter voyage and storm at sea as a prisoner sent to Rome to plead his case before the Emperor. In Acts 27&28 – in great detail -- the writer of Luke’s gospel tells the harrowing tale of the ship that carried Paul and 275 others. We can read how: “we were being pounded by the storm so violently that on the next day they began to throw cargo overboard. When neither sun nor stars appeared, and no small tempest raged, all hope of being saved was at last abandoned.” (Acts. 27: 18-20). Paul spoke with a reassuring voice and said what Jesus would tell his followers: “do not be afraid.” (v. 24) The ship would break apart on a reef off of Malta and Paul barely escaped being killed with the other prisoners by the crew.

When people are fighting for their survival, hanging on for dear life, and looking for help and rescue, it is vital for onlookers to know how they can best help. If a person falls through a hole in the ice, you throw them a rope to pull themselves up. If someone is caught on the second floor of a burning house, you find a ladder and break through the upstairs windows. If someone is drowning, you either jump in to save them or throw a life preserver.

In the passage we read today, the apostle Paul tells the church gathered in Corinth centuries ago about how God chose to rescue those who were perishing and struggling in stormy waters for their survival. He wrote: “For the message about the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God.”(1 Corinthians 1:18) One gets the sense right away that Paul realizes the central contradiction and disconnect of the cross. Instead of tossing a life preserver over board, God seems to be throwing an anchor instead. Paul understands how the cross might not appear to non-believers as a sign of hope and new life. Nevertheless he forcibly makes his case: “But we proclaim Christ crucified a stumbling block to Jews and foolishness to Gentiles.” (v.23) This symbol of Roman occupation and public torture and death that had to send chills down the spines of onlookers, was now becoming the most unlikely symbol for a God of power and might to overcome death.

The cross today is not a primarily seen as a symbol of shame and scandal. It is the ubiquitous symbol of the Christian faith: it hangs on the walls of churches and hospital rooms, a red cross is painted on the side of ambulances racing through battlefields – it is worn around the necks of monks and fashion models and large wood crosses dot the landscape of rural America.

Each Wednesday evening in Lent, a few of us gather in this sacred space, and we walk the way of the cross. We stop at each of the 14 Stations of the Cross that hang on the inner walls. We recall how on his final walk to Golgotha – the Place of the Skull – Jesus struggled under the weight of the cross. How he encountered people along the way: his mother, a woman who wiped his face, Simon of Cyrene was pulled in to carry the cross when Jesus could no longer do so. And who cannot notice that Jesus falls three times along the way. Each time he gets up and continues. It is an aching and haunting journey along which we are invited to walk and pray.

The cross may not be to us today a stumbling block or foolishness, but life as we know and live it is filled with obstacles and more than enough foolishness.
Certainly with all of the economic upheaval of the last year, at the very least what I hope is that we have all learned a few valuable lessons. Lessons like: if it sounds too good to be true -- the claim in the infomercial or the spam email, or the house purchase with no money down, or that we can earn a fortune by sitting back and investing and doing nothing, that the values of things will always go up and up and will never go down – if it all sounds too good to be true maybe it isn’t true. Maybe it’s a lie. We have painfully seen the world’s foolishness packaged and bought by too many as gospel.

Consider also where and how we often stumble.
One of those recurring faith stumbling blocks is how some pick an artificial issue and turn it into the proverbial line in the sand over which some will not walk.
In the class I am teaching now about the Episcopal Church, we talked about how the great controversy in the late 1800’s was whether we should have lighted candles on the altar. Seriously. Deputies traveled to General Convention and fought pitched theological and rhetorical battles over candles. And then it was the new prayer book in the 1970’s. Or woman’s ordination. Or the full inclusion of gays and lesbians in the sacramental life of the church. At each turn, our church had faithful people say: I cannot go any further with you and must walk apart.

Those who come to a church looking for certainty in times of change and instability will be disappointed. Those who turn to the Gospel and expect it always to endorse their political and cultural views will be frustrated. The only certainty we can ever speak about is God’s love. The only position we can endorse is one that leads to death and resurrection.

We cannot promise that church practices and positions will never change or offend, or that the people who attend church will not act in hurtful or irresponsible ways, or that the clergy will not at a given time make fools out of ourselves or fail to meet the expectations of those we serve. It happens.

Let me offer an example of the most harmful disconnect. Just last week as we blessed new prayer books and hymnals, after the service I was handed a worn LEVAS hymnal with a racist rant written in blue ink on the back cover. I will not repeat what it said. Sadly, it is not the first time I have been handed a defaced worship book. My first instinct was to blame to nameless visitor to the Cathedral. That was safer. It seemed to protect us somehow. Then I thought: I cannot know that for sure. Whoever wrote those hateful words – perhaps years ago and maybe even last week -- on a hymnal meant to sing praises of God, has turned to their faith and entered this church for the wrong reason: Christ will never sanction their version of racial dominance and discrimination and will never excuse their racism born out of ignorance and fear.
The good news of the gospel that Paul was communicating to the church in Corinth and to us is this: It is o.k. to be weak at times, to say that you don’t have all the answers, to admit that you are frightened about the future and have almost given up hope, that you are angry with the lot you have been given and the bad fortune and wrong decisions that have come home to roost. The cross is strong enough to come to with our weakness and doubt and fear.

Paul reminds us that we don’t have to born of privilege, attend top schools, or be handed every lucky break in life, because that is not how power is ultimately measured. We will not be saved by our connections or our abilities.

God does not care where we were born, our ancestry, our politics, our I.Q., or with whom we fall in love and share a life. What God does care about is that each us understands why the cross was necessary and that the message of the cross is not of failure or weakness or shame or death. It is an eternal statement of God’s power, strength, love and life.