Long ago, in the country that we now call China, there was a farmer who lived near the border, close to the kingdom of the northern barbarians. This farmer was not especially wealthy, but he had two things that he prized beyond all else. He had a son, and he had a horse. The son was his pride – a strong and beautiful young man. The horse too was impressive – sleek and majestic stallion who carried himself with power and dignity.
All of the neighbors were envious.
“What a lucky man!” they said. “Have you ever seen such a noble creature?”
The farmer also admired the horse, but he was not so sure about his good fortune.
“Who knows?” He said.
Sure enough, one day the horse wandered off. The farmer dared not pursue it, because if he ended up across the border in the land of barbarians, his life would be in terrible danger.
The people felt sorry for the farmer. “What bad luck!” they said.
But the farmer said: “Who knows?”
**
Like most positions of leadership, there are some tricky things about being a Christian minister. I am responsible to all of you – the people of my church. You folks are my boss.
That can be tricky.
Actually, I count myself quite fortunate to be a pastor in this church, with all of you. The level of drama around here is pretty manageable. Of course I better be careful what I say. We are only human, you and I… and human nature is unpredictable. Things can be going smoothly, and then…
As the old farmer was fond of saying…
who knows?
This question “who knows?” is another way of admitting that “I don’t know.”
Someone might know…
But “I don’t”
It would be one thing if we were talking about not knowing if we wanted a jelly donut or a slice of key lime pie…
In that case “who knows” wouldn’t be that big a deal…
but usually the question “who knows?” is more unsettling than that. This is because when we ask this question, we are usually admitting that what we don’t know about is the
future.
The future could go this way… or it could go that way…
And, as we all know – the future could be great… or… it could go very wrong.
Now when we ask this question… when we, as people of faith, ask “who knows?” we have a ready answer, don’t we …
Our answer, of course, is God knows.
God knows.
But saying God knows, is, arguably, almost as bad as saying “who knows.”
God may know, but does God let us know?
This is not at all clear.
And this lack of clarity is really what makes my job difficult.
**
A few days later, the horse returned.
Well that was good!
And that’s not all. The horse was not alone! It brought another horse with it! A beautiful mare. This horse was also a majestic creature!
The people said: “Amazing! What good luck!”
But the farmer said: “Who knows?”
Remember the farmer’s son? He was excited by the appearance of the new horse! Young and cocky, the son jumped on the back of the mare. But as well as being beautiful, the mare was also wild, and she threw the boy. His leg was badly broken.
The people said: “Oh no! What awful luck!”
But the farmer said: “Who knows?”
**
“Who knows?” is not the only question, is it?
We might be tempted to ask why the horse wandered off in the first place?
Was it just because he was being a horse? Or was it for some larger reason?
Some larger reason?
As people of faith, it is natural for us to wonder if, maybe, there is some kind of intention behind the events that take place in our lives.
That is, if we believe that God has a hand in telling our stories.
If, for example, we imagine that the horse wandered away in order to bring the wild mare home with him – are we to conclude, then, that the whole thing was a plan – a plan that would lead, eventually to the boy breaking his leg?
In other words… was the broken leg something that was destined to take place? Were both horses just unwitting actors in a larger divine drama?
The boy will have the rest of his life to replay these sad events of his youth. There will almost certainly be nights when he lies awake, plagued with a dull ache in his withered leg, and ask himself:
“What did I do to deserve this?”
What a terrible price to pay for such a momentary blunder – such an understandable impulse to seize the vigor of his youth.
When events pan out this way, we rebel against them. It’s just not fair. It feels woefully inadequate to blame a lifetime of suffering on one moment of youthful impulsiveness.
If God did this – if it was divine intention – then we can understand why so many people lose their faith.
“It’s true that I was young and stupid… but did I deserve to live the rest of my life crippled and in pain?
**
These are the kind of questions that trouble me, as a pastor.
When I am on the way to visit someone in the hospital these are the questions that fill me with uncertainty.
How will I respond to the questions that cannot be answered?
Why am I suffering?
This is not a medical question…
It is a spiritual question.
Job’s question:
“Why is God doing this to me?”
What kind of answers can I offer?
It is easy to believe in God when God brings goodness and beauty into our lives.
But how do we talk about God when we are in pain?
It is useless, even hurtful, to deny the reality of a person’s suffering.
We must accept that suffering is as much a part of human life as love is.
In fact, the two are often entwined with each other.
I was moved to think about these difficult truths when, earlier in the week, I encountered the two passages that Rikki just read for us.
The passages themselves are about as different as you can get…
If, on my way to a hospital visit, I modelled my visit after the passage from first Peter, I would be able to tell the sick person that,
having come to Jesus, they are honored and precious in God’s sight. As a believer, the person is part of a community of people chosen by God to “proclaim the mighty acts of him who called you out of darkness into his marvelous light.” Like the writer of this epistle, I could quote from the prophet Isaiah, reassuring them that Jesus is the cornerstone – the solid foundation – of their faith.
I could say, as Peter says, that “you were not a people, but now you are God’s people; once you had not received mercy, but now you have received mercy.”
There is a great certainty to these words. This is not coincidental. The writer of First Peter is thought to have been writing to the faithful during the reign of the Domitian (AD 81–96) a Roman Emperor who claimed to be divine himself, and persecuted those who resisted this idea.
So, during a time of persecution, the writer of this Epistle responded to uncertainty, with certainty.
He sought to strengthen the sense of community, by emphasizing the people’s shared belief in Christ.
That said, while Peter’s epistle is confident that followers of Christ will “receive mercy” he cannot promise that they will never suffer.
As he concluded the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus himself foretold the trials and hardships that his followers would experience:
Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake,
For theirs is the kingdom of heaven. (Matt. 5:10)
The stark reality of this “persecution for righteousness’ sake”, is illustrated by today’s second reading from the book of Acts – a rather matter-of-fact account of Stephen’s horrific martyrdom.
The Bible contains both of these passages – one that seems to say, “don’t worry as long as you accept Jesus you will be honored by God”; and one that states, without a care for our feelings, that we must be prepared to die a violent death for the sake of our faith.
Faith saves us, and faith kills us.
**
The story of the farmer is not over.
When the boy’s leg was badly broken, the people provided their predictable choral response, officially deeming this a piece of bad luck.
But once again, the Farmer said “Who knows.”
This, of course, is what the farmer has said all along. It is the wisdom of this story, these two words, this reserving of judgment.
He might have used two other words. He might have said: “We’ll see.”
A year passed. The boy did not die as a result of the fall, but neither did he fully heal. The young man, who had been so proud and strong, was now a shadow of himself, now and then seen around the village, walking with the gate of an old man.
What bad luck!
And then, out of the blue, the Barbarians invaded the country. In response, all the young men in the area were conscripted into an army, and sent forth to defend the border.
A generation of young men were killed in battle.
But not the farmer’s son.
Since he was lame, he had been passed over.
The Chinese folktale ends here, on an upswing. But the nature of the tale sets us up for an overall sense of the ambiguity of events. Good luck brings bad luck. Bad luck brings good luck.
The story ends here, but it doesn’t necessarily end here. This final piece of good luck, after all, grants the boy his life, but he must still hobble through it.
Who knows?
He may rejoice in being saved.
Or he may regret not being able to defend his country.
An interesting thing about the Chinese folktale about the farmer, his son, and the horse, offers us a truth that we recognize in our own lives. It is often, only after the fact, that we recognize the ways that the events in our lives can truly be understood.
A friend who rejected you.
A house that you wanted to buy but got snatched out from under you.
A job you wanted, but didn’t get.
A flight that you missed.
Events that were painful to you in the moment could end up, in hindsight, being the best thing that could have happened.
And of course, the reverse is also true.
But while this is undoubtedly true, did you notice how completely passive the farmer’s wisdom remains throughout?
He does not do anything, other than accept what has happened.
There is certainly wisdom in his reaction.
But it is distinctly different from what has been presented to us in Peter’s First Epistle, and the Book of Acts.
In these cases also, the people are faced with the reality of pain and persecution.
But they act.
They choose a course of action.
Is this what it means to be a person of faith? That you make a choice? That, in the face of adversity, you act?
How do we respond to the terrible ambiguity of human fate? Certainly, we must find a way to accept it…
But is it enough to be wise?
Or does wisdom call you to do something?
Is the question: “Who knows?”
Or is the question: “What should I do?”
If you recall, our mutual friend Jesus had an answer to this question. He too, told us a story – the story of someone who helped a man who was dying on the side of the road.
That story did not end with “who knows?”
Whether it brings you good luck, or bad luck, our faith calls us to do more than accept what happens to us.
That story ended with:
“Go and do likewise.”
Amen.