Rev. Eric Anderson Sermons, Uncategorized

Sermon: Suffering and Rejoicing

May 17, 2026

1 Peter 4:12-14, 5:6-11
John 17:1-11

Suffering is one of the great questions confronting religion – any religion. Christianity, it must be said, doesn’t have as close a focus on it as other faiths. Christianity has much clearer answers to the questions of sin – we are forgiven through Jesus Christ – and death – we are promised resurrection in Jesus Christ. Buddhism, in contrast, concentrates on suffering and offers a pathway out of Samsara, the loop of lives in which people suffer.

It isn’t our prioritized concern, but Christians experience suffering and they think about it. “Suffering is a major theme in 1 Peter,” writes Jennifer Kaalund at Working Preacher. “The word is mentioned twelve times in this short letter. This repetition makes it clear that the audience is experiencing difficult circumstances. And yet the writer wants to remind them that they are not alone in their suffering.”

Nobody is alone in suffering, you know. Suffering is one of the shared experiences of the human condition. We don’t suffer all the time, thank God. But we all know what it is from experiences of hunger and thirst, injury and illness, failure and disappointment, pain and fear, loss and grief.

The easiest way to understand suffering is that if you’re suffering, you’ve done something to bring it on. It’s easiest because, let’s face it, it’s so often true. My parents used to tell a story about a camping trip we took when I was quite young, maybe two or three years old. My mother had been cooking on a camp stove in a cast iron frying pan, and little me walked over and grasped the hot handle. I don’t remember anything about this, but apparently they had to get me to a doctor, which was awkward because we were on an island without one.

You know and I know that we’ve done comparable things with rather more knowledge of the consequences than little Eric not understanding about hot frying pans. We’ve known something was hot. We’ve known it was going to hurt – sometimes hurt more people than us – and for whatever reasons we came up with at the time, we reached out and grasped the handle.

We saw lots of examples of this during the pandemic, people disregarding precautions, avoiding vaccines, even courting illness with dreadful consequences. A number of folks noted, aghast, that we are going to have to retire the phrase “avoid it like the plague” because, it seems, fewer people than you’d think actively avoid the plague.

Often enough, however, the easy explanation that somebody suffers because they did something to deserve it is plain wrong. Illness, including pandemic-borne illness, happens. It just happens. It doesn’t need any human intervention, knowing or unknowing, to make people sick. I see a dermatologist twice a year because my skin is vulnerable to sunlight. What did I do to create that condition? I was born. That’s it. No further intervention was necessary. I’m not going to change it with exercise, diet, or medication. I can decrease the risk of skin illness, but I can’t change the basic vulnerability.

Random suffering isn’t satisfying. It can’t be. People like life to have meaning, and when suffering becomes part of life, it should be meaningful. The simple truth is that sometimes it isn’t. It’s just suffering.

Early Christianity had to deal with a further example of suffering, and that was the crucifixion of Jesus himself. It could not be explained that he had deserved it – that wouldn’t work. And it could not be called simply random. Jesus himself had said it was meaningful, even necessary to his work. As time went on, other early Christian leaders also began suffering, frequently, as Jesus had, at the hands of the authorities. That wasn’t how things were supposed to work in a properly ordered world.

The world, clearly, was not properly ordered.

Dr. Kaalund writes, “[Jesus’] crucifixion was the result of an attempt to transform oppressive systems, to assert the importance of the lives of marginalized people, indeed, to challenge a worldview that suffering of the many was necessary for the pleasure of a few… We share in Christ’s suffering when justice is denied, when righteousness is not realized, and when the conditions for peace are elusive. So the author of the letter reminds the audience that they should not be surprised when they are standing for righteousness, fighting for justice, and are pursuing peace that they are met with obstacles and challenges. Jesus, too, was challenged in this pursuit.”

Dr. Kaalund illustrates two more sources of suffering. The first comes from the deliberate actions of other people. Some of these people harm others from outside the law – we call them criminals, and we have an entire structure of codes, enforcement officers, and processes to determine responsibility and to deal with their actions. Their actions bring a lot of suffering.

Some of the people bringing suffering, however, operate inside the law. Those were the people inflicting the “fiery trial” on the original readers of this letter. They were magistrates, city councilors, governors, possibly even the Emperor himself if First Peter was written during the reign of Domitian. Undeserved suffering has been inflicted by governments countless times over the centuries, and it has probably done vastly more harm than the operations of criminals, because they’ve got a lot more resources to do it with. Remember that Jesus’ crucifixion was legal. Peter and Paul’s executions were legal. Martyr after martyr died with the full assent of the law.

Slavery was legal. Keeping women from voting was legal. The death penalty for gay and lesbian people is legal in seven UN member nations. The Holocaust was legal. The family separations of the first Trump administration were, as far as the courts have weighed in, legal. And the chaotic sweeps that have brought so much suffering to American cities have been, with some contested exceptions, legal. Legal, and by inflicting so much suffering, horribly wrong.

First Peter raises a further source of suffering: suffering as the result of doing what is good, and right, and true. That was the experience of those enduring the “fiery trial.” They were trying to follow the ways of Jesus, and like Jesus, they were suffering. As Valerie Nicolet writes at Working Preacher, “1 Peter reminds us that what is at stake in the sufferings of Christ-believers is not so much what they believed but what they did. Because they believed that Christ was Lord, and not Caesar, they strived to establish communities marked by love and solidarity rather than by hierarchy and a system of patronage and debt.”

First Peter invites us to rejoice in our sufferings, some of the most bizarre advice given us in religious literature. He could do this because so much of the suffering his readers experienced was of that last kind, related not to their mistakes or random chance or prejudice but to their own diligence in following Christ. Suffering can be an affirmation that one is doing the right thing, and that is a source of rejoicing.

But as Jimmy Hoke writes at Working Preacher, “Exceptionalized suffering lacks solidarity with all who suffer… A critical approach to this passage in light of Christianity’s power to inflict systemic suffering demands rethinking whose suffering counts. Instead of moralizing what and whose suffering counts, this requires asking what it means to roar with solidarity for all who suffer.”

Can we come to aid those who suffer randomly, or worse yet, for their own actions? Of course we can. My parents swooped me off to a doctor when I grasped that hot pan. It’s what we do for children. There’s no reason not to do it for adults.

But what about rejoicing? Do we rejoice within our sufferings if they’re random, or self-inflicted, or more related to something we can’t control about ourselves than actual virtue?

We can, I think, rejoice within our suffering if not because of our suffering, because we are never alone in our suffering. We are all beneath the mighty hand of God, or as the old song puts it, God’s got the whole world in his hand.

We don’t rejoice because it hurts. We rejoice because we have God with us. We rejoice because we have more strength, more confidence, more commitment, than we would have otherwise.

And we rejoice because we know that though our road has led to suffering, it leads beyond it to a better and brighter day. “…The God of all grace, who has called you to his eternal glory in Christ, will himself restore, support, strengthen, and establish you.”

It’s a hope and a promise in which to rejoice.

Amen.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Sermon

Pastor Eric prepares a full text for his sermons, but he does make changes while preaching. The sermon as written and the sermon as presented are not identical.

The image is a carving of the mask of tragedy by Carl Milles in Stockholm, Sweden. Photo by Holger.Ellgaard – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=4326478.

Rev. Eric Anderson What I'm Thinking

What I’m Thinking: Never Too Late

Jesus arrived after Lazarus had died. It’s a hard moment – Jesus shared the grief – but it turned out that he was not too late, because he was and is the resurrection and the life.

Here’s a transcript:

I’m thinking about the eleventh chapter of John’s Gospel (John 11:1-45), the resurrection of Lazarus.

It is a wonderful and uplifting story. It demonstrates that the power of Jesus was not limited to day-to-day life, but extended beyond life and was, in fact, a power over death. It features perhaps the deepest of Jesus’ “I am” statements: “I am the resurrection and the life.” It offers and reassures the promise of eternal life and resurrection for us all. It’s a marvelous story.

It also contains some truly troubling elements. It is this event that persuaded some of the leadership to seek an occasion where they could arrest Jesus and have him executed. That’s a harsh element of the story.

It is also a story that is marked with grief: the grief of Lazarus’ sisters Martha and Mary. Each of them expressed their faith in Jesus, but each of them also say something along the lines of, “If you had been here, my brother would not have died.” Onlookers say the same thing. If Jesus had been there in time — and John made clear Jesus might have been there in time — Lazarus would not have died.

What explanation we’re given, and it’s not much, is that Jesus saw this as an opportunity to demonstrate his power over death, to demonstrate that he had authority even beyond the veil. It’s not a satisfying explanation. I don’t think it even satisfied Jesus, who stood outside the tomb of Lazarus and wept.

What are we to say? I think we are to take our lead from Jesus’ own tears. We are the followers of one, we are the worshipers of a God, who knows our grief, who has shared our sense of loss. We believe in a God, we trust in a God, who knows how we have felt, who has felt what we have felt.

And whatever we might think or feel about the timing of Jesus’ arrival, it has to be said that for Jesus it was not too late. Yes, he might have prevented Lazarus from dying, and yes, there was some grieving that happened, and grief he participated in, but there was no such thing as being too late for Jesus. Illness was no barrier to him, death itself no barrier to him. There is no such thing as too late for Jesus in our lives.

And there is that marvelous “I am” statement. “I am the resurrection and the life.”

We trust in One who is not the agent of death, we trust in One who is not the agent of suffering, we trust in One who is the agent of life and renewed life.

“I am the resurrection and the life.” And this is the one in whom we trust. This is the one we follow.

That’s what I am thinking. I’m curious to hear with you’re thinking. Leave me your thoughts in the comment section below. I’d love to hear from you.

Rev. Eric Anderson What I'm Thinking

What I’m Thinking: Mountaintop

Jesus and three of his disciples had a mountaintop experience of God’s presence and love. Can we bring our mountaintop experiences into our troubled times?

Here’s a transcript:

This Sunday is the last one before the beginning of Lent. That makes it Transfiguration Sunday, so I’m thinking about the seventeenth chapter of Matthew’s Gospel (Matthew 17:1-9), Matthew’s account of Jesus’ Transfiguration.

Jesus went up a mountain with his three closest friends: Peter, James, and John. While they were there, Jesus began to glow with some kind of inner light. Two other figures joined them on the mountain that they recognized as Moses and Elijah. Simon Peter offered to build some shelter and prolong the moment. A voice from a cloud, however, said that “This is my beloved son: Listen to him.” A moment later, the cloud was gone, the light was gone, Moses and Elijah were gone, and Jesus was saying to Peter, James, and John, “Get up, and do not be afraid.”

The Transfiguration of Jesus is a mystery. It has been a mystery since those first three disciples experienced it (alongside Jesus, of course). It was a mystery to them as they continued to follow him through Galilee and on to Jerusalem. I’m sure it was a mystery to those that they first told about it after Jesus’ resurrection. It was a mystery to Matthew, Mark, and Luke as they recorded it in their Gospels. And it’s been a mystery to all the rest of us over the centuries who have read it and sought to understand it — especially to those of us who have to preach about it.

We usually call significant religious experiences “mountain top experiences” based, in part, on this example from the Scriptures (there are other examples in the Scriptures as well). Mountains tend to be places where people have significant religious experiences, but they can have them in other places.

The point is that great epiphanies, great revelations of the heart and mind of God, are rare. We, most of the time live with the guidance we receive from Scripture, or from what we’ve been taught, from the example of other people around us. It’s not that common for a voice to sound from a cloud and say, “This is my beloved son: Listen to him.”

But most of us have something like that in our lives, some moment faith touched us more deeply than it had before, some kind of mountaintop experience unique to each one of us.

Hold on to the mountain top experience. Remember to bring its assurance down into the valley, not because the mountaintop experience makes you right about everything else, but because the mountaintop experience reminds you of the ever-present grace and love of God.

The first thing that Jesus said to his friends after that overwhelming experience was, “Do not be afraid.” Friends, I think that is what mountaintop experiences are for. When we’re down in the valleys and things are not going well, we can recall what we experienced that went so deep.

And in that memory we do not need to be afraid.

That’s what I’m thinking. I’m curious to hear what you’re thinking. Leave me your thoughts in the comment section below. I’d love to hear from you.

Rev. Eric Anderson Pastor's Corner, What I'm Thinking

What I’m Thinking: Out of Joint

It’s not uncommon to feel “out of joint” with God. What to do then? Hang on.

Here’s a transcript:

I’m thinking about the thirty-second chapter of Genesis (Genesis 32:22-31), the well-known story of Jacob wrestling with an angel — or perhaps with God.

I’ve read this story many times. I’ve preached on it many times. I’ve probably thought about it many more times. What strikes me on this reading is, in fact, that portion where the man struck Jacob. The text simply refers to Jacob’s wrestling opponent as “a man,” at least until the end of the story when it’s Jacob who concludes that he had been wrestling with God.

At one point in the wrestling “the man” concluded that he was not winning and so he struck Jacob on the hip and put it out of joint. At that point, Jacob was beaten, but he wouldn’t let go until the victor blessed him.

I am also, I think I’d have to say, accustomed to wrestling with God. Most pastors will tell some story about wrestling with their call, and any of us, clergy or lay, at some point in our lives, we found ourselves in a place where we believed that God might have something in mind for us, and it wasn’t necessarily what we had in mind for ourselves.

And so we wrestled with God.

I think that metaphor of a hip out of joint is an apt one. Jacob was already out of the joint. He had been out of joint with his family. He had been out with joint with the family into which he married. He had been out of joint with God. He had been out of a joint with himself. In this wrestling match, that blow from God was a symbol that matched everything that he had been through and everything that he had done, and there he was out of joint with others, with himself, with God.

You know, I can’t think of any better advice than to follow Jacob’s example at that moment, when he realized how out of joint he was, and that there had come a time when he would not prevail: not with all of the trickery, not with all of the falsehoods, not with all of his con man skills. He would not prevail, so he held on.

He held on to God and asked for a blessing.

His blessing was to get a new name, one that meant “the one who strives with God;” and he named the place with the Hebrew phrase that means “the face of God.”

“Israel:” “the one who strives with God.” “Peniel:” “the face of God.”

When you’re in that wrestling match with God and you have realized that you are, in fact, out of joint, hold on. Not to “win,” but to receive God’s blessing for that moment. And in that blessing and in the light of that face, you can go on to follow God’s way… even if you might find yourself moving awkwardly as you do.

That’s what I’m thinking. I’m curious to hear what you’re thinking. Leave me your thoughts in the comment section below. I’d love to hear from you.