As I read the message, I let out an involuntary groan, which my brother immediately picked up on. I was in my home town of Marietta, Georgia, for his wedding. I immediately assured him it wasn't about anyone in our family, and delayed thinking any more about it until after the ceremony. I even remembered to take out the bride's wedding band and put it on my finger to pass to the minister at the appropriate moment.
Sometimes I like to say that I was using the word "surreal" before it became cliche. I can't think of a better word to describe the feelings I had throughout that long afternoon. As best man, I was proud to stand next to my only brother, who had done the same for me thirty-five years earlier. We stood in the front of the "chapel," as it was called after the large "new" sanctuary was dedicated when I was fifteen years old. Built in 1897, it felt nostalgically soothing to be back within its classic, gothic beauty - marble exterior, high ceiling, stained glass windows, heavy oak doors and trim. At the reception, I visited with a varety of relatives from both sides of our family, one old friend from kindergarten days, a number of friends from the neighborhood, and a host of friends from the church we grew up in. It was so pleasant to share in their joy at this important occasion for my family. Throughout it all, hovering in the back of my mind were questions about what was going on back in Tucson.
That night I sat down in the motel room and devoured the news. Atlanta newscasters spoke of the tragedy in Tucson with appropriate sympathy, but betraying an inevitable detachment from a place so far away in geography and temperament from their familiar Southern culture. I called home, and learned much more from my wife and son. Over the next few days, multiple news sources I tuned in on as I made my way back to Arizona filled in the remaining details.
First Baptist Church of Marietta is so large that when I entered the "new" sanctuary the morning after the wedding, the friendly current senior pastor of about five years did not recognize my name when he introduced himself (my brother is still a member there). He was probably not even aware of the wedding the previous day, so busy is this suburban Atlanta church. I did see a few people I recognized, from a distance, and settled in to worship God in this place so meaningful to my memories.
The one change to the sanctuary was the enlargement to the stage to accommodate a whole orchestra. This was their "traditional" service (the "contemporary" service had been earlier), and the music by the twenty-five piece orchestra and fifty voice choir was stunning. I was thrilled to once again hear the boisterous organ; at the time it had been installed, it was hailed as "the South's finest pipe organ." The children's message was well done, but not nearly as much "fun" as one of Steve's. The pastor's announcements were affably delivered, revealing a busy congregation with a wide variety of interests. All the buzz both before and after the service was about the forecasted ice storm that would hit north Georgia that night, and his announcements included a thoughful entreaty to church staff members to stay home the next day if the roads seemed difficult. Commuting in the overcrowded Atlanta area is extremely complicated to begin with, and southern roads are not equipped for weather hazards.
In the back of my mind was the curious absence of any mention of the Tucson tragedy. Even though it had held top billing on the local news the night before, I could see that it had not "registered" in the minds of most people here. The pastor's sermon was entitled "Why do bad things happen to good people?" He missed a golden opportunity for an opening illustration in not mentioning the shooting, but perhaps he had not watched the news the night before.
Eager to hear the pastor's take on suffering and God's sovereignty, I could not have been more disappointed. I am actually not a tough sermon critic, and am always happy to hear a pastor's persective on most any scripture. In this case, very little scripture was cited (an omission which would have been unthinkable at this church in my youth). Although I was happy to see the pastor introduce the word theodicy* in his message, he did not provide a satisying explanation of much comfort to the listeners. But the worst part was when he affirmed the Baptist term "soul competence," a doctrine he said he "would fight to preserve." It was virtually the only time he became animated in the whole sermon.
While many Baptists (including the most historical sources) define this term to distinguish individual religious liberty against that of an eccelsiastical or national body, this pastor was emphasizing the "decisional" power of the individual as (virtually) self-regenerative. My grasp of the five points of Calvinism could not have been more strongly reinforced had I visited the most orthodox Presbyterian church in Atlanta that morning. There was no hint of unconditional election or irresistible grce in his insistence that we save ourselves by our own choice. Consequently, he was left with no answer for the central question, in essence confessing that "it's a puzzle" why bad things happen, if God is good. His implied conclusion was that more people need to choose God. My conclusion was that his God is not sovereign.
Forgive me if I belabor this point. Throughout the week that has followed, I have watched Tucson dealing with the after-effects of the tragic shooting. If ever there were a time when the relevance of such "dusty" terms as man's depravity and God's sovereignty could be put to the test, it would be here and now. I am so thankful that the believers with whom I fellowship at Dove Mountain are well-provided with answers for the needy Tucsonans around us, when they will inevitably ask us why a good God would let such a bad thing happen: "All this is for your benefit, so that the grace that is reaching more and more people may cause thanksgiving to overflow to the glory of God" (II Corinthians 4:15). It's all grace, from beginning to end.
After a convoluted travel adventure, complicated by the predicted ice storm, I arrived back in Tucson. By Monday evening I was reunited with my dear family, and able to share the impact of this tragedy which had taken place at our neighborhood Safeway. On Tuesday I was reunited with my dear Veritas students, and we could pray together for Tucson, Congressman Giffords, and the many hurting families. By Wednesday, I was having contact with fellow Dove Mountaineers, and we could affirm our faith in God's hand to bring justice and wisdom.
I always enjoy going "back home," briefly, but it was good to be home.
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