I read this morning of Jesus calling the twelve and sending them out. I was struck by the immediacy of the sending. We tend to call people into our community and then beg them not to leave. When a person does rise up who wants to be a missionary (the Latin term for apostle or "one sent out"), we immediately ask how much do you need? That is code for "how little can you survive on so that we can spend most of our money on ourselves while spending as little as possible to keep you alive?"
As I read the next story, seeking a broader perspective or completion for the first story, I was struck by the abrupt ending. John's followers and surely John himself were praying for deliverance. Then, for no apparent reason, John's life was taken. It was taken by the powerful on a whim. To satisfy a grudge held by a God-less woman, John was killed. Even the one giving the ultimate order knew it was wrong.
Yesterday I watched as a few good young men were passed over and disrespected in a sporting event by their own coaches. Most of the fans were oblivious; the young men were deeply hurt. As I read the story of John, all I could think was that life often has bad endings. As much as I want to explain it away or give it a nice theological package, the bottom line is that for John, his followers and a few young men yesterday, life was totally unfair while for a few ruthless powerful people life was fun.
I hate stories like these. I hate bad endings. When I read them or experience them, they make me hope that heaven and hell are not just metaphors. They make me hope that the story is really not over and there is another ending yet to come.
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