“Stuff” happens. This slogan (in its raw form) originated in the movie Forrest Gump when Forrest stepped into a clump of rather disgusting canine discard, prompting him to shrug his shoulders and say “ ’Stuff’ happens.” Later in the movie, a car gets T-boned in an intersection; on its bumper sticker is the Forrest Gump response: “’Stuff Happens.” The proposal: we live in an imperfect world where good and bad things occur that we cannot understand, explain or control. Stuff happens — or does it?
Michael Poole
|
Forty-one miles off the coast of Louisiana, 5,000 feet beneath the water, our mother earth is hemorrhaging. So far not one of her children can do a single thing stop it. Moreover, her gushing liquid is poisoning the nests of her children — the pelicans, sea turtles, shrimp and oyster beds, mega millions of tuna larvae in the water just beneath the surface, and the lives and livelihood of hundreds of thousands of hard working people. How did this stuff happen?
By the time you read this, another already delayed effort to “top-kill” the spurting, human-created wound will have come and gone. (Note the reference to death — “top-kill.”) Even if the hemorrhage is stopped by Friday (highly doubtful), how irreversible is the damage at this moment? I’m wondering if my grandsons will ever eat Gulf shrimp or play volleyball on her pristine beaches, or if they will only know New Orleans as the Big Greasy. It’s not funny.
I’m disturbed at a level somewhere below 5,000 feet — hot lava, smoldering ash, pent-up frustration, disappointment descending to despair. If my gym had a punching bag I would knock the stuffing out onto the floor and stomp it. I want to blame somebody, hold someone accountable. I feel like the victim of a heinous crime where the perpetrator vanishes into the night.
Blame BP, the entire industry and the owners of the countless crude-filled tankers now sitting somewhere waiting for the price of oil to rise before docking (tankers that could be used to suck up much of the poisonous petroleum now seeping into the Gulf current and headed toward Myrtle Beach.) Did I mention that I want to blame the President? Well, I do.
All that emotion, and yet, something inside me says, “It’s not that simple.”
“Stuff happens.” Ask Job. Things happen that don’t make sense. Things happen that we cannot control. Stuff happens in a larger, more complex context and everyone who enjoys the luxury of things hauled by gasoline or diesel is part of the problem. Who wants to wait on a bus or cab when you can just get in your car and go? These things cost money and stuff happens.
But does “stuff happens” explain the current dilemma? If it’s true that the stuff happening relates to choices about how, when and what types of cars we drive, would that “choice” not make you and me responsible for the stuff that’s happening? This is complicated.
I used to believe that within an arm’s length of God’s throne was a switchboard with lots of toggles, lights and buttons, and I believed that everything happened for “God’s reason,” that we “marionettes” move with pulled strings. I used to think that God controlled/orchestrated everything (sun, moon, stars, earth, people, problems, why some die in earthquakes and others don’t, who gets cancer and who gets healed). “When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put childish ways behind me” (1 Corinthians 13).
Rather, these days, I imagine a God who dances with the stars (and all of creation in time and space), gliding, dipping, swirling; cheek to cheek, arm’s-length twirling, out and back, fast and slow, pursuing and now pursued, initiating then waiting for response. When God’s partner (creation) trips or missteps, our graceful God improvises, keeping the dance alive.
That’s my way of saying that I believe God has chosen to live in relationship with all creation; it’s a sacred living, breathing, giving, taking and growing exchange of interactions — and it takes two to tango.
Jesus often spoke of nature’s dance with God who, for example, feeds the sparrow (then enjoys its happy song?) and clothes the lily (in return for beauty beyond compare?) In Romans 8, Paul reminds us that all of creation longs for freedom and especially the glorious restoration of humanity. "God is reconciling all things to himself" (Colossians 1:19-21). Thank God — all things.
The first time I was allowed to drive without an adult in the car, I got pulled over for speeding — a feat I managed to repeat many times before learning my lesson. I simply was not ready to handle the responsibility that comes with the privilege of driving. (Perhaps the speeding and consequences were part of the “getting ready.” Who knows? Eventually I got it.)
These days, driving is not so much my problem; it’s other things. In my dance with God, I’m always tripping on my own feet, stepping on God’s, missing the beat, tearing my trousers, stumbling, getting up. Even so, I am also learning, growing, sometimes “getting it,” laughing and crying.
The "Stuff" in the Gulf is just the latest evidence that we're driving our planet like drunken teenagers behind the wheel for the first time. We’re irresponsible. We spin the tires, speed through school zones, text while driving, run red lights, crash, bang, bash and push to the edge. We don’t deserve cars; we should have to walk or crawl. We should be ashamed. (I’m not a fan of shame.) Even so, we, in our part of the world, should be embarrassed before God that we’ve created a culture which ravages creation in such a misguided pursuit of happiness.
Yes. Stuff happens. And sometimes, we are the stuff that happens. We are the ones responsible for stuff. If we’re looking for someone to blame, we should begin in the mirror. Maybe one day, we will “get it,” "grow up," "put away childish things." Perhaps we’ll stop ravaging God’s earth as though we were the only ones who matter. Perhaps as we go along, we could become part of overthrowing the “empires of men” and bringing in the reign of God.
In that coming day of the New Heaven and Earth, where what’s new is who reigns, perhaps you and I will leave footprints in reclaimed pristine Gulf shore sands and feast on three-bite jumbo shrimp, and in that day of God’s reign, he will wipe every tear from our eyes — and, dear friend, we will wipe tears from God's eyes, too.
J. Michael Poole is pastor of Hatcher Memorial Baptist Church in Richmond.