Luke 13:1-9

Obadiah wrote, “You should not have gloated over your brother on the day of his misfortune; you should not have rejoiced over the people of Judah on the day of their ruin” (v. 12). The prophet laments the tendency his people have to find some sense of satisfaction in the troubles of others. We do not like to admit, in polite company, that we have such feelings, but we do. Why else buy National Enquirer or watch reality television?

Sometimes, truth be told, what we feel in view of another’s calamity is nothing short of fascination—celebrity trials, wars—it’s like watching a train wreck, and who can resist? Sometimes, what we feel and think is more sinister, a satisfaction both malignant and cruel: “It couldn’t happen to a nicer guy!” Other times, however, what we feel is far more complex, and rejoicing only a part of it.

There is a German word, Schadenfreude, which describes a more or less universal human trait: the sometimes sad and always anxious relief, which, for example, certain soldiers feel during battle when the infantryman next to them is wounded or killed while they are spared. Two are in the field; one catches a bullet but the other does not. There is sadness, but there is relief, too—not rejoicing, exactly, but something else. It is hard for a survivor not to read some “pattern” or purpose into such a stark episode. It is hard, in fact, not to posit divine intent or involvement in the moment: “I must have been spared for a reason.” And perhaps that is the case.

A tornado comes, and one house is utterly destroyed while next door there is not even a scrap of paper in the yard. The folks whose house still stands are sorry as they can be about their neighbors, and they will help all they can, but at the same time there is a sense of great relief that they got hit and we didn’t. We should not feel this way, but we often do. We sigh. But maybe we were spared for a reason, we say to only ourselves at first, or maybe they were likewise being punished.

Such thoughts are not without precedent. After all, even the psalmists affirm divine protection for the righteous.

A thousand may fall at your side, ten thousand at your right hand, but it will not come near you. You will only look with your eyes and see the punishment of the wicked. The Lord is our refuge and our fortress, sings the psalmist, who delivers us from the snare of the fowler and whose faithfulness is a shield (see Psalm 91:1-8).

Still, we must be careful lest warm thanks and praise become cold judgment and self-righteousness. Some of the most condescending words ever spoken are “There but for the grace of God go I.” It may sound like piety to undiscerning ears, but it is much more self-serving than grace-filled.

“Who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?” the disciples asked Jesus (John 9:2). What a safe, sterile question for the sighted to ask, although as the story reveals, there is more than one kind of blindness. It is not the Pharisee who prays, “Lord, I thank you that I am not like this man,” a prayer that, according to Jesus—although it is as ancient as the text and as current as ethnic and national bigotry—justifies no one. When we say, “There, but for the grace of God, go I,” we may not be nearly so graced as we think.

In our lesson for the morning, we have an example of ancient Near Eastern Schadenfreude: people come to Jesus to tell him about two tragedies that have occurred and perhaps, ostensibly, in hopes of an explanation. They say Pilate has murdered some Galileans, right there “in church,” while they were in the very act of worship! Maybe they were just seeking plausible answers. But Jesus, perhaps sensing a kind of relieved smugness in them, serves up questions instead: “Do you think these suffered in this way because they were worse sinners than others?” (see Luke 13:2). Jesus asks, in effect, “Do you imagine yourselves as better than they because you did not suffer in this way?”

“No, I tell you; but unless you repent, you will likewise perish” (see v. 3). Jesus will not allow them to content themselves in such a way. He will not permit his questioners to objectify the suffering of others in any way as to make it self-serving.

Jesus strikes again, while the iron is hot, and reaches quickly for another example to drive home the point. In Jerusalem, he reminds them, the Siloam tower fell and killed eighteen people. “Do you think they were worse sinners than any other person in the city?” (see v. 4).

The obvious answer is no. Towers sometimes fall; the Pilates of the world sometimes kill people cruelly and irrationally. That does not mean, however, that there is a reason to bless ourselves by cursing others in such a tragedy, or to satisfy ourselves as to the reasons for our own security or righteousness over against other of God’s children. Towers sometimes fall, and the Pilates of the world are sometimes incredibly sadistic. There is no security in this world, and so we too must repent; we may perish in the same way as the others.

In theological language, Jesus is upending the old Deuteronomic theology that equates blessing with righteousness, suffering with wickedness. But it is not that simple, he says. We should not rejoice or stare at our neighbor’s calamity. We must not content ourselves or denigrate others in view of their suffering, or imagine it justice that some suffer and others are spared. No, things happen in this world. There are towers that fall and murderers who kill, and we best not rejoice, only repent. We too must repent.