It is no secret that I am not a trained preacher.  In fact, it's probably pretty obvious to any who, by chance, or even by choice, happen to end up sitting through what passes for preaching at my church.  

No, I started life as a lawyer.  And many find it funny - no, not in a humorous way, but rather in a strange way - to learn that a preacher used to be a lawyer.  It's a difficult thought to process; it causes cognitive dissonance; how can such a thing be?  Preachers are supposed to be honest and up-right and good, while lawyers are, well, not.  At least, that's what people might be led to believe by the enormous supply of lawyer jokes circulating out there.  But, as I always remind my congregation, don't tell lawyer jokes - lawyers don't think they're funny, and nobody else thinks they're jokes.  

But it's not easy getting over being a lawyer.  I constantly remind my congregation that I am actually a "recovering lawyer".

In my first semester of law school, a professor told all of us eager "L-1s" that, in our society, lawyers are "priests of good order".  By that, I think he meant that lawyers, being the dedicated guardians of all that is just and fair, are the ones who prevent society from breaking down into the inevitable chaos that occurs when everyone practices "self-help" and does "whatever seems right in their own eyes" [see Judges 21:25, a time of uncontrolled, horrific violence].  

William Shakespeare knew this.  His famous line - "The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers." - from  "Henry  VI, Part Two" - is, contrary to popular belief, not actually William throwing shade on the legal profession more than 400 years ago.  The people involved in the conversation when this line is spoken are in the process of planning to overthrow the government, and know that they will not be successful without wiping out the defenders of justice.  [Ironically - "The first thing we do, let's KISS all the lawyers" would be a better expression of what Shakespeare was actually implying in his famous quote, Amen?]   Being a "priest of good order" is a high and worthy calling, is it not?  All of us eager "L-1s" were energized by this lofty image of what lawyering should be.

[Side-bar: A "priest of good order" shouldn't have much trouble transitioning into a preacher, should he?]

However, by the time we now school-weary "L-3s" reached our last semester of law school, and that lovely bloom was now off the rose, we encountered a savvy teacher who's "real job" was not as an "ivory tower academic", but as a successful practicing lawyer in the community.  His vision of "lawyering" was a little, well maybe 180 degrees different from our first semester professor.  This man told us "L-3s", who were now eager to get out and make our way in the world, that the real job of a lawyer is the orderly transference of money from one place to another.  Cynical, maybe.  But this description of "lawyering" was probably a bit more practical than what we had heard nearly three years before.  Like the revenge business, there's not a lot of money in the good order business.

And much, though not all, of this orderly transference of money is centered around the task of assigning blame.  In the event of trauma and tragedy, there is often the very human response of finding someone to blame. Who was at fault?  Who was negligent?  Who acted wrongly?  Who breached the standard of care?  Who caused the harm?  As a practicing lawyer, not only did I understand this human response, it was actually the business I was in.  I certainly didn't fault people for this need to assign blame.  It was how I made my living, though, technically, it was my job to convince the Judge or Jury that my client did NOT cause the harm.  But, po-tay-to/po-tah-to.  It takes both sides to make the world go round, right?  

Two or three weeks ago at church, a visitor who knew my wife was talking to me about all the grief of my loss, and the source of not only my loss, but the loss that has swept across the world due to the Covid Pandemic.  She works in the medical profession, and has insight that I do not have.  She said that somebody ought to be held accountable for causing all this dreadful harm.

Suddenly, the "recovering lawyer" in me started awakening from slumber and started wondering.  Renee, despite being vaccinated, was killed by Covid.  My brother Mack's cause of death will not be determined in this world, but his death falls into that number of strange and sudden deaths of seemingly healthy people during and after the Pandemic.  Was it Covid related?  Maybe.  

And just like that, the "recovering lawyer" had leaped out of the pulpit and was back in lawyer mode.  "Blame does need to be assigned", he thought.  "Who was at fault?  Who was negligent?  Who acted wrongly?  Who breached the standard of care?  Who caused the harm?"   It didn't last long, thankfully.  But I was surprised at how easily I stepped right back into that role.   

More recently at church, I heard someone talk of a friend who is mad at God.  This person has been mad at God for many years because of significant illnesses that have impacted her children.  And I saw, once again, that very human response to trauma and tragedy - the need to assign blame.  Except this time, the blame was being directed at God - another very human response, that is at least as old as the Book of Job, and actually goes all the way back to The Garden when Adam told God that "this woman, who YOU gave me, caused me to sin." - Genesis 3:12.

In a way, God brings all this human kind of blame on Himself, what with all that "being the Creator of and Ruler of everything" stuff and all.  Kind of hard to say "Not my fault" when You're all powerful and all-knowing.  

Oh, I get it.  The bad in this world is not really a part of God's plan, it's not really His "fault".  It's not what He wanted for His children.  And I do not blame God for any of the grief and pain in my life. Nor have I seriously entertained any thought of seeking to hold anyone on this Earth accountable for any of it; though, if indeed Covid was a man-made, "gain-of-function" enhanced mutation that was accidentally or purposely unleashed upon the world, then my understanding of forgiveness will be severely tested.

But I also do not blame those poor suffering souls who do blame God for what has happened to them.  What else can they do with their pain when there's no obvious explanation for what has happened?  Or if the "explanation" points back to a Creator who seems to have lost a little bit of control over His creation?  How could I blame them for defaulting to this?  The need to assign blame is so strong.  It fits our need to understand how our world works.  

I think there's a good chance that some of the people who blame God for their pain, hate themselves for doing so.  They probably know, in the depth of their soul, that hurting people really isn't what God is all about.  But it's either blame God, or accept that there are things in this world that we cannot understand.  What else can they do?      

And there, but for the grace of God, go I.     

Ambrose Ramsey | Pastor and Shepherd