“Adulting is Hard”

Faith Seeking Understanding: Will People Ever Get Better?

August 29, 2021

Genesis 3:1-13

Mark 7:1-8, 14-15, 21-23

There’s a relatively new word that has made its way into regular conversation in the past 10-15 years. Adult. Verb. “To 'adult' is to behave like an adult, specifically to do the things—often mundane—that an adult is expected to do.”

Most of you have been adulting for many years. And you make it look quite easy—natural. But I hope I’m not the only one who, at times, feels like a 15-yr-old masquerading as an adult and wondering who in heaven’s name allowed me to be in charge of other humans. And sometimes, as many memes elude to, I just don’t want to adult. I don’t want to be in charge. I don’t want to deal with bills or responsibilities or doctor’s appointments. Responsibilities are hard.

Life is hard. Humanity is hard. And it sounds like I’m whining. My point is, being a responsible adult is so much more than doing what we want when we want—which is all I thought it was when I was a kid. I wanted to be an adult so that I could make the rules and be in charge. Now, sometimes I wish I were still a kid so that someone else can worry about all the things.

The question from our Catechism students for the day is this: Will people ever get any better than we are? It’s a question, it seems, laden with fear, anxiety, frustration, and anger. It’s a question from a kid watching us adults and wondering what kind of legacy they will have to deal with in the future. It’s a question that, quite frankly, leaves me feeling very sad. Because, truth be told, the current evidence doesn’t look promising.

American soldiers and innocent Afghanistan citizens murdered as they try to evacuate a place overrun by terrorists. People losing their lives to COVID at rates far exceeding those of a year ago. Earthquakes and hurricanes and floods and wildfires leaving devastation and death in their wake as a result of climate change. Whole species being wiped out because of human greed. Racism. Bullying. Immigration. Drugs. I keep saying that someone needs to write a whole new rendition of Billy Joel’s “We Didn’t Start the Fire.” Except…we did. And we just fueling the flames.

I’m a general skeptic on a good day. This stuff leaves me feeling virtually hopeless. I feel angry and tired and frustrated and sad. And, not knowing what else to do but spout off at others, most days I just don’t want to adult any more.

I wonder if that’s how Adam and Eve felt shortly after eating the forbidden fruit. Now, I’m not suggesting this is a factual story of history. Check out the sermon on creation and dinosaurs for more info on that. I believe that this is written as a parable—a fable—explaining the nature of sin. Once, all of creation lived in harmony, and God existed in the midst of it all. But sin is crafty. Temptation is seductive. Greed spins God’s words to us and tells us what we want to hear.

The serpent, a wild and untamable animal, told Adam and Eve a partial truth. (Yes, Adam was right beside her.) He told her that the fruit would not kill them. Instead, by eating the fruit, they could be like God—knowing good and evil. They could be adults. They wouldn’t have to trust in God’s provision. They could make their own rules. They could decide for themselves what is best for them.

That’s what sin is. That is what, as we say in our confession, we are bound to. We are captive to it. It clings to us like glitter. Always whispering that we don’t need God. We can do it ourselves. We can be in charge, thank you very much. We are independent. No one gets to tell us what to do. We are bound to no one and responsible for no one but ourselves. We are our own person. We will do things our way. We will do what WE want to do. And no one—not God, not the government, not our parents, not the Church—no one can tell us we are wrong. No one can tell us we’ve strayed. No one can tell us what we should and should not do.

And so, as the story goes on, Adam and Eve—who desire to be in charge of their lives—eat the fruit. And suddenly, they know. Or at least they think they do. They know they are naked, and they feel shame. They know that they broke God’s one rule, and they hide. They know that they made a horrible mistake. So when asked about it, they blame. They blame each other. They blame the serpent. They even blame God.

Because that’s what we do. We obtain the knowledge of adults, and yet we still behave like children. We want the rights of adulthood without the responsibilities.

The remainder of the Hebrew Bible—the Old Testament—is the telling of how that plays out for humanity. Particularly for Israel. God chooses a family and a people for the purpose of sharing the message of restoration to the world, and the people keep eating the fruit of greed and shame. The circle goes unbroken.

Until God changes the game. Because it’s clear we will never, by our own power and God’s guidance, get it right. Humanity will not and cannot free itself from the power of sin. It is far too deep in our DNA—that desire to be our own people instead of God’s people. To make our own rules instead of follow God’s rules. To depend on ourselves instead of depending on God.

So, God comes to us. Again. Walking, again, among creation. Eating with those who have not kept Israel’s rules—whether by choice or by force. He hangs with sinners and touches those who are unclean. He shifts the conversation from shame and blame to love and forgiveness. He lifts the veil of guilt and says, “I see you just as you are. And I love you.” He does not show us the way out of being adults. Instead, he comes with us. He does not give us an escape from our humanity. Instead, he shows us how to trust. He shows us how to love. He shows us how to forgive.

You see, I think that part of the fear of forgiveness and love and trust is that we fear losing ourselves. If I don’t worry about myself and my safety, no one will. Therefore, I have to put myself first. I have to take care of myself and my own first. I have to get what I need and want first. And then, once I have it, I have to defend it. I have to protect it. Protect myself. Protect my stuff. Protect my own.

And Jesus shows us another way. On the cross, he reminds us that all of that protection and independence gets us nowhere. We all die. We all lose. We all suffer. And instead of wasting our time trying to keep what isn’t ours to begin with, we can offer ourselves to others. We can offer our resources to those with less. Even if that means losing—losing reputation, losing a verbal battle, losing members, losing life. Isn’t that what happened in Kabul this week? People desperately trying to help others escape put their own lives in danger in order to do what adults should do—show compassion, help others, bring hope.

Seth and I were watching “The Hobbit” this week. There’s a conversation between Gandalph the wizard and Galadriel, the elf leader. Gandalph has brought a hobbit along on a mission with a crew of dwarves to take back their home from a dragon. The elf asks him why he brought the hobbit. He says, “I don’t know. Saruman believes it is only great power that can hold evil in check. But that is not what I have found. I’ve found it is the small things, everyday deeds of ordinary folk that keeps the darkness at bay. Simple acts of kindness and love. Why Bilbo Baggins? Perhaps it is because I am afraid…and he gives me courage.”

Simple acts of kindness and love. Adulting takes courage, my friends. Courage to be responsible for someone else. Courage to meet difficulties head on. Courage to be held accountable when we’ve made mistakes. And we do. And we will. But it also takes kindness. Be kind to yourself when you fall short. Be kind to others when it takes a while to grow into this adulthood.

Will people ever get better? Perhaps. But it will mean being willing to trust. It will mean letting go of protecting ourselves against those we’d rather blame. It will mean dying to our own demands and desires. But…we’ve been baptized into Christ! We’ve already died. There is nothing to fear. Not even death. We will always stumble along the way. But our hope is not in humanity finally getting it right. Our hope is in the God who continues to restore us and redeem us and love us and forgive us—even and especially when we get it wrong. And then shows us again the way with infinite patience, and encourages us to take another step—like a toddler learning to walk.

Pastor Tobi White

Our Saviour’s Lutheran Church

Lincoln, NE