Seven years--

that's how long the Syrian conflict has been raging.

During the so-called "Arab Spring" of Two Thousand and Eleven...

peaceful protests began against the Assad-regime--

because of its brutality against minority groups and economic mismanagement.

President Assad...

in response...

had the protestors arrested, brutally tortured, and killed;

and then arrested and killed hundreds who protested those actions.

When sections of the military defected...

and formed a rebel army...

with backing from Turkey, Saudi Arabia, and the United States--

while Russia, Iran, and Iraq supporting Assad--

the situation quickly descended into civil war.

To date, almost half a million Syrians have been killed in the conflict...

over a million have been injured...

and twelve million--

half of the total population of Syria--

have been displaced.

There have been credible reports that chemical weapons have been used by Assad's forces;

and, according to the United Nations...

there are also numerous allegations of war crimes...

especially by Assad's forces.

There's evidence of the systematic execution of more than ten thousand detainees--

many of whom were emaciated and bore signs of torture;

some had their eyes put out...

others showed signs of electrocution or strangulation.

Meanwhile, Syria's once prosperous cities lie in ruins;

numerous sites of great archaeological and historical value--

such as Palmyra and the old city of Damascus--

have been damaged or destroyed;

and disease is rampant among the civilian population-

including typhoid, dysentery, diphtheria, hepatitis, and polio--

brought about by the deteriorating living conditions and poor sanitation.

 

I don't know about you...

but I find it hard to comprehend such a scenario.

I find it hard to imagine living under such desperately tragic circumstances;

circumstances that most of us will never experience...

and never expect to. 

Let's be honest, most of us live very comfortable lives-- 

very safe and secure lives--

a long, long way from the sort of poverty, suffering, and bloodshed that we see on our televisions...

or read about in our newspapers.

And, frankly, that's the way that we like it;

that's what we work so hard to achieve;

that's what we expend so much energy trying to avoid.

From the moment that we're forcibly ejected from the safety of our mother's womb...

until the moment that we strain for our last agonal gasp...

we do our best to make life as safe...

and comfortable...

and controlled... 

as we can.

We install our deadlocks, window locks, alarm systems, and security screens...

build our high fences...

and fit our smoke detectors.

We pay inflated prices for poor produce...

because it's supposedly free from pesticides, hormones, and genetic modification.

We buy our petrol-guzzling four-wheel-drives that offer us an illusion of safety;

or we buy ludicrous little sports-cars in an effort to maintain the illusion of youth.

We invent increasingly sophisticated machines...

and develop more complex procedures and more potent drugs...

in a relentless drive to prolong life at any cost...

and to insulate ourselves from the pain of death and grief.

We elect politicians who are "tough on crime"...

and strict on immigration and border control...

but who don't really dare to take a risk and who pander to narrow self-interest...

rather than actually fixing the big issues that we face--

like the effects of climate change... 

or the national health or taxation systems.

And, all too often, religion itself becomes another part of the mix.

Sometimes, we treat it like it's another form of insurance policy--

another way to make life more safe and secure.

We live as though God were some sort of force-field...

or a cosmic lucky-rabbit's foot...

so that, if we do the right things...

if we're faithful enough...

then nothing bad will happen...

and we will be spared the tragedies and pains of life:

the test results won't come back cancerous...

the one whom we love will pull through...

our children won't die from an overdose at a party.

Of course, it doesn't work like that--

not in the real world.

Bad things do happen to good people;

bad things happen to people just like us.

Sure, most of us know that--

on one level.

Most of us wouldn't sit comfortably with the sort of prosperity gospel-

or the "Jesus won't let anything bad happen to you" theology- 

that some churches espouse.

But often it's much more subtle than that- 

this thinking of religion as some sort of insurance policy...

or as a means of avoiding the tragedies and vagaries of life.

In reality, it happens almost every time that we pray. 

When we pray for peace...

for justice...

for healing...

for consolation in grief.

Subtly, or not so subtly, we're asking to be spared the pain and suffering of life--

the awful tragedies;

or, at the very least, we're asking for them to be minimised. 

Every day, in so many ways, we try to avoid pain and suffering...

we try to lessen the dangers of life...

we try to minimise the risks...

we try to exert control.

 

All of which makes this morning's story from Mark's Gospel somewhat uncomfortable.

As the author crafts it...

fresh from the intense "high" of his baptismal experience-

when he discerned his true identity and knew that he was loved by God-

Jesus is violently driven off into the wilderness;

exposed-- 

in a place of desolation and danger... 

risk and vulnerability...

terror, violence, and death...

away from everything that was comfortable and familiar...

away from civilisation...

away from everyone that he knew.

And, in a culture where people relied on others to tell them who they were--

to define their identity...

and to give them a sense of purpose--

that meant loosing everything:

relationship...

identity...

humanity...

life itself.

 

Unlike the other Gospels...

Mark's account offers us no details of this wilderness wandering.

There are no stories of temptation or of super-human endurance.

There's nothing about turning rocks into bread...

or performing astounding feats;

nothing at all.

We simply have Jesus, alone:

alone with his thoughts...

alone with his confusion and his doubt...

alone with his discomfort and distress...

alone with his helplessness and fear--

struggling to hold onto his humanity...

struggling to hold onto his sanity...

struggling to hold onto life.

A man... 

overwhelmed...

stretched to the limit...

tempted to give up.

And yet, discovering...

as, in some small way, Israel had discovered before him...

that it's in the wilderness-- 

literally or metaphorically--

that we truly encounter God;

that it's only when we lay it all aside...

it's only when we embrace the doubts and the dangers...

it's only when we sit with our pain and grief...

it's only when we confront our fears...

it's only when we leave behind the comfortable and familiar...

and put aside all of our efforts to control and to play it safe...

and allow ourselves to be genuinely vulnerable...

it's only when we let go and we risk--

risk losing who we think that we are...

risk losing all that defines us...

risk losing all that we hold dear--

it's only then that we actually discover God.

And maybe, just maybe...

it's only when we do that... 

that, like Jesus...

we can be of any use to anyone else...

or dare to speak in God's name.