Readings, Isaiah 64:1-9 and Mark 13:24-37
Image, Henry Ossawa Tanner, Resurrection of Lazarus, 1896 Let’s consider for a moment, the story of Lazarus. Lazarus grows ill. His concerned sisters, Martha and Mary, send a message to Jesus, Lord, the one whom you love is ill. Then they wait. They look to the horizon awaiting the coming of the Son of God. And yet, he does not come. Unbeknownst to them Jesus chooses to remain where he was for two days. The sisters wait. Lazarus declines. The sisters hope. Lazarus dies. By the time Jesus arrives in Bethany, Lazarus has been entombed four days. Martha approaches Jesus, Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died. Soon after Jesus is approached by Mary, Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died. Advent is the season where we hasten and wait for the return of Christ by reflecting on his on his arrival incarnate some two thousand years ago. Advent is reflective, Christ has come, and anticipatory, Christ will come again. Both these horizons serve as sites of hope. And yet, when we take up the Advent injunction to keep awake, watching for Christ to bring the peace and restoration of the new creation, we can certainly relate to the feelings of Mary and Martha, Lord, if you had been here. Just as we can relate to the sentiments expressed by the prophet Isaiah, O that you would tear open the heavens and come down! For the world is awash with violence and misery. We lament the thousands of children killed in Gaza, we await the release of more hostages, we grieve the war waged against Ukraine, we long for the freedom of West Papua, we are weighed down by the refugee crisis in Artsakh, we despair at rates of incarceration for Indigenous folks in these lands. Beyond the cruelty humans impose on one another, the climate crisis gives us the sense that the world is fraying at the edges as whole communities risk of losing homes to rising tides. Then there are the intimate worries and woes of our lives and the lives of those we love, the times we have called out, Lord, the one whom you love is ill, only to be met with silence. O that you would tear open the heavens and come down. Lord, if you had been here. There are many in history, as there are many today, who felt as though the time was ripe for Christ to come again. We could likely look at the long line of human history and find several points at which to say, Lord, if you had been here of all this suffering could have been avoided. The day and the hour no one knows, but many have hoped it would be their own. Let’s return to the story of Lazarus. Martha comes to Jesus with her complaint, but then adds, even now I know that God will give you whatever you ask of him. Even now… even now, despite the seemingly inescapable finality of death, even now after the long history of human cruelty, even now in the face of catastrophe and conflict, even now after the prayers seem unanswered and the return of our Lord interminably delayed. Even now… This is the posture of the Christian; the posture of Advent. In such a posture we do not deny the presence of death and loss in our world. Nor hide from present injustice and historical inequity. We know the world is not as it should be and would be different were the heavens torn open and the Lord was here. And yet in this posture we say even now. In this posture we hold onto hope, hold on past hope, hold on to the promise that despite everything feeling lost, Jesus is the resurrection and the life. Even now, with so much harm that can no longer be repaired, and so much hurt that yet needs to be healed, even now God will give to Jesus whatever he asks. And what Jesus asks is that Lazarus should come out of his grave. What Jesus asks is that those who die, will live. What this will mean or look like when Christ returns is as mysterious as the day and the hour at which it will break into history. What awaits us when the present age fades away is a great mystery. But God’s eternity means God’s relation to time is otherwise. The one who arrives too late to Bethany is not too late to raise the dead. History will yet be redeemed, its wounds healed and its path transfigured. The glory of God will be revealed in the infinite compassion of the one who looks and weeps at the world’s loss and calls us from our graves. For we are all God’s people; we are the clay as God is our potter. We shall all be remade by the one who calls us to be unbound from our sorrows and released from death’s grip. So much injustice and loss has occurred, that we who are human cannot retrieve or repair. And thus we look to the Advent of Christ, holding out hope that even now Jesus Christ, the resurrection and the life, stands ready to come in glory and gather up all of creation - from the ends of the earth to the ends of heaven - and restore all things in love.
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Readings, 1 Samuel 8:4-18 and Luke 19:28-40
Image, Justin O’Brien (Australian, 1917–1996), Palm Sunday, 1962. Oil on canvas. Over the last four weeks, we have explored the way Jesus embodies various roles in the life of his people: prophet, priest, judge, and now king. Jesus the king, a fitting topic for Christ the King Sunday, but perhaps, a less fitting theme for the beginning of the UN’s 16 Days Against Gender Based Violence, which began yesterday. I say less fitting for as we know gender-based violence is rooted in gender inequality, rooted – so often – in the desire of men to rule over their homes and those in them as a king. So much violence is rooted in a misdirected response to perceived powerlessness or loss of control. And if this is the case, then is the image of Christ as king tarnished? Does it lack sufficient pastoral compassion to assert that the greatest good, the greatest hope, the culminative crescendo of our year of worship is found in a King? The problems of a king, of one man placed atop a system of government to rule absolutely is not a new phenomenon. The Bible contains accounts of the virtue and blessing of a good king, who can lead the people in holiness. However, there is also present across scripture a deep ambivalence and suspicion toward the monarchy. Today’s reading shows that the provision of a king for Israel is a concession. God deems it a testament to the people’s lack of trust and lack of understanding of their commission as a nation set apart. Indeed, so that the point not be missed, God tells Samuel to warn Israel of all the awful things a king will mean for them (he will take your sons to keep his fields and make his implements of war. He will take your daughters to be his perfumers and cooks. He will take the best of your vineyards for himself, and a tenth of your grain for his courtiers. He will take and take and take… such will be your lot with a king). And yet, while the critique of monarchy present in the scriptures is based in part on the old adage that absolute power corrupts absolutely, the fundamental opposition to a worldly king is based in preserving the unique and unparalleled supremacy of God. When God speaks to Samuel, God likens the request of the people for a king to the earlier decisions of the people to run after other gods. The real heart of God’s opposition to a worldly king is idolatry. God should be the people’s only king. For only God has both the wisdom to judge in equity and righteousness, only God has the love and mercy to bear the people’s missteps with grace and patience. Only a holy and eternal God (who is entirely sufficient and infinitely perfect) is able to wear the crown of glory and thorns without it becoming heavy. And yet we still might protest. Despite this distinction between corruptible earthly kings and a perfect heavenly king, isn’t there still a problem? Isn’t the very reason we proclaim Christ the King (and preserve God’s kingship) because there were earthly kings? Said differently, isn’t Christ the king an act of projection based in a bygone age where kings were normative? We all know what a king is and so we call Christ the king because Christ is just a more powerful version of that? Isn’t this just trying to place another triangle atop a pyramid, which admits that there is something above our earthly king, but does nothing to subvert the hierarchical system of God-King-People (which is not unlike some church’s teaching God-Husband-Wife). Can we hold onto kingship without this baggage, or should we who live in a democratic world, well-versed in institutional suspicion lay down this way of speaking of God, lay aside language of King and kingdom, and find a new way of speaking about the unique otherness of God and the authority and power of Christ? In some ways, yes. It is vital to delve into Scripture and allow our language for God to be nourished and expanded. For God is described as king but also mountain, nursing mother, wellspring of life, fire of Sinai, womb of creation, and the rock who birthed us. And so too, we explore the way Christ – heralded as king – is also a prophet of God, our great High Priest, and judge hidden amongst the least. Christ likens himself to a mother hen and is likened by others to the figure of Woman Wisdom from the book of Proverbs. Christ may be king but he is also brother, elevating us to a radical equality through the spirit of adoption. There are many ways in which we understand Christ and there are many ways in which we speak of our allegiance to God. And it is good to seek those out to complement the limitations of kingly language. And yet I wonder, is it all limitation? Could there still be potential for a full-throated proclamation of the unrivalled sovereign kingship of Christ that does not contribute to the inequality producing gender-based violence, but serves as a bulwark against it? Because while we know longer live in the age of kings, those feelings of insecurity and entitlement that lead man to forge their personal kingdoms have not disappeared. There may be democracy in the nation, but monarchies abound in the suburbs. And while we do not lack for means to critique the way men enthrone themselves in the home through intimidation, control, and violence, Christ the King provides us a distinctly Christian grounding on which to confront such sin. For to make oneself a king in the home is an act of idolatry. To establish oneself as a king in any pocket of one’s life in order to be made great by the service of others, is not only abhorrent for worldly reasons, but is an affront on heaven. It is an attempt to claim the throne of the one to whom all authority on heaven and earth has been given. No king but Christ goes all the way down. No king but Christ exposes gender-based violence as not only a sin against humanity, but a sin against God. Christ the King is most properly claimed not as any endorsement of human kingdoms or hierarchies but as the judgment upon and upending of all human attempts to rule over another. For God shall suffer no rival, and Christ shall share no authority, and we are made radically equal beneath such a confession, driven to stridently oppose the all-too-common attempts to dominate others that occur in the large and small of human history. For this is why we have Christ the King Sunday. The celebration began in 1925 (making it a recent addition to our church calendar), as a means of countering the nationalism and worldly political allegiances which had contributed so direly to the catastrophe of World War I. It was further established in the hopes of checking the ascendent rise of nationalism and fascism in the interwar period. The church staked its claim to say, no King but Christ, our own true sovereign, the Prince of Peace. It is Christ alone we ally ourselves as king, because no human bound by mortality and sin could ever hope to create a kingdom (much less reign over it) in the way that Love incarnate could. It is Christ and his kingdom in which we place our hope, for it is this kingdom alone in which all violence shall cease, all swords be beaten into ploughshares, all tears be wiped away, and all things made new. Hail the heaven-born Prince of Peace! Hail the Sun of righteousness! Readings, Judges 2:16-19 and Matthew 25: 31-46
Image, Yalim Yildirim, Inside Outside. Ecoline on paper 25 x 25 cm The book of Judges takes a pattern, foreshadowed in the reading from today. A judge arises, reforms Israel and leads them in battle, bringing victory and deliverance. Then the judge dies, and Israel would relapse and behave worse than their ancestors, doing what is evil in the sight of the Lord, which usually leads to them being made captive or overrun in battle, until a new judge is raised up by God to reform and deliver the people once more. The difficulty to maintain the integrity and ethics of a community across the generations is perhaps a fairly typical pattern across much of human history. People are forgetful and distractible. Increasingly so after the loss of a central figure who kept a community, movement, or institution focused on a common goal. We can understand this at a micro-level. Following a conference, a scare, or a testimonial, many of us have had the experience of being motivated to make a change (a new fitness regime, a creative endeavour, or a desire to live out our faith with renewed rigour). We start strong, only to miss a day, a day which turns into a week, which turns into changing the goal, which turns into life as we knew it before. This is not to shame any of us, but to acknowledge that what was occurring in Israel following the death of each judge, while not laudable, was something we as humans and humans in religious communities are prone to. Jesus speaks to his disciples as he draws ever closer to his death. And while his death will be unlike the judges of the past (for Jesus’ death will be met with resurrection and ascension), the question remains: will his followers simply repeat the same mistakes as the people of God in the age of judges? Will the lack of the immediate presence of the judge as compass and leader of the people, lead to a relapse? And so Jesus speaks of the judgment the Son of Man will mediate when he comes in glory. Here the judge – raised up by God from the people to be their reformer and deliverer – returns to the people; hidden in their midst, as the least and last. Jesus, the judge, does not depart upon his death, but will be found (or ignored) within the people as they seek to maintain their integrity and ethics across the generations to come. Christ – the church’s final judge – is hidden amongst the hungry, the stranger, and the imprisoned, as the living litmus test, as to whether we shall relapse, or rise to meet the day. Now the anonymous expansion of Christ into the least of these is not akin to an elf on the shelf… watching over us all from the hidden corners, filling out Santa’s naughty or nice list. This is not some undercover boss situation aimed to ascertain how the workers act when unsupervised. Christ does not come to us in the presence of the least to catch us out, or to perform some great ironic reversal where we get our poetic just-desserts. For the judgment of Christ is never punitive or carceral; it is restorative. Christ’s justice emerges from his grace and love, an extension of God’s steadfast mercy and kindness. Christ tells us up front that he shall be found in the least of these, and thus the lesson serves to do three things: centre our ethics and compassion in the margins of society, remind us that our fidelity to Christ is better indicated by the love and welcome of people than saying all the right things about God, and serves as a continued and intimate source of motivation and accountability as we seek to live in the way of God, from generation to generation. Were Christ encountered only in monuments (or even only in Scripture) the forgetfulness and distraction that can come upon us in the wake of his death would be far greater. Instead, Christ comes to us as neighbours and strangers in need, an ever-present reminder that the greatest of these is love, an ever-present reminder that the world is too full of woes and inequity for us to relapse in our commission to love others as Christ first loved us. Christ is the great judge of the church: raised up by God to deliver the people, to draw us from idolatry and stubborn ways, and lead us back to the way of life. And yet Christ is the judge who is found not in halls of power, but in the hungry, the stranger, the prisoner. And as such he becomes the judge who reveals our own judgment. As the judge who comes to us hidden amongst the least, Christ exposes who we judge as worthy of attention, worthy of care, worthy of understanding, and worthy of love. From below, from powerlessness and vulnerability, Christ exposes our false equivalencies, exposes the hypocrisy in our systems of compassion, the stereotypes that weasel into our minds and harden our hearts, exposes the easy comfort of factionalism and favouritism, exposes how readily we accept the reasonableness of violence and dispossession, exposes how quickly we can blame the least for their own hunger, sickness, isolation, or incarceration. Christ exposes this, not so that we might be condemned, but so that we might be saved. So that our hearts may be softened, our lives transformed, and our communities redeemed. Christ, the judge, hidden in the world, draws near to us time and again so that we might be stripped of our false judgments and be made ready for the Kingdom of God. So that that we might come to know that the last is not only first, but the site where what it means to be a Christian is truly judged. Readings, Leviticus 13: 1-3, 45-46, 14:1-9 and Mark 1:40-45
Image, Byzantine Mosiac I owe many of the insights in this sermon to Matthew Thiessen's Jesus and the Forces of Death (MI: Baker Academic, 2020). Specific page references in text. If you'd like to know more you can listen to an interview I did with Matthew here. We have a raft of rules (legal, societal, religious) about what can mix. When you go to a restaurant, a living animal cannot sit at the table where a dead animal is being served. At home, the toilet needs a room independent from a kitchen. Here at church, we don’t serve the remaining communion elements at the morning tea table, or the morning tea from the communion table. There are things that are not permitted to mix, and if they do it impacts the cleanliness, appropriateness, and safety of all involved. Fundamental to Israel’s understanding of the structure of God’s world were two binaries: the holy and the profane, and the pure and the impure. Now we might hear profane and (given the connection with profanity) think that it means sinful, or wicked. But this is not the case. Most of the world is profane. The Sabbath, for instance is holy, which means the other six days of the week are profane. The Temple is holy, so a house is profane. A thing is either holy or profane, but this doesn’t mean the latter is in opposition to God’s will. Now in the same way, the impure is not equivalent with sin or wickedness. Something could become impure for any number of reasons; ritual, moral, or naturally occurring. And indeed, while pure and impure are distinct categories, you will have gleaned from the readings a person may move between pure and impure at different points in their life. The importance of developing these religious and communal distinctions is not to categorise people as saint or sinner, but – and primarily – to preserve and protect the holiness of God who dwelt with the people. The boundaries are intended to keep impurity from the camp, the tabernacle, or the Temple - to “safeguard God’s presence and protect God’s people from the consequences of wrongly approaching God” (11). It is compassion then, that animates the Jewish concern for purity, for (as scripture will testify) while God is infinitely loving and merciful, God is a powerful (dangerous) and holy force. The final thing to say in this preamble is that impurity (though again, not equivalent with sin) is intimately related to death, to the forces of death, which stand in contrast to the living God of creation. Naturally we can see why corpses (and the touching of corpses) would be connected to impurity, but this connection extends to cases of lepros or haemorrhaging – all of which signal the encroachment of the forces of death, and thus all of which must be dealt with before one might come into the presence of holiness. Why establish all this? It is unlikely to appear in any local pub trivia question? We need to understand the nature of impurity, and the underlying compassion of the system of purity and holiness, in order to properly enter a discussion on Jesus’ relationship with the priesthood of Israel in his day, and Jesus’ own embodiment of the priestly role. Because contrary to a many popular claims, Jesus does not oppose the ritual impurity system, he does not dismiss the necessity of such a system, and Jesus does not treat these categories of pure/impure, holy/profane as non-existent or incorrect. Rather, “Jesus desires to rid people of the conditions that create ritual impurity” (7). He wants to cut the cause off at the pass, pull it up by the root. For Jesus confronts and overcomes the forces of death! In other words, Jesus’ ministry operates with an affirmation that ritual impurity exists and that he needs to deal with it. And deal with it he will, both as priest and as prophet. Today’s reading from the Mark is the first time a ritually impure person confronts Jesus. Now there’s a little translations scuffle. It is often translated that at the request to be made clean Jesus was moved with “pity,” however (as most Bible’s will note) early manuscripts say, Jesus was moved with “anger.” Quite the difference. I note the discrepancy because the anger illuminates that Jesus takes the man’s request as being about whether Jesus wants to make him clean, not whether he is able. (60) In other words, is this a condition that should be treated? I do choose. Be made clean! The Gospels make clear, Jesus is concerned with ritual impurity and has the power to deal with it. In the Old Testament it is only prophets (such as Elisha) who are able – by the power of God – to make someone clean. Priests are those who judge whether someone is pure or impure and carry out the rituals to re-establish the newly clean to the community. This priestly role is unchallenged by Jesus (not only here, but elsewhere). Jesus makes the man clean, but does not take upon himself the prerogative of declaring him clean. Jesus commands the man to report to the priests and bring the offering of purification (60-61). The system is intact, but we nonetheless bear witness to Jesus’ compassion, power, desire and mission to confront the forces of death that lead to impurity. Another story further displays Jesus’ powerful, potent, and personal opposition to ritual impurity. When the haemorrhaging woman approaches Jesus, and reaches out to touch his cloak, the power to make her clean and restore her to life simply bursts forth from Jesus. Without any intention the immense (at times dangerous) power of God is on full display – the hem of Jesus’ garment holds enough power to destroy impurity’s forces (96). And thus, it should be of no surprise to us then, that even when Jesus is subjected to his own death, even when the forces of death stake a claim directly upon his body on the cross and in the tomb, even when the forces of death seem to have prevailed – it is of no surprise that the body of Christ swallows up those forces of death and emerges in resurrected life. Jesus’ confrontation with what makes us impure, his ultimate confrontation with death is not fought from a distance – through the command of his voice or the hem of his garment – Jesus confronts (and by God overcomes) the forces of death through death. Just as he who knew no sin, became sin so that we might become the righteousness of God, so too he who knew no death, became death so that we might share in the life of God. Jesus went down into that tomb, and indeed went down deeper still, to pull death up from the roots so that nothing should be able to cast us from the camp of God. Jesus went down into death and swallowed it up, and now we say, O death, where is your sting! Jesus took the forces of impurity and death so seriously that they were written on his own body, only for the eternal word of resurrection and life to be written over them and so over each and every one of us. I do choose. What more holy words could there be? I do choose. This Jesus says over each and every one of us so that all the many things that might make it impossible or improper for us to approach a holy God might be overcome, so that we might never be separated from the love of God. Jesus does not scorn the system, Jesus does not dismiss the priestly role of Israel, Jesus does not tear those pages from our Bible. Jesus takes seriously the forces of death at work in the world and the boundaries set in place to safeguard the holiness of God and the life of the people. And at the same time, Jesus chooses to address the problem, Jesus chooses to make the impure clean, as Jesus chooses to heal the sick, as Jesus chooses to raise the dead, as Jesus chooses the way of cross and resurrection so that the forces of death would be undone and so that we all may live in the presence of God. Jesus takes up the charge of prophet and priest, affirming and overcoming the forces of impurity and death in and through his own life, struggle, death, and resurrection. It is for this reason we celebrate with the writer of Hebrews that we have a high priest able to sympathise with our weaknesses, who in every respect has been tested as we are, and yet without sin. Let us therefore approach the throne of grace with boldness, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need. For when we approach, we are met with the words: I do choose! Readings, Amos 5:1-2, 10-15 and Luke 4:14-30
Image, Paulo Medina, Ecce Homo, 2006. Acrylic on canvas, 70 x 60 cm. Having completed our journey through Genesis, we have found ourselves approaching the end of the church’s liturgical year. Christ the King Sunday is four weeks away, followed by Advent, which leads us into Christmas. This short series explores important roles in the life and religion of Ancient Israel, and considers the way it is embodied by Jesus. Today, we consider Jesus as a prophet of God. The gospels are deliberate in positioning Jesus as a prophet (though, of course, not only as prophet), sent by God to the people with a purpose. A prophet in the line of Miriam and Moses, Elijah and Elisha, Amos and Isaiah. A prophet sent – as prophets tend to be – with a message of hope and judgment, reform and redemption, designed to draw the people back to their calling as God’s own. We heard a snippet of Amos, which is typical of many of the prophets. The prophet delivers a message from God where the people are charged with neglecting their worship (this time through their mistreatment of the poor). The people are then called to repent, so that they might be redeemed. And then, despite their words of warning and woe, the prophet ends with the promise of God, who will not abandon the people, but establish peace and justice. Jesus follows in this line. In today’s reading Jesus proclaims himself as the fulfilment of that promise which the prophet Isaiah delivered. He has come to bring good news to the poor, release to the captives, the recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, and announce the year of the Lord’s favour. The hoped for restitution and redemption, the establishment of justice, the overturning of the worldly powers of captivity and exploitation are announced by Jesus and in announcing them fulfilled. Jesus signals to the assembly that such things are no longer anticipated, but arrive in his very life and ministry. Across this life and ministry, Jesus regularly steps into what resembles a prophetic office. For example, his condemnation of the gap between what is confessed and carried out by those who hold religious and material power. Indeed, much of Jesus’ teaching centres a return to the law, to the heart of Torah found in the commands to uplift the lowly, love the least, and let justice roll like a river. In addition to this reformist rhetoric, Jesus also resembles the prophet in his apocalyptic teachings on the coming terror and trials to be faced by the people, and his woe and lament at those who will suffer greatly, accompanied of course by the promise of restoration for the people in a new, peaceable kingdom. But prophets are more than words. Across the Old Testament prophets engage prophetic acts. Some of these acts illuminate or emphasise a message, seeking to draw the attention that their words have failed to muster. An example of this is Jeremiah buying a plot of land in soon to be ransacked and exiled Israel to emphasise the promise of later return, or Ezekiel who took brick and sticks to make a miniature of the city and lay down next to it for three hundred and ninety days to signal the punishment coming to the house of Israel. Another kind of prophetic act, is that which demonstrate the power of God and the position of the prophet as one charged with that power. Moses turning his staff into a serpent, or Elijah producing the unceasing portion of meal for the widow who offered him welcome. Jesus performs both kinds of activities in his ministry. Sometimes, as in the case of the Gerasene Demoniac at the same time. For here Jesus demonstrates wields divine power in the confrontation with evil, and illustrates his confrontation with empire (the demons sharing the name of a Roman military grouping and liberation coming with them being cast from the land). And so, Jesus the Prophet comes bearing a message of God. A familiar prophetic message of hope and justice, of repent and reform, of redemption and restoration, of the faithfulness of God to draw all people back to the way of life. And accompanying these messages, Jesus engages familiar prophetic actions, both aimed at emphasising and illuminating his message, and demonstrating his power as an emissary of God. The question then is what does this mean for us who have been sent by this emissary, sent by Christ the prophet? Because, as we will soon proclaim at this table, we are the body of Christ. We are charged as disciples to follow after Christ, continuing his ministry in the world. We too are anointed to bring good news to the poor, proclaim release to the captives, recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, and proclaim the year of the Lord’s favour. Such things are fulfilled in the hearing of those standing around Christ in Nazareth, and they are carried on by the church in the world today. And so, what does it look like for us to take up and live out the prophetic office of Christ as his disciples today? Naturally our minds might go to those heroes of the faith whose actions we have recognised as prophetic. Those who advocated abolition, who opposed dispossession, who put their bodies on the line for their civil rights long before these campaigns gained mainstream approval. But while these are exemplary, might living out the prophetic office of Christ also take more everyday forms? Might it also look like holding onto and holding out good news stories in an age of despair? Might it also take the form of small changes to our everyday rhythms and choices to lessen our impact on God’s good creation? Might it also be witnessed to in the small interruptions of the callous words of those around us? Might it be seen in kids finding humour in ghouls and ghosts reminding us in costumes and face paint that death has no sting? Might it also be heard in voices joined together in song to proclaim the goodness of God? Might it be found in the faithful act of retuning, month by month, to the table of grace, proclaiming that by eating a little bread and drinking a little juice, we both receive and become the body of Christ, sent to love and serve the world? For all these acts, as mundane as they might appear, look back and point forward to the dazzling figure of Christ, who was sent in love to bring good news to the poor, proclaim release to the captives, recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, and proclaim the year of the Lord’s favour. Reading, Genesis 49:29-50:14, 22-26.
Image, Migration Series No.55: The migrants, having moved suddenly into a crowded and unhealthy environment, soon contracted tuberculosis. The death rate rose. JACOB LAWRENCE, 1940 – 1941 At the end of their long and complex lives, after all the trickery and woe, the longing and triumph, the humiliation and exaltation, Jacob and Joseph long simply to be buried in the land of their ancestors. Despite the success Joseph has found in Egypt, despite the refuge and safety the land has provided Jacob, both believe they should rest elsewhere. Both believe they belong to another land, to another nation and its story. The story of this series began when God came to Abraham and said, ‘Go from your country and your kindred and your father’s house to the land that I will show to you…’ From then until now, Abraham and his offspring have done an awful lot of forced migrating. Sometimes living in their own lands, other times relying on the land and hospitality of others. And now, at the end of the book of Genesis, with the death of Jacob (the third generation) and Joseph (the fourth) there is no closure, no triumphal return. Jacob is carried to the tomb of his ancestors, while Joseph is embalmed in Egypt, awaiting the day when the Lord shall bring them up out of this land to the land God swore to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. The book of Genesis is not the only book in the Bible to end with yearning rather than closure; with eyes turned in hope toward what God will do. At the end of Deuteronomy, Moses is buried on the edge of the Promised Land, and the nation gathers in hope of finally arriving at that which was promised to them when the Lord heard their groaning under the yoke of slavery. Many of the books of the Prophets end with an eye toward the restoration of the nation out of exile, the hope of return after seasons of desolation and death. The Gospel of Luke ends with a reminder to the disciples to wait in Jerusalem, looking to the coming of the Spirit. And the book of Revelation, which brings our Scriptures to a close, ends with the words, “Come, Lord Jesus!” It is of little surprise that yearning pervades scripture. So much was written by communities of Jews and Christians facing exile, occupation, and even elimination. For these people hope was a supremely valuable commodity. As it has remained in those communities turning to the scriptures in their own times of trouble. Time and again, the scriptures end, as Genesis ends, on the edges of the promise with an eye toward their future, expected fulfilment. A recognition that everything is seasonal, save for the steadfast and unbending love of God. The Church – so our Basis of Union confesses - lives between the time of Christ's death and resurrection and the final consummation of all things which Christ will bring; the Church is a pilgrim people, always on the way towards a promised goal; here the Church does not have a continuing city but seeks one to come. Our lives as disciples of Christ do not occur at the end of the story, do not occur within the new creation, do not occur in the age to come where teaching, faith, and hope will be no more. No, we live on the edges, we live between the resurrection and consummation, we live on the way, seeking the city to come. We are a people of faith and hope, who hasten and wait with an end in view. Despite the many foretastes of the kingdom of God we experience, despite the ways in which we see in the in-breaking of the new creation, we know, as Paul knew that the whole creation has been groaning in labour pains until now; and not only the creation, but we ourselves, who have the first fruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly while we wait for adoption, the redemption of our bodies. While we wait, that is, like Joseph and kin, for the day in which the Lord will bring us up from this, to what has been promised. And just as Scripture is honest about the ways in which yearning shapes our lives, the ways in which we live between and before, the ways in which our stories do not always get the closure and consummation we might wish, it is also honest about the perils that accompany such pilgrim people. Particularly the perils that so regularly befall communities whose lack of earthly security makes their hope in divine deliverance all the more acute. Because as Genesis ends with hope, Exodus begins with threat. At the close of Genesis, the descendants of Jacob are a newly arrived, but already thriving migrant community in Egypt. Buoyed by Joseph’s success and stature, they are welcomed into the nation and partake of its wealth, and yet, they still face all the risks faced by migrant, and minority communities today… for despite what we heard in today’s reading, despite the great mourning and respect that the whole land of Egypt pay not only to Joseph, but his father as well, despite the pivotal role Joseph has played in the preservation of Egypt in these years of famine, despite all that we have seen and heard, if we turn our Bible’s just one page – just one page from the end of Genesis to the beginning of Exodus we will read, Now a new king arose over Egypt, who did not know Joseph. He said to his people, ‘Look, the Israelite people are more numerous and more powerful than we. Come, let us deal shrewdly with them, or they will increase and, in the event of war, join our enemies and fight against us and escape from the land.’ Therefore they oppressed them with forced labour. The nation born of Abraham, brought into being by the wondrous work of God, may indeed be prospering, but they remain precarious; like many migrant communities after them they are vulnerable to the fears and prejudices of their hosts. They remain a nation waiting to be brought up out of this land to the land God swore to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. But thankfully, just as we confess that we are a pilgrim people, living between the times without a permanent city, the Basis of Union also reminds us that we are able to survive such times because of God’s faithful provision, because God has never left us alone. And so, even as Joseph dies and is forgotten in Egypt, Joseph’s people are not forgotten by God, who will raise up Midwives to preserve the nation, and raise up Moses, Aaron, and Miriam, to lead them out of Egypt. So too, in later times, will God raise up Samuel, raise up Deborah, raise up Elijah and Elisha, Isaiah and Esther, Mary and John the Baptist, all of whom answer the call and point to the promise of God, point to the horizon that lies before the people, point to the hope that we have. That hope that despite the elusiveness of closure in our life, despite the delay in consummation of all things, despite the ways in which we find ourselves waiting to be brought up from this to that, and despite all the perils that come with it, God goes with us and before us, God holds all things in their beauty and fragility. And so even if these stories do not end at the end, even if they end with an eye to what remains as yet only hope and promise, they do not hang like loose threads. No, they are woven (like all our lives and stories are woven) into the story of God, God who is the beginning and end of all things. These stories, these lives, from Abraham to Joseph, from you to me, are all of them held by God until the great and glorious day when all that remains is love. Preceding the readings this week, the following "Previously On" the Saga of Joseph, recap was offered (including some guiding illustrations)... You can skip to the non-italicised text, below the photos, to just read the sermon. Two weeks ago we saw how, in animosity born of their father’s favouritism, Joseph’s brothers conspired to kill him. Two of these brothers, Rueben and Judah, sought half-measures to save Joseph’s life, but they were unwilling to fully rebuke the others or put their own bodies on the line, and so Joseph was ripped from his household and homeland. Last week we saw how Joseph had risen from slavery and imprisonment to become the second-most powerful person in Egypt and has been governing the empire so that they would make the most of their years of plenty in order to survive the coming years of famine. Since then (and this is more than a little complicated, so let’s all take a deep breath and wish each other luck) the famine has spread through the lands, and now affects Jacob and his remaining sons. So Jacob sends 10 of his sons (the 10 who betrayed Joseph) to Egypt to procure some grain. Importantly, however, Jacob keeps Benjamin home (Benjamin, his youngest and – now that Joseph is gone – only son from Rachel). When the brothers arrive they come before Joseph (in his official capacity) and bow… however, they do not realise it is him, though he recognises them immediately. Rather than reveal himself, Joseph remains incognito. He accuses the brothers of being foreign spies and declares that they shall all be imprisoned until one of them goes back home, retrieves their youngest brother (Benjamin) and brings him to Egypt. The brothers protest, they know their father will not wish to part with Benjamin, so Joseph strikes a deal – nine of the brothers can be released and take a provision of grain home with them, yet one brother must remain in prison until Benjamin is brought to Egypt. Joseph also, unbeknownst to his brothers, has his servants return all the money they had spent on grain and places it in their bags. The brothers agree but say to one another, "‘Alas, we are paying the penalty for what we did to our brother; we saw his anguish when he pleaded with us, but we would not listen. That is why this anguish has come upon us.’… They did not know that Joseph understood them, since he spoke with them through an interpreter. He turned away from them and wept." So, 10 brothers have gone to Egypt, one is now in prison, and so 9 return to Canaan to retrieve the youngest brother and bring him back to Egypt so that the other brother (who they do not know is there brother) will allow all 11 to return home with enough grain to survive the famine… good so far? As expected, Jacob does not want to let Benjamin go. He has lost too many sons, and cannot bear another. In an attempt to convince his father, Rueben says that should he fail to bring Benjamin home from Egypt Jacob may kill Rueben’s two sons. Jacob does not agree. But the famine worsens and so Jacob instructs his sons to go again to Egypt, but they remind him, they cannot do so without Benjamin. This time, Judah seeks to convince their father: "Send the boy with me... I myself will be surety for him; you can hold me accountable for him. If I do not bring him back to you … then let me bear the blame for ever." Jacob relents, and sends his remaining sons into the land of Egypt. When Joseph sees that they have returned with Benjamin he hosts his brothers for dinner. Joseph spends the night swinging between asking his brothers about their father, and running out of the room weeping. And yet, he still doesn’t reveal himself instead, he plays a further trick. Once again Joseph has his servants secretly return his brothers money to their bags, but this time, he also has them plant his silver cup in Benjamin’s bag. He sends his brothers on the way with all their grain and riches, but then sends his soldiers to confront the brothers and “uncover” the “stolen” silver cup. The brothers are dragged before Joseph who declares that Benjamin must become his slave, whilst the rest are allowed to go free. "Then Judah stepped up to him and said… if I come to my father and the boy is not with us… he will die… Now therefore, please let your servant remain as a slave to my lord in place of the boy; and let the boy go back with his brothers. For how can I go back to my father if the boy is not with me? I fear to see the suffering that would come upon my father." And it is at this pivotal moment, with Judah ready to lay down his life for the sake of his younger brother, that our reading commences. Readings Genesis 45:1-15 and John 21:1-14
Joseph seems determined to test the great human question: can people change? At first, it seems not. Jacob still runs his house on favouritism, doing nothing to retrieve Simeon from prison, but holding his beloved Benjamin close to his home and heart. Reuben still attempts a half-measure to save his brother (offering not his own life as guarantee, but the life of his sons). It is only Judah who is now ready to offer his own life for Benjamin’s. It is this act by which Joseph is overwhelmed and undone, he weeps and reveals himself to his brothers. Whether or not everyone can change, Judah has. But also, I think, so has Joseph. How easy it would have been for Joseph to spend these long years in Egypt hoping for a day when he could see his brothers get their comeuppance. He would not be the first nor last, for we all know the satisfaction of a story where the betrayers are brought low before the one once powerless, now powerful? Joseph has the opportunity to enslave those who sold him into slavery, to cast out empty those who soaked his cloak in blood. The brothers, in a vindication of his earliest dream, bow before him. With the flick of his wrist, he could have his revenge, and yet he chooses to offer a second chance. In doing Joseph makes possible forgiveness, apology, reconciliation, and new beginnings. But also, in choosing forgiveness, Joseph demonstrates that he has managed to break free of the arrogance and insensitivity of his spoilt youth. For though the brothers bow before him he says nothing of the dreams which caused them such anger. Rather he embraces them as he weeps. Joseph no longer celebrates the visions of power and prestige brought on by his dreams, but rather gives thanks for his ability to preserve life. Joseph, as we saw last week, has done the difficult though important work of discerning the movement of God in his life. Because of this we have seen his ability to rise to the occasion, foreground the needs of many, and offer gratitude for God’s faithfulness. This does not mean that he is without grief or longing. In the presence of his brothers Joseph is barely holding his emotions together – he longs for word of his father, longs to see restoration, longs for some sign of change. Judah gives him the sign that he too has changed, that he too has realised what he is called to do. The willingness of Joseph to let go of rightful grievance, and the willingness of Judah to break the cycle by which this whole horrid affair began, together transform the relationship, ushering in a new beginning. As much as we love the satisfaction of poetic retribution, I think we appreciate all the more the beauty of second chances, because we know we all need them. Big or small, we make mistakes, and hurt others. At (almost) the end of this long book of Genesis, where we have seen so many stories of betrayal and mistreatment we are reminded that change and transformation are possible, forgiveness and reconciliation are possible, new beginnings are possible. Who we are is not determined by the worst thing we have done: we can break cycles, learn from the past, right wrongs and repair harm. None of this happens by accident, but this is the work that we, like Joseph, are called to do. For as satisfying as it would have been to watch Joseph get even, the kingdom of God works on an entirely different economics. In the kingdom debts are forgiven, captives set free, and the year of jubilee proclaimed. In the kingdom last and first receive their daily wage, those excluded are brought into feast, and there is as much rejoicing for the child who spoilt their inheritance as the one who stayed faithfully at their father’s side. The enduring beauty of the stories of Jesus appearing to his disciples after his resurrection is found in the tender way he seeks out those who abandoned him in his hour of need. He comes to them and says, fear not, and, peace be with you. He invites them to touch his wounds and breaks bread with them at tables. He shows up at the shoreline, calls them children and feeds them by the campfire. And following this, Jesus takes a stroll with the one who not only abandoned but denied and says, feed my sheep. Jesus affirms the mutual love between Peter and himself. And with that love intact, Jesus reminds Peter that his denial does not define his worth or disqualify him from his commission. All this points toward the great paradox of Christianity. There are absolutely zero hurdles we must overcome in order to receive a share in the divine life. There’s no test or trial to receive Christ’s grace, salvation, and love. And yet, the Christian life costs something. It makes demands. We are asked, after all, to take up our cross and follow Christ. This means, like Joseph, we are called to lay down the worldly wisdom of getting even. As those forgiven, we are called to forgive. As those reconciled, we are called to reconcile. Jesus teaches us to love our enemies, pray for our persecutors, and find greatness in service. To seek first the kingdom of God requires active choices that go against common sense and economics. None of this is easy, and we will need all those second chances. And I’ll always stress that the way we practice forgiveness and restoration needs to be worked out with pastoral sensitivity. But being a disciple looks foolish to the world, for being a disciple means embracing the wisdom of God revealed most fully in the cross of Christ. For it is here that we might learn the strength and compassion that Joseph required to forgive and restore his brothers, and lead them into life. Reading Genesis 41:39-52 and Philippians 1: 12-21
Image, Joseph overseeing the gathering of grain during the seven years of plenty. St. Mark’s Basilica in Venice (1275) The story of Joseph is distinct in the book of Genesis for two reasons. First, its length, and second, its lack of direct intervention or communication from God. This second point is especially striking compared to what has come before. The God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob appears to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. God speaks to them directly, offers blessings, callings, and wisdom as they seek to live well in the world. When we come to Joseph, just one generation removed, it is dramatically different. At no point in Joseph’s long life and detailed story does God appear and speak to him as God had done for his ancestors. We read that The Lord was with Joseph, but such a claim is more about Joseph’s ability to thrive despite his circumstances. Joseph’s interpretation of dreams (instrumental in his rise to power in the land of Egypt) is said to come from God, but God doesn’t visit Joseph in dreams as God did with his forebears. The story of Joseph is as much a story of family dynamics and political manoeuvring as it is a story of God… and yet, for this reason, the story is well suited for us today, whose experience of God resembles Joseph’s, far more than Abraham. For this reason, it is not only dreams that Joseph must interpret throughout his long stay in Egypt – it is the very nature of his life and God’s presence therein. Joseph, has to consider, reflect, and discern the way God is present in his life and how this should shape the way he understands what has happened to him, and what he ought to do. We share this with Joseph. Should we wish to determine how we are meant to act in a situation, should we wish to determine the way in which God has been working in our life, we need to reflect and discern. Like Joseph, when we are at a loss, are confronted with calamity, or reach an impasse, we have to step out in faith, without – necessarily – the embodied presence of God telling us move from here to there. Between last week’s brotherly betrayal and the beginning of this week’s reading Joseph has had a rocky ride. Joseph is purchased by Potiphar, an officer of Pharaoh. Joseph finds favour in his eyes and is soon entrusted with the power to oversee the household… and yet, Potiphar’s wife seeks to exploit her status and coerce Joseph into sex. When he resists, she concocts a lie to send Joseph to prison. Joseph spends some years in prison, before – by a stroke of luck (or God’s providential hand) – he has a chance to interpret some of Pharaohs worrying dreams. Such interpretations, and subsequent wisdom of how the nation ought to respond to what the dreams revealed, lead to Joseph earning Pharaoh’s trust and him being raised through the ranks to the point we began today’s reading, where Joseph is second in command over the whole nation, charged to direct the political and economic life of the region’s most powerful and prosperous kingdom. Joseph, betrayed, sold, exploited, betrayed again, and imprisoned, is now triumphant! At the height of his power, Joseph has two sons. He named the firstborn Manasseh, ‘For’, he said, ‘God has made me forget all my hardship and all my father’s house.’ The second he named Ephraim, ‘For God has made me fruitful in the land of my misfortunes.’ The naming testifies to Joseph’s interpretation and discernment. The names signify what he has come to believe about God’s work in his life. Despite many hardships, Joseph sees God at work, believes God has acted to wipe away the painful memories of his betrayal with fruitfulness in this new land. Joseph continues such interpretive work throughout his life. Later, in the presence of his repentant brothers, he will remark, that it was not they who sent him to Egypt, but God – God sent him ahead so that he might preserve life. It is easy to learn two wrong lessons from Joseph. The first is to conflate material blessings with God’s blessing, or worldly esteem with God’s favour and plans. This lesson looks at Joseph’s success and says, this is the evidence of God’s faithfulness to him. Such a lesson not only disregards the ongoing anguish of his betrayal and estrangement from his family, as well as the way Joseph felt the nearness of God even in his lowliness. It also promotes the sanctification of earthly economic hierarchies, where the rich are presumed to be blessed, while the poor must have somehow missed God’s plan for their lives. This is why it is helpful to have also read Paul’s letter to the Philippians. For Paul, no less than Joseph, recognises the presence of God and the movement of God’s hand in his present circumstances. Of course, for Paul, such a recognition is made in prison. The second wrong lesson is that because Joseph is able to look at his life and proclaim the providential purposes of God at work in its ups and downs, we should be able to do that for others. Through prayer and time Joseph might be able to look at those who have wronged him and say, even though you intended to do harm to me, God intended it for good… but that does not mean, when we find ourselves in conversations with those who are suffering with calamity, confusion, and pain, we ought to pronounce such an interpretation over them. Both Joseph and Paul discern for themselves what God is and has been doing, and this offers great comfort. On the other hand, even our well-intentioned efforts to tell others that their pain and loss must be part of God’s plan, might only further the hurt. This was the folly of Job’s friends, who came to sit with him in his grief and loss, only to start telling him what his suffering meant, why it occurred, and what it was leading to. In the end, the whirlwind of God chased them off! And just as we should not enforce our interpretation on others questions, we must learn to respect how people interpret the story of God and their life, even when it does not fit with our own picture of God. Here I think of Naomi in the book of Ruth (another story where the presence of God is backgrounded). Upon returning to her homeland following the death of her husband and sons, Naomi announces: ‘Call me no longer Naomi (meaning pleasant), call me Mara (meaning bitter), for the Almighty has dealt bitterly with me. I went away full, but the Lord has brought me back empty; why call me Naomi when the Lord has dealt harshly with me, and the Almighty has brought calamity upon me?’ In time, those close to Naomi who are willing to journey with her on the long road of grief and resettlement, might begin, through careful discussion to ask about this way of thinking about God (and the way God has dealt with her), and perhaps try and re-story her relationship with her. But just like we cannot rush to tell someone what God is doing in their life, we cannot rush to override how someone has come to discern where and what God is in their life… as difficult as that may be when hearing someone in despair and anguish. Joseph then, like Paul, serves as a helpful example of how we might live in the age of the Spirit and the Church. For we are not like those prophets and apostles who experienced direct, extended, unmediated relationships with God. Unlike the disciples who journeyed three years with Jesus, or unlike Abraham who stood with God outside his camp and was told precisely what was intended for him, we live in more ordinary times. And thus, as the hymn goes, our faith must feel its way about. We must open our life (ears, eyes, and heart) to the promptings of the Spirit, sitting beneath the Word and seeking the wisdom of the community. We, like Joseph (and unlike Abraham), do not get the plan laid out to us in advance. We are fortunate to receive the good news of what God has done for us in Christ, and then seek to live in response. And yet, as we live, we can often struggle to feel a strong sense of God’s presence or desire for us in this decision, or that relationship, or those years of struggle or triumph. Sometimes, like Joseph, things feel clearer on the other side, but sometimes they will not. It is here that the stories we tell about who God is, and who we are as God’s own beloved, and the nature of the world as created by God in love matter most. For it is the stories of God’s loving kindness, unwavering faithfulness, abounding grace, and deeply personal care (not only for all of creation but for each of us at an intimate level) that will sustain and shape us most, even when the immediate presence of God feels like a background character in the ups and downs of our life in these ordinary times. Reading, Genesis 37:3-34
Image, Richard McBee, Joseph’s Bloody Coat (1998) In this reading, the Bible gives us what could be the dictionary definition of a “disproportionate response.” The brothers have good reason to dislike Joseph and envy him as their father has made little to no effort to disguise his preference for his young son. But their animosity is grounded on even more than 17 years of preferential love for their younger brother. Because even before Joseph was born, his brothers had witnessed years of Jacob’s preferential love for his younger wife Rachel (a preference which, we saw some weeks back, comes at the expense of Leah – the unloved mother of several of these sons). And so, even before we come to Joseph’s dreams (and his lack of tact in reporting them), the family is fractured by favouritism and the home built on decades of the unequal affection of its patriarch. Favouritism wreaks havoc. It creates the feelings of scarcity, indignity, and factionalism that underpins so much violence. Favouritism is also intimately linked to the various cases of brotherly conflict in Genesis. God favoured Abel’s offering over Cain’s and for this, Cain killed his brother. Isaac favoured Esau while Rebekah favoured Jacob, and we have seen the conflict and betrayal of this division. Now, Joseph’s brothers – seeing an opportunity to rid themselves of the one brother so readily held above the rest – are ready to dash his blood. That is until Reuben speaks out. Reuben, the eldest son – born of Leah when the Lord saw her suffering, and named in the hope that Jacob might love his unfavoured wife. Reuben, hearing the plotting of his younger brothers, delivers Joseph out of their grips and suggests instead they lay him in a pit unharmed. Rueben’s plan, the narrator makes clear, is to return later and rescue Joseph and restore him to their father. However, his plan is thwarted, ironically, by another brother’s attempt to spare his Joseph’s life. For it is Judah, Leah’s fourth son, who hatches the plan to sell Joseph to a passing caravan of Ishmaelites. While Judah’s suggestion might, on the surface, appear economically motivated, the detail that they sell him so as not to lay hands on him for he is our brother, our own flesh, speaks to a desire to spare the life of one they are responsible. For all Judah knows, Reuben’s plea to throw him in a pit is just another death sentence (only rendered more slowly and with less mess or direct action). And so Judah tricks the others into selling Joseph – he’ll be a slave, but he’ll be alive. Reuben and Judah might both be commended for not falling prey to the more depraved impulses of their siblings, and yet in their unwillingness to offer a full-throated rebuke of their brothers, they fail to be their brother’s keeper. Perhaps both Rueben and Judah felt alone in their conviction against a tide of animosity. Feeling alone, perhaps they feared drawing attention to themselves, and their dissent to the assumed majority. And yet, had either spoken out, they would have realised they were not alone. And had one spoken out, and the other lent their voice, then who knows whether a third, fourth, or even fifth brother might have been similarly moved to speak in the name of compassion? Who knows how quickly reason and mercy might have prevailed once one (no less) two spoke out in the name of life. Reuben’s voice in particular, as first born with more than enough rightful grievance against both Jacob and Joseph, would have carried a great moral weight. And yet, fence-sitting out of fear, both settle with half-measures, and unfortunately in this instance two halves do not make a whole. Joseph’s life is saved but he is not restored, instead he is subjugated and shipped off into what could easily be a fate worse than death. Reuben and Judah might indeed have love for their brother, but the greatest love is not seen in striking a balance between preserving one’s own life (and reputation) and the life of another, no, no one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends. The failing of Reuben and Judah is one to which we all must be on guard. The stakes will be lower for us, for it is unlikely we will find ourselves unwittingly placed in a conspiracy to commit fratricide. But lower stakes only make it easier to remain quiet, to sit on a fence, to take a half-measure so as not to draw too much attention to ourselves. For we will have all been (and shall yet be) in conversations where the life of another is being discussed. The discussion might not be whether this life should be taken or sold, but it might concern whether this life is worth dignity, respect, and understanding. This might be a discussion about an individual, perhaps a family member, a co-worker, or fellow member of a community group. A conversation where gossip, maliciousness, or jokes are made at another’s expense, denigrating their humanity and dignity. Or it might be a discussion about a whole group of people, perhaps a racial group, or other marginalised class of people. A conversation where prejudice, hostility, and disrespect are voiced often in a most reasonable tone. It can feel like the hardest thing in the world to say something in these moments, even when what we are hearing affronts our deeply held beliefs, even when (often to the ignorance of the one speaking) the words concern someone we know well and love dearly. Sometimes we might hold our tongue because it is the safe or strategic thing to do in that moment, but too often we stay silent when we needn’t. In staying silent, we might be able to tell ourselves later that, ‘well, at least I didn’t offer my support’ – but in not saying something we allow those present to assume that this is exactly what we did. And like Reuben and Judah, should we speak out, should we pull the conversation up and offer our dissent or rebuke, we may be surprised to discover others present grateful that we did and ready to lend their voice to our own. Those of us who have done the domestic abuse bystander training with Julia will know all too well the importance of speaking up in those conversations where the vulnerable are denigrated, dismissed, or threatened. None of this is to condemn us for the times we haven’t spoken, nor assume our record will be perfect going forward. Though their situation is exaggerated compared to our own, Judah and Reuben are deeply relatable. We’re all going to mess this up and wish we had another chance. The good news is that Rueben and Judah will get another chance. As we will see in two weeks, at the end of this saga they will get another chance to save a brother, another chance to lay down their life for a friend. And if Judah and Reuben, in a situation of such high stakes get another chance, we can take heart, for we too get more chances. This side of God’s restoration of all things, the world will never suffer a shortage of these kinds of conversations. And so we will find ourselves in them again, and our prayer is that – by the power of the Spirit – we shall be found ready to speak out for those whose lives are treated trivially. But there is more good news yet, because just as there are times when we shall feel (and fail) like Judah and Rueben, there are those times when we shall feel (and be failed) like Joseph. But the good news of the gospel is that Jesus does not love half-hearted. Jesus does not repute injustice in a whimper. Jesus does not try and save us with half-measures until the storm subsides. No, Jesus, our true and perfect brother, has laid down his life for his friends. Jesus, our refuge and shepherd, has claimed us as his own and will not allow anything to separate us from the love of God. Readings, Genesis 32 - 33:11 and Luke 15:11-24
Image, Peter Gorban, The Reconciliation of Jacob and Esau (1990) Having parted with Laban and received a summons from God, Jacob returns to his homeland… there’s just one issue, what will Esau do? We remember that Jacob had to flee because - after stealing his older brother’s blessing - Esau sought to kill him. And so, it is of little surprise that Jacob sends messengers ahead to ascertain Esau’s feelings, and even less surprising that – upon hearing that Esau rides toward him with four hundred men – Jacob was greatly afraid and distressed. Now, to our ears the following statement might be hard to believe (particularly as we can often feel like the Bible is effusive in its prosaic descriptions of the preparation of animals for sacrifice, measurements of buildings, or various genealogies) but the writers of scripture are efficient with language and do not like to waste words. And so, it is notable when – as in this instance – additional adjectives are employed. Why, faithful readers have long inquired, is Jacob described as being afraid and distressed – surely “afraid” is sufficient, given that fear naturally engenders distress? Jewish scribes, considering this passage, were drawn to the conclusion that two words must indicate two different things, namely that Jacob is greatly afraid that he will be killed by his brother, and thus – as a result – greatly distressed that he might have to kill his brother.* After all, the first great sin following the expulsion from Eden was fratricide. And thus Jacob (who from the womb has been in conflict with his brother) is filled with fear that he might be another Able, and filled with distress that to avoid this, he must become another Cain. Jacob springs into action to avoid either of these outcomes. He sends servants with gifts ahead to Esau, telling them to refer to him as Esau’s servant, hoping humility and bounty will curry favour with his estranged brother. He then separates his livestock, so that should Esau attack one set, half will be preserved. Finally, resting alone having sent his emissaries and sorted his camp, we have one of the most enigmatic and evocative stories in all of Scripture. Jacob wrestles with a man. Many of us will have experienced the palpable feelings, the anxious struggle in body and mind that comes before a possible confrontation. The jitteriness and unease that precedes an encounter with someone with whom there is animosity, unresolved tension, or outright hostility. Perhaps you’ve known this in a workplace, in the family, with a friend, or in a community org. We can feel flush and hot, uneasy on our feet, sweaty in the palms – while internally we are going through the various possibilities the upcoming conversation or confrontation might take – imagining, that is, what they might say, and then what incredibly witty and precisely brilliant response we will come up with that wins the day… Without getting in the weeds as to the nature of this figure that comes upon Jacob in the night, we can imagine that it is a manifestation of a similar internal struggle. The wrestling is an externalisation of what Jacob is battling internally – the fear and the distress. Jacob wrestles with the horizon of Esau and the paucity of choices he faces as each passing hour brings their confrontation closer. This is Jacob’s dark night of the soul. The figure and the conflict and the desire for blessing is not only a striving and pleading that he (and his brother) might have more life, but also that Jacob’s whole life to this point (marked time and time again by literal and figurative wrestling to gain blessing and life) might be brought out of struggle and into a place of peace and rest. At the end of their struggle, though wounded, Jacob prevails. He receives a new name and declares, “I have seen God face to face and yet my life is preserved.” With that the sun rises, and the moment of truth approaches with the footsteps of Esau: will Jacob be Able, or Cain, or will there be the blessing of new life? Some millennia later Jesus will tell a story about two brothers, the younger of whom leaves their homeland with a blessing and inheritance secured in an untimely and unseemly manner. A story where, once again, this younger brother seeks to return to his homeland, a return also marked by fear and distress as to the kind of welcome he will receive… a fear and distress he seeks to mitigate by deciding ahead of time to appear not as lord, but as a humble servant. And yet, we know how this younger brother, this prodigal son is received. Jacob went ahead of his wives, maids and children, bowing himself to the ground seven times, until he came near his brother. But Esau ran to meet him and embraced him, and fell on his neck and kissed him, and they wept. Fear and distress evaporate. Jacob will neither be killed or kill, for he has received blessing once more in the act of love, forgiveness, and reconciliation with one he had wronged. And, as he did at Peniel, Jacob declares that in this moment, he sees in Esau’s face the face of God. Esau delivers on the hopes of Jacob’s mythic struggle. Esau’s act determines that these brothers shall claim blessing from the mouth of violence, life from the clutches of death, a new future from the sins of the past. And this is why Jacob sees the face of God, for this is what God offers to all. All who turn from the far country back to their homeland – whether in rags or riches – God meets us on that road, before we have a chance to speak, before we have a chance to bargain, and embraces us in restorative love, and calls for celebration! There is another beautiful parallel between our two stories today: This whole time Jacob has been positioning himself, declaring himself as Esau’s servant; and yet, when Esau responds to Jacob, he dismisses such humbling, by referring to Jacob as his brother. So too, the young sin returning from the far country declares himself a servant, a worker, not fit to be called son… his father however, does not even address this claim, instead declaring to all who can hear this son of mine was dead and is alive again. For through Christ we have received a spirit of adoption, co-heirs with the Son, we are friends, not strangers, children not servants, and this is how we are received by God, no matter how long it has been since we turned to face our home. From the dazzling beginning of creation, all are called to bear the image of God. To live – we might say – in such a way that the face of God might be visible behind our own. This is what Esau exemplifies in this moment. He so perfectly embodies God’s prodigal and restorative love, and abounding and steadfast mercy, that Jacob sees his God in his brother’s visage. And this, which Esau exemplified in this one moment, is what Christ, as the image of the invisible God, exemplified in perfection in every moment of his life. Christ, who repaired the image of humanity fractured by generations of sin, is the one to whom we look to see God face to face, it is Christ we look to for inspiration and example as we seek to bear God’s image in the world, and it is Christ to whom we look when we have lost the way and need to come home – because in the face of Christ we see our brother, and through Christ our Father, running toward us, arms flung wide, and the promise of joyful and unqualified restoration on his lips. *Rabbi Shai Held, The Heart of Torah, vol.1 (Jewish Publication Society, 2017), 69-70. |
SermonsPlease enjoy a collection of sermons preached in recent months at the Kirk. If you have questions about the sermons, or attending a service reach out using the Contact Page. Categories |