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.

Readings Genesis 45:1-15 and John 21:1-14 ​

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.  

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.

Readings Genesis 29:15-35 and 2 Corinthians 4:7-16
Image, GHISLAINE HOWARD, Pregnant Self Portrait, 1984, Oil on board
 Note, I owe many insights in this sermon to Rabbi Shai Held, The Heart of Torah vol. 1 (Jewish Publication Society, 2017). Specific page numbers quoted below.

 
The chapters of Genesis where Jacob stays with Laban are as complex and messy as any Greek tragedy, Shakespearean farce, or daytime soap. Jacob is sent to the house of Laban (his mother’s brother) to escape the wrath of Esau and procure a wife. Early on he meets and falls in love with Rachel (Laban’s younger daughter) and agrees to work for Laban for seven years if he gets to marry Rachel at the end of them. However, in an ironic reversal of Jacob’s earlier efforts to trick his father by pretending to be an older sibling, Jacob himself is tricked into marrying Rachel’s older sibling, Leah. Following the unwitting consummation of their marriage, Jacob confronts Laban in a rage, after which Laban says he can marry Rachel so long as he remains married to Leah and works another seven years for Laban.
 
Today’s reading follows on from here, detailing Leah’s grief and disregard on the part of Jacob, the blessing and notice she receives from God, and the various children she bears to (a still uninterested) Jacob. And yet, this is not where the drama of Jacob in the house of Laban ends. Following this we have some 20 or so further verses detailing the way in which Rachel – devastated by her own lack of children – gives her maid Bilhan to Jacob so that she might gain children through her (she gets two children through this arrangement). Following this, Leah gives her own maid to Jacob in order to bring forth two more sons. After this (and some trading of mandrakes) Leah then bears two more sons and a daughter to Jacob, after which, we read that “God remembered Rachel” and she bears a final son to Jacob, naming him Joseph (of technicolour dream coat fame).
 
And yet, all these sons through all these arrangements are not the end of the drama. Laban and Jacob continue to go back and forth in grievance and trickery (mostly over Jacob’s wages) before Jacob finally fleas with his wives and children (and a bunch of Laban’s household goods that Rachel steals, a theft which drives Laban to chase Jacob for a week across the desert, after which, being unable to find the contraband, they agree to make a covenant together and stay out of each other’s way)… and thus goes the story of Jacob in the household of Laban, and with that, the sermon might begin…
 
The scene is a mess and many suffer directly or as collateral because of deceit, trickery, jealousy, hard-heatedness, and a decided lack of communication. We remember that the whole thing comes about because of Jacob’s trickery, and while there is some poetic justice in Laban later tricking him, this is achieved with no regard for what it might mean for Leah and Rachel (or their maids). The most generous reading of Laban’s decision is that it was motivated by concern for his eldest daughter. Jacob was instantly attracted to her younger sibling, and there is no sense that Leah had other prospects or suitors, and in a deeply patriarchal and economically insecure society she could hardly remain unwed. And so Laban acts to ensure that Leah would be secure after his death. And yet, even this generous read offers little to compensate Leah’s pain, for at no point in the narrative will Jacob express any affection for Leah.
 
Indeed, Leah’s childbearing comes because, as we heard, “the Lord saw that Leah was unloved.” And Leah’s naming of her children only further demonstrates her pitiful state. The first is named Reuben because since the Lord had looked on her affliction “surely now my husband will love me.” The second is named Simeon because (contrary to the hopes she placed on her first child) the Lord has seen how she is still hated… and the third is named Levi in the hope that having borne three sons “my husband will be joined to me” (joined, we note, is a long way from the initial hope of love).       
 
Leah faces significant disappointment and disregard on the part of her husband. Her wish for love, kindness, even simple attachment is unmet year on year, child on child. And then, something happens… Leah births a fourth son and says, “This time I will praise the Lord” and names him Judah. All the previous names express her yearning and disappointment in relation to her husband, but now she frees herself from such hopes and turns her focus to expressing gratitude for God, who has seen her suffering and tended her woes with blessing. Leah, it is said, is the first person in scripture to express gratitude in the midst of suffering and disappointment. Many have given thanks when things are going well, Leah gives thanks after realising that her life will not be as she wished. From Leah we learn the holy work of finding gratitude “amid profound sorrow and enduring disappointment” (Held, p.63).   
 
In a reflection on this passage, Rabbi Shai Held notes that Judah (the name meaning I will praise or I will express gratitude) becomes the name of the Jewish people as a whole, and thus the Jew is “one who discovers the possibility of gratitude even amid heartbreak… [who] can find a way to gratitude without having everything she wants or even needs.” (p.63)
 
Paul, himself a Jew, raised on the story of Leah, expresses a similar thought to the church in Corinth. He reminds them to Let light shine out of darkness, because though we are afflicted in every way we are not crushed, perplexed, but not driven to despair, persecuted but not forsaken, struck down but not destroyed. Such words can be said of Leah, and her ability to find a way to praise and gratitude despite indignity and disappointment. And such words set the tone for the life of the Christian, who knows that amid heartbreak and longing, gratitude witnesses to the truth that we are always carrying in the body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may be made visible in our bodies… So do not lose heart [extols Paul] even though our outer nature is wasting away, our inner nature is being renewed day by day.
 
Our lives and relationships might not be quite so intensely dramatic as the lives and relationships circling Jacob and Laban, but we know too well what it is to live in a complex and messy world, we know too well that life has its share of disappointments and dashed dreams, heartbreaks and unrealised hopes. And such a world takes a toll on our outer nature, there is nothing gained in denying such a thing. However, what we learn from Leah and Paul, is that if we remain open to the presence and power of God, take time to notice God’s attention and care, and teach ourselves to discover gratitude for what grace we have received, then our inner nature will be renewed day by day. Renewed by God who in Christ makes us a new creation, raised from dust into glory, affliction into praise. 
 
This does not mean that the pain disappears, that the disappointments wont sting, or that the longing for a life that might have been loses all allure. Rather, like Leah, this renewal allows us to find freedom amidst unchanged circumstances, to find gratitude amidst unmet desire, to find praise for God’s faithfulness amidst human failure. For God saw Leah in her affliction, and God saw the church in Corinth in their affliction, and God sees each and every one of us in our affliction, and says though you may be afflicted you shall not be crushed! For God is always at work to lead us into life, to lead us into freedom, and to lead us into glory. And what we are asked to do, is to walk on together, protecting this promise, and helping each other find a way to gratitude, for where there’s gratitude there is renewal.

Reading, Genesis 27:1-35
Image, Richard McBee, Isaac Returns (1997 30" x 24”)
 
It is one of those impeccable works of Biblical irony, that Isaac, whose name and birth revolves around laughter, is such a sad figure. When he is born, his mother Sarah celebrates the blessing and says God has made me laughter… but here we find him, nearing the end of his days, trembling violently having been tricked out of a blessing by Rebekah and Jacob.
 
One of the common references for God in scripture is that God is the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. But sandwiched within the middle there, it can be hard to know what to make of Isaac, the forgotten middle child of biblical patriarchs. Abraham is Father Abraham – the great man of faith, the paradigm of hospitality, the father of many religions. Jacob is this almost mythic trickster figure who not only steals a blessing from his dad, but wrestles another out of an angel.
 
By contrast, this is Isaac’s life. He is born into joy, though his existence soon proves a point of conflict – when out of fear, Sarah will expel his half-brother Ishmael from the household. Isaac is then taken up the mountain to be (nearly) sacrificed, after which he disappears from the narrative for some time and never sees his father again. Abraham’s servant brings Rebekah to him, and he loves her and takes her into his mother’s home. Though he is soon forced to move about seeking security and fresh water. During one of these sojourns he does the old, “this woman, no she’s not my wife, she’s my sister” move that Abraham was so fond of! He and Rebekah struggle for two decades to have children, and even then, their twins are born fated to be in opposition which crescendos in today’s reading. All Isaac does after this (again, like father like son) is ask Jacob not to marry a woman from amongst the Canaanites, before disappearing for six long chapters followed by a two-verse notice of his death. Again, I ask, what do we make of Isaac? A man of seemingly little will, acquainted with sorrows and disappointments.  
 
Well, I think the first thing we do is take a lot of hope. Because if God is the God of Abraham, that’s great, but intimidating. Because who is ready to stand next to a man whose faith is so strong it can obliterate any ties to his earthly kin. And if God is the God of Jacob, this is equally disquieting, because who among us is ready to throw caution to the wind time and again to procure and secure blessings by hook and by crook. But if God is also the God of Isaac, we take hope, because Isaac is at least relatable. If God is the God of Isaac, then God is the God of the traumatised and the shaken. God of those who long for so little, only to for that to disappoint them. God for those who stake no great claim on the world nor shape it in their image. God for those who were taken advantage of in the vulnerability of childhood and old age. God for those of broken dreams and broken hearts, who stumble and bend under the weight of family expectations. God for those who are almost forgotten by their death. If God is the God of Isaac, then God is the God of many more.
 
Not that such a confession should surprise us, for we know that as God in flesh, Jesus was not unfamiliar with troubles. Jesus too, is a man of sorrows, acquainted with grief. Like Isaac, Jesus’ birth is a miraculous source of joy, and yet much of his trouble, grief, and frustration comes when the expectations of others do not fit with his intent. Jesus wept and grieved, he was troubled, afflicted and mistreated. And yet, this is why he is a pathway through to love. As Gregory of Nazianzus wrote in the fourth century, For that which [Jesus] has not assumed He has not healed; but that which is united to His Godhead is also saved. Gregory taught that Jesus had indeed assumed and experienced human nature in its totality (even our sorrows and strife) and therefore all of this was able to be healed, all of us could be united with him and redeemed by his divinity. We take heart and hope, because by being acquainted with our grief, Jesus is able to offer relief and redemption. As the writer of Hebrews puts it, Jesus, our high priest, is able to sympathise with our weaknesses [because] in every respect has been tested as we are, 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.
 
Because God is the God of Isaac, a man acquainted with grief and disappointment, and because God in Christ has assumed the trials and woes of our kind, then our own personal trials, sadness, and disappointment is does not keep us outside of the covenant, does not separates us from God’s love, does not deny us the calling, does not bar us from fellowship. Instead, it is the very thing that permits us to approach the throne of grace with boldness, for Jesus has assumed (known) even this, and because of that he can offer redemption and a share in his divinity. The church is thus not the body of Christ so long as it has its act together, covers its wounds and supresses its trauma. No, the church is the body of Christ because Christ has made it so. The church is the body of Christ as it bears and tends to wounds… for Christ was wounded. The church is the body of Christ when it suffers and struggles… for Christ suffered and struggled. The church is the body of Christ when it laments… for Christ brought lament to God. The Christian is not the one who has successfully hidden or triumphed over their sadness, the Christian is the one Christ has united to his divinity because he has shared every part of our humanity and his blessing cannot be stolen.
 
God is the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. The blessing, and calling of God does not skip a generation. Isaac is no forgotten middle child, for God’s own child has also walked his lonely road. So, whenever we find ourselves on that road, take heart, because this too was assumed by Christ so that we might receive mercy and find grace to help in times of need

Reading, Genesis 24: 1-5, 10-27
Image, Ellis Burman, Rebecca at the Well, 1936
 
First off, for anyone confused, we did indeed cover the death of Abraham last week, so this is not his ghost appearing, we’ve simply jumped back a chapter. But it is helpful to have Abraham’s death in mind, because with it the question is raised, will the next generation be found ready to carry on the commission he received?
 
Abraham was revered most for his hospitality. It is this, we might presume, that is most important gift to be carried on. What is fascinating in the way today’s story unfolds is that the one who will ensure that this trait continues is not Isaac, but Rebekah.
 
Rebekah meets a stranger, in the way that Abraham met three travellers passing his home, and offers him drink, water for his camels, and a room in which he might rest. Generous hospitality for the weary stranger bursts forth from Rebekah as it did Abraham – and it is by this that she is distinguished from her kin, and grafted into the narrative of salvation.
 
At this point you might be thinking, ok, another sermon about the importance and necessity of hospitality for those who follow God. And, yeah, it kind of is, and the frequency of such is not surprising. Reams of scripture display a deep concern the how and why of hospitality, and the way it interweaves with worship and discipleship. Indeed, Rebekah’s story is another example where in offering hospitality we might be surprised by who we serve. This story of Rebekah brings to mind, not only Abraham and travellers who turn out to be angels, but Jesus’ teaching in Matthew about what you did for the least of these you did to me, and the reminder in Hebrews that in entertaining strangers some had entertained angels without knowing. When we offer welcome, we do not always know how near we have drawn to God.
 
Of course, one cannot hack the system, it is the anonymity that is the key. Rebekah knows not the connection between these camels and a man named Abraham, just as those who serve Christ did not recognise him. We do not offer hospitality because the stranger might turn out to be Christ in his lowliness, we offer hospitality because the stranger is worthy of the same treatment we would offer the Lord in his glory. It is not a bet, but a response to the truth that Christ has already (time and again) met and served us at his table.
 
And so, at one level, we read this text and hear the command we have heard many times in our churched lives: our faithfulness to Christ is defined by the welcome and care we offer the least. And we hear this command and pray that by the power and prompting of the Spirit we would be faithful more often than not. And Hallelujah, Amen, go with God.
 
But… there is something else going on in this story. Another (now predictable) layer of complexity. The story begins with an indication that perhaps there is a limit to Abraham’s hospitality; or perhaps better put, that there are aspects of Abraham’s life that have not been transformed through his hospitality. This entire story – the very reason Rebekah graces the pages of scripture – comes because Abraham did not want Isaac to marry one of the daughters of the Canaanites among whom Abraham lived, instead he sends his servant to procure a wife from Abraham’s own country and kindred. 
 
By this point in the story Abraham has lived a long time out of his country. He has resided (and prospered) as a refugee, made pacts with neighbouring tribes, bargained with God over strange cities, and taken wives and concubines from all over… and yet, when it comes to his son, no daughter of these lands and their families will be suitable, he must send for one back where he came from.
 
It would be anachronistic to call such an attitude racist, it more likely befits the charge of xenophobia or at least parochialism. Though, more immediately for our purposes, it reflects the way in which Abraham’s hospitality, while lauded, has not had the sanctifying effect we would expect. A gap remains which permits Abraham to see the stranger as befitting of welcome into his house, but not his household. Befitting his care, but not the responsibility of his covenant. Those around him might be neighbours, but they could not be in-laws. If this is the case with Abraham, we would have to also admit, he is hardly the last person to have such an attitude. Not the last to see those whom he lives amongst as perfectly good people, but… you know… not really a good fit for our family. 
 
The possibility of such a gap between hospitality and relationship reminds us that hospitality, service, and welcome are not only meant to bless others, but to transform us. These acts should draw us into beyond ourselves and into relationships that are sites of formation and sanctification. Indeed, we must be on guard against the ways hospitality and service can even have a negative impact; creating a system of a benevolent us versus a needy them. Such an attitude reduces those we seek to serve to objects, rather than fully formed people. Hospitality, becomes a problem if we are only host, and never a guest. If we serve without being served. If our generosity and welcome is performed in a way that denies that we too depend on others, that we too need to be saved. What good is it to pray each week, give us today our daily bread, if we do not let anyone else place bread before us?
 
Consider the instructions of Jesus when he sends out his disciples. They are sent without enough to provide for themselves, a posture which requires them to enter the homes of others and build relationships of trust, and be thus transformed. It is as guests that disciples minister to the needs of others and herald the coming kingdom of God. To love the poor, to love the stranger, to love our neighbour are commands that cannot be obeyed solely through charity and service, they also require relationships, friendships, community.
 
And so once again in this journey through Genesis we learn through example and negation. We commend the hospitality of Rebekah, interrogate the limits of Abraham’s, and give thanks that God works through both to bring restoration. Because this is how the chapter ends:
Isaac went out in the evening to walk in the field; and looking up, he saw camels coming. And Rebekah looked up… and said to the servant, ‘Who is the man over there, walking in the field to meet us?’ The servant said, ‘It is my master.’ So she took her veil and covered herself. And the servant told Isaac all the things that he had done. Then Isaac brought her into his mother Sarah’s tent. He took Rebekah, and she became his wife; and he loved her. So Isaac was comforted after his mother’s death.
 
In leading the servant to Rebekah, God works within and beyond human virtue and folly to draw into the story one who takes up the mantle of Abraham’s best virtue in order to heal the one wounded by Abraham’s worst. For God has not forgotten Isaac. And the importance of hospitality in Scripture is based at least in part on God’s knowledge that through relationships we are transformed, woven into a new community receiving healing, comfort, and blessing. This is good news, because as daunting as genuine hospitality is and how easily we will fall short of it, we are bold enough to try. We are bold enough to try because we trust that even in our misguided attempts, God is present, working within and beyond us to weave people together and bring forth something beautiful and true.

Reading, Genesis 25:7-11 and John 14: 15-23
Image, Isaac and Ishmael Bury Abraham, Gerard Hoet (1728)

We have been journeying with Abraham and Sarah for five weeks, and now, on the sixth, both lay buried in the cave of Machpelah. Across these five weeks we have seen the complexity of these great figures of our faith. We witnessed the virtue of their faithfulness and sacrifice, but also the ways in which they wounded each other and those around them. Abraham, from the beginning demonstrated his capacity for faith – responding immediately to God’s call, but we also saw the way fear could drive his choices, as when he gave Sarah over to the household of Pharaoh. Sarah herself goes from victim in that story, to perpetrator of harm in the tale of Hagar. And yet amidst failure both are exemplary – Abraham the paragon of hospitality (who welcomes the strangers into his home, and boldly bargains with God over the fate of Sodom) and Sarah, remaining open to laughter, open to the grace of God and the impossibility of Isaac. Through all these stories, the commendable and condemnable, God has remained faithful. Indeed, the steadfast kindness of God is so generous that not only does God not rescind the promise to Abraham and Sarah is spite of their follies, God seeks out Hagar and Ishmael, and extends blessings and promises to them.
 
Even the deaths of Abraham and Sarah are complex affairs. We know that after the near-sacrifice of Isaac the family is fractured by the trauma. Isaac departs the mountain by another path and Abraham settles in another land away from Sarah. And yet, when Sarah dies Abraham goes to her to mourn, weep, and procure the cave in which they both shall lie. Abraham’s death is also the time in which Isaac and Ishmael return to their father, together in the narrative for the first time since Ishmael was driven from their home. In these burial scenes the hurt and fractured relations sits alongside strange reunions and restoration.
 
Given the mythological and theological heft of a figure like Abraham, one might imagine the story coming to some kind of close… that the death of the great patriarch of faith would end the saga, in the way that Homer’s Odyssey doesn’t keep going after Odysseus finally makes it home. And yet, the structure of the Bible is already preparing us before Abraham’s death for the continuation of this narrative to the next generation. The preceding chapter – which we will come to next week – chronicles the efforts of finding a wife for Isaac, establishing him and Rebekah in Sarah’s home, signalling that a new generation has come of age. Abraham’s death is formidable, it punctuates the story, but it is written in such a way as to move us forward, After the death of Abraham God blessed his son Isaac. And Isaac settled at Beer-lahai-roi.
 
The Bible is a tale of generations. No one person ever lingers in Scripture for too long. Even the very great names are laid to rest, and often without seeing the fruit of their labour. Abraham dies estranged from his son with little indication of the coming nation, Moses dies on the fringes of the Holy Land, David dies before the Temple is built, John the Baptist dies in prison before Jesus is glorified, and even Jesus - just 14 chapters into the gospel of John – has to prepare his disciples for his death and departure. And yet, in each of these cases, the faithfulness of God and the emergence of the next generation is assured before death. Isaac is brought back into the narrative and comforted. Joshua is blessed by Moses, readied to lead the Israel to the promised land. John’s disciples receive assurance from Jesus that he is the one they have been waiting for. And Jesus promises his disciples that he will send them the Spirit who will counsel and equip them as they take up his work.
 
God’s eternal nature is not bound by the span of a human life (no matter how great the human). I will not leave you orphaned, Jesus reminds his disciples, exemplifying the nature of God’s relationship with humankind. The chain of witness and faithful servants has never broken, there is no death that can end the story – not even the death of God’s own beloved son. God’s loving presence spans the ages.
 
Why are we talking about this today? Besides the fact that we were up to this point in our Genesis series… Well, earlier this week we held the funeral service for Sierk – someone who served this church in manifold ways with passion and determination. Sierk, who it was told to me by several members, was the kind of person you said “what will we do it if Sierk isn’t here…” About a month ago we marked the death of Graeme Kay, who helped to bring this building to reality. On Tuesday we will hold the funeral for Anne Witherby who served the Kirk for many years, making needle points, doing flowers and, along with her husband Peter, producing the Kirk News.  Many good and faithful servants of this church (as is the case of the wider church) have joined the great cloud of witnesses. Many who might rightly be described as institutions of this place, have gone (some to glory, others just unable to make it in person any more). People who have felt like such stable presences within these walls, so intimately tied to the congregation’s very identity, have and will depart. It is natural to feel (and perhaps fear) that such losses are insurmountable, that such losses signal the ends of eras and the closing of chapters. And sometimes they do, and sometimes enough of such loses contribute to the end of congregations, perhaps even denominations… but no loss, however large, ends the story of the church. No death can cease God’s faithful journey with humanity. The kingdom of God, the community of Christ, and the covenantal relationship spans generations, and God has never left the church without faithful witnesses to carry on the gospel.
 
Even if the fathers and mothers who taught us the faith have died. Even if those elder saints who helped awake and deepen our love of God through Sunday school, music, and fellowship, no longer grace those doors of a Sunday, the church remains, the presence of Christ abides, the Spirit dwells, and the call of God resounds. We continue on as the church, even as we grieve and adjust, from generation to generation because the church does not rely on any person, congregation, or denomination, the church relies solely on the faithfulness of God. As our Basis of Union puts it so eloquently: Church is able to live and endure through the changes of history only because its Lord comes, addresses, and deals with people in and through the news of his completed work. It is Christ who, day-by-day, constitutes, rules and renews [us] as his Church. After all, if the gates of hell cannot prevail against Christ’s church, what chance does time have?
 
The death of Abraham doesn’t end the story of God’s journey with what will become Israel, but testifies to the power of God’s promise and plan to continue on and on in covenant with humanity drawing us into the work of creativity, community, and blessing. So too, the death of Jesus does not end the story of God’s faithfulness with what will become the church, rather it testifies to the power of God’s kingdom by ushering in the sending of the Spirit to equip and counsel us as we seek to keep the commandments to love God and neighbour.
 
And so, like countless of the faithful before us, we mourn and celebrate the servants of the past, gone now to the great cloud of witnesses, and we carry on our task as disciples, trusting boldly in the faithful love and steadfast kindness of God, which spans across the generations, consistent and undefeated from creation to new creation.

Reading, Genesis 22:1-19 and Matthew 15:22-28
Image, The Sacrifice of Isaac, Adi Holzer, 1997.
Note, I owe many insights in this sermon to Rabbi Shai Held, The Heart of Torah vol. 1 (Jewish Publication Society, 2017), as well as the "Akeidah Verbs" painting series by Richard McBee.

Fear and Trembling … this is what Danish theologian and philosopher Søren Kierkegaard entitled his famous book on the sacrifice of Isaac. A perfect title capturing both the feeling of those in the passage and many approaching it across the generations. Much ink has been spilled and faith tested in the face of what appears to be the most abominable action on the part of God and the most distasteful acquiescence on the part of Abraham.
 
There are varying interpretations. The aforementioned Kierkegaard sees the story as a testament to Abraham’s heroic ability to overlook all human decency and ethical standards following instead the unflinching command of God. Others take a Christological reading where this story prefigures the sacrifice of a different Son sparing the lives of many, while a more traditional reading is God testing Abraham to ensure that despite having received all he wants Abraham won’t forget his covenant with God. The generous reading of this interpretation – at least as far as the character of Abraham is concerned, is that Abraham was able to proceed with an almost mechanical exactitude because of his complete trust that God would stop him. However (and this we will come to later) there is a problem with this reading, found in easily missed details in the chapters to come. So, let us consider another way into this passage, one informed by what we have already seen in Abraham’s story with God.
 
The story states that God is testing Abraham. However, what if it is a different kind of test… in the manner of the opportunity God gave Abraham to intercede for the city of Sodom? Today’s story follows Abraham’s refusal to stand up for Hagar and Ishmael, acquiescing to Sarah’s ruthless demand that they be expelled from the household. Hagar and Ishmael, we know from our spirited kid’s church rendition a few weeks back, only survive this expulsion because of God. Abraham, it should be noted, was concerned about sending them away, but God comforted him with the promise that that would not perish, but God would make a great nation from Ishmael, because he too is Abraham’s offspring.
 
So perhaps the test is thus: given Abraham was not willing to fight for one son, God gives him a chance to fight for another. God says, go offer your son as a burnt offering, and perhaps, God is hoping Abraham will say no, surely the Lord of righteousness, the one who has promised Isaac to me and Sarah would not demand such a sacrifice! There’s reason to believe this could have worked, after all, the prophet Hosea reminds us, God desires mercy, not sacrifice.
 
If this is the case, then God’s final intercession is not the overall plan, not the great “reveal” poised and waiting, but a last-minute act of grace, that saves Abraham from himself, an act of deliverance when it becomes apparent that Abraham is not going to fight for his son.
 
There are a few details in the reading that support this interpretation, notice, for instance that God’s promise announced at the end of the scene is not altered or enhanced from the promise Abraham has already received many times (even before any test of faith). But I think it is details that come in the following chapters that most strongly suggest that Abraham doesn’t respond to God’s request in the best way.
 
Following this event on the mountaintop Isaac disappears from the narrative. He does not even come down the mountain with Abraham but leaves via a different path. He disappears from the story until late in chapter 24, when he returns from the vicinity of Be’er-lahai-roi (an entirely different country, one – mysteriously and intriguingly – connected with Hagar’s encounter with God in the wilderness). Isaac, we might presume, is so appalled that no matter what Abraham might say about the provision of God, Isaac chooses to part ways. Indeed, we do not have another scene with Isaac and Abraham until after Abraham’s death, only then does Isaac return (curiously enough with Ishmael) to bury their father.
 
What’s more, this event does not solely fracture the relationship of father and son. Abraham and Sarah also part ways. At the end of the narrative Abraham is said to go and settle in Be’er-sheba. Whereas, we learn at the beginning of chapter 23, Sarah remains living in the land of Canaan until she dies at Kiriath-arba, at which point Abraham travels to her to mourn. Indeed it is common in Jewish interpretation, given the proximity of the events, to infer that Sarah dies upon hearing what took place on the mountain.
 
The near-sacrifice of Isaac fractures and scatters the family – could this be God’s desired result from the test? Did God not foresee that Isaac and Sarah would be more than a little dismayed by this most traumatic event, more than a little disappointed in Abraham? Given all we have seen in these past weeks, the fact that Isaac and Ishmael even return to bury their father is a tremendous display of grace!
 
It is the trauma and family breakdown caused by this scene, that leads me to at least favour the reading where the test was one which asked Abraham to argue with God for Isaac’s salvation. Abraham should not have heroically transcended his earthly ties, he should have drawn near to God to haggle with the same determination and compassion he displayed for the city of Sodom. Because it is through such a process that Abraham might have even been moved to realise that he should have likewise fought for Ishmael.
 
To say it another way, Abraham should have been more like the Canaanite woman who argues with Jesus over the fate of her daughter. This woman, unlike Abraham, is not within the covenant, has not received a promise, has not journeyed intimately with God these many years and yet she bursts into the story to demand satisfaction! Even when rebuffed, she only haggles harder. When Abraham argues with God over Sodom, God willingly accepts each one of Abraham’s sliding terms… and yet Abraham does not think to try for the sake of his son. This Canaanite woman receives no such easy negotiation, indeed at first she receives only insult, but by faith she prevails. Her example teaches us, what we must learn from Abraham only in negation – do not settle for an image of God that is not equal to the best picture of God, the best hope of God, the best nature of God. Settle not for anything less that the God who creates with love, redeems with power, and abounds in justice and mercy.

For too many families have been fractured, and too many of God’s children walk the earth carrying trauma, because someone who should have loved them better could not argue against an image of God who demanded sacrifice not mercy, who demanded observance not relationship, who demanded blood and not grace. Do not settle for a picture of faithfulness that makes the love of God dependent on the harm of others.
 
Perhaps this is why Isaac goes to Be’er-lahai-roi. Perhaps he goes to encounter another image of God, to learn from another story of God, one of the mercy, tenderness, and liberation experienced by Hagar and Ishmael? I hope so.
 
As people of faith we have much to learn from this story. From Abraham and the Canaanite woman we take encouragement to wrestle with God in our prayer life and reading of scripture – to demand the fullness of mercy, the perfection of justice, and the abundance of life that befit God’s nature and covenant. From Isaac we learn that our life with God need not be defined by one story, one experience, or one person… there are other places to look, other people to find, other stories to search in which we might experience hope, healing, and blessing. And from God, we learn that we are not abandoned, even when we err. God stays Abraham’s hand, and does not rescind the promise. Jesus recognises the faith of the Canaanite woman in her rebellious wit and saves her daughter. And somehow, in some mysterious encounter, God weaves Isaac back into this story. Whether by the errors of others we have been harmed, or through our own we have harmed others, God draws near in faithfulness, love, and kindness and offers us our own personal Be’er-lahai-roi, our own sites of forgiveness, mercy, restoration, and renewal, from which we might find salvation.