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.
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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. Readings Genesis 21:1-7 and Psalm 126
Image: Vincent van Gogh, Sower with Setting Sun, 1888. Oil on canvas. -- The path to Isaac’s birth is paved with laughter. In chapter 17, on hearing that Sarah will bear him a child, Abraham falls on his face with laughter, saying “can a child be born to a man who is 100 years old?” Then in the next chapter, Sarah, overhearing the same promise, laughed to herself and said, “After I have grown old shall I have pleasure?”. And now, in chapter 21, at his birth, Sarah says, “God has brought laughter for me; everyone who hears will laugh with me.” And then, to top it off, there’s the matter of Isaac’s name, “the one who laughs.” No matter where you look in the story of Isaac, one finds laughter. Laughter is tied up with impossibility. I’m sure we’ve had the experience of been surprised by something completely bewildering or absurd and responded with laughter – even if what has occurred is not ‘funny’ in the typical sense. We laugh because something has broken the rules of typical, defied the patterns of expectations, burst the banks of possible, and tipped us into the absurd, if you didn’t laugh you’d cry, they often say, because we have passed the limits of what our more mundane responses can handle. And Isaac is an impossibility. Exactly how we interpret the long-lives of those in Genesis, the point is explicit, there is no expectation, no reasonable reason, no observable and repeatable process through which Sarah should be able to become pregnant. Abraham does not think it possible, Sarah does not think it possible, God simply deems that it will be… and then it is. Isaac, long-awaited, long-hoped for, is born. The promise God made to Abraham when God called him from his father’s house has been fulfilled. The promise God made to Sarah, who has travelled with Abraham these many years (twice surviving been taken into the homes of Kings and Pharaohs after Abraham posed as her brother), has been fulfilled. It is accomplished… in Isaac, God has made Sarah laughter. Isaac then stands in for all the impossible joy and laughter elicited in response to God’s faithfulness, in response to the strangeness of new life, in response to the great reversal of desperation to abundance, the great deliverance of hope and meaning. Isaac is heard in the laughter of the psalmist rejoicing in the restoration of Israel. Isaac is heard in the song of Miriam when the Israelites are delivered safely across the Red Sea, Isaac is heard in the weeping and rejoicing of the Israelites when Ezra read the law following the exile, Isaac is heard in the leaping of the child in the womb of Elizabeth when she greets the pregnant Mary. For in each of these moments the faithfulness of God is palpably felt, in each of these moments the logics of the everyday is overturned, in each of these moments a promise is kept, in each of these moments the people are overwhelmed by the power and kindness of God who leads us into life. For this reason, one of the most important postures or practices we, as Christians, can cultivate in our lives and communities, are those which keep us open to joy. Open to this holy laughter. Open to the promise and potential of God, to the rupture of the everyday, the overturning of expectations, the bursting of the possible. This is not about being shiny, happy people day in and day out. It is not about being pristine and prosperous, perpetually happy and wholesome, unbothered and intact. We do not need to (nor should we) hide our woes and worries, our struggles and disappointments. This is about something deeper, truer, and more wondrous than all that. We are asked to be ready to receive Isaac. The symbolic, theological Isaac… which is not unlike the message of Advent in which we prepare ourselves to receive the coming of Christ. We are asked to help each other live lives that remain open to laughter. Open to the laughter of good humour, yes, this is not to be overlooked, but also the laughter of a much deeper kind. The laughter of Sarah, the laughter that bursts forth almost involuntarily in the face of impossibility, the laughter elicited when we behold the great things (new and old) that God has done for us, the laughter that comes when everyday expectations are overturned by the abundant grace of God, the laughter that bubbles up from the belly and overtakes the entire body as we are lifted into praise for the restoration God has brought and will bring. That laughter we become when the good news of God’s profound and unceasing promise warms our hearts and leads us into life. If we can do this, supporting each other in our collective practice of remaining open to joy, laughter, and grace, then we will come to behold all manner of things a people of God can be. We are never asked to hide our sorrows, questions, or longing, but we are called to be a people who share these burdens, and encourage one another with love and good deeds. We intercede for and witness to one another so that these sorrows and stresses do not close ourselves off to the abundance of life. For if we can be this to each other, a people who point to the impossible, who point to wonder, who point to the great things God has done, then we, like the community of Israel celebrating their restoration might be one’s who get to sing, May those who sow in tears reap with shouts of joy, a people, who, like Sarah might say, God has made me laughter! Reading, Genesis 18:1-8, 16-33
Image, Richard McBee, Abraham & 3 Strangers. 1982 84" x 84" We have two scenes in our reading. In both Abraham takes a somewhat strange posture toward God, which paradoxically leads to him growing in the knowledge of the ways of God. The reading begins with God appearing to Abraham, but before that scene gets going, Abraham spots three travellers making their way past his camp. Abraham immediately takes his leave of God to offer welcome to these weary strangers. He implores them to stay, presents himself as their servant, and offers them some water and a morsel of bread, while in reality he actually prepares them an abundant feast. He then stands near, ready to meet any need they might have. We spoke two weeks back on how Abraham is often received as a paragon of faith, today we see why, within the Jewish tradition, Abraham is held up as the paradigm of hospitality – of welcoming guests into one’s own home. Not even a visit from God distracts him from the human visitors, he presses pause on the first to ensure his full attention to the latter. And yet, as we might suspect, there is little distinction or opposition in this choice. Indeed, just as the commands to love God and love neighbour are eternally linked, so too is the treatment of the divine and the treatment of the stranger, the act of devotion and the act of hospitality. As Jesus will later teach his disciples, as you did for the least of these you did unto me, or as the writer of Hebrews will remind their congregation, Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing that some have entertained angels without knowing it. What we learn from these scriptures, which is confirmed in this story of Abraham, is that in turning toward the one in need of hospitality, we turn toward God. In moving away, Abraham moves toward, and thus what appeared a strange posture is, paradoxically, one in which Abraham grows in his knowledge of God’s ways. Before coming to the second scene we need to attend something of importance which occurred in the chapters between last week’s story about Hagar and this week’s visitation. God made a covenant with Abraham (indeed it was with the covenant that Abram became Abraham and Sarai, Sarah). With the covenant, Abraham is charged to instruct his children in their promise and calling, preparing the generations to come to be the blessing to others God desires them to be. As God says in the reading when considering whether hide from Abraham what God about to do… No, for I have chosen him, that he may charge his children and his household after him to keep the way of the Lord by doing righteousness and justice. As always, the promise and the commission are intertwined. Abraham has displayed his commitment to a household of welcome and hospitality, might now he show his commitment to righteousness and justice? And it is with this in mind, that we approach the second strange posture of this reading: Abraham haggles with God. The outcry over the sin of Sodom has reached God’s ears, and now God must go see what is going on… now, in a delightful irony, the sin of Sodom is inhospitality. Where the travellers receive welcome and hospitality from Abraham (and later Lot) they receive violence and violation from the citizens of Sodom. Where the strangers received dignity and care from Abraham, they are threatened with exploitation, indignity, and sexual violence by the citizens of Sodom. As the prophet Ezekiel wrote, This was the guilt of your sister Sodom: she had pride, excess of food, and prosperous ease, but did not aid the poor and needy. So with that ironic pendulum of virtue and sin in mind, we might assume that Abraham – paradigm of hospitality – would readily accept God’s decision to wipe the inhospitable city off the map. And yet, Abraham came near and said, ‘Will you indeed sweep away the righteous with the wicked? At the beginning of this story Abraham moved away from God in order to greet three strangers, now he draws near to God in order to intercede for a city of strangers. Some have argued that, in a way, Abraham acts as a teacher to God here, as one who shifts God’s plans, softens God’s wrath (not unlike the role Moses plays at the incident of the Golden Calf). And while I think that reading is open to us, the fact that God chooses, rather deliberately, to bring Abraham into this conversation – doing so with explicit reference to Abraham needing to teach his children and his household to keep the way of the Lord by doing righteousness and justice - that God is providing Abraham a chance to learn how to stand up for justice. Because, so far in our story, this has been Abraham’s weak point. He allowed Sarah to be taken as Pharaoh’s wife and washed his hands of the cruel treatment of Hagar. While he could be commended for his willingness to walk humbly with God, he has not yet done a great job of embracing the call to do justice and love mercy. Here, however, given the opportunity, Abraham comes through. He does not stay silent, he does not think only of his own survival, he draws near to God and issues the challenge: surely, O God, you might find a way for the city to be spared, surely it should not be judged too harshly after the behaviour of its worst elements. Abraham pleads with God to look for just a spark of righteousness, simply an ember, and allow that to protect the rest. In arguing with God, in not accepting what God has supposedly decreed, Abraham learns what it might mean to keep the way of the Lord by doing justice and righteousness, and is better situated to live out his calling and live up to the covenant. Thus, once again, what appeared a strange posture is, paradoxically, one in which Abraham grows in his knowledge of God’s ways.* So, what might this mean for us, and our postures before God? How might this shape how we seek to grow in our knowledge of God’s ways? For as those who live in a covenantal relationship with God, we too have received both promise and calling, both grace and responsibility. First, we confess we are called to be hospitable. We are asked to welcome the stranger with the same attention and generosity we would show the presence of God. One way this might look, considering our life together as a church community, is that we must ensure that we do not persistently privilege our own preferences for how we draw near to the presence of God should that prove unwelcoming and unhelpful to our neighbours. For such a turning to our neighbour is not ingratitude to God, nor neglect of our worship, but is its own joyful turning to God, its own, rewarding way of drawing near to the presence of God. Second, we confess that out of a great love of justice and righteousness, and in great hope for restoration, we are called to intercede for others. Even if those others are our enemies, even if they have behaved in such ways that we cannot abide or excuse. We advocate for our enemies, not that they might be allowed to persist, but they might be given a chance to be confronted with their wrongdoing and take strides to repent and repair. And, importantly, as those who live in a covenantal relationship, as those who by the grace of Christ have received a spirit of adoption, we are not only allowed, but called upon to confront, wrestle, and argue with God. Invited to cry out as the prophets did, “how long O Lord” to cry out as the psalmist did, “Why, O Lord, do you stand far off? Why do you hide yourself in times of trouble?”, to cry out as Abraham did, “surely you will not sweep away the righteous with the wicked.” For such a posture is not a betrayal of God, but is its own, sublime, drawing near to God, its own, powerful turning to God, its own way of growing in the knowledge of God’s ways so that we may witness to one another and teach those coming after us, what it means to keep the way of the Lord by doing righteousness and justice *I think it is of interest (though not surprising) that such a postures commend in Abraham, are visible in Christ. Throughout his life we might point to the various postures of humility, welcome, service, and intersession he takes, but for now it is enough to point to the exemplary moment, when on the cross Jesus offered welcome to the thief on the cross, today you will be with me in paradise, interceded for those who mocked and violated him, Father forgive them, they know not what they do. We can also see Christ wrestling honestly with God in the lead up, let this cup pass from me. Reading Genesis 16:1-16 The world is not neatly arranged into heroes and villains, victim and violator, wronged and righteous. We are complex people within a complex world, and should we live long enough we cannot be said to be defined simply by one scene in our life. Last week, we saw Sarai violated and treated with indignity and neglect. Abram, fearing for his life, poses as her brother and allows her to be taken into the household of Pharoah. In this arrangement Abram grows rich, and Sarai is expendable. But for the intervention of God, who knows how long Sarai would have been kept as another’s unconsenting wife… thankfully she is delivered, her and Abram leave Egypt along with some newly gained wealth, livestock, and slaves… one of whom, it is more than likely, is an Egyptian slave girl named Hagar. Sarai’s treatment of Hagar is cruel and inhumane. Both here and in the later story after the birth of her own son Isaac, Sarai shows little to no concern with Hagar’s will, dignity, or survival. Sarai gives her to Abram to produce an heir, then when confronted with Hagar’s contempt for her, her anger at this mistreatment, this forced surrogacy, Sarai treats her so harshly that Hagar is forced to flee. To abandon all protection and care to flee, alone and pregnant into the unknown, serves as testimony to just how harsh this treatment must have been. Just how inhumane and undignified Sarai must have treated Hagar, all the while, Abram washes his hands of the whole mess, reminding Sarai that “the slave girl is in your power, do with her as you please.” The old idiom holds truth: hurt people hurt people. The team here at the Kirk working in domestic violence response know too well the power of vicious cycles. We surely all have examples whether from our communities or wider history, to understand that just because someone has experienced something, doesn’t mean they spare others from it. Sarai knows what it is to be passed off into the house of another man for their gratification, but this does not prevent her from repeating this pattern upon Hagar. Last week, Sarai was victim, here she is violator. Last week she was wronged, here she wrongs another. Last week, as we sought a generous read for Abram’s actions, how perhaps his virtuous commitment to the big picture of God’s plan for him allowed for him to prioritise his survival over Sarai’s dignity and safety. Might the same be said for Sarai, might she too be so focused on the promise of God, and so concerned with its delay, and that she might bear responsibility for this delay, that she feels it appropriate to treat another person as a tool in order to secure God’s vision. If that is the case, then once more we are reminded of the many times in history where such sacrifices have appeared justified. We are reminded of the many times in which people’s value has diminished through the elevation of another’s calling. Last week, we wondered whether Sarai might have confronted Abram with the question: what good is it for you to become a blessing to all the families of the earth if it requires cursing your own wife… Hagar would be justified to ask a similar question. If this is the way a blessing is to be secured, it isn’t much of a blessing. We can see why Hagar looked on Sarai with contempt. She should know better. Hagar looks on Sarai with contempt, and Sarai is unable to face what she has done, and so instead, treats Hagar with further harshness, seemingly trying to drive that unremitting gaze from her presence. Eventually Hagar obliges. I’ve preached before on this remarkable encounter between God and Hagar in the wilderness. The way this scene parallels and foreshadows the deliverance of the Israelites from Egypt in the story of the Exodus (reminding us that this foreign slave girl evokes the same attention and care as God’s chosen people). I talked about how Hagar is unique in scripture as one who names God. We can also observe today, how this scene with God and Hagar, mirrors the one between God and Abram last week. The angel of the Lord found her by a spring of water in the wilderness. Like Abram last week, Hagar hasn’t done anything to seek God, to earn this care and attention, God simply draws near. Then, like Abram, Hagar receives both a command and a promise. Abram is commanded to leave his father’s house and go into a new country, but is promised that God will make of him a great nation… Hagar is commanded to return to Sarai but promised that God will greatly multiply her offspring so they cannot be counted among the multitude. Both these commands ask a lot, but Hagar’s causes us particular difficulty. What kind of command is this, to return and submit, return and suffer? The best we might be able to make of it is what others in similar situations have made of this. The sculpture of Hagar we saw during the reading is an 1870 work from African American and Native American artist Edmonia Lewis. It sits within a long theological tradition of marginalised women, particularly Black women in the US, who identified with Hagar and her plight. Who knew what it was to suffer under the tyranny of other women, who knew the pain of forced surrogacy, and who knew that not everyone could experience liberation. For many, survival was the driving force, survival was the goal. And God was the one who saw them, like Hagar, suffering in an impossible situation, and gave them the courage, the promise, the dignity, and power to survive it further. There was no life for Hagar in the wilderness, she could not survive out there, but she could and would survive back where Sarai and Abram were, survive long enough at least, before she could be delivered, until she and her son could return to the land of their ancestors, claim the freedom and promise given to her by God. And yet, we might wonder, that in returning Hagar to the camp of Abram and Sarai, was there another way for harm to be undone, another way for the future to unfold, another way for the plans of God to unfurl in the lives of those who have been called? What if Abram had repented to Sarai, and what if Sarai had repented to Hagar? What if Hagar had received welcome, dignity, and a share in the life of blessing? Might not God have rejoiced at such a path to deliverance, at this breaking down of the dividing walls of hostility? How might the story have unfolded if Ishmael were allowed to grow up with Isaac? This wouldn’t have been easy. It would have required a great deal of work and sacrifice to restore, repent, and reconcile. Many hurts would need to be addressed, accountability taken, grace offered, and a new kind of household envisioned… but is this not the very work to which we have been called? Is this not the work of faith? Is this not what it could have meant for all the families of the world to be blessed? We cannot know what this story would have looked like, but we can take these lessons, these questions, and ask them of ourselves. We can ask ourselves about our readiness to perform the work of truth-telling, healing, restoration, and imagination. Ask ourselves about what we are willing to do to break cycles of violence and violation, misuse and neglect. Ask ourselves how we are joining Christ in the work of breaking down the dividing walls of hostility. There is much to grieve in this story, and much to learn from, but there is also great comfort to be taken, and great hope to be claimed. Despite the web of human sinfulness and the complex legacy of harm, the love of God will not let Hagar go (nor, we shall see, does God abandon Abram and Sarai). God gives Hagar a promise and a calling, and looking at her response we confess that she – just as much as Abram – is a paragon of faith. God sees and hears the suffering of the enslaved foreigner and abides with her until she is carried to safer shores. By the love and power of God, Hagar survives, and is delivered back to the land of her ancestors, where the son brought into the world through indignity and impatience will prove a blessing, for God sees without prejudice and loves beyond measure. -- IMage: Edmonia Lewis, Hagar, 1875, carved marble, 52 5/8 x 15 1/4 x 17 1/8 in. (133.6 x 38.8 x 43.4 cm.), Smithsonian American Art Museum, Gift of Delta Sigma Theta Sorority, Inc., 1983.95.178 Reading Genesis 12:1-20
Now the Lord said to Abram, “Go from your country, and your kindred and your father’s house to the land that I will show you…” God tells Abram to leave what is familiar to go into what is unknown, and accompanying this command is a promise, I will make of you a great nation, and I will bless you, and make your name great so that you will be a blessing. Abram, in much the way we end each Sunday service, receives a sending and a blessing, a calling and a gift… and Abram chooses to go. Abram/Abraham is held up as a paragon of faith. Many take effort to stress that Abram has done nothing to earn God’s calling, or seek God’s blessing. Nothing to separate himself from the great mass of people and names previously outlined in the story, and yet God crashes into his life with a commission and a blessing, in you all the families of the earth shall be blessed. And thus, more than just being a paragon of faith, Abram is exemplative of the faithful. Exemplative of all of us to whom God has drawn near and called, all those God has said come as you are and I will give you a future, all those who have done nothing to earn God’s attention but have received it nonetheless, who have received grace and love and with that a commission. And Abram is a paragon of faith, because he responds and goes with God. He leaves what is familiar to go forth to where he does not yet know. It is not until they arrive at the land of Canaan that God reveals that this will be the land given to his offspring… this is the faith of Abram, he hears and responds, he listens and goes. And then he has to keep going. The next part of the passage details the nomadic life of Abram, Sarai, Lot, and their slaves. Again and again they pitch their tents, build alatars, and pull up stumps. The Son of Man has no place to lay his head, so remarked Jesus, and here, Abram, the father of faith, has no land to call his own. He has the promise of land for his offspring, but for he and his household, they must journey… and because they must journey, they are vulnerable to the insecurity of the land and its climate. Now there was a famine in the land. So Abram went down to Egypt to reside their as an alien… Such a move (then as now) brings with it terrible risks. One of the risks Abram fears is that the Egyptians will see Sarai’s beauty and kill him in order to take her for themselves. To mitigate this risk, Abram suggests they pose as brother and sister, so that should she be taken he would not be killed but rather be spared (and indeed, treated rather well). Let us begin with the generous read of this decision. Folks in vulnerable situations, facing insecurity, disenfranchisement, and possible violence regularly face compromises and difficult decisions in order to survive. Abram fears he will be killed, it is a rational fear, he also fears – we might suspect - that his untimely death would jeopardise God’s plan. God has called him to be a blessing for all the families of the earth, we have seen Abram express nothing but the supreme level of trust in that promise and calling, he has, we might say, his eye on the prize. The generous read is that stuck in a vulnerable situation, Abram, out of fear of his death and thus the snuffing out of God’s great plans, makes a decision that will ensure his survival, his material reward, and thus secure a future where what was promised will be. But what of Sarai? This woman who has had no encounter with God of her own, received no promise of her own, received no blessing of her own, and yet, despite this has been journeying with Abram, has put her faith in the promise and calling he received and left the land of her kinsfolk to move about building altars in the hope that at 75 and 65 they will somehow sire a great nation. Despite her faithfulness, Abram chooses his safety over her own, his life over her dignity and bodily autonomy. She is given up to the household of Pharaoh. It is all very well, she might think of Abram, to wish to live in order to be a blessing to all families, but what good is that if you curse your own wife. Is this befitting the paragon of faith? And what of God? The one who called Abram in the voice that called creation into being. Abram exhibits no sense that he might trust God to bring him and Sarai into Egypt safely. No sense that God might be trusted to deliver them unscathed. We do not see Abram seek God’s wisdom, as they enter this perilous situation. Instead, he allows fear to take charge and bets on the worse of human nature rather than trust in the divine. For surely the promise of God is stronger than the desires of man. The result (thanks in no pat to Abram) is that things kind of work out ok. Pharoah is plagued and realises he has been deceived. He returns Sarai to Abram, and lets Abram leave with all the livestock, slaves, and wealth he had gained from this whole charade. Sarai, it appears, receives nothing… but she does survive. God delivers Abram and Sarai (a foreshadowing of God’s deliverance of the Israelites from slavery in Egypt centuries later). For the God who calls, is faithful. The beginnings of Abram (and Sarai)’s story is a complex and mixed affair. We witness faithful and fearful responses. Such an account is reflective of ways we are all more than one thing, our stories more than black and white. For we can all be selfless and selfish, all be trusting and self-protecting, we can all show great commitment to future flourishing and all forget the ties that bind us. There is a danger, present to each of us, that we picture ourselves as the main character in our story, indeed, in everyone’s story, and thus are at liberty to engage with others as if they are supporting characters in our own life, robbing them of their own multitudes, their own complexity, their own wants, fears, and frustrations. Many who believed themselves called to great work on behalf of God and the world, have let that justify the neglect and mistreatment of those closest to them. Abram is indeed a paragon of faith; in many ways he is exemplative of the life of the faithful… and from his example we draw wisdom and hope. But he is also exemplative of the many ways we damage others out of fear and selfishness, a paragon for the harm that can come when we view our own flourishing and success as indispensable to the plans of God. This story, as our first step into our time in the book of Genesis, also exemplifies the danger that comes of reading this narrative as one centred on a paragon of faith, as one centred on a heroic individual, as one centred on the great patriarch, the father of faith. For there are always more people in these stories, even if the way the story is composed does not always draw our attention to their existence, their inner life, or the consequences of the actions of others upon them. We hear little of Sarai and her feelings, and none of the slaves, compelled to follow Abram as he goes forth in faith. We end as this passage began, with God. God is the one who calls. Who comes to us without us having to prove or earn a thing. The God who commissions us to be a blessing to others. The God who wraps that commission in the promise of God’s own presence. And having gone with us, God is faithful even when we err. Even when we fall short or miss the mark, when we neglect others, when selfishness and fear creeps in: God remains, God abides, God is faithful to us, and God delivers. As the old refrain goes: The God who calls you, will not fail you. Readings Matthew 27:45-54
Today we have another reading which stresses the strangeness and expansiveness of the Easter message. On a previous Sunday we had Jesus descending unto the depths of the earth proclaiming good news to those in their graves… well, now we have this: Jesus cried again with a loud voice and breathed his last. At that moment the curtain of the temple was torn in two, from top to bottom. The earth shook, and the rocks were split. The tombs also were opened, and many bodies of the saints who had fallen asleep were raised. After Jesus’ resurrection they came out of the tombs and entered the holy city and appeared to many. What do we make of this scene – the supernatural tearing of the Temple’s curtain, the shaking of the very earth, and the awakening and resurrection of many saints? To get to that question, I think it might be helpful to contrast this feast of divine activity and miracles with what has preceded it in the scene of Jesus’ crucifixion. Those who passed by derided Jesus, shaking their heads and saying, ‘You who would destroy the temple and build it in three days, save yourself! If you are the Son of God, come down from the cross.’ In the same way the chief priests also, along with the scribes and elders, were mocking him, saying, ‘He saved others; he cannot save himself. He is the King of Israel; let him come down from the cross now, and we will believe in him. He trusts in God; let God deliver him now, if he wants to; for he said, “I am God’s Son.” The bandits who were crucified with him also taunted him in the same way. Jesus’ utter powerlessness on the cross is mocked and flaunted by those who have seemingly won the day. Those who in this moment must feel a vindication of their religious authority or imperial might. After all this rapscallion from backwater Galilee has gone around saying, see him here exposed: a fraud, a fake, a huckster powerless to save himself, unable to carry out any of his promises, futile and failing, severed from the very God he claimed to be one with. Truly, this man was no son of God. And then, amplifying the dramatic tension and seemingly offering greater validity to the position of his opponents, Jesus cries aloud “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” Ding, ding, ding, we a have a confession! This man is no Messiah, no beloved son, no herald of God’s kingdom, no saviour of the people… the very God he said sent him is alien to him, the blasphemer has been forsaken, and now dies alone and exposed! The scene is set for the most satisfying of dramatic reversals… and just so no one misses it, the reversal must be Dramatic with a capital D. It begins with a loud voice (not unlike the voice that sounds over the primordial nothingness at the beginning of time). Christ “cried again with a loud voice” – which, when we pause to think, is a remarkable and miraculous event in its own right. Where could a man about to die from asphyxiation find the strength and breath to cry with a loud voice? This cry itself is the decisive turn of the crucifixion scene, Jesus calls into action all that follows with a voice of one who has the resurrection and the life within his grasp. Following this miraculous cry, God acts. The One presumed absent, the One presumed satisfied with the execution of this heretic, the One presumably turning their back on this forsaken and marginal Jew, acts! God tears the Temple curtain, God shakes the foundations of the earth, God breaks apart the rocks, and God fills the dead with life. God responds to the death of Jesus with a tremendous display of power. In this response the truth is proclaimed, God was and is with this man Jesus, sent by God to save the world. God has not forsaken Jesus, but is vindicating all he said and did, and God will raise this man Jesus on the third day. And then, not to be missed, the mighty display of God’s power and presence is capped with an ironic twist: in a flip of the derision displayed by Jesus’ own people, a flip of the dismayed desertion of Jesus’ own followers… a lone centurion stands and beholds all that is happening and proclaims: Truly this man was God’s Son! At Golgotha, Jesus mocked and misunderstood, suffers the indignity of imperial violence and the scorn of religious fear. Yet he withholds his power, commending his Spirit to God and a greater, more cosmic reversal to come. A reversal Jesus ushers onto stage with his last breath. And while we see the immediate impacts of this reversal in the moment of Christ’s death, this great reversal (in a kind of divine surplus) continues and continues. The reversal continues three days later in the resurrection (for where there was death, now there is life), in the ascension (where the one who wore a crown of thorns is now given all authority over heaven and earth), at Pentecost (where Christ’s body once pinned to the cross, now extends and expands across the earth and across the centuries) and will continue until that great and glorious day when Christ comes again (when the man of sorrows wipes every tear from our eyes). The specific metaphorical or theological meanings of the particulars of this demonstration of God’s power and presence (the curtain, the earth, those in their tombs) while not being unimportant are not necessarily the point – yes they have something to say about the power of Christ’s atonement, the labour pains of the new creation, and the promise of the resurrection, but it is this display of tremendous and surprising divine power in its totality and dramatic surprise that teaches us the lesson today: Despite all worldly appearances, Jesus was not forsaken, his ministry was not a folly, his death was not the end. God fills the moment where God seems most absent with the reminder that at any moment all things can be upturned. God fills the moment of dereliction with majestic presence. And God fills Christ’s cry with the proclamation of good news which fills us all with hope: Christ was the Messiah, and through him redemption and reconciliation is achieved for the whole of creation, and in him is the resurrection and the life in which we all shall share. And as those who share in the resurrection and the life, we are also called to participate in this great reversal. Called to not accept the appearances of a world where violence and fear have presumably won the day, not to accept that those condemned by religious and political power are thereby the god-forsaken. We are called to hold out hope that with God everything can be upturned, hold out hope that the kingdom where last are first and poor are blessed and the mighty are cast from their thrones can rise up within us and break into our world at any moment. ** Image, "cracked rock" ID 2825090 - accessed here |
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 |