ReMember: Abraham Forgets

Before we move into today’s reading, I’d like to transition us from last week’s story to today’s text in Genesis 12. While the move from chapter 8 in Genesis to chapter 12, today, doesn't seem like a big jump, there’s a lot that goes on in the chapters in-between.

After the story of the flood and of God’s covenant promise to Noah and his descendants, humankind didn’t really improve. In fact, in the verses immediately after God’s promise of the rainbow as an aid to God’s remembering, we have the story of Noah getting drunk. And naked. Probably not the image of the patriarch we want to keep, right?

Things don’t get better from there. There is a human inclination - a human desire - for power and control, especially to serve oneself. In the chapter that precedes today’s text, we read the story of the Tower of Babel. And of the attempt by humans to seek more and more power - to be like God. So, God mixes up their language so they can no longer easily communicate with one another. Then, God disperses them over all the earth so they can no longer together seek greater and greater power. It’s like the ultimate anti-trust action by God to ensure that humankind doesn’t become too big for its britches. 

The story continues down the generations from Shem, Noah’s son, to Terah, father of Abram, who we know better as Abraham. At the end of chapter 11, we learn two things. First, that Terah lives in Ur. (Refer to the map.) 

Ur is in the same location as Babel (or Babylon). Terah decides to move from Ur to Canaan. This means traveling an ancient trade route along what is called the Fertile Crescent (Remember your western civilization history?) to get there. But, Terah never reaches Canaan. Instead he, his family, and his household settle at the top of the Fertile Crescent in Haran. Then, the second thing we learn is that Sarai is unable to have children.

So, it is here where we find Abram and Sarai - where today’s story opens in Genesis 12. In Haran. With no children.

The Lord said to Abram, “Leave your land, your family, and your father’s household for the land that I will show you. I will make of you a great nation and will bless you. I will make your name respected, and you will be a blessing.

I will bless those who bless you,

    those who curse you I will curse;

        all the families of the earth

            will be blessed because of you.”

Abram left just as the Lord told him, and Lot went with him. Now Abram was 75 years old when he left Haran. Abram took his wife Sarai, his nephew Lot, all of their possessions, and those who became members of their household in Haran; and they set out for the land of Canaan. When they arrived in Canaan, Abram traveled through the land as far as the sacred place at Shechem, at the oak of Moreh. The Canaanites lived in the land at that time. The Lord appeared to Abram and said, “I give this land to your descendants,” so Abram built an altar there to the Lord who appeared to him. From there he traveled toward the mountains east of Bethel, and pitched his tent with Bethel on the west and Ai on the east. There he built an altar to the Lord and worshipped in the Lord’s name. Then Abram set out toward the arid southern plain, making and breaking camp as he went.

When a famine struck the land, Abram went down toward Egypt to live as an immigrant since the famine was so severe in the land. Just before he arrived in Egypt, he said to his wife Sarai, “I know you are a good-looking woman. When the Egyptians see you, they will say, ‘This is his wife,’ and they will kill me but let you live. So tell them you are my sister so that they will treat me well for your sake, and I will survive because of you.”

When Abram entered Egypt, the Egyptians saw how beautiful his wife was. When Pharaoh’s princes saw her, they praised her to Pharaoh; and the woman was taken into Pharaoh’s household. Things went well for Abram because of her: he acquired flocks, cattle, male donkeys, men servants, women servants, female donkeys, and camels. Then the Lord struck Pharaoh and his household with severe plagues because of Abram’s wife Sarai.  --Gen. 12:1-17 (CEB)

It’s interesting to me that, as with Noah in last week’s story, God once more is moving from the distant - from a broader dealing with humanity - to the personal. To Abram and Sarai. 

God calls this couple through whom God promises to bless the whole earth. Abram and Sarai have one function in God’s plan. That is to be a blessing to all families of the “ground.” In most translations this phrase is translated as “families of the earth” or “people of the earth”. But this obscures a crucial aspect of this story of Abram and Sarai. The better translation is "families of the 'ground.'" The Hebrew word here, adamah, is the word first used in Genesis 2 to describe the creation of human beings from the “dust of the ground.” It’s the ground referenced in Genesis 3 to which all life will return in death. It’s the ground that literally opened its mouth to receive the blood of Abel after he was murdered by his brother, Cain, in Genesis 4 - and the ground from which Cain is cursed. In the Noah story, we read in Genesis 5, the hope that he will bring rest from this curse of the ground. But, then, in Genesis 9 it is from the ground that Noah receives wine that leads to his drunken nakedness and the breakup of his family. So, when we hear the call of Abram and Sarai to be a blessing to all families of the “ground” we understand what this is - a new attempt on the part of God to reconstitute the harmony of creation. This is a missionary call for Abram that will be echoed throughout the entire biblical narrative - including to you and to me. That, having been blessed by God in our many and unique ways, we then become a blessing to others.

So, Abram and Sarai go to the land they are promised, stopping at various points along the way to offer sacrifices of gratitude to the God who has called them. But, it is not long before a crisis comes. And the promise of God through Abram and Sarai is soon in trouble.

A famine strikes Canaan. They go south to Egypt - the bread basket of the ancient Near East. On the way, Abram does some thinking - about himself and his future. He devises a scheme to ensure his own safety by trafficking - let’s be honest here that’s what he’s doing, right? - trafficking his own wife to ensure his self-serving plan. 

Now, we first need to recognize that we live in a time and culture that is very, very distant from Abram’s. Women were viewed as property. Polygamy was common. Cousins married cousins. Spouses were not true partners - a husband was the lord and master of the wife and exercised complete control over her body. Over her responsibilities. Over her life. 

The other thing we need to know is that, further on in Genesis, we learn that Sarai really is Abram’s sister. His half-sister. So, in many respects, Abram is telling the truth here. But, remember God’s call for Abram and Sarai? To be a blessing to all the families of the ground. Abram’s actions here end up harming an innocent man - whether the man is powerful or not. Abram is not a blessing to the Pharoah. Either Abram has misheard God or simply forgotten God’s promise to preserve and protect him. His fear has gotten in the way of his trust in this promise - a promise from God of blessing. 

I wonder how many of us forget the promises of God in the midst of our own fears and worries. Wondering about our lives. Or about our loved ones’ lives. Fearing the worst. And, as a result of that fear, acting out of self-preservation, even if it harms innocent people.

Friends, God wants us to be free of fear. God wants us to truly trust that God will do what God says. The core of the relationship between God and Abram was to be blessed and to be a blessing. God remembered and honored that promise for him. 

Abram was given that promise. It has been given to us, as well. We may forget it. But, as with Abram, God did not forget him. And God has not forgotten us. Amen.

Preached Sunday, September 18, 2022, at Grace & Glory, Prospect, with Third, Louisville.

15th Sunday after Pentecost

Reading: Genesis 12:1-17

ReMember: God Remembers

The Lord saw that humanity had become thoroughly evil on the earth and that every idea their minds thought up was always completely evil. The Lord regretted making human beings on the earth, and he was heartbroken. So the Lord said, “I will wipe off of the land the human race that I’ve created: from human beings to livestock to the crawling things to the birds in the skies, because I regret I ever made them.” But as for Noah, the Lord approved of him.

These are Noah’s descendants. In his generation, Noah was a moral and exemplary man; he walked with God. Noah had three sons: Shem, Ham, and Japheth. In God’s sight, the earth had become corrupt and was filled with violence. God saw that the earth was corrupt, because all creatures behaved corruptly on the earth.

God said to Noah, “The end has come for all creatures, since they have filled the earth with violence. I am now about to destroy them along with the earth, so make a wooden ark. Make the ark with nesting places and cover it inside and out with tar. This is how you should make it: four hundred fifty feet long, seventy-five feet wide, and forty-five feet high. Make a roof for the ark and complete it one foot from the top. Put a door in its side. In the hold below, make the second and third decks.

“I am now bringing the floodwaters over the earth to destroy everything under the sky that breathes. Everything on earth is about to take its last breath. But I will set up my covenant with you. You will go into the ark together with your sons, your wife, and your sons’ wives. From all living things—from all creatures—you are to bring a pair, male and female, into the ark with you to keep them alive. From each kind of bird, from each kind of livestock, and from each kind of everything that crawls on the ground—a pair from each will go in with you to stay alive. Take some from every kind of food and stow it as food for you and for the animals.”

Noah did everything exactly as God commanded him.

After forty days, Noah opened the window of the ark that he had made. He sent out a raven, and it flew back and forth until the waters over the entire earth had dried up. Then he sent out a dove to see if the waters on all of the fertile land had subsided, but the dove found no place to set its foot. It returned to him in the ark since waters still covered the entire earth. Noah stretched out his hand, took it, and brought it back into the ark. He waited seven more days and sent the dove out from the ark again. The dove came back to him in the evening, grasping a torn olive leaf in its beak. Then Noah knew that the waters were subsiding from the earth. He waited seven more days and sent out the dove, but it didn’t come back to him again.

God said to Noah and to his sons with him, “I am now setting up my covenant with you, with your descendants, and with every living being with you—with the birds, with the large animals, and with all the animals of the earth, leaving the ark with you. I will set up my covenant with you so that never again will all life be cut off by floodwaters. There will never again be a flood to destroy the earth.”

God said, “This is the symbol of the covenant that I am drawing up between me and you and every living thing with you, on behalf of every future generation. I have placed my bow in the clouds; it will be the symbol of the covenant between me and the earth. When I bring clouds over the earth and the bow appears in the clouds, I will remember the covenant between me and you and every living being among all the creatures. Floodwaters will never again destroy all creatures. The bow will be in the clouds, and upon seeing it I will remember the enduring covenant between God and every living being of all the earth’s creatures.” God said to Noah, “This is the symbol of the covenant that I have set up between me and all creatures on earth.” --Genesis 6:5-22, 8:6-12, 9:8-17 (CEB)

Grace, mercy and peace to you from God, our Creator, Redeemer and Sustainer. Amen.

Holy moly! Isn’t it a little crazy that so many people - some of us likely included - have decided that the events of Noah and the flood are appropriate with which to decorate nurseries. Seriously. This story is terrifying.

Welcome to the beginning of the lectionary year. In the Narrative Lectionary, it is customary that on the first Sunday of the lectionary year, we hear a story from what is called the primordial history. This primordial (or primeval) history consists of the first eleven chapters of Genesis. These are the mythic stories of faith - stories that speak to us in universal truths. They describe not only how things came to be for us as people of faith, but why things are the way they are. 

Usually, we begin with one of the two creation stories in Genesis 1 or 2. But, once every four years, we hear this story. Of God. Of God’s regret. And, then, of Noah and the flood. In some respects it’s a story of creation. But, really, it's more a story of un-creating than it is creating. Do you notice, especially, when we hear the language describing the creatures as they are loaded onto Noah’s ark - the language and its cadence - that it sounds remarkably similar to many of the lines of Genesis 1? This account of God un-creating the world borrows and echoes words and phrases from the first story. Even the sequence moves backwards from humanity, to land animals, to birds, then to food plants.

But, before we get too far into the story, I want to back up to the very beginning. In its opening lines, we hear the depth of God’s emotion. The heartbreak. And, perhaps most troubling, the regret that God felt at having created humanity. God is grieved “to the heart” and twice “sorry” about having spoken creation into being in the first place. God intended a world that behaved and believed very differently from the one that developed. That God was facing in this story. Perhaps, even, the one that God is facing in our world today.

I don’t know about you, but, as a parent, I get it. There were many times when I just wanted to walk away. Tired and exhausted and dealing with one more challenge with my son, I understand, even in some very minute way, how God was feeling. 

It was an evil place, this time of Noah. Wickedness abounds, both in the imagination of the heart and also in societies these humans have created. God is ready to call it quits. One Jewish theologian to whom I frequently listen put it this way. “Have you ever started a project with all excitement and energy, but then come to a realization that things are a mess. That this is not going to work. And that it's time to just shut it down." That’s where God is, she suggests. Ready to “blot out” every living thing from the face of the earth. The Hebrew word meaning to “rub away” as one might rub ink off old parchment. To un-remember. And simply forget it ever happened. Some theologians have suggested that God’s uncreating in this story is less a kid kicking his sandcastle apart at the beach and more a simple turning away. And without God’s sustaining and creative presence, things fall apart. 

But. That’s how chapter 8 begins. It’s in the word “but” where we hear the good news. “But God remembered Noah and all of the beasts and cattle that were with him in the ark.” God can’t quite go all the way, apparently. As God responded to the disobedience of Eve and Adam in the story in Eden and as we will see time after time in the stories that follow, God’s deadly wrath is overcome by our Creator’s more powerful inclination toward salvation. At the heart of this story, setting every challenging aspect aside for just a moment, is a God who, no matter how grieved and angry, is in love with the universe and its creatures, particularly those of us of the two-legged variety who somehow share that same mysterious image of God.

We’re reminded of this in the words of Isaiah 49, “Can a woman forget her nursing baby, that she should have no compassion on the child of her womb? Even these may forget, yet I will not forget you. Behold, I have inscribed you on the palms of my hands.”

God remembers that last good remaining speck of creation and turns again toward it. Notice the movement of God from distant to intimate. From the broader view of humanity to Noah. God sees Noah and moves toward him. To a personal relationship with him.  To save him. God’s remembering of Noah leads to God’s salvation of Noah. And a promise - a covenant - to Noah to never again abandon creation to chaos, but to stay in relationship. To stay in the sustaining relationship with creation that makes life possible. A promise marked by a sign. A rainbow. Not so much to help us remember, but to help God remember. 

It is here, in this primordial story, in this teachable moment for God, that God opts in for the sacrificial, messier, more inefficient, more vulnerable route of real relationship. With Noah. And with you. And with me. And God promises, in Christ, to remember us. Forever and ever.

Amen.

Preached September 11, 2022, at Grace & Glory Lutheran, Prospect/Goshen, KY, with Third Lutheran, Louisville, KY.

14th Sunday after Pentecost

Reading: Genesis 6:5-22, 8:6-12, 9:8-17

Unraveled: Unraveling Fear

They came to the other side of the sea, to the region of the Gerasenes. And when he had stepped out of the boat, immediately a man from the tombs with an unclean spirit met him. He lived among the tombs, and no one could restrain him any more, even with a chain, for he had often been restrained with shackles and chains, but the chains he wrenched apart, and the shackles he broke in pieces, and no one had the strength to subdue him. Night and day among the tombs and on the mountains he was always howling and bruising himself with stones. When he saw Jesus from a distance, he ran and bowed down before him, and he shouted at the top of his voice, “What have you to do with me, Jesus, Son of the Most High God? I adjure you by God, do not torment me.” For he had said to him, “Come out of the man, you unclean spirit!” Then Jesus asked him, “What is your name?” He replied, “My name is Legion, for we are many.” He begged him earnestly not to send them out of the region. Now there on the hillside a great herd of swine was feeding, and the unclean spirits begged him, “Send us into the swine; let us enter them.” So he gave them permission. And the unclean spirits came out and entered the swine, and the herd, numbering about two thousand, stampeded down the steep bank into the sea and were drowned in the sea.

The swineherds ran off and told it in the city and in the country. Then people came to see what it was that had happened. They came to Jesus and saw the man possessed by demons sitting there, clothed and in his right mind, the very man who had had the legion, and they became frightened. Those who had seen what had happened to the man possessed by demons and to the swine reported it. Then they began to beg Jesus to leave their neighborhood. As he was getting into the boat, the man who had been possessed by demons begged him that he might be with him. But Jesus refused and said to him, “Go home to your own people, and tell them how much the Lord has done for you and what mercy he has shown you.” And he went away and began to proclaim in the Decapolis how much Jesus had done for him, and everyone was amazed. --Mark 5:1-20 (NRSV)

Grace, mercy and peace to you from God our Creator, Jesus Christ, our Redeemer, and the Holy Spirit, our Advocate and Sustainer. Amen.

Fear. It’s the topic of our text today - a story that is preceded by the story of Jesus and his disciples crossing the Sea of Galilee. It’s that story of a storm that comes up while they are in the middle of the Sea of Galilee - a big lake really. And of Jesus calming the waters. Yet, it's interesting to me that the very last thing Jesus says before they reach the eastern shore and step into today’s story - the last thing Jesus says to the disciples is “Why are you afraid? Have you no faith?”

Fear. Why are you afraid? What are you afraid of? Now, I know our very American culture demands that we respond to that question with “Nothing. I’m afraid of nothing.” Yet, I wonder. I wonder if we move beyond that claim and think about those times, perhaps. Or those people, perhaps. Or those places, perhaps. That, if we are paying attention to our body and the reaction of our body to those particular times, people or places, we have to admit our fear.

On my vacation last week I had an opportunity to have a long conversation with an old friend who has lived in Los Angeles since he moved there from southern Indiana right after college. Like so many of us when we’re first starting out, he lived in what could be called “not the best part of town.” Maybe you’ve had a similar experience, where with limited income you had to find a place you could afford. A place that didn’t always feel safe. Even if you haven’t had that experience, think about what it feels like to walk at night from a restaurant or a bar or some other place in a “not so good” location. Those little twinges you feel as you hold your keys in your hand ready to open your car door. Or to protect yourself. Or as you pull your purse or your loved one closer to you. Just a little fearful of something or someone that might step out of the dark and turn your life upside down.

So, this friend, as he moved up and made more money, then, as he got married to a woman who was also successful, he began to move closer and closer to the westside of Los Angeles. The side where those with money live. And as he made that move, his attitudes began to change. Especially his attitude around the homeless.

Homelessness is a huge problem in Los Angeles as it is in many cities, including here in Louisville. There, especially, it’s a combination of the climate, housing costs that have spiraled out of control and out of reach for so many, plus drug addiction and a lack of mental health resources. All of this together has created a huge homeless population in L.A. - a population that, especially over the last ten years, has moved throughout the city, including into the west side. Into his neighborhood. 

There’s been a lot of public discussion there over how to deal with this issue, especially around how to deal with the homeless who suffer from mental illness. My friend has a good heart, but he, like many, has come to the position that the laws should be changed to allow those with mental health issues, especially those who seem out of control, to be forcibly removed from the streets and institutionalized. 

Out of sight, out of mind.

Just like the man in today’s story. This man named Legion is demon-possessed. Not just by one demon, but by many. He is uncontrollable. And, according to our text, not violent toward the people in the nearby village, but hurtful to himself. And as much as the villagers have tried to control him, placing him in chains and leg irons, their attempts have been futile. So, he has been banished apparently. Wandering in the tombs and hills nearby.

Out of sight, out of mind.

It’s a story that would make any Jew uncomfortable. Located in the land of the Gerasenes, it’s a Gentile area, so to begin with it’s unclean and out of bounds. There's a herd of swine there, too, which suggests impurity. Plus there’s that cemetery nearby, which for a Jew would be off limits. The man who comes to Jesus has an unclean spirit. This whole place, this man, this whole situation would be taboo for any Jew. But, as we have seen so often before, this is exactly the forbidden territory into which Jesus ventures.

He sends the man’s demons packing. Specifically, at their request, into a herd of swine nearby. Who, then, unexpectedly run off a cliff into the sea, drowning the unclean spirits. The word gets around and the villagers come out to see this man, previously possessed, now clothed and in his right mind. One might think that they would rejoice with him, celebrate over a life restored. But, instead, when they see him sitting there, they are afraid. 

Jesus’ healing action has upset their status quo. They find Jesus threatening. Their world, as they have created, it is tolerable. Even demons can be endured as long as the possessed are relegated to a place outside civilized territory - among the tombs on the outskirts of town. But, when they see the transformation of this man, they are fearful. 

What’s so frightening about Jesus and this action? Because, unlike them - and unlike us, Jesus refuses to leave the world as it is. Jesus transgresses those boundaries and rescues those who are “beyond help.” Such a person - like Jesus - can’t be controlled. Such a person - like Jesus - can only be followed. And they are unwilling. So, they ask him to leave. Because the cure of this demon-possessed man is too expensive. Not just in terms of pigs, but in terms of social stability. Jesus upsets the status quo. The Kingdom of God upsets the status quo. And, as we see in this story and in many of the stories of these past 13 weeks, humanity, its society and its institutions - we - often impede the in-breaking of God’s kingdom more than we expedite it. 

But God’s reign breaks into the world. Not so much through flawed institutions and individuals, but in spite of them. God’s reign comes with power - power to do things neither you nor I, nor any other human being, can do on our own. God’s reign forces us to perceive the truth that we are not in control. As we seek to control our lives and our world, we hold onto what we perceive as safe. As we push down our fear with the claim that nothing frightens us. As our world unravels around us and we lose complete control. Or we lose the control we thought we had. It is then, and only then, when we are vulnerable enough to see that only God is in control. That only God is at work in our midst. Turning things around. Skewing the world toward justice. Bringing resurrection out of death. For us. So that we might be free.

And so that our fear might be out of sight, out of mind.

May God grant it. Amen.

Preached September 4, 2022, at Grace & Glory Lutheran, Prospect, KY, with Third Lutheran, Louisville, KY.

13th Sunday after Pentecost

Readings: Mark 5:1-20, Psalm 65

Unraveled: Seeking Understanding When Everything Falls Apart

But where can wisdom be found?

    Where does understanding dwell?

No mortal comprehends its worth;

    it cannot be found in the land of the living.

The deep says, “It is not in me”;

    the sea says, “It is not with me.”

It cannot be bought with the finest gold,

    nor can its price be weighed out in silver.

It cannot be bought with the gold of Ophir,

    with precious onyx or lapis lazuli.

Neither gold nor crystal can compare with it,

    nor can it be had for jewels of gold.

Coral and jasper are not worthy of mention;

    the price of wisdom is beyond rubies.

The topaz of Cush cannot compare with it;

    it cannot be bought with pure gold.

Where then does wisdom come from?

    Where does understanding dwell?

It is hidden from the eyes of every living thing,

    concealed even from the birds in the sky.

Destruction and Death say,

    “Only a rumor of it has reached our ears.”

God understands the way to it

    and he alone knows where it dwells,

for he views the ends of the earth

    and sees everything under the heavens.

When he established the force of the wind

    and measured out the waters,

when he made a decree for the rain

    and a path for the thunderstorm,

then he looked at wisdom and appraised it;

    he confirmed it and tested it.

And he said to the human race,

    “The fear of the Lord—that is wisdom,

    and to shun evil is understanding.” ---Job 28:12-28 (CEB)

Grace, mercy and peace to you from the Triune God who laid the earth's foundations, set its measurements, and to whom none on earth can compare. Amen.

Over the past year or two I’ve really begun to get into podcasts. My son started me on them - he listens all the time and will regularly share new ones with me that he thinks I might be interested in. One of my favorites is The Daily, which is a daily deep dive into something in the news, often digging deeper into politics here in this country or into events or situations happening in other countries. Throw in a little art and science, and that pretty much covers it. The exploration is usually about things that are happening now. The big and urgent questions of each day. 

But, this past Friday, they did something a little different. Instead of pursuing a current event, the entire podcast was focused on the topic of “cosmic questions.” Questions that often don’t have concrete answers. Big, dreamy existential questions that we don’t have the answers to. Like: “What’s a black hole and why do we care what happens inside?” Or “Is there other life in the universe? And, if so, why don’t we know about it.” One more. “Why do we remember the past and not the future?” You know, the questions at the center of your everyday dinner-time conversation.

Well, maybe not so much. 

But, it was a fascinating conversation that made me want to do more research and gain more understanding about one particular question they explored. And, as happens frequently, this particular podcast seemed to be perfectly timed with our text today from Job. Because the book of Job is also about a cosmic question. The question of suffering. Why there is suffering in this world? And, perhaps, more specifically, why do bad things happen to good people? 

We’ve all been there, haven’t we? Experienced something especially devastating. A diagnosis. A loss. Or maybe several. I doubt there's anyone here who hasn’t had something incredibly hard happen in their lives. And who hasn’t asked the question, “Why, God? Why?” 

That was Job’s experience, too. He - like you and I - was one of the faithful ones. But, as the story goes along he becomes the subject of a cynical bet between God and Satan. A bet to question - really, to test! -  how faithful Job would remain in the face of hardship. And devastation. 

When he loses everything, he, too, asks the question, “Why?” 

Then, his friends show up. They’re not particularly helpful. Maybe you’ve experienced “friends” like this. Who, in the face of deep loss come with platitudes. Like “It’s just God’s plan!” Or “It was for the best!” Or, one of the worst, “Maybe God is punishing you for something you did.” 

Then, after these so-called friends, another one shows up and speaks a poem to him, a poem about Wisdom. It's from this poem from which today's text comes. 

About Wisdom. 

Wisdom is a key figure in the Hebrew scriptures, always in the feminine. Proverbs 8 talks of Wisdom as the one created at the beginning. “I was formed long ages ago, at the very beginning, when the world came to be.” It would only be in the first century that the Church would make the connection between the person of Wisdom in the Hebrew scriptures with that of Christ in the New Testament - particularly, with the idea of logos in the first chapter of John. The Word made flesh. Wisdom embodied in the person of Jesus Christ; then, later, in Christ’s Spirit. One who captures the fullness of God. 

But, in the Hebrew scriptures, Wisdom is identified as a righteous woman, who walks in God’s ways, who seeks justice. Who is seen as both a playful child and a wise architect. A primordial being with the claim that, “whoever finds me finds life and obtains favor from the Lord.” It’s the claim in the last verse of our text today: “The fear of the Lord is wisdom; turning from evil is understanding.” The irony of this particular claim is that it points us exactly to Job and to who Job was. A righteous man. Faithful. A lover of God. 

Not that being righteous. Or faithful. Or a lover of God is a bad thing. But, if we expect that if we do these things or are a righteous person, we will escape hardship. Or difficulty. Or loss. Then, we, like Job, fail to understand. And, if we think, too, that we are experiencing hardship because we haven’t been good enough, we also fail to understand. Like Job, we fail to experience the bigger picture. Of who God is. Who asks Job, “Where were you? Where were you when I laid the earth’s foundations? Where were you when I set its measurements? Where were you when I stretched a measuring tape? Where were you?” 

We try so hard to control everything. And when we no longer have control. When everything in our life has unraveled. We, then, finally - hopefully - begin to experience God. And God’s presence. With a sense of wonder of this God, at work at the beginning of our world. At work in the midst of our world in this very moment. God, who does not promise a perfect life or a life without struggle. But, God. Who promises to remain. To be. With us. 

That then is true wisdom. A breathless, awe-filled reverence for God’s mystery and God’s expansiveness. For God’s presence that is beyond what we can control. Or make sense of. Or fully understand. In this life. 

So, close your eyes for just a moment. 

Become aware of your breathing. Listen to its gentle rise and fall. Become aware of being in the presence of God. 

Allow the God of love to look at you. (What’s in that gaze? Acceptance of you as you are is a good start.) Adopt a position of receiving. Stay with that for a moment.

Now, think back over the week. Give thanks for something or someone that brought you light and life. 

Was there a time when you struggled? Bring that to God’s deep, compassionate listening. 

What do you need for the coming week? Let God know.

Then remember that God loves you. And that God will remain faithful. To you.

Glory be to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Spirit. As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.

Preached August 21, 2022, at Grace & Glory, Prospect, with Third, Louisville.

Pentecost 11

Readings: Job 28:12-28; Psalm 42:1-3, 5, 9-11

Unraveled: Unraveling Bias

Then Pharaoh gave an order to all his people: “Throw every baby boy born to the Hebrews into the Nile River, but you can let all the girls live.”

Now a man from Levi’s household married a Levite woman. The woman became pregnant and gave birth to a son. She saw that the baby was healthy and beautiful, so she hid him for three months. When she couldn’t hide him any longer, she took a reed basket and sealed it up with black tar. She put the child in the basket and set the basket among the reeds at the riverbank. The baby’s older sister stood watch nearby to see what would happen to him.

Pharaoh’s daughter came down to bathe in the river, while her women servants walked along beside the river. She saw the basket among the reeds, and she sent one of her servants to bring it to her. When she opened it, she saw the child. The boy was crying, and she felt sorry for him. She said, “This must be one of the Hebrews’ children.”

Then the baby’s sister said to Pharaoh’s daughter, “Would you like me to go and find one of the Hebrew women to nurse the child for you?”

Pharaoh’s daughter agreed, “Yes, do that.” So the girl went and called the child’s mother. Pharaoh’s daughter said to her, “Take this child and nurse it for me, and I’ll pay you for your work.” So the woman took the child and nursed it. After the child had grown up, she brought him back to Pharaoh’s daughter, who adopted him as her son. She named him Moses, “because,” she said, “I pulled him out of the water.” --Exodus 1:22, 2:1-10 (CEB)

Grace, mercy and peace to you, from God our Creator, Jesus Christ our Redeemer, and the Holy Spirit our Advocate and Sustainer. Amen.

Genocide. It’s the world into which baby Moses was born. This week I turned to Professor Google to learn more about how genocide is defined and what exactly it is. Unsurprisingly, one of the first links was to the U.S. Holocaust Museum website. On it, they define genocide as an act or series of acts designed to destroy, in whole or in part, a national, ethnic, racial, or religious group. They arrange these acts into five categories: 1) killing members of a group; 2) causing serious bodily or mental harm to members of the group; 3) deliberately inflicting conditions of life on a group that are designed to bring about its physical destruction in whole or in part; 4) imposing measures on a group that are intended to prevent births; and 5) forcibly transferring children of a group to another group.

So often, I think, we try to convince ourselves that we are so different from the people of the Hebrew scriptures. That we have advanced so much further. And, perhaps, we have. Yet, on a related website I found a list of places in our world this very moment where genocide is occurring or at risk of occurring. South Sudan. The Congo. The Uyghur people in China. Afghanistan. Indonesia. Yemen. 

And lest we think that we, here in this country are immune, I would like to acknowledge the traditional, ancestral, unceded territory of the Adena, the Hopewell, the Myaamia, the Shawnee, the Cherokee and the Osage First Nations on which we are gathering and worshiping today.

Genocide. It’s the world that Moses was born into. A world where his life should have ended just as swiftly as it had begun. But, it didn’t. Thanks to a plot devised by Moses’ mother and his sister, whose name, Miriam, we would learn later in the story - thanks to their plot, Moses survived, one of who knows how many children didn’t. 

We have to wonder how detailed their plot was. Perhaps, it was simply to place him in the basket among the reeds, hopeful that Adonai would spare his life. Perhaps, their plan was more detailed, more opportunistic, even manipulative as someone suggested this week. Regardless of the complexity of their plan, the life of Moses, first-born son in his family, was spared because of it.

There are alot of things we could consider today under our summer-long theme of unraveling. The unraveling of Moses’ mother, of her hopes and dreams for her son. The unraveling in Miriam’s life, not subject to the genocide orders and how that may have impacted her. Or even the unraveling of the Pharaoh's daughter bias, conscious or unconscious, that she likely inherited for the Hebrew people.

But, today, I’d like to spend a moment looking at the actions of Pharaoh’s daughter that go directly to the unraveling of her own father’s plans of genocide. And, particularly, what it means to be an ally versus what it means to be “nice.”

I don’t know about you, but for my entire childhood I was constantly reminded to “be nice.” That idea is so deeply ingrained within me that I even talk to my two fighting cats, telling them to simply “be nice” to each other.

To be a nice person, as pagan spiritualist, Nadirah Adeye writes is to be “someone who doesn’t want to make others feel badly.” (One can find truth in the most interesting places!) She continues, “Being nice is about the personal choices we make regarding our friendships and relationships. A nice person, for example, likes to see diversity at gatherings, but may not understand that “diversity” is not just people of different complexions or lifestyles (but who all have similar assumed world views and behavior patterns). True diversity is, at times, grinding and intense and messy and loud and awkward.” We may say we want diversity, but do we really?

To be an ally, though, is very different. Anne Bishop, author of Becoming an Ally, defines it in this way: “Allies are people who recognize the unearned privilege they receive from society’s patterns of injustice and take responsibility for changing these patterns. Allies include men who work to end sexism, white people who work to end racism, heterosexual people who work to end heterosexism, able-bodied people who work to end ableism, and so on. Part of becoming an ally is also recognizing one’s own experience of oppression. For example, a white woman can learn from her experience of sexism and apply it in becoming an ally to people of color, or a person who grew up in poverty can learn from that experience how to respect others’ feelings of helplessness because of a disability.” 

To be an ally sometimes requires that we are not nice. It requires vulnerability. Risk on our part. It requires that we do the work to examine and question our own privilege. To understand who we are internally. And also how our external appearance or membership in a certain group might have an impact on our power in society. Being an ally means being willing to be uncomfortable. And trying again. Over and over. It’s less about being right than it is about being unwilling to allow wrongs to persist unchallenged. And to be willing to move toward the mess and discomfort rather than simply walk away.

Perhaps that’s why I’m so intrigued by the Pharaoh’s daughter. The unnamed Pharaoh’s daughter. Because, perhaps. Perhaps, just for a moment as she saw that Hebrew boy baby, she could connect with him. She could learn from the sexism she experienced in her own culture and use her own privilege to be an ally. To push back against her own father and against the systems of oppression he continued to perpetuate. To save a baby. To save Moses. Who God would eventually call to be an advocate - an ally - in his own right. To use the privilege he’d gained as a son of the Pharaoh’s daughter to help lead an oppressed people to freedom. 

Isn’t this the story of Jesus, too? Son of God come to earth to be an ally? To find every opportunity to push back against these same systems of oppression that continue to plague us today? To be vulnerable himself? To risk death so that all people - you and I included - might be fully free? Freed so that we might risk like Jesus? Called by God to carry on the work of unraveling and re-weaving, the mission of God to create a tapestry of diversity and beauty in our world? Yes.

For this, I say, Thanks be to God!

Preached August 14, 2022, at Grace & Glory, Prospect, with Third, Louisville.

Pentecost 10

Readings: Exodus 1:22, 2:1-10; Psalm 83:1-4, 9-10, 17-18

Unraveled: Unraveling Doubt

It was still the first day of the week. That evening, while the disciples were behind closed doors because they were afraid of the Jewish authorities, Jesus came and stood among them. He said, “Peace be with you.” After he said this, he showed them his hands and his side. When the disciples saw the Lord, they were filled with joy. Jesus said to them again, “Peace be with you. As the Father sent me, so I am sending you.” Then he breathed on them and said, “Receive the Holy Spirit. If you forgive anyone’s sins, they are forgiven; if you don’t forgive them, they aren’t forgiven.”

Thomas, the one called Didymus, one of the Twelve, wasn’t with the disciples when Jesus came. The other disciples told him, “We’ve seen the Lord!”

But he replied, “Unless I see the nail marks in his hands, put my finger in the wounds left by the nails, and put my hand into his side, I won’t believe.”

After eight days his disciples were again in a house and Thomas was with them. Even though the doors were locked, Jesus entered and stood among them. He said, “Peace be with you.” Then he said to Thomas, “Put your finger here. Look at my hands. Put your hand into my side. No more disbelief. Believe!”

Thomas responded to Jesus, “My Lord and my God!”

Jesus replied, “Do you believe because you see me? Happy are those who don’t see and yet believe.” --John 20:19-29 (CEB)

Grace, mercy and peace to you from God our Creator, Jesus Christ our Redeemer, and the Holy Spirit our Sustainer. Amen.

Where do I begin? I have to admit to you that, as I’ve been working and living through this past week, there are a lot of things I have felt called to preach today. This may be a longer sermon because of it. Let’s hope it makes some sense by the end.

I want to begin with this idea of how we respond when the unimaginable happens. Perhaps that unimaginable thing is happening to us personally. Perhaps it is something that happens to us collectively. I’m thinking today about the people of eastern Kentucky. 

If you’ve watched any of the videos of the flooding or the damage in the aftermath of the floods, or considered the loss of life, this was for our neighbors one of those “unimaginable” events. I’m one of two co-coordinators for disaster response in our synod. (I used to say I was a co-disaster response coordinator, but decided I needed to change that wording a bit.) 

Whenever a disaster hits, there are organizations, both in-state and from across the country, who begin to meet on Zoom to coordinate the volunteer response. These groups are called VOAD groups - Voluntary Organizations Active in Disaster. Every state has a VOAD group. There’s a national group, too. So, when a disaster hits, all of the VOAD partners plus all of the state and county emergency management teams jump on daily calls to, first, understand the need and, then, to coordinate the response. Lutheran Disaster Response - our churchwide organization that works through the affected synod - is one of those partners. And because Lutheran Disaster Response operates primarily through synods, I am typically on those calls, too.

When the floods hit a week ago in the eastern part of the state, the VOAD organizations and EMS teams took to Zoom. We typically aren’t part of this initial crisis response, but work more longer term. Yet, it’s important to know the extent of the disaster, so we all jump on the calls

You can imagine what we heard. Stories shared that most of us, including the EMS teams, could never have imagined would have happened. The devastation, the loss of life, the grief and heartbreak caused by these floods where streams and rivers, in some cases, were 20 feet above “normal” flood stage.

As I sat and listened in this past Monday, there was one need that stood out to me. A young woman working for a housing development corporation in Owsley Co. - one of the poorest counties in Kentucky. This young woman, Cassie Hudson, made a plea for $50,000 cash. It’s not often that people just blurt out the need for cash on these calls. Usually requests are for volunteers and supplies. Not just cash. But, for Cassie - like for Thomas in our text today - there was a need to be direct. To be honest. To risk. To be vulnerable. To see the evidence. To find the hope.

Isn’t that what Thomas is doing in our text today? Wasn’t he just verbalizing what every other disciple had been thinking - at least before Jesus appeared to all of them (except for Thomas) as they waited in fear in the upper room that Easter evening? A locked room that didn’t stop Jesus from showing up. And who, when he did show up, spoke a word of peace to them. Twice. Peace be with you. Peace. As in shalom. Meaning wholeness. Belonging. Community. 

But, Thomas wasn’t there. He wasn’t there to receive this word of peace from Jesus, literally in the flesh. Have you ever wondered where Thomas was? Why he wasn’t there? I have to wonder if, so devastated by Jesus’ death - by the unimaginable - he might have self-isolated. Caught up in his own grief. Grief that had turned him into a doubter. A skeptic. A cynic. Even a truth-teller. “Unless I see…I won’t believe,” Thomas says, even after the other disciples have witnessed to him. Who believed only when they saw! Who, in that moment, experienced their own Pentecost, as Jesus breathed his Spirit on them and sent them out.

Then, for Thomas, Jesus shows up. Again. And offers him exactly what he asks for. Put your finger here. Look at my hands. Put your hand into my side. Touch me. See that I am real. And believe. No longer is Thomas the cynic. No longer does Thomas need to touch Jesus. To touch the wounds on his hands. Or on his side. Simply being in the presence of this resurrected Jesus has restored his hope. Restored his faith. Restored his joy.

We never read of Thomas again in scripture. It might be easy to imagine that he simply faded away. Except, he didn’t. Thomas would go on to found the early Church in India. To build communities of Jesus’ followers that exist today - St. Thomas Christians, they call themselves. One of whom is an ELCA pastor, who serves just down the road from us in Corydon.

Because, like the other apostles, Thomas took seriously the divine authority given him by Christ. The authority for his own mission that can only be understood in light of the mission of Christ. A mission of self-giving love. A mission evidenced and fulfilled by Jesus’ life and death. A mission to which each and everyone of us are called, under the authority of Christ through our baptism in the Holy Spirit. Just as Thomas and the rest of the disciples were called, then sent. Thomas. Truth-teller that he was.

So, who is the Thomas in our midst? What is the truth here that no one is naming? That no one is vulnerable enough to speak out loud? Something that we all see, but that no one will say? 

Perhaps, one of those truths is that church as we’ve known it is no more. Our numbers, like virtually every other church in this country, are unraveling. Drastically. Something that is not your fault, or mine. But, something that has been trending in our nation for well over 50 years. We just - lucky or not - happen to be living at the end of it. In the midst of this liminal time.

What will the future bring? What will happen to the church? I daresay, none of us know. But, here’s the thing. When that unimaginable thing happens, whatever it is - Christ will be there. Breaking through the closed doors of our building, the closed doors of our hearts, the closed doors of our minds, saying to us - as he said to Thomas… Put. Touch. See. Believe. You and I will not do this new thing. God will do this new thing. And, God in Christ through the Holy Spirit will then send us into mission. Whatever that mission will be.

What’s an example of that mission? A possibility? Here’s a real-life, honest-to-God example of a mission God sends us on - of what it means to invite others to put, to touch, to see, to believe.

I’d like to read from two emails I received this week from that young woman I mentioned at the outset - from Cassie Hudson, Executive Director of Partnership Housing in Boonesville, KY. 

On Tuesday, she wrote this: "I have 3 small homes to build and a couple small repairs to other homes. I have the contractor willing to build back all of these 3 homes at no cost for his labor, I'm just struggling so bad with money for building materials. Owsley County is the poorest county in KY, finding money is difficult and we just experienced a historical flood in March 2021 which I was very successful in getting everyone homed, homes rebuilt etc. and fully recovered by July 2021, merely 5 months after the flood. This flood happened in a different part of the county and our previous efforts went untouched and I'm so thankful to God for that. Any and all funds no matter the amount is appreciated but I'm needing at least $50,000. Funds are just not coming in like previously, I think its because there has been so many disasters throughout KY since March 2021."

Then, on Thursday, after receiving an email I sent letting her know that Lutheran Disaster Response, because of dollars we and so many others have given - that LDR through our Synod would fully fund her request, plus any additional funds she might need, here’s what she wrote: I am at lost for words.  I can never thank you and everyone involved with.  You have not only took such a worry off of me but you will be able to help these people who can never recover from such devastation.  I'm usually a person with a lot of faith and belief that everything will work out and line up but on Monday evening, my faith was being tested.  I had doubt, I was worried and didn't know how I would pay for the materials to build these homes, but I was building them as I had just dug footers and poured them on one of the homes.  On Tuesday, I threw my doubt out the window that morning and put it in the lords hands.  He placed me here with PH almost 10 years ago to learn housing and to help the people of Owsley County and everything I've accomplished has been because of him, so I knew he wasn't finished with me...and today I receive your email."

Put your finger here. Look at my hands. Put your hand into my side. No more disbelief. Believe! Believe that God is working in our midst. Believe that God will turn our cynicism to hope. Will move us from isolation to community. From disbelief to faith. From fear to joy. So that we might then be like Thomas, like Cassie. To throw our doubt to the wind. And with all the authority of Christ to invite others to put, touch, see, and believe. 

Let us pray: Lover of the poor, defender of the needy, sanctuary of the rejected: for those who suffer injustice today, for men and women who cannot provide food for their families, and for whole communities who fear today and have no hope for tomorrow, we offer the longings of our hearts in prayer. We seek for them, O God, the gifts that are dear to us: food for the table, drink for the soul, shelter in the night and open doors to welcome us in. Amen.

Preached August 7, 2022, at Grace & Glory, Prospect, with Third, Louisville.

Pentecost 9

Readings: John 20:19-29; Psalm 16.

Unraveled: Unraveling Shame

 Jesus had to go through Samaria. He came to a Samaritan city called Sychar, which was near the land Jacob had given to his son Joseph. Jacob’s well was there. Jesus was tired from his journey, so he sat down at the well. It was about noon.

A Samaritan woman came to the well to draw water. Jesus said to her, “Give me some water to drink.” His disciples had gone into the city to buy him some food.

The Samaritan woman asked, “Why do you, a Jewish man, ask for something to drink from me, a Samaritan woman?” (Jews and Samaritans didn’t associate with each other.)

Jesus responded, “If you recognized God’s gift and who is saying to you, ‘Give me some water to drink,’ you would be asking him and he would give you living water.”

The woman said to him, “Sir, you don’t have a bucket and the well is deep. Where would you get this living water? You aren’t greater than our father Jacob, are you? He gave this well to us, and he drank from it himself, as did his sons and his livestock.”

Jesus answered, “Everyone who drinks this water will be thirsty again, but whoever drinks from the water that I will give will never be thirsty again. The water that I give will become in those who drink it a spring of water that bubbles up into eternal life.”

The woman said to him, “Sir, give me this water, so that I will never be thirsty and will never need to come here to draw water!”

Jesus said to her, “Go, get your husband, and come back here.”

The woman replied, “I don’t have a husband.”

“You are right to say, ‘I don’t have a husband,’” Jesus answered. “You’ve had five husbands, and the man you are with now isn’t your husband. You’ve spoken the truth.”

The woman said, “I know that the Messiah is coming, the one who is called the Christ. When he comes, he will teach everything to us.”

Jesus said to her, “I Am—the one who speaks with you.”

Just then, Jesus’ disciples arrived and were shocked that he was talking with a woman. But no one asked, “What do you want?” or “Why are you talking with her?” The woman put down her water jar and went into the city. She said to the people, “Come and see a man who has told me everything I’ve done! Could this man be the Christ?” --John 4:4-18, 25-29 (CEB)

She came to our food pantry one day, a few minutes after we had closed. When we told her we were closed, she burst out in tears. In the midst of her tears, we heard her story. She was a mother of four sons. Trying to survive after her husband had walked out on her and left her all alone. She’d driven by our food pantry for a year - a whole year - unable to stop by, to get food, this mother of four boys who we’d later learn had her PhD. All because of her shame. 

Shame. It’s at the heart of this story today. This story of the woman at the well. Notice that I didn’t say the “adulterous” woman at the well. Because, the truth is, nowhere does the text say this. 

Sure, Jesus reveals that she has five husbands. That the man she’s living with is not her husband. But he does not condemn her. Because there are many possible explanations for this. Explanations that are reasonable, perhaps even more typical. Explanations that are within the bounds of the Torah. Yet, explanations that have rarely been considered, perhaps even dismissed, as so many commentators, so many preachers have viewed this text for far too long with a patriarchal lens. A lens that resists other possible explanations. A lens that we, in the church, along with so many other lenses, have been challenged to unravel. 

Because this lens would much rather accept Jesus’ offer of good news to the Samaritans - a people hated by the Jews and vice versa -  than to her. A woman. A Samaritan woman. A despised Samaritan woman. Of questionable moral character. Or who lacks the intellectual and theological ability to engage with Jesus in serious conversation. Both interpretations of this text that delegitimize her (and any woman, if we’re honest) as a conversation partner for Jesus and as a receiver and proclaimer of the gospel. 

So, instead, she is shamed. Not only by our patriarchy, but by hers, as well. And, perhaps, she has begun to believe this shame, too. Perhaps, that’s why she comes to the well at noon - the hottest time of the day, when no one else - no other women - would be there. Because it is so much safer - so less risky - to simply be alone. And isolated. So as not to trouble the waters. So as not to feel ashamed.

But, then, Jesus speaks to her. And in one of the longest conversations by far in the Gospels that he has with anyone, Jesus names her truth. Her woundedness and isolation. Her shame. And, in naming it, begins to unravel it.

Dr. Brene Brown is a sociologist and a researcher on shame. For six years she researched shame before she began to write about it. Why? Because, as she puts it, “shame is this horrible topic, no one wants to talk about it. It’s the best way to shut people down on an airplane. ‘What do you do?’ ‘I study shame.’ ‘Oh.’” When we begin to talk about patriarchy or whiteness. Sexism or Racism. Or privilege. She writes that when we begin to talk about these things, people get paralyzed by shame. Because “shame is the most powerful, master emotion. It’s the fear that we’re not good enough.”

But, here’s the thing. We cannot unravel those things in our lives, in our world, without addressing the shame - the shame Adam and Eve felt in those first moments after eating the apple - the shame that is at the heart of our human brokenness. Shame that tells us that we are not good enough. And shame that then drives us to wound others.

What shame in your life needs to be unraveled? Where is your woundedness? What is the thing that you spend so much energy trying to heal through so many insufficient ways? Relationships? Religion? Success? More degrees? More therapy? Working out? Busy-ness? Perfectionism? Aspects of aging? Aspects of youth? Whiteness? Othered-ness? There are a million ways we seek to isolate ourselves or to use substitutes for God to try and make sure our woundedness - our shame - is not known.

But Jesus knows. Jesus knows this deep and hidden part of us. And Jesus loves us for who we have been created to be, people in God’s image. And, then, Jesus calls us, just as he called the woman at the well, to be his apostles. At this time. In this place. In this moment of great disruption in his Church. In this moment of great disruption in our world. To do the risky work of unraveling. Faithfully. 

But, it’s hard work. This work of unraveling. And it’s difficult to find hope in the midst of it. Where can we find that hope? Where can we find Jesus in this work of unraveling?

I would suggest right here. Here, in our midst, in this space, as we have begun to unravel our own frameworks of thinking and ways of being, as we have argued and wept together, it is here. Where we have witnessed hope for the church God desires, the church God has called us to be. It is here where Jesus has been. Present in the midst of our shame and all our unraveled-ness. Knowing us. Building trust. And weaving us together into a rich tapestry of the diverse and beautiful community God has created us to be, that God hopes for us, for the whole church, for our world, and for all creation. 

For this I say, thanks be to God. Amen.